As he placed her glass on the little table by her elbow, he attempted to deflect what might be coming. ‘I have been thinking about what we said before, Mama, and I have concluded that you are right. I do need to marry soon. So, I have decided to offer for Emma Fitzwilliam. After all, we have known each other for nearly twenty years, so there would be few surprises. She may not be witty or clever, but she is nothing like as fickle and flighty as most of her sex. I imagine we could rub along pretty well together.’
His mother sighed again. Her features registered some inner turmoil, but she did not respond to his sweeping slight on womankind.
Richard realised he was making a poor fist of his explanations, but he was in too deep now to withdraw. And besides, his mother was the very one who constantly urged him to marry. She…no, that was not quite fair. His mother wanted him to fall in love and then marry. On that count, Emma Fitzwilliam most definitely did not qualify.
He swallowed hard. ‘May I take it that you approve my choice, Mama? After all, the Fitzwilliam estates march with ours, and she will inherit them some day. Her dowry will be handsome. She has, besides, all the attributes a man must seek in a wife: beauty, breeding, a conformable nature—’
‘She may have all the required qualities, Richard,’ interrupted Lady Hardinge at last, ‘but you do not!’ She ignored her son’s gasp of protest. ‘Family tradition requires that you give the Hardinge betrothal ring to your bride as a token of your deep love for her—’
‘Oh, tosh, Mama! Forgive me—but people like us do not marry for love, especially nowadays. Marriage is a matter of business. It would be a union between two families—the Hardinge title and the Fitzwilliam wealth. You’re not still hoping for a love match, are you, my dear?’ He softened his words by smiling warmly at her.
‘The head of this family must marry for love,’ she replied firmly. ‘That rule has held true for all the Hardinges, for centuries. Your father believed in it— and so do I. You know that. And you know, too, that disaster struck on the only two occasions when the tradition was flouted.’
Richard did not reply.
‘Richard?’
‘Yes, Mama,’ he said softly, ‘I do know what happened to them, but I don’t believe in the curse for a moment. It was just coincidence that both of them died, without an heir, before they reached forty. It happens in other families too. And they don’t have a curse to blame it on.’ He sat down and tossed off his glass of madeira in a single swallow. ‘Clearly, there is only one solution—I must instantly fall head over ears in love with a lady of vast fortune. It is the obvious way to reconcile the needs of the estate with the family tradition.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘If only life were so simple.’
She turned slightly, looking him full in the face. ‘I am sorry, Richard.’
He shook his head. ‘It’s not your fault, Mama. Papa was taken in by that blackguard, Calderwood, when he was too ill to know what he was doing. You could not have prevented it—even if you had known.’
He sat for some moments, grimly contemplating the dregs of wine in his glass. ‘Well,’ he returned at length, ‘if I am to abide by your rules, I must have earned a temporary reprieve. I cannot guarantee to fall in love with an heiress, so marriage will have to wait—until the money has been recovered!’ He smiled impudently. ‘Every cloud has a silver lining.’
His mother could not conceal a slight twitch of her lips at his words. But there was no amusement in her voice. ‘If you take that attitude, you’ll make no match at all, far less a love match. I know that, after Celia, you feel—’
Richard allowed his stony expression to show her how little he appreciated any mention of that name from his past.
His mother rapidly changed tack. ‘Think, Richard. You are already one-and-thirty. You have no brothers. You really must marry soon.’
She was beginning to wring her hands. Gently, he enclosed them in his own, letting her gain strength from his warmth. ‘Does my marrying for love mean so much to you, my dear?’
‘Not just to me. To all of us. Especially to you.’
A taut silence fell. Richard could see the strain on his mother’s face, but he was not prepared to pursue this subject further, even with her. ‘Come, my love. Let me take you upstairs. You will wish to rest and change before dinner.’
Lady Hardinge gave her son a smile of silent understanding as he led her out of the study and up the staircase to her bedchamber.
When Richard returned to his desk, he remained some moments toying with his pen and staring into space. So much of his ordered world turned upside-down by those few words from his mother. Words he had long tried to avoid—the Hardinge family’s love matches. A fairy story, surely? And out of the question for a man like him. Yet he knew it would now be impossible for him to carry out his hastily devised plan of offering for Emma Fitzwilliam. Fate? He could not decide whether the luck was for good or ill.
Next morning Jamie rose with the lark, ravenous. She was astonished to discover that she had slept for fifteen hours.
‘I am ever so hungry, Annie,’ she said, as she gave herself a perfunctory wash and began to change her clothes. This was her first day of freedom, and she meant to enjoy every moment of it.
Annie eyed her balefully. ‘There will be plenty to eat downstairs. But first, we must see to your appearance.’ She forcibly removed the garments Jamie was holding. ‘No, not those. Breeches and gaiters, a smock and an undershirt. Here.’
Jamie wrinkled her nose at the thick, rough smock. It looked thoroughly uncomfortable. Just touching it made her itch.
‘It can’t be helped, Jamie. You chose to be the gardener’s boy. It’s a good thing you’re a bit thin. Boys of that age usually are. But we’ll need to bind your breasts, just the same.’
Jamie blushed scarlet, but it seemed to make no impression on Annie, who was busily rummaging in the clothes press. Jamie gasped a protest as her old calico petticoat was pulled out and efficiently ripped into bandages.
‘Not fit for a lady anyway,’ Annie pronounced. ‘If you ever become a lady again, I can provide you with better than this and with gowns more becoming than yours.’
Annie seemed to be in her element. She certainly knew how to manage a young lady, even a slightly unwilling one. In no time, she was wrapping the strips tightly round Jamie’s upper body.
‘Now, put on the rest of the clothes and let us see how you look.’
There was no point in protesting any more. Annie was right. Jamie had to be able to pass muster as a boy. They were both at risk if she failed.
She stood in the centre of the room while Annie inspected her minutely. ‘Not bad,’ the abigail conceded, ‘but why did you do that to your hair? Boys don’t wear it like that nowadays—it’s much too long.’
‘I was trying to leave myself enough so that I could be a girl again. It’s just about long enough to be put up.’
‘I’ll tidy it up a little, at least.’ Annie fetched her comb and scissors. As she freed Jamie’s hair from the restraining ribbon, the dark red curls fell forward, framing Jamie’s pale face. ‘Why, how different you look, miss, much prettier than that severe bun you always wore at Calderwood.’
Jamie smiled shyly up at her, surprised by the half-compliment. ‘Mama always insisted I wore it so, in order to tame my “appalling red mop”, as she called it. She never permitted me to cut it.’
‘She never permitted anything which would make the best of your looks, if truth were told.’
Jamie laughed. ‘But I have none. I’ve always known I’m plain.’
‘Oh? Look here.’ Annie forced Jamie to sit down in front of the brown-speckled mirror and then arranged her curls