Georgiana was curious about Mrs. Swanley too. After the lady's loudly stated objection to staying at an inn near Little Flaxhill, she stayed quiet and watchful. Very beautifully maintained, she seemed, at first glance, content to be mostly ornamental. But her eyes were much too wily, revealing that the lady paid close attention to every word uttered. She assessed her surroundings cautiously and thoroughly, while seldom moving a finger. In her eerie stillness she reminded Georgiana of an automaton in the Commander's study.
Harry would probably like that, she mused glumly.
But when she glanced over at him, he seemed to be avoiding Mrs. Swanley. Instead his merciless gaze was occupied throwing sharp daggers at his cousin. Not that Maxwell Bramley was at all wounded by the assault. The fellow seemed vastly amused and kept looking at Georgiana as if she was in on the joke.
Eventually Lady Bramley said, "Miss Hathaway, why do you not take Mrs. Swanley for a tour of the herb garden in the courtyard. I am sure she would like to hear the history of the place."
While there was nothing about Mrs. Swanley that suggested an interest in history or herb gardens, Georgiana was glad to get out into the fresh air. The sunny courtyard, with its large, moss-covered, gently-trickling fountain was one of her favorite places to sit and ponder, so she was quite capable of proudly showing it off and reciting the history she had learned from the master of the house.
"This is part of the building that dates from the medieval period, when it really was an abbey and monks grew their medicinal herbs here," she explained as they strolled along the covered walkway and through the old stone arches. "As you can see, the—"
"Let's sit in the shade, Miss Hathaway. That bench over there looks comfortable enough and the sun is giving me a rotten bleedin' headache. To tell you the truth, young lady, we walked the last two miles to get here when the dratted carriage broke down— and Max didn't have the money to get it fixed or to hire another— and the last thing I want is another bleedin' walk."
"Oh." What did one say to that? Lady Bramley's lessons had not prepared her for this eventuality.
So Mrs. Swanley was, as she'd suspected, not much of a history student, nor a fan of walking, but Georgiana need not have worried about finding interesting subjects to keep the conversation flowing. The lady was eager to exercise her tongue, even if her legs were tired. Once out of the drawing room and away from Lady Bramley's demanding glare, she clearly felt more at her ease and could relax her stiff poise.
"I heard you say that you recently left finishing-school, Miss Hathaway."
"Yes. I was a student for two years at The Particular Establishment for the Advantage of Respectable Ladies."
"Crikey, that's a mouthful."
"Some of us referred to it as The Pearl. But I'm afraid we needed far more polishing than we received there. We remain specks of insignificant sand rather than the pearls we were meant to become."
"You didn't like the place?"
"The headmistress, Mrs. Lightbody, did not like me, and the feeling was reciprocated. We had a clash of personalities, you might say. That made my life there challenging."
"A tartar, was she?"
"And very cruel to some of the other girls who did not, or could not, stand up to her." She thought of the red marks on Emma Chance's knuckles— a discovery she had made soon after her arrival at the school, and her first knowledge of Mrs. Lightbody's liberal use of corporal punishment upon those girls whose parents were especially lacking in vigilance. Lately she had been thinking about that more than ever and struggling to find some way to rescue her friends.
"The world is full of her sort. The best we can do is hope they get their comeuppance in time. And we get our vengeance by finding fortune and success."
Georgiana nodded. "Did you train as an artist abroad, Mrs. Swanley?"
She chortled. "No, deary. I learned my art in the streets of London. Dragged myself out of the rookeries and I've done well, make no mistake. There's a few people I wish could see me now."
"I greatly admire your success, madam. It cannot be easy as a woman to be appreciated in the world of art."
Mrs. Swanley looked askance and then chuckled dourly. "Well, sometimes it 'elps to be a woman in my line of work."
"It does? I've always found it rather trying to be a female."
The lady made her face solemn again. "Ah, well, a girl's got to know how to make the most of the talent God gave her."
"I always thought that way myself, but the rest of the world thinks I ought to marry and be done with it. That is, in their eyes, my only option."
Mrs. Swanley swished her feet in the fountain and squinted at her for a moment. "If you've got plenty of talent, young miss, then you should use it. What do you care about the rest of them? I suppose it was all embroidery and flower arranging at that school of yours."
"I'm afraid so."
"That is meant to prepare you for a husband, is it?" The woman gave a little snort. "I pity you young girls who must go blind-folded to the marriage bed. 'Tis no wonder it's a shock to most of you."
Sitting straighter, Georgiana tried to remember her lessons about her posture. "I am not completely ignorant of those things. I grew up in the country." And she had learned a few interesting points from the little book she found in Mrs. Lightbody's parlor, but she knew better than to mention that. Let the entire world think her a naive miss.
Mrs. Swanley leaned closer. "Well, you might know what it is and what it does, but you wait until you find out where he means to put it. Not always where you'd expect either." She took a small silver flask from her reticule. "Here...looks like you could do with a drop." She held it out for Georgiana.
"What is it?"
"Gin."
"Oh, no thank you." She shuddered. "It reminds me too much of Mrs. Lightbody, my old headmistress. That was her favorite tipple."
The other lady laughed and took a swig from the flask herself. "Just for my aching head and feet, you understand," she muttered. "This is my medicinal herb. A sip a day keeps the quack away."
Georgiana decided the new guest was rather more amusing than she had first appeared. Her fashionable manners had made her seem rather dull and smug before, but now her shoulders relaxed and she lost her pretentious accent. She made herself even more appealing when she removed her walking boots without ceremony and dangled her aching feet in the fountain.
"What did you say that headmistress of yours was called?"
"Mrs. Julia Lightbody."
"Lightbody." Her eyes glistened with new interest. "That's not a common name, is it?"
"No."
"Fancy that. Well, I—" She looked away for a moment and gave a tight, scratchy laugh. "Spiteful sort, was she? And fond of gin you say?"
"Yes."
"By chance, was she a bit too keen on the willow switch too?"
Georgiana looked at her in surprise. "Yes. Do you know her?"
The other woman held her lips pinched for a moment and then replied, "A long time ago, in another lifetime, I knew a fellow named Bill Lightbody and his... partner, who called herself Salome Flambeau. We worked together once in a house, in Bethnal Green." Then she shook her head. "May not be the same person, of course. Lot of folks fond of gin. Meself included." She winked.
"Mrs. Lightbody said her husband was a musician of some sort, but she has been widowed fifteen years or more. She kept his silhouette above her mantel, beside a much larger and grander painting of herself."
At this, Mrs. Swanley's eyes flared again. Those plump, suspiciously pink lