“I quail at the image of his rejection, Aunt. To hear my worst fears bluntly confirmed will devastate me! I cannot bear it, not now.”
The older ladies accepted Georgiana’s pleas for the present, her health precariously perched and not strong enough to handle that degree of shock. Georgiana did ask for guidance in how to handle Lord Caxton, however.
Lady Matlock was against her niece having such a conversation with her persistent weakness and lingering symptoms, but Georgiana insisted on dealing with that situation immediately. There truly was little choice since the worried gentleman visited the townhouse a dozen times a day! The Matlocks grudgingly agreed to Georgiana’s demands, and there was no consolation in being proven correct when the stress endured did lead to a short relapse.
Georgiana’s spirit improved with that drama no longer hanging over her head, but her physical health was slower to catch up, so it was judged best not to tell her of Lord Caxton’s return two days later. Lady Matlock felt for the man’s obvious anguish, but his belligerence when requests to see Georgiana were denied erased some of her pity. Richard had been incensed and close to calling the baron out, but Lord Matlock managed to restore peace long enough to evict the crazed baron, who clung to the belief that they had an agreement.
Despite the serious nature of Georgiana’s influenza, the family speculated that her prolonged lassitude was not entirely physical. Upon returning from the exhibit it only took one glance at the incandescent glow upon her face and buoyant skip to her steps to confirm the theory.
“I cannot pinpoint the moment I knew I loved him,” Georgiana softly answered her aunt’s query. “My feelings of friendship evolved of their own volition, it appears. Nor do I have any idea when he recognized his love for me. It is a question I intend to ask, merely for my own curiosity,” Georgiana declared with a gay laugh.
The ladies sat in the cozy salon of the de Valday townhouse drinking warm beverages and snacking on hastily supplied treats while Georgiana recounted the past months’ interactions with Mr. Butler, culminating with the encounter in the music room.
“I was amazed when he kissed me,” Georgiana went on, blushing furiously. “I pray you are not angry with him, Aunt. Mr. Butler is a gentleman in every way that counts, but is it not desirable to allow the soul free rein upon occasion? Music is about stirring the soul and passionate feelings. I delight in this and cannot fault Mr. Butler for expressing his emotions in an active manner.”
“Absolutely not!” Yvette blurted. “It is so romantic!”
“Was his kiss divine?”
“I shall not answer that, Zoë,” Georgiana gasped, but her expression and physical reaction to the remembered kiss gave her away, the twins laughing gleefully.
“We have been tremendously foolish, Aunt,” Georgiana resumed once somewhat composed. “I have been certain Mr. Butler wished for no more than friendship and that his musical pathway too important to complicate with romance. I have no desire to interrupt his study and am determined to wait for him as long as necessary.”
“Do not fret over that aspect of the situation, Georgiana. Honestly, I doubt if Mr. Butler would consider his music more important that you.”
“I hope you are correct. Oh, but those concerns are not what bother me most!” She jumped up from her seat and began to pace. “It is what to do now! Yes, we have been foolish and probably deserve to suffer as a consequence of our stupidity if for no other reason than to never err so idiotically again. Nevertheless, I cannot bear that we remain apart a moment longer! What he must be thinking right now is too wretched to tolerate! Please, tell me what I should do?”
“It is a simple matter, my dear. Tomorrow we will call—”
“Tomorrow? How can I wait until tomorrow? I abhor the idea of his sadness continuing. I need”—she inhaled deeply, closing her eyes as she fought for serenity—“I need to see him and tell him… everything.”
“You have no choice. It is nearly eleven o’clock, and to be honest, even if it were noontime I would suggest waiting so you can collect yourself.”
“But—”
“Trust me in this, Georgiana.” Lady Matlock clasped the agitated girl’s hand and yanked her onto the cushioned ottoman. “Tomorrow, we will call upon Lady Warrow. I suspect the perceptive marchioness has suspicions of her own and will happily accommodate your need for a private audience with Mr. Butler.”
Georgiana’s smile burst forth at the vision conjured with that statement. Her body shivered, the remembered sensation of his lips upon hers assaulting her control. Desire mingled with anxiety and happiness with sadness.
