The Bad Luck Bride (The Brides of St. Ives #1)(87)
Truth be told, it was embarrassing the way her mother pushed Clara in front of every titled man she came across. Her parents and their ancestors had come from strong Cornish stock, working men and women, the sort who never would dream of putting themselves forward. But her father, through grit and hard work, had managed to accumulate enough money and enough position to buy one of the many tin mines in Cornwall. They were rich now, so rich that an impoverished lord just might be persuaded to marry a woman far below his station. Clara was beautiful and her dowry was impressive, and for those reasons she had garnered quite a bit of attention over the years, though her heart had never been engaged. At twenty-four years old, Clara was still lovely and youthful and stirred the heart of many a man.
Harriet, on the other hand, counted herself lucky if anyone asked her to dance at the limited balls she attended. On those rare occasions when she was asked, her mother would critique her the way a director critiques an actor’s performance. You laughed too loudly. You smiled too much. Why didn’t you smile? Did he ask about Clara? You really mustn’t dance the reel, you’re much too clumsy. And so, she was rather relieved when no one did ask her, for her mother would always make her feel stupid and silly. It used to hurt far more than it did now, but it did still hurt a bit, to be that unwanted child who never could match her mother’s great expectations. She couldn’t change her sex, she couldn’t become another Clara. And that was enough for her parents to dismiss her as a being who lived in their house but had nothing at all to do with their lives.
Any time that hurt made her stomach clench, Harriet would push it down and remember that she had the afternoon free to do as she pleased. She could walk to the shore, work on her needlepoint, sing badly in her room, read a book. This time, Harriet had enthusiastically arranged a luncheon with her friends, something she was very much looking forward to.
Her closest friend, Alice, was recently married and just beginning to show her pregnancy. Such an odd thing to think about, that a little being was growing inside Alice, the same girl she used to make paper dolls with. Not a day went by that Harriet didn’t thank God that Alice had fallen in love with a man who lived in St. Ives. She would never move away.
Looking in the mirror, Harriet stuck out her tongue at her reflection and laughed. Sometimes she would look at Clara, then into her mirror, and find it startling how much plainer she was than her sister. It was not self-pity, not every time at any rate, but rather a pragmatism that made her realize long ago she would never be a beauty like Clara. Perhaps it would have bothered her if Clara had been mean or vain, but her sister was kind and sweet and Harriet loved her dearly. Two years ago, Harriet stopped trying to be lovely, wearing the latest fashions, asking her mother to buy new gowns each year. Perhaps the worst of it was that no one even noticed.
Harriet smiled at her reflection, then tilted her jaw. She wasn’t ugly. In fact, if she turned her head just so, she was actually pretty. Narrowing her eyes, Harriet studied herself objectively and came away moderately pleased with her appearance. Her dress was a dull brown, a stark contrast to her light blue eyes, and her hair, usually a frizzing mess, held a few soft curls. It was, she realized, the light oil the girls’ maid had given her, and Harriet gave herself a mental reminder to thank Jeanine for her hair tonic. If she were going out, Jeanine would usually iron her hair, then take the stiff, coarse results and curl a few select strands. But with Jeanine completely occupied by Clara, Harriet had simply brushed out her hair, applied the tonic, and pulled it back into a tight knot.
As Harriet went to leave the house, she kept an eye out for their housekeeper, whom she suspected reported to her mother any transgression. It was easy enough to thwart the woman; Harriet had long ago realized no one, including her mother, could fault her for “going for a walk.” And if Harriet happened to walk to St. Ives village and meet her friends, who was to be the wiser? Sometimes she wished she had something more adventurous to do, something slightly dangerous, so she could really feel victorious.
Today, a walk into St. Ives was enough adventure for her. It was a lovely day, with a brisk wind blowing off the Atlantic, making her cheeks pink. She huddled into her old woolen coat and adjusted the soft wool scarf around her neck. It was October, and though it never got too cold in St. Ives even in winter, it was a day that called for a thick coat and a soft scarf.
When she reached the cobbled streets of the village, her boots tapped loudly, a sound that made her smile, for it meant she would soon see her friends. Teague’s Tea House was a favorite of the villagers, and on this day it was fairly crowded with patrons. Harriet liked going there because she always felt so sophisticated, taking tea in a shop rather than at home. The store held a half-dozen small tables with smooth white linen table cloths, and the delicate clink of silverware and china, as well as the soft murmur of voices always made Harriet feel a small rush of warmth.
“Hello, Miss Anderson,” the proprietor, Mrs. Teague, called out. Harriet often wondered if the Teagues truly liked having a tea shop or if they felt it was necessary to take advantage of their last name, but she was too shy to ask.
In the far corner, she saw her friends—Alice, Eliza, and Rebecca. Eliza and Rebecca were staring raptly at Alice’s tummy, slightly rounded, as if it were some sort of oddity. The first of them to marry, the first to have a child, Alice was a bit of a celebrity amongst them. When they spied Harriet coming toward their small group, they stood, smiling widely, happy she was able to come that day. When her mother was home, she was not allowed to go into the village without a chaperone—and one was rarely available, as her mother was always too busy to accompany her.