Page 79 of The Faerie Morgana
Harriet looked down at her bedraggled skirt and the bits of meadow grass that clung to its muddy hem.
She pulled off her hat, dislodging the few pins she had stuck in her hair, and found that it, too, was littered with pine needles and the odd wet leaf.
She tried to push her hair back into place with one hand, but to no effect.
She gave it up and bent to begin untying her boots. “Do you know, Grace, I saw Mrs. Corning going into the courtyard. She wouldn’t speak to me, but she gave the most impressive sniff I’ve ever heard. I doubt if Queen Victoria could have outdone it.”
Grace, whose own red hair was pinned into a tight knot at the back of her skull, tossed her head.
“Mrs. Corning! Never you mind her, Miss Harriet. That woman is no better than she should be, I can tell you.” She came to help Harriet out of her heavy jacket.
“Her Patsy, the one that does for her three times a week, tells me all kinds of men go through that place when Mr. Corning ain’t there.
Their cook lives in, and she says the same.
And the parties she gives! Why, you wouldn’t believe the caviar and ices and champagne and… ”
Grace rattled on with enthusiasm. Harriet nodded now and then, her usual way of dealing with Grace’s chatter. Free of her jacket and having wriggled her wet boots off her feet, she started down the hall to her bedroom.
Grace pattered behind her. “Now, Miss Harriet, you get out of that wet skirt and into something dry and warm. It’s only May, you know, not summer yet. We don’t want you catching cold or something.”
Harriet pursed her lips to prevent a smile of amusement. She had never, not once in their long relationship, caught a cold. Grace knew that.
She did as she was told just the same. As Grace went off with the wet skirt draped over her arm, Harriet settled into a comfortable shirtwaist and light woolen skirt.
She tied an apron over it, a long one with deep pockets for the scissors and string she used for tying up swatches of herbs.
Only then did she go to the mirror to try to do something about her disordered hair.
As she was trying to drag a brush through it, Grace tapped on her door and came in. “Your breakfast is almost ready,” she said. “Oh, Miss Harriet, look at that hair! Give me the brush, now. Let me do it.”
Harriet surrendered the hairbrush and settled onto the dressing table stool so Grace, a good head shorter than she, could reach. As Grace worked, Harriet mused, “I suppose Mrs. Corning has a point, Grace. I did look a sight. But then, I so often do. You would think she’d be used to it.”
“I expect she wishes she could look like you do,” Grace said. “She must have a devil of a time fitting herself into that corset, and here’s you not even needing one.”
“I have a corset,” Harriet said, amused.
“Do you, now?” Grace eyed her in the mirror. “You don’t never wear it, as far as I know. But never mind. Here’s your hair all better.”
“I’m going gray,” Harriet observed.
“Perfectly natural. That Mrs. Corning gets her color out of a bottle, believe you me, Miss Harriet. A little bird told me all about it. Besides, this nice touch of silver in your hair looks dignified, if you ask me.”
“You can say that, with not a single gray hair on your head.” Harriet gave Grace an affectionate glance in the mirror. Grace, as she well knew, was vain about her hair.
Grace’s naturally ruddy cheeks grew redder. “But you, Miss Harriet, don’t suffer from this flock of freckles!”
“No,” Harriet admitted. “It’s true, my flock is considerably smaller, despite my being so careless about my hat.”
“Yes, and you should do better,” Grace said. She began inserting pins into the loose chignon she had created on Harriet’s head. “You still have a lovely complexion, Miss Harriet, despite you not being so young anymore.”
Harriet chuckled over this bluntness. “Yes, I think I bid youth farewell some time ago, Grace. Fifty! Hard to believe. But thanks for repairing my hair. It looks quite respectable now.”
“Come on, then,” Grace said, leading the way out of the bedroom.
“I’ve got your coffee made, and I have eggs and ham, a good breakfast, since you’ve been out in the cold with your herbs and things.
Do you want marmalade? I think there’s some in the pantry.
Or you could have honey, since I bought some down on Mulberry Street the other day. It looks good, and I think…”
Harriet let the flow of talk run over and around her, as comforting as a warm bath.
And why, she wondered, as she sat down with her coffee, should she need comfort?
A silly woman like Lucille Corning didn’t have the power to hurt her.
She didn’t care about any of the things that sort of woman put store in, not clothes, or society, or a fancy carriage to take her shopping, or champagne parties.
She had never cared about such things, but still—except for Grace, she had no real friends.
There was the woman who ran the herb shop down on Elizabeth Street.
The proprietress was an aging Italian woman, Signora Carcano, a strega in her own language.
She was a cranky old thing, and her shop smelled strongly of garlic and onions, but she and Harriet held each other in mutual respect.
Harriet had never asked about the woman’s practice.
It was better not to know. They had much in common, and they respected each other, but they were friendly without being actual friends.
There were her patients, of course, but it would be unprofessional to think of them as friends.
She couldn’t help wishing that once in a while someone would ask her to tea or to a quiet supper party.
She lived in a fashionable building, paid her lease like anyone else, but she didn’t fit in.
She was, as she had been since girlhood, an outsider.
All the Bishops on her side were, she supposed. Why should she be any different?
She sighed, sipped her coffee, and told herself to push the whole nonsense out of her mind.
Deliberately she recalled the pleasure of seeing her great-niece riding past on her beautiful horse.
It had been lovely to see her. She needed to find a way to meet her.
She could not trust Frances when it came time for Annis’s instruction.
The time for that was coming very soon. She knew it.