Lady Matlock squeezed her hand tighter and leaned closer. “Breathe, Georgiana,” she ordered softly. “Go to bed and rest. I promise that everything will be fine. Think only happy thoughts for an untroubled, revitalizing sleep. Tomorrow, we will focus on Mr. Butler and all will be well.”
Chapter Sixteen
Crescendo
Georgiana was humming and had been all morning. Surprisingly, she had fallen asleep the night before as soon as her head settled into the pillow. A blissful, deep sleep replete with passionate dreams of the gorgeous blond Mr. Butler leaving her refreshed and smiling upon waking with the dawn. She had purposely left the drapes open, so that the first rays of sunlight filtering through the glass would wake her. Absurd as it was, Georgiana wanted the morning hours to prepare for what promised to be the happiest day of her life.
This is the day my life will begin. When Mr. Butler, my Sebastian, will know that I love him.
She basked in the joy of it, danced about the room, pressed her lips in remembrance of his kiss, and frequently released breathy sighs. Her mind replayed every moment they had spent together since meeting in the de Marcov reception line at Chateau la Rochebelin in Lyon three months prior. Scene after scene of artistic discussions, casual touches at the piano, laughter while partaking in innumerable activities, dances, creative heads bent over parchment music sheets, and so on, all rolled together into a moving montage. The memories rang with incredible lucidity, the power of her love energizing so that even with the future yet uncertain, she felt no fear. Recollections of his eyes upon her, the caress in his voice when he spoke to her, the fervency of his declared love for her, and the passion of his kiss were all the surety she needed.
By eight o’clock, she was at her vanity brushing her hair until it glistened and crackled.
“I shall wear the blue gown from the ball,” she said to Mrs. Annesley. “I know it is vastly inappropriate for a daytime visitation but I remember how his face glowed when he saw me in it.”
“I doubt it was the dress, Miss Georgiana.”
“Hopefully it was not merely the dress!” she countered with a laugh. “Perhaps it is silly but I want to look my very best.”
“You could wear rags and I doubt he would think differently, but the blue gown it will be.”
Mrs. Annesley disappeared into the wardrobe to confer with Georgiana’s maid. Georgiana resumed her susurrate humming and brushing while mentally rehearsing how she would approach him with proper phrases reflective of her heart until a knock at the door interrupted the pleasant reverie.
“This was delivered for you, mademoiselle,” the maid stated, handing the folded missive to Georgiana and bobbing a curtsy.
Georgiana murmured her thanks and swung the door shut, absently unaware of anything but the familiar bold penmanship of Mr. Butler. Her heart lurched with a thunderous boom of joy before settling into an erratic tempo. He should not be writing to me. An awful foreboding washed over her and with trembling hands she ripped through the wax seal imprinted with the scripted E for the Essenton house.
Miss Darcy,
The irony of begging your forgiveness for my unpardonable behavior by compounding my sins in sending a letter unsolicited is not lost upon me, I assure you. But at this point, I have discarded every shred of decency, of knowing what is right and proper. I do beg for your forgiveness, not just for my beastly actions yesterday, but for
everything I have done to hurt you. Yet, I know I do not deserve it and that you are justified not to grant me any mercy. I cannot explain my actions adequately. I have tried, dozens of times, but each page is balled upon the floor. Georgiana—please, allow me to address you informally just this once—I will not burden you further with my desires. I only wish you to know that I will eternally count our time together as the happiest of my life. My affection is and always will be real. My true prayer is for your happiness. Lord Caxton is a good man and will honor you, as you richly deserve.
Please try not to think ill of me. And do not fret that I shall disturb your tranquility. This morning I will be departing the city, so you will be free to enjoy your final weeks in Paris without interference.
Be well, my friend. Follow your dreams and do not ever cease exercising your inspired, incredible gift for music.
