Page 58 of The Briar Bargain (The Rom Com Collection #3)

I t was not the pinnacle of Edward Harrison’s career, nor the culmination of his soldierly discipline, but it was certainly his favourite pastime.

Knotting. A habit acquired in the army, as familiar to him as polishing boots.

Knots were orderly, precise, manly even, with just enough artistry to make the exercise worth the trouble.

He was no disciple of fashion otherwise.

Jackets, coats, waistcoats were all well enough, but Harrison’s loyalty lay with sound tailoring that let the man, not the garment, be seen.

In that respect he was fortunate to serve Mr. Darcy, who had no desire to strut about like a dandy.

His master wanted his clothes to fit, not to announce themselves.

That suited Harrison perfectly. His master’s indifference left him free to practice his craft in the one arena where both could be satisfied: a cravat that was impeccable, understated, and entirely his own work.

And so, he tied.

Harrison, formerly of the British Army, veteran of the Peninsular War, and now valet to England’s most steadfast gentleman, stepped back to survey his day’s handiwork .

His satisfaction was entirely at odds with the battlefield of a dressing room around him.

Master Bennet Darcy, aged four, possessed of perpetually sticky fingers and a profound disregard for a valet at his work, had very nearly upended the shaving powder in his enthusiasm to "help Papa look handsome.

" His older sister, Miss Anne, a cherubic menace in white muslin who could have taught Talleyrand about strategic misdirection, had absconded with the silk waistcoat buttons.

"These would make very pretty doll eyes," she had declared.

The older boys, Masters Richard and Charles, were eighteen months apart in age and nearly identical in both their looks and fiendish nature.

They had declared open war on the shoehorn, wielding it alternately as sword, sceptre, and catapult.

One had succeeded in launching a pearl stud across the room, where it now resided somewhere beneath the mahogany wardrobe.

And amidst it all, Mrs. Darcy herself appeared, watching from the doorway as though observing a particularly entertaining siege.

Her smile was both playful and wicked, her eyes alight with that treacherous sparkle that had first entranced her husband and suggested she was enjoying the spectacle far more than any respectable wife ought.

After a moment, she spoke firmly. “Children, you will clean everything up and put it back where you found it. Now, if you please.”

They groaned.

“You will do so now even if you do not please,” Mr. Darcy said, standing. “You have tortured Harrison enough for one day.” His children did as they were told, but while they repaired everything they had torn asunder, the master leaned over to Harrison to say, “Not that you do not deserve it.”

“I do not know what you mean, sir,” Harrison replied. He did, of course .

"I do believe, Harrison," Mrs. Darcy said as the children streamed out of the dressing room around her, "that you have outdone yourself. Mr. Darcy is magnificent.” Her smile was pert and teasing.

“I cannot decide whether Mr. Darcy has been sacrificed upon the altar of the cravat, or merely crowned its high priest.”

"I live but to serve, madam," Harrison replied pleasantly, for Mrs. Darcy was ever his supporter.

Mr. Darcy bore the entire procedure with his typical stoicism. His dark eyes held the glint Harrison had learned to recognise as a gentleman who loved his wife too much to gainsay her, especially on matters as trivial as the knot in his neck cloth.

"You know," Mrs. Darcy added conversationally, "he did not even own a proper glass when we were first engaged. Just that tiny shaving mirror. You have worked wonders, Harrison."

"I had a glass," Mr. Darcy protested, his voice carrying the tone of a man who had made this argument before and expected to make it again. “Harrison was already my valet by then.”

Harrison began carefully retrieving scattered studs and reorganising the displaced bottles of cologne.

He had learned through experience that leaving even the smallest item out of place would result in disaster, a lesson learned when Master Charles had once discovered an unattended pomade pot and decided to "improve" the nursery wallpaper.

"I seem to recall," Mrs. Darcy continued, her tone deceptively innocent, "that when we were first wed and Harrison began his efforts to lift your cravat to prominence, you attempted to dismiss him."

Mr. Darcy's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "That is a gross exaggeration, Elizabeth. "

"Is it?" She tilted her head, eyes dancing with mischief. "Harrison, pray tell us how many times my husband attempted to send you away in those first months?"

Harrison paused in his careful arrangement of cravat pins, weighing his loyalty to his employer against his affection for the lady of the house. Mrs. Darcy had a way of drawing confessions from stone statues, and Harrison was considerably less stalwart than marble.

