Two in the Bush

by Judith Hale Everett

  After a drawn-out pause, Genevieve replied, “I require a good, hard slap, followed immediately by a long, stiff drink, Sanford.” The normally humorous blue eyes, which glittered alarmingly, met her maid’s. “But I fancy you could not bring yourself to administer such things to me.”

  Sanford’s lips parted to reply that she would never, ever, in a hundred years do such a thing to her dear mistress, but the fire in the blue eyes alerted her to danger, and she wisely lowered her own, bobbing a curtsey again, and hurried away to share her worries with Lady Cammerby’s maid that Mistress had snapped at last, after pushing proper heroically through everything the old master, God rest him, she was sure, had seen fit to rain over her ears, but who could blame the poor thing, when Miss had got herself entangled in some terrible way just day before last, because that’s what’s to be expected in a great, wicked city like this, and they should all pack up and go home and sooner’s the better!

  Not being privy to her henchwoman’s mutterings, Genevieve had no way of knowing how similar they were to her own. She spent the morning tugging away at her embroidery, hardly seeing the pattern before her as she yanked and pulled with fingers attuned to the violent thoughts in her head. Lenora did not deserve him—she was deserving of some other, faceless, future man, but not of him. She was just a girl—how could he think to be happy with her, who could be his daughter, who would need more to be reared by him than to be revered by him? Lenora thought him perfect, which was the worst way to start a marriage—as poor Genevieve had found out, and hadn’t she imparted that wisdom to her daughter? How could Lenora ignore such important advice?

  A sharp pain jolted through her as she inadvertently jabbed her finger with the needle. Gasping, she brought the injured member to her mouth, sucking on it with her eyes closed, her mind momentarily blank. As nothing else could, the pain had shocked her enough to throw her out of the sulks, but now her body quivered with pent up emotion, and before she knew what had happened, hot tears were spilling down her cheeks and splashing onto her embroidery. She sobbed and sobbed, her shoulders heaving, but no sounds escaped her except ragged breaths and pathetic sniffs.

  After many minutes, the tears and the shudders at last ceased, and she felt emptied of every feeling, barren of humanity, as hollow and brittle as a fallen and forgotten tree. She wiped her eyes and cheeks, and her gaze fell upon her work on her lap. The hopelessly knotted and tangled mess was proof of her worthlessness, and she flung it away from her, just as the door opened, and Sir Joshua was announced.

  He came in, looking more handsome than she had ever seen him, the flush of love enlivening his eyes, and his mouth turned up in that irresistible smile of his. She stood, her eyes locked on him, and he took her hand, bending to bring it to his lips, the kiss burning on her skin. She trembled, her heart pounding in her ears, and she wanted to cry out to him not to say it, not to ask of her what she could never give, but her throat was too constricted to make a sound.

  “Mrs. Breckinridge, may I say you look lovely today.” His words startled her into a nod, then he was leading her to the sofa and gently pressing her to sit beside him. Taking both her hands in his own, he said, “You cannot be ignorant of my intentions. My errand here today is a mere formality, for my attentions have been quite marked over the last weeks, and I flatter myself that I have been understood for almost as long. You must forgive me for taking so long to come to the point, but my nature is guarded, and at my age, one can hardly be expected to embark on a new estate without proper consideration. Especially in this case, I have had ample reason for caution, both on my part and on yours, for though Lenora assures me she has no qualms, and even Tom has given his sanction, I know as well as you that marriage must not be thoughtlessly considered.”

  She felt her heart shrink within her bosom, threatening to crumble altogether, and she instinctively tried to withdraw her hands, but he tightened his hold. “Mrs. Breckinridge, would you permit me to pay my add—”

  Wrenching her hands from his grasp, she jumped up from the sofa, crying out, “I cannot! Oh, I cannot do it! I have tried—God knows I have tried to put myself aside, to forget my own desires on behalf of my beloved child, but I cannot!”

  “I do not understand you,” he said, rising and reaching out to her.

  But she wrapped her arms around herself, turning her back to him and denying him access to her sensibility. “You would not suit! Can you not see it?”

  “Would not suit?” His voice was fraught with disbelief.

