After a Fashion (18 page)

“Miss Peabody, ah, there you are at last.”

Harriet froze as a well-dressed and rather formidable-looking older lady suddenly appeared from behind the carriage and began marching their way.

Recognition set in, followed immediately by confusion.

“How do you know Mrs. Hart, and what do you think she’s doing here?” he asked.

“I’ve never seen that lady before in my life.”

“Then why is she calling you by name and heading our way?”

“I’m sure I have no idea.”

Mrs. Charles Hart, one of the wealthiest yet most reclusive society matrons in all of New York, came to a stop directly in front of Harriet. Then, without a by your leave, she snatched
Harriet into her arms, gave her a good hard squeeze, and then released her, stepping back with a huge smile on her wrinkled face. “It is so fortunate you returned home at such an opportune time, my dear. Why, I’d almost given up hope of seeing you today. I fear I kept those delightful young ladies, Miss Longfellow and Miss Plum, at my mercy for quite some time as they were forced to entertain me while I awaited your return.”

“I beg your pardon?” Harriet asked.

“Well, there’s no need for that, my dear. It was hardly as if you were aware I planned to visit you today, so there’s no reason to beg my pardon. I assure you, your friends kept me well amused, and the conversations we shared were downright riveting.”

She patted Harriet’s cheek, which had Harriet looking more confused than ever, but Mrs. Hart didn’t appear to notice as she turned her attention to him. “Mr. Addleshaw, this is an unexpected, yet fortuitous, surprise. I was not aware you were to escort Harriet about today—which, I must add, was completely inappropriate—but . . . good heavens, what has happened to you? You have the smell of the barns about you, and the look as well, if I might be so bold to add, and . . .” Her gaze traveled down his length. “Are you aware you’re missing almost all of your buttons?”

“I fear they fell off when I was, er, running.”

“Ah, I see, well, not really, but I’m not surprised your buttons popped off. That jacket is ill-fitted. Do remind me before I take my leave to give you the direction of my late-husband’s tailor. That man fits a gentleman’s clothing to perfection, and I don’t ever recall a time when my darling Charles ever lost his buttons.”

Oliver blinked, his mind churning to come up with an appropriate response to that declaration, but he was spared any response at all when Mrs. Hart let out a
tsk
and shook her head. “Could it be possible you’ve done something to incur the displeasure of your tailor?”

“I don’t believe so . . . but . . .”

“You might want to ask him, dear. A gentleman of your status certainly shouldn’t traverse the city in anything less than the finest of clothing. That jacket you’re currently sporting, even without the muck attached to it, does nothing to assure people you’re a leader of the business world.”

Mrs. Hart suddenly craned her neck and peered over his shoulder. “Oh look, I think that young man is bringing you back your hat.”

Oliver turned and discovered Darren running up to join them, the remains of what used to be Oliver’s favorite hat held somewhat gingerly between two of Darren’s fingers.

“I’m not sure you’re still going to want this, Mr. Addleshaw, but I rescued it from a puddle on the street, just in case you did,” Darren said, holding out the hat. Oliver reluctantly took it, swallowing a sigh as its dismal state became apparent and another glob of slime oozed through his fingers.

“Thank you, Darren. Your thoughtfulness is much appreciated.”

“Miss Peabody,” another voice called, causing Oliver to switch his attention from Darren and settle it on an older lady who was scurrying off the stoop of the peeling brown house and hurrying toward them.

He wasn’t certain, but he thought he heard Harriet release a groan right before a rather forced-looking smile tugged her lips. “Hello, Mrs. Palmer.”

“My goodness but this is exciting!” Mrs. Palmer exclaimed, coming to a stop right in front of Harriet and looking everyone over with a sharp and speculative eye. “Why, here’s the young man who brought you home just yesterday, and would you look at that? Not one but two fine carriages parked in front of my house.” She raised expectant eyes to Harriet, whose smile dimmed ever so slightly.

“Yes, it is exciting, isn’t it, and somewhat unexpected.” Harriet drew in a breath and gestured to Darren, who stepped forward and presented Mrs. Palmer with a short bow. “Allow me to present to you Darren . . . ?”

“Thompson, Miss Peabody. I’m Darren Thompson.”

