Lord Harry's Folly Read Online Free PDF Page A

passion. It seemed that there was scarcely a moment in the day when he was aware of the presence of his daughter, much less of Miss Worthington’s tireless efforts to provide a normal atmosphere in his home.
    If the truth were told, Miss Worthington felt like a floundering fish in a fisherman’s net. It wasn’t that Henrietta was unkind to her or made her feel unwelcome in any way. But the only visitors to be seen were Sir Archibald’s political cronies, severely dressed gentlemen whose curt nods made Miss Worthington feel woefully inadequate and twittery as a caged chicken. To make matters worse, if Henrietta wasn’t sitting quietly in front of the fireplace, simply staring off at nothing in particular as she was now, she would take long walks by herself, an activity of which Miss Worthington disapproved. When she had very tactfully pointed out that a young lady walking about by herself was not at all the thing, Henrietta had merely cocked her head to one side and appeared to look straight through Miss Worthington. “You needn’t worry that I’m ogled by all the young gentlemen, Miss Worthington,” she’d said. “All these heavy black veils keep them at their distance.”
    She saw that Henrietta’s hands were knotting and unknotting a handkerchief in her lap. She sighed and put down her needle. “Hetty, dear child, do look outside. The fog is lifting and I believe that the sun will be out soon. Would you like to accompany me to the Pantheon Bazaar? You haven’t visited there, you know.”
    Hetty raised dark blue eyes, which looked suspiciously red about the rims, and slowly shook her head. “No, thank you, Miss Worthington. If you would like to go, I shall be happy to ring for John the coachman.”
    Miss Worthington felt the familiar naggings of defeat. “No, Hetty, I am quite content to finish my mending.” They sat in silence until the afternoon sun began its descent into the distance. As Miss Worthington rose to light a branch of candles, a knock sounded on the drawing-room door.
    Grimpston, the Rolland butler, and in Miss Worthington’s opinion, a man of great efficiency and tact, appeared in the doorway. “Miss Henrietta,” he said and waited. As his mistress did not turn, he cleared his throat to gain her attention.
    Finally she looked up. “Yes, Grimpston?”
    “There is a person here asking to see Sir Archibald, Miss Hetty.”
    “Sir Archibald isn’t here at the moment, as you very well know, Grimpston.”
    “I know, Miss, but there’s a man here, a Mr. Pottson. He tells me that he was Master Damien’s batman.”
    “His batman?”
    Miss Worthington watched her in surprise as Hetty nearly leapt from her chair. “Oh, do have this Mr. Pottson attend me in the back parlor. I shall be there directly.”
    He returned to the entrance hall and said to the diminutive gray-haired man who stood still clutching a crumpled wool hat between his hands, “Miss Henrietta Rolland will see you. If you will follow me.”
    Pottson was certain that he’d made a mistake in coming when he was ushered into the presence of a tall young lady who stood watching him come toward her, an unreadable expression in her eyes. Drat the butler anyway, he thought. What he had to say was for Master Damien’s father’s ears not for a gentle young lady all draped in black. He found himself gazing at her curiously, for unlike his late master, Miss Henrietta was very fair, with short curling blond hair framing her face. Yet, the eyes were the same a deep blue and wide, set beneath distinctively arched brows. There was a dreaming quality about such eyes, Pottson thought.
    “Miss Rolland,” he said, stepping forward, his wool hat still between his hands.
    “Yes, I am Henrietta Rolland. Grimpston said you were Damien’s batman.” She moved gracefully forward and clasped the startled Pottson’s hands in hers. The hat fell unnoticed to the floor.
    “Yes, ma’am. I had intended to see Sir Archibald, but the butler insisted