  His stubborn stupidity inflamed her to anger and she whirled on him. “You are far too old!”

  He blinked at her. “Too old?”

  “You said, yourself, just now, that at your age you must be cautious! And yet you persevere! Horrid man! Odious, impossible, provoking man!” she cried, whipping herself into a frenzy. “How can you deceive yourself that you, who could be her father, and will be doddering into your grave while she still struggles to raise your children, would make Lenora any kind of a husband?”

  He stood still, staring wide-eyed at her for a pregnant moment, until a huff escaped him, and an incredulous smile tilted up the corners of his mouth. “Lenora?”

  She wanted to hit him. “Yes, Lenora, my daughter, to whom you wish to pay your addresses! Of whom else would we be speaking, sir? Or are you already in the grip of senility?”

  He stepped quickly forward to take hold of her arms, looking down with intense amusement at her. “Still, you do not fail to surprise me.” He shook her a little as she struggled against him. “You adorable idiot, it is not Lenora with whom I am in love.”

  She stopped squirming and stared at him, stunned. “What?”

  “You are correct in that Lenora could never fulfill my expectations for a wife. She is far too young, far too silly, and far too predictable.” His eyes travelled over her face. “I want a delightfully dense woman who has made it her occupation to upset my peace, forever falling into scrapes, or even creating them, from which I am obliged to rescue her, except when she rescues herself. A mature woman whose courage is both an inspiration and a thorn in my side, whose sense is refreshingly impolite, and whose humor I cannot but describe as addictive.”

  “Sir Joshua—” she whispered, but more she could not say, for her whole strength was necessary to keep her suddenly nerveless body from collapsing.

  “My dearest Genevieve, have I made myself clear at last?” he murmured, as he drew her to him. “I love you, and the happiness I have found in these last several weeks would at last be complete if you would consent to be my wife.”

  Her convulsive “Oh!” was accompanied by a burst of tears, and she found herself pressed to Sir Joshua’s chest, sobbing not with heartache, but with unblemished joy. He held her, putting his cheek against her hair and saying nothing, for nothing was needed but his nearness and the assurance of his care.

  When her tears subsided, she pulled away, accepting his handkerchief with a watery chuckle, and drying her face once more. “I fear I am horridly blotched, sir. What a spectacle I make of myself!”

  “Were it only lamentation, my love, I may agree, but it provides me with the felicity of taking you into my arms, which more than compensates for any diminution in your looks—which, however, I do not perceive.”

  She chuckled again, but as he gathered her to him once more, she recollected a terribly disturbing fact, which threatened to overthrow all her peace. Holding him at bay, she cried, “But Lenora loves you!”

  “Of course she does.”

  She hit a fist against his chest. “But how can you be so unfeeling? She thinks you are the perfect man! She told me so herself, only yesterday!” She covered her face with her hands. “Oh, her heart will break when she finds out—”

  “I never guessed you could be so stupid, my love.” He kissed her cheekbone, which was the only feature accessible to him. “Lenora thinks me the perfect man, for you.” He laughed into
her suddenly upturned and wide-eyed face. “We have spoken often of my feelings for you, and she has shared with me how she has long dreamed of a father who could give her mother all the happiness she deserves.”

  Again, she was shocked into an “Oh!” followed by a burst of tears upon Sir Joshua’s breast. This time, she wept from shame at her selfishness all this morning, of her inability to think of her daughter, while her dear Lenora had been thinking only of her, in all her dealings with Sir Joshua. These qualms, however, were quickly resolved by the knowledge of the justice of her claims upon Sir Joshua’s heart, and her tears, owing to the shortage of hydration in her eyes, dried comparatively quickly.

  When she at last looked up at the man whose heart was securely hers, he cocked an eyebrow at her. “You have yet to answer me.”

  Wiping the remnants of her tears from her cheeks with the now sodden handkerchief, she smiled archly up at him. “How can I answer what you did not ask, sir? You merely stated that you would be happy if I would consent to be your wife.”

  Pursing his lips, he gazed down on her through hooded eyes. “Genevieve Breckinridge, will you marry me?”