God bless, SB
Rather than crumbling from fear or simple lack of oxygen due to it being squeezed from her lungs, Georgiana was spurred into action. She whirled about and tossed the letter to Mrs. Annesley, who returned from the wardrobe in that instant and dropped the dress in her mad scramble to catch the fluttering piece of paper. Without breaking stride Georgiana dashed into the closet barking orders in an uncharacteristic harsh tone.
“Amanda, I need a carriage prepared, now! There is no time to waste.”
Her dressing robe and nightgown fell to the floor. In her wild haste, she did not feel the bite from the cold on her bare skin and grabbed aimlessly for the first gown encountered. Fortunately, it was a thick woolen walking-dress, maroon with silver trim, long-sleeved and high collared. She threw it over her head, not bothering with a chemise or petticoat, haphazardly buttoning up the bodice. She rushed to the chest where she kept her stockings, extracting a random pair of cotton hose and lacy garters, and returned to the bedroom just as Mrs. Annesley finished reading the letter.
“Miss, I—”
“No matter, Amanda. Just call for a carriage. I must try to reach him before he leaves! Hurry!”
“Should we talk to Lady Matlock?”
Georgiana grasped onto Mrs. Annesley’s arms. “I understand your concern, but I cannot waste the time and Aunt Madeline is still asleep. I am sure she would encourage me to stop him. I must stop him. If I am too late…” She shuddered and gasped, the pain in her chest increasing. “No. I will not lose him! Now go!”
Mrs. Annesley agreed with her companion’s logic and need, even if propriety warned against such crazy action, so argued no further. “Very well, Miss Darcy. I shall call for the carriage. Get dressed and be sure to grab a warm cloak and boots.”
It only took fifteen minutes for the coachman to hitch the cabriolet and bring it to the front door, but to Georgiana it felt like years. After a quick hug from Mrs. Annesley, she climbed hastily into the carriage, ordering the driver to travel as speedily as possible. Unfortunately, the shortest route to the stately manor where Lady Warrow resided with her grandson, although largely residential, also contained a portion that passed through a business district. The commercial streets of Paris, even early in the morning, were busy with traffic. Voices rang as drivers called friendly greetings or swore instructions, street vendors loudly hawked their wares, and servants cluttered the sidewalks in conversation and purchasing. Carts, carriages, and horses maneuvered along the wide, cobbled avenues, often precariously avoiding collisions. It was dangerous and fruitless to attempt speed.
Georgiana bounced on the seat, craned her neck out the open window as if determination alone would part the sea of bodies and vehicles, and flipped the lid on her pocket watch to assess the passage of time roughly every thirty seconds. She truly felt as if riding a snail might be faster, but in fact they were moving along at a steady clip. After what seemed like hours, Georgiana glimpsed the ivy-covered brick and iron wall that enclosed the first mansion edging the marketplace. It was distant, two blocks away yet, but her eyes fixed on the tree-shrouded barrier as a beacon drawing her nearer.
Sebastian lives less than half a mile beyond.
She glanced toward the muted sun where it attempted to shine through the cloudy sky. It was barely over the horizon, just reaching the cracks between the buildings. Surely he would not be gone yet!
She shivered, partly from nervousness and partly from cold. Spring rapidly approached with fairer days occurring, the temperature raising enough to fool some plants into releasing early buds and new growth, but Paris still remained primarily in the grips of winter. That day, it was overcast with threatening gray clouds thickly dotting the sky. A bitter wind blew from the north in sharp gusts, bringing the prickly tang of rain although it was dry as yet. People were bundled against the cold, heads wrapped with scarves and gloves protecting hands. Georgiana glanced to her own bare hands fisting in her lap atop the flannel cloak. Not the best attire for dreary weather and showers, but it was too late now.
A sudden powerful gust of wind blasted through the window and struck her square in the face. The biting cold slapped against her fair skin as a lash, stinging her eyes and searing her throat when she gasped in shock. At nearly the same moment, the carriage rocked violently and came to an abrupt stop, the jolt slamming Georgiana against the seat cushion. She heard the driver swear from his perch outside while the horses exclaimed protests of their own. He called to them, reasserting control before jumping from his seat—the carriage again swaying from the motion—his voice lifted in rapid French laced with curses to someone on the street.
