Chapter XXIII: Secrets (4)

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Monique instantly attempted to walk back the damage with a deprecating laugh, sidling closer to her dearest friend and tugged on Harriet’s arm in a pleading gesture.

“I know, I know it sounds crazy. Blame my mind for being overstimulated by all those ridiculous romance novels I read. I’m sorry.”

She aimed an apologetic look towards Harriet, who remained pale and speechless in the wake of Monique’s outrageous implication.

Viola arched one perfectly groomed brow as she regarded her friend skeptically.

“What made you come up with such a ridiculous plot line? We all know Mrs. Vanderbilt utterly adores Harriet. What kind of stepmother would treat her so genuinely if Harriet wasn’t her legitimate daughter?”

Monique sighed, backpedaling hastily. “You’re right, you’re absolutely right. I’m sorry, okay? Please don’t breathe a word of this idiocy to Uncle Reginald and Aunt Beatrice. I meant no ill thoughts towards them.”

Harriet kept her gaze averted, struggling to conceal the roiling tempest of emotions that Monique’s words had unleashed.

As the awkward silence stretched on, Sally, the second of Monique’s sycophantic entourage, offered a hesitant observation.

“Well, you really can’t blame Monique too much. Assumptions of illegitimacy are sadly quite common in our elite circles.” She cut her eyes towards Harriet with undisguised curiosity. “I am wondering, though – what prompted you to even consider the idea that Harriet might be…well, you know.”

Monique heaved an exaggerated sigh, throwing up her hands in a gesture of mild exasperation.

“It was that woman’s bizarre actions that got me thinking such ludicrous thoughts. Her apparent attachment to you just didn’t align with the cover story of her being a mere former maid. We’ve all grown up around nannies, and none display that sort of obsessive fixation on their former charges.”

The others nodded in grudging agreement, still shooting Harriet sidelong glances out of the corners of their eyes.

For her part, Harriet seemed to be regaining her composure, lifting her chin with a hint of her customary hauteur.

“You have quite the overactive imagination, Monique,” she declared in clipped tones, favoring Constance with a withering glare of undisguised contempt. “Surely you saw that woman’s pathetic behavior only the one time she accosted us outside the cafe?”

A cruel smile curved Monique’s carmine lips as she shook her head slowly. “Once? Oh no, honey. She’s been around us constantly, lingering in the shadows like a bad penny.”

A collective murmur of surprise rippled through the group as all eyes turned towards Constance in astonishment.

Harriet’s bravado visibly faltered, her complexion blanching further until her knuckles showed bone-white against her clenched fists.

“Wh-What do you mean?” She fought to keep her voice steady, but could not conceal the tremor of underlying panic.

Rather than answering directly, Monique turned towards her ever-present bodyguards with a curt nod.

One of the impassive men immediately crossed to a nearby cabinet, retrieving a cuboid box roughly the size of a shoebox. He proffered it to Monique, who accepted the mysterious box with an air of casual indifference.

“What’s this?” Harriet asked, unable to mask her apprehension as Monique extended the box towards her.

“See for yourself,” was Monique’s elliptical response. She said nothing further, allowing the weight of implication to grow heavier and heavier with each passing second.

At last, as if drawn against her will, Harriet reached out with trembling fingers and grasped the box’s edges. She pulled it slowly towards herself as Monique’s friends crowded around, straining for a glimpse of the contents over Harriet’s rigid shoulder.

With excruciating deliberation, Harriet lifted the lid and extracted the topmost item – a glossy photograph that caused her brows to crease in bewilderment. Then another, and another, her frown deepening into an outraged scowl with each successive revelation.

“This…this is…” She seemed unable to give voice to the obvious truth staring back at her from the dozens of high-quality images.

“She took them,” Monique supplied with hushed delight. “That sad old woman has been stalking and photographing us for months on end now.”

The revelation of Constance’s obsessive stalking left a palpable pall over the once festive atmosphere.

The air seemed to still around them as Harriet shot her mother a withering look laden with undisguised hatred and revulsion.

Constance shivered involuntarily under that scorching glare, as if laid bare before an all-consuming blaze intent on incinerating the last vestiges of her tattered dignity.

She opened her mouth, desperately grasping for words to explain, to justify the obsessive actions that even she could not fully rationalize to herself.