  “Sir Joshua Stiles, I will,” she said primly, but her lips almost immediately parted in a most unladylike grin, and she closed her eyes as he bent to bestow upon her a breathtaking embrace, from which it was several minutes before she emerged.

  Sighing, she melted against his shoulder. “There is no going back after that, Joshua! Whether you like it or not, I am now irrevocably yours.”

  He tightened his hold around her. “Oh, my Genevieve, I do like it.”

  The Regency era is such a delight to delve into that it was hard sometimes to decide between research and writing. Hopefully, the details I chose to include in this story were as interesting for you to read about as they were enjoyable for me to write.

  Two in the Bush begins in the year 1816, “the year without a summer,” as it came to be known in Europe. Strange weather patterns, including ceaseless rain and unseasonable cold, overspread Europe after the 1815 explosion of Mount Tambora, in Indonesia. This volcanic eruption, which is the largest in recorded history, caused all kinds of natural disruptions, poor air quality, a drop in average temperatures, and general gloom worldwide as clouds of ash remained suspended in the atmosphere for up to three years. Thus, the Breckinridges were not the only family to be set back, if not ruined, by the terrible weather that year.

  One of Georgette Heyer’s favorite haunts for her young heroines in London was the Pantheon Bazaar, a shop much like our present-day flea markets. Unfortunately, Heyer’s information was incorrect; the Pantheon Bazaar did not come into existence until 1834, occupying a building that had previously been a theater and a meeting hall of the same first name. The Soho Bazaar, however, opened in 1816 in nearby Soho Square, and may well be the shopping center Heyer intended. This market was housed in a large warehouse made from three dwellings, and was created to allow widows, orphans, and relatives of soldiers who had died in the Napoleonic wars a respectable way to make a living. The market sold handmade items and other wares priced low enough to prevent haggling, and so gained a reputation for inexpensive but quality merchandise.

  Elizabeth Fry, the wife of a banker and a Quaker, deplored the conditions of female prison inmates and, early in 1817, formed the Ladies Association for the Reformation of the Female Prisoners in Newgate. The association strove to return some dignity to the women by providing female yardkeepers and separate quarters, a cleaner and gentler environment—with no alcohol, profanity, gaming, or pornography—and gainful employment in the form of piecework and knitting. Many upper-class ladies, such as Lady Wraglain and Mrs. Breckinridge, joined the society in the hopes of being useful.

  Vauxhall Gardens enjoyed a long and varied career as a pleasure garden, where the definition of “pleasure” changed over the decades. By 1817, it had been spruced up and built a decent reputation, which held for another twenty years. In the several pictures and paintings of the park that survive, only the large, main walks are apparent; however, many written descriptions imply that there were small, private walks where couples—and often unfortunate individuals—could lose their way in more ways than one. In my efforts to write only what was truly accurate, I visited the Victoria and Albert Museum in London, where I had hoped to view a meticulously crafted model of Vauxhall Gardens. Upon arrival, I discovered that my source had been outdated—the model now resides in storage and cannot be viewed. However, the kind curators of the storage facility provided me with pictures of the model, which convinced me that my conclusions regarding small paths in the groves were correct, making the scene between Lord Montrose and Genevieve possible.

  Madame Saqui was a flamboyant figure who came to fame in Paris, and after the defeat of Napoleon enjoyed renown in England for decades. She performed many times at both Covent Garden Theater and Vauxhall Gardens from 1816 until 1845, and contributed greatly to the popularity of those venues. Her feats of agility, set against the backdrop of dazzling fireworks, awed audiences, and brought them back time after time.

  One of the underlying themes of this story relies on the strict rules governing introductions in Regency society. Though many social rules were more relaxed in the Regency than during the Victorian era, writings of the time indicate that views regarding proper introductions were fairly serious, resulting in the lamentation of Mrs. Bennet that her daughters would never know Mr. Bingley if their father would not meet with him first. Interactions between strangers, especially between men and women, were frowned upon, and anything but the slightest accidental occurrences were avoided unless a proper introduction, from an existing acquaintance or a trusted leader in society, could be obtained.