“Thank you, Mr. Thompson,” Harriet said, turning back to Mrs. Palmer. “This is Mr. Thompson, Mrs. Palmer, the young man who did indeed see me home yesterday.”

Mrs. Palmer narrowed her eyes. “But you told me that he was not your suitor.”

“Well, no, he’s not, but he is standing nearest to you, so I thought I’d start the introductions with him first.”

“In the future, dear,” Mrs. Hart whispered in a voice that still carried, “it is best if you introduce the person who holds the highest social standing, which, in this case, would be me.”

Harriet’s pale cheeks flushed with color, and Oliver was about to intercede, knowing all too well that Mrs. Hart could be somewhat daunting, but Harriet lifted her chin and sent a surprisingly cool glance to Mrs. Hart. “Of course, how silly of me, and I’ll be happy to introduce you just as soon as I figure out exactly
who
you are and
what
you want with me.”

To Oliver’s surprise, Mrs. Hart let out a booming laugh, patted Harriet’s cheek again, and turned to Mrs. Palmer. “Doesn’t she have just the keenest sense of humor? I’m Mrs. Hart, by the way, but you may call me Abigail. All of my friends do, and that gentleman over there is Mr. Oliver Addleshaw, but you should probably call him Mr. Addleshaw.” She winked. “These important men of business like to hold on to their dignity.”

Mrs. Palmer seemed to struggle for a reply, but then Mrs. Hart continued on, acting as if it were a common occurrence for her to converse in the middle of a tenement slum with a lady who was wearing a shapeless gown and sported a smudge of flour on her cheek.

“I must thank you, Mrs. Palmer, for all you’ve done for my dear Harriet. Why, Reverend Gilmore has frequently declared how helpful you’ve been in keeping a sharp eye on her and making certain she doesn’t get into mischief.”

Harriet’s nose wrinkled. “You’re acquainted with Reverend Gilmore?”

“Indeed,” Mrs. Hart said, sending a fond smile Harriet’s way. “I’m a patroness of the church, albeit a silent one. Reverend Gilmore and I have known each other for years. He immediately sought me out this morning and delivered the news about you and Mr. Addleshaw, which . . . is why I’m here.”

“What news?” Mrs. Palmer asked, her tone rising ever so slightly, probably in the hopes of being heard over Harriet, who’d begun to sputter.

“Why, that Miss Peabody and Mr. Addleshaw have formed an . . . attachment,” Mrs. Hart said with another one of her beaming smiles. She turned to Oliver. “I took the liberty of sending a telegram to your grandfather. He’s already responded—which I’m not surprised about in the least—and you’ll be delighted to learn he’s coming to town, immediately from the sound of things.”

Oliver felt the distinct urge to begin sputtering exactly as Harriet was still doing. “My grandfather is coming to town?”

“Of course, dear. You know how Archibald enjoys being in the thick of things, and you really can’t expect him to ignore something as thrilling as your involvement with Miss Peabody. Why, I bet he’ll be absolutely tickled to death to participate in the upcoming festivities.”

Harriet turned to him with eyes that had grown huge. “What upcoming festivities?”

“How would I know? This is the first I’m hearing about Grandfather coming to town, or any festivities, for that matter. And, I have yet to understand how and why Mrs. Hart is involved in our private matters.”

“Oh, did I forget to mention that?” Mrs. Hart exclaimed as she batted innocent lashes his way. “I’m here to assume the position of chaperone.”

Oliver narrowed his eyes. “Forgive me, Mrs. Hart, but I was under the impression you’d chosen to withdraw from society.”

“Choices are made to change, my boy.”

“And you’ve, for some unfathomable reason,
chosen
to involve yourself in my affairs?” he asked slowly.

“I owe Reverend Gilmore a favor, so I certainly couldn’t refuse his request of seeing after Harriet.”

It was too late—his decision to end matters with Harriet was not going to be a feasible option, and his well-organized life, something he cherished, was rapidly going by the wayside. And strangely enough, it was all due to the machinations of some gentleman by the name of Reverend Gilmore and a society matron no one had seen out and about for years.

“I don’t need, or want, a chaperone,” Harriet said firmly.

“Of course you do,” Mrs. Hart countered before she turned to Mrs. Palmer. “Now then, from what I’ve learned, you’re the owner of this charming house where Harriet and her friends reside, and as such, you and I should probably have a little chat regarding future rent. I’ve convinced Miss Longfellow and Miss Plum to come stay with me while I go about the business of chaperoning Harriet, but I would like to take it upon myself to pay their rent in advance for the next couple of months.”