Georgiana shook her head to rid it of the mild dizziness and exited the carriage in a panic. We must keep moving! Any disagreement with another driver was inconsequential as far as she was concerned. But her vexation and ready tongue-lashing turned to plunging despair at the sight that greeted her.
The blast of wind had slammed into a tented produce seller, the canvas acting as an umbrella, lifting and launching the entire structure into the air. Several vegetable- and fruit-laden tables had fallen over, scattering boxes and edibles across the road. Frightened, unbalanced shoppers had bumped into those tables fighting for stability, causing further damage as the tables lost the battle and caved, adding their goods to the general mess accumulating on the stone surface.
As she stood next to the carriage assessing the damage and helplessly watching the worsening drama unfold, two oxen-drawn carts slid in the sticky, wet debris and crashed into each other. The stubborn animals refused to budge, but it did not matter, as the drivers were too concerned with screaming at each other and pointing to the splintered wood and cracked wheels.
Passersby took advantage of the mayhem and flocked to the scene, gathering the produce that was now considered free for all. Of course, the vendor and his helpers did not concur with this attitude, with fights both verbal and physical breaking out.
Less than a minute had passed. Georgiana stood on the clear sidewalk examining the unsurpassable obstacle on the street and instantly came to a conclusion.
She lifted her skirts and ran.
Dimly, she heard the driver calling to her but she ignored him. Dodging in between dozens of milling people and leaping nimbly over scattered debris, Georgiana reached the brick wall and did not pause as she plunged onward. The silence of the slumbering avenue of homes was welcome after the commotion behind her. Now the sound of her heels striking the stones, her rapid breathing, and the rushing wind that was escalating in intensity assaulted her ears. Leaves swirled over the manicured lawns and immaculate street, the sight of multi-hued dances on air quite beautiful if she only had the time to enjoy it.
The chill blast stung her cheeks and whipped her hair into her eyes. Drizzling raindrops increased the discomfort, but she refused to acknowledge the pain. She rounded a corner, spied Mr. Butler’s house at the end of the road, and ran faster. There was no activity visible on the street, no waiting carriage, and the drapes remained closed. Her heart constricted in uncertainty of whether the apparent serenity of the townhouse was a good sign or bad sign.
&nbs
p; She reached the doorway, clutched the knocker, and rapped strongly in time to each gasping respiration.
God, where are they? Answer the door!
She wondered later if she actually did shout out loud, since an irritated voice urged the demanding visitor to be patient. Then finally, the door opened to reveal the housekeeper. Her French face was pinched indignantly, but melted into shock at the sight of a disheveled Miss Darcy wheezing on the doorstep.
“Mademoiselle Darcy!”
“Please,” she panted, “I need to speak with Monsieur Butler. It is urgent. Can you inform him that I am here?”
“My apologies, Mademoiselle. Monsieur Butler is not at home.”
Georgiana shook her head slowly. “No, please. You must be mistaken. Please, can you check for me? Please?”
“I am sorry, but his coach left an hour ago. Mademoiselle? Are you well? Pardon, how stupid of me! Please, come inside out of the cold. I shall announce you to the marchioness. Mademoiselle?”
But Georgiana was no longer listening. She stumbled backward down the steps with the housekeeper’s pleas a faint humming devoid of substance. Her whole body was numb and her limbs heavy. Her eyes were wide but unseeing. Tears pooled and glimmered upon her icy cheeks. Shivers wracked her body. The intermittent wind flipped her unbound hair and loose cloak crazily.
She felt none of it.
In a stupor, she slogged down the street, unaware of the direction and with no purpose in mind. Her dulled wits experienced no great surprise at finding herself a dozen houses away, on the narrow bridge spanning a tiny creek. She halted, frozen hands gripping the cold rocks forming the railing, and gazed into the sluggishly eddying water below. She knew this bridge, as they had passed over it several times. The street led from his house to other parts of the city, including the quaint park visible through the trees and edged by the shallow stream. They had walked there from his house just a half mile behind her, usually with friends but once alone, talking and laughing.
Miss Darcy Falls in Love Page 24