"Well, madam," he said carefully, "I believe there were several suggestions that my services might be better suited to a gentleman with more appreciation for the finer points of the cravat."

"Three times," Mrs. Darcy announced gleefully as her husband frowned. "I counted. Poor Harrison, you were packed and unpacked more frequently than we change the drawing room flowers."

"Elizabeth," Mr. Darcy said, his voice carrying a warning that might have intimidated anyone who had not spent years perfecting the art of teasing him. "You are enjoying this far too much."

"Am I?" she asked, moving closer to her husband and reaching up to adjust his perfectly arranged cravat with unnecessary precision. "I think I am enjoying it precisely the right amount. After all, look what Harrison has accomplished. You are positively gleaming."

Harrison caught the inflection Mrs. Darcy placed on that last word and busied himself with examining the carpet for any overlooked pearl studs. The lady had a talent for making the most innocuous observations to her husband sound rather less than innocent.

"I gleam because you will have me gleam," Mr. Darcy replied, though when Harrison peeked up at him, there was softening around his master’s eyes. "Harrison merely facilitates your tyranny."

"Tyranny!" Mrs. Darcy laughed gaily. "And here I thought I was being a devoted wife. "

"Devoted," Mr. Darcy repeated. "Is that what we are calling it?"

Harrison cleared his throat delicately. "Perhaps, sir, madam, you might continue this discussion in a location where there are fewer . . . breakable items within reach?"

Both Darcys turned to look at him with matching expressions of surprise that would fool no one, least of all a man who had spent more than a decade observing their particular brand of marital warfare.

"Whatever do you mean, Harrison?" Mrs. Darcy asked sweetly. "We are having a perfectly civilised conversation about fashion."

"Indeed," Mr. Darcy agreed gravely. "Instigated by your insatiable need for fame, I might add."

Harrison surveyed the dressing room, every item now in its proper place, and permitted himself a small smile while looking at no one in particular. It was not fame he sought, but excellence, and Mr. Darcy knew it. "Of course, sir, madam. My mistake entirely."

He made his way to the door, as he had learned to recognise when retreat was the wisest course. Behind him, he could hear Mrs. Darcy's voice, lower now and tinged with a heat that suggested the conversation was veering into territory that no valet, however dedicated, should witness.

"You know, Mr. Darcy," she was saying, her fingers still toying with her husband’s cravat, "I do believe Harrison has made you quite irresistible this morning."

"Irresistible to whom?" came Mr. Darcy's dry reply.

"Oh, to everyone, naturally. Your cousins will be jealous. The colonel will once again bemoan that he ever sent Harrison to you, and Lady Poinsby will positively swoon when she sees this cravat."

"Elizabeth," Mr. Darcy said, and Harrison caught the warning mixed with amusement in his voice, "you are being deliberately provoking. "

"Am I? I merely wish to ensure you understand the full scope of Harrison's achievement. Why, I daresay every unmarried lady in London will be casting longing glances in your direction."

Harrison paused at the threshold, unable to suppress a slight smile as Mr. Darcy's response came, swift and decisive. "Then they shall be sadly disappointed, as I am quite thoroughly spoken for."

"Are you indeed?" Mrs. Darcy inquired with mock surprise. "By whom, pray tell?"

Harrison stepped firmly into the passage and closed the door behind him before he could hear Mr. Darcy's response, though he suspected it would be delivered in a manner that had little to do with words.

He had barely taken three steps when he encountered Miss Hartwell, the children's governess, who was hurrying down the hall with a distinctly harried expression and what appeared to be grass stains on her usually pristine apron.

"Good morning, Miss Hartwell," Harrison said, offering a slight bow. "I trust the young masters and Miss Anne are not causing you undue distress?"

Miss Hartwell paused, pushing a stray lock of brown hair back under her cap. She was a sensible woman of perhaps thirty years, possessed of infinite patience and the reflexes of a cavalry officer, both essential qualifications for managing the Darcy offspring.

"Good morning, Harrison," she replied with a rueful smile. "I have just been attempting to explain to Master Charles why he cannot construct a working cannon from nursery furniture, while simultaneously preventing Master Richard from 'testing' said cannon with his collection of marbles."

"Ah," Harrison nodded knowingly. "And Master Bennet?"