  First off, I'd like to thank Georgette Heyer for her short story, A Husband for Fanny, which was the inspiration for Two in the Bush. When I read this story, which is about 18 pages long, I thought it was tragic that such a great premise was confined to so small a scope, so I decided to take my own spin on it. While my story is significantly different than Heyer's, the idea of a mother falling in love with the man she believes to be her daughter's suitor is originally Heyer's, and I thank her for giving me the opportunity to tell it in my own way.

  There are so many wonderful people who contributed to the success of this venture that I hope I don't forget anyone. I could not, ever, have done this without all of you!

  To all of you who took a chance on a new author and read this book, and enjoyed it enough that you are still reading, thank you! I hope this is only the beginning of a long and exciting adventure together.

  To Emily Menendez, Karl Hale, Lavinia Hale, Marintha Hale, Elizabeth Prettyman, Bobi Taylor, Marianne Harris, and my mom Signe Gillum, who were my beta readers and valiantly read draft after draft to give me valuable feedback, thank you for your patience and persistence. You helped me resolve my style and grow my confidence.

  To my friend Nichole Van Valkenburgh, for all her excellent advice, cheerleading, and hand-holding through the process of self-publishing, and to my sister Laurel Hale, for saving my butt and sharing her amazing marketing, website building, and social media skills, you guys have my undying gratitude!

  To my incredible daughter, Rachel Allen Everett, whose artistic prowess is displayed in the cover design, and to the awesome Rabbit Everett, who designed my stunning logo, your unbelievable talents amaze me!

  To all my kids, who treat me like I'm a way better mom than I am, and who philosophically accept the tradeoffs of a messy house, cobbled together meals, and having to physically shake mom to get her attention, in order to support my being a writer.

  And most of all, to the love of my life, Joe, for never tiring of building me up, telling me like it is, and believing in my work—whether you like it or not, I am irrevocably yours!

  Book 2 in the Branwell Chronicles

  Lenora fled deep into the wood, away from the shadow cast by her dearest fri
end’s joy. Even as she ran, the hood of her cape falling back from her head, she chided herself for being so mean as to resent Elvira’s happiness, but every remembrance of her friend’s delight set her yearning for something to happen—anything!—that would elevate her from her present humdrum existence to the realization of even the smallest of her dreams.

  Collapsing against the knotty bole of a chestnut tree, she pressed her forehead to the rough wood, her eyes closed tightly. “You are selfish and ridiculous and—and totty-headed to act in this way,” she sternly admonished the tree bark. “Life is not a romantic novel, even if Elvira has achieved her heart’s desire and you have not. You have no need to be jealous—you could not be more happy for her!” she insisted, hitting her gloved palm against the trunk in emphasis. “Marriage is no light matter—and a baby—” Here she found it necessary to swallow down a lump in her throat before continuing resolutely, “A baby is a serious responsibility, for all its plumpness and sweetness and tiny fingers and toes—”

  But at this her slender self-control deserted her and she slid to the base of the tree, looking forlornly up into the branches. “Is there to be romance for everyone but me?”

  The swaying branches above her murmured sympathetically, but she could take no comfort from them, instead pounding a fist into the soft, mossy ground at her side. “All my adventure in London, and what has come of it? I gained acquaintance enough, but no real admirers. Mr. Barnabus has forgotten all about me, and Lord Montrose merely used me to try to ruin my mama.” She shrugged. “Though I did hit him over the head, which was properly heroic. But I have done nothing worthy since.”

  Her mind wandered back over the last several months, since her mother and Sir Joshua had married, and they had all—excepting Tom—settled at Wrenthorpe Grange. Her first sight of the manor house—tantalizingly obscured by the thick stand of the Home Wood, and then bursting upon her vision as the carriage emerged into the full light of afternoon—had been only slightly disappointing. Sir Joshua had prepared her for lichen-covered stone walls and brooding casements, with the promise of undiscovered secrets behind them, but her own eyes had told her that his was a biased description. The stone was of a much brighter grey than she had been led to imagine—though it was blackened in many places, and one wall was entirely hidden by creeping ivy. And the windows were entirely intact, and sparkling clean in the afternoon sunlight—leading her to doubt any secrets could hide anywhere.