After a Fashion (A Class of Their Own #1)(100)

After a few minutes or perhaps it was a few hours, her father eased back from her and smiled. “I’m going to buy you a pony.”

“I might be a bit old for a pony.”

“They bought me a pony when I was ten, even though I tried to convince them when I was six that I was old enough to ride.”

Harriet looked up and the next thing she knew, her father had moved out of the way, which was probably fortunate since Victoria flung herself across the bed and grabbed Harriet in a hug that stole the very breath from her. “I’m so glad you’re not dead.”

“You might want to loosen your hold, Tori, or she might go that way,” her mother said with a laugh.

“Sorry,” Victoria muttered before she scooted off the bed and grinned. “We’re sisters. No wonder I adored you from the start.”

“You loathed me on sight because you wanted Oliver.”

“That was just a girlish infatuation. I’ve grown up since then.”

Harriet returned the grin and then looked at her father. “I was the reason behind your overprotectiveness with Victoria, wasn’t I?”

“When people suffer the loss of a child, it does tend to make them cling a little too tightly to the children, or in our case, child, who follows.”

“But you can relax that attitude since you now have two children,” Victoria proclaimed with a nod. “And since it seems that Harriet has a propensity for getting into dramatic situations, well, she’ll need more looking after than I ever would.”

“I’m twenty-two years old, Victoria. Believe me, I don’t need looking after.”

As soon as the words left her mouth, she immediately regretted them. Her father was looking upset and her mother downright distressed.

“Don’t listen to a word Harriet says,” Oliver exclaimed as he strode back into the room and smiled at her. “She, more than anyone I know, needs to be watched with an eagle eye.” He crossed the room and sat down in a chair next to the bed. “How are you feeling?”

It took her a second to realize he’d spoken, being a bit distracted by the way his hair was oh so attractively rumpled and his jacket stretched across his broad shoulders. She couldn’t remember what he’d asked, but since he was looking at her expectantly she blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

“Do you remember when I first met you and your jacket was so poorly fitted?”

“It wasn’t that long ago, Harriet, so yes, I clearly recall that incident.”

Harriet glanced at her mother. “He’d annoyed his tailor by not promoting the tailor’s son at one of his factories, so his tailor decided to get back at him by creating garments for Oliver that barely fit him.”

Margaret looked at Oliver, then back at Harriet, and frowned. “I . . . see.”

“You’ll be happy to know, Harriet, that Mr. Clay tailored this jacket and his son is now manager of that particular factory.”

Warmth was immediate. “That’s wonderful, and . . . the mining situation?”

“Is being handled capably by that brilliant gentleman I sent to West Virginia.”

“You must be so relieved, but . . . tell me . . . what happened at the ball? Is society furious with you, and what happened to me? Was I shot and how long have I been lying here in bed . . . and am I still at Abigail’s house?”

Oliver smiled. “That’s quite a few questions, Harriet, but let me see if I can answer them. Yes, you’re currently still at Abigail’s, and you’ve been lying in bed for about twelve hours. No, you weren’t shot, thank God, but you did get hit in the head with Jane’s pistol. To make matters worse, you hit your head again when you fell to the ground because no one was close enough to catch you.”

Harriet lifted a hand to her head. “It doesn’t hurt.”

Oliver smiled at her, his smile so filled with tenderness that she lost the ability to breathe. “I’m glad.”

Margaret cleared her throat, drawing Harriet’s attention. She couldn’t help but notice that her mother seemed somewhat worried, and had no idea what was causing that worry.

“And of course society isn’t angry with you,” Margaret said, smiling back at Harriet, although the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “No one heard the story Oliver told us later, about how you were only posing as his fiancée to secure the deal with your father, which I must admit I still don’t truly understand, but—” she drew in a deep breath—“for all New York society knows, you and Oliver were the victims of a most dastardly lady, and strangely enough, poor Abigail has been besieged with calling cards. All of the ladies delivering those cards have been extremely reluctant to leave the house until they get Abigail’s promise that she’ll tell you they desire your company.”

It was very peculiar, her life at the moment, but it almost seemed to her as if she’d truly become acceptable, but . . . would that change matters between her and Oliver? Would he look at her differently now, and did she want him to look at her differently?

She was still Harriet Peabody, had made hats for a living for years, but . . . did he see her in an improved light?

She wasn’t quite certain she wanted that.

She wanted him to love her, just as she’d realized she loved him. She certainly wasn’t comfortable with the idea that he might be more inclined to spend time with her now that her true parentage had been revealed.