But the explanations shriveled on her tongue before she could give them voice. Instead, she dropped her gaze to the plush carpeting, shame and hurt coiling through her like twin serpents as she absorbed the brutal rejection radiating from her beloved daughter.

“I’m sorry, okay?” Monique’s voice cut through the strained silence with an audible undercurrent of regret coloring her tone. “I truly thought she meant something more to you, Harriet. That’s why I didn’t instruct my men to deal with her more…forcefully before. I opted to hire the pathetic creature as a personal maid instead. But I’m sorry for overstepping with my assumptions.”

Harriet seemed to regain her composure, snapping the box of incriminating photographs closed with a definitive thud before fixing Monique with a polite, if somewhat strained, smile. “You have no need to apologize. Any misinterpretations were due solely to her own bizarre behavior prompting such salacious thoughts.”

“So what are we going to do about her?” Sally demanded, her upper lip curling in contemptuous distaste as she eyed the Constance who was immobilized by two guards on either side .

Rather than responding directly, Monique arched one eloquently shaped brow in silent inquiry towards Harriet. The message was clear – she would defer to her closest friend’s judgment on how to proceed.

A harsh bark of laughter burst from Harriet’s lips, startling in its naked derision. “Me? What are you looking at me for? That woman has absolutely nothing to do with me whatsoever.”

There was a beat of weighted silence as Monique seemed to consider this adamant denial. “Well…she was at least formerly your family’s maid at one point, was she not? And she does appear utterly besotted with showering you with an excessive degree of…admiration.”

Harriet’s dismissive scoff severed the lingering thread of hope still tenuously tethering Constance’s heart.

“So?”

Her daughter’s voice was arctic in its complete indifference.

The single syllable reverberated through Constance’s very marrow like the death knell for any semblance of a relationship between them.

With leaden dread, she lifted her imploring gaze to meet Harriet’s once more, pleading mutely for any shred of warmth or empathy to remain. Anything to offset the brutal sting of rejection lacerating her wounded psyche over and over again.

“Well?” Monique prompted when Harriet remained stubbornly silent. “What do you have to say for yourself regarding these unforgivable breaches of privacy and propriety?”

Constance’s mouth worked soundlessly as she held her daughter’s line emerald stare. So much longing, so much desperation and futile love welled up in her throat that she feared she might asphyxiate on the overwhelming tidal wave of emotion.

Just when it seemed she might find her voice, find the words to adequately convey how utterly vital Harriet’s regard was to her soul’s survival, a sudden vicious blow lanced through her shins like a bolt of lightning arcing through her bones.

With a guttural cry, Constance’s knees buckled beneath her and she crumpled gracelessly, agony blossoming through her body as she impacted the plush carpeting with a dull thud.

“When the Lady asks you a question, you’d best answer promptly,” the lead bodyguard growled in a tone of cruel satisfaction. He took another menacing step forward, one highly-polished wingtip nudging her sharply in the ribs and driving the breath from her lungs. “Well? We’re all waiting to hear whatever pitiful excuses you think might justify this reprehensible behavior.”

Throughout the display, Harriet watched on in icy detachment, her stunning features as impassive and immovable as an exquisitely sculptured marble statue. Finally, as Constance writhed in a vain attempt to catch her breath, Harriet cast a razor-edged stare towards Monique.

“When do we reach the next port again? The party is scheduled to run for another day at least, correct?”

Startled by the seeming non-sequitur, Monique blinked rapidly before replying. “Uh…tomorrow morning, I believe. We’ll be docking at Porto Cervo by mid-morning at the latest.”

A cruel smile played about the corners of Harriet’s perfect lips.

“Good, hand this pathetic wretch over to the local authorities then. We’ve no need to sully ourselves any further by concerning ourselves with the fate of a common thief, hm?”

“Are…are you quite sure about that course of action, Harriet?” Monique ventured after a fractional pause, something almost akin to pity flickering through her eyes as she observed the anguish written across Constance’s wrecked features.

“I’ve never been more certain,” came Harriet’s instantaneous reply, her tone utterly devoid of any hesitation or mercy as she impatiently reclaimed the box of evidence from Monique’s unresisting hands. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve rather lost my enthusiasm for further celebration this evening.”

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