She smiled even as she shook her head. “Why, between the three ladies, their rooms are filled to bursting with various items, items I believe should stay here until I get the ladies’ lives . . . Well, no need to get into that.” Mrs. Hart slid a sideways glance at Harriet, who seemed to be swelling on the spot, and grabbed hold of Mrs. Palmer’s arm and hustled her over to the brown house.

“You have to go after that crazy lady and tell her our association has come to an end.”

Oliver pulled his gaze from the retreating back of Mrs. Hart and frowned at Harriet, who was glaring at him. “I don’t believe that’s an option, Harriet. Mrs. Hart is one of those formidable ladies you don’t want to tangle with if at all possible, and I fear she’s decided to take you in hand.”

“You can simply tell her that I don’t need anyone to take me in hand, and you can tell her that I’ve broken things off with you.”

Before Oliver could utter a single protest, Harriet sent a smile to Darren, who was still standing beside him, and then marched off in the direction of the peeling brown house, disappearing a moment later around the corner of the building. No more than a second passed before her head popped back into view. She scanned the surrounding area, seemed to blow out a breath of relief, and then disappeared again.

He’d forgotten all about the two gentlemen he’d thought were following Harriet. He scanned the assorted people walking on the sidewalk, but the gentlemen he’d seen before were nowhere in sight.

She’d conveniently neglected to explain the men, but he couldn’t really blame her for that, not when Mrs. Hart and her overabundance of personality had descended on them.

How was he going to tell Mrs. Hart there was no longer any need for her help in chaperoning, or more worrisome, how was he going to explain this mess to his grandfather?

“Should I take the boxes from Arnold Constable & Company up to Miss Peabody?” Darren asked, breaking through Oliver’s thoughts.

In all the chaos of the past hour, he’d neglected to remember that Arnold Constable & Company had efficiently gathered together some of Harriet’s selections and delivered them to the carriage for Harriet’s immediate use. He certainly had no issue with allowing her to keep the items purchased today, but what
concerned him more at the moment was what Darren had just said. “What do you mean,
up
to her?”

“I assume she lives on one of the upper floors since she went around the corner of the house. Boardinghouses usually have outside stairs leading up to the tenants’ rooms.”

All the air disappeared from Oliver’s lungs as his gaze traveled over the peeling paint, lingered on the sagging shutters, and he finally came to the realization that he was standing in front of the place Harriet called home.

How had he neglected to realize that the lovely, vivacious, and yes, annoying, Miss Harriet Peabody lived in one of the meanest slums he’d ever seen?

Had he been so distracted by the appearance of Mrs. Hart that he hadn’t taken the time to figure it out, or could it be possible that some unconscious part of him had simply not wanted to delve into this alarming bit of reality?

Drawing in a deep breath, he caught sight of what could only be a rat foraging around in some rubbish strewn against the side of the sad-looking house. The rat scurried into a large hole leading to the basement in the house where Harriet resided.

Did rats know how to climb, and if so, did Harriet ever have to fend them off as she tried to sleep?

The mere idea of that caused his temper to stir, replaced quickly with dismay.

“Mr. Addleshaw, are you feeling all right?”

Oliver drew in another breath, that action having the unfortunate result of a rather pungent odor sweeping up his nose. He began breathing through his mouth before he managed to nod in Darren’s direction. “I wasn’t aware that Miss Peabody lived in such a deplorable part of the city, but now that I do, I’ll need to rectify that situation.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but I got the distinct impression,
given that Miss Peabody flung herself from your carriage, that the two of you are not in accord at the moment.”

“I should probably go straighten that little misunderstanding out.” Oliver extracted the pistol he always carried with him from the waistband of his trousers. “Best keep this with you, Darren, to guard the carriage.”

Accepting the pistol, Darren frowned. “Are you certain you wouldn’t rather keep the pistol, sir? If you ask me, you’re in more danger from Miss Peabody than I am out here on the street.”

A grin caught Oliver by surprise even as he shook his head. He watched his driver walk away and climb up on the carriage before he turned and headed toward the boardinghouse, wondering what he should say to Harriet when they came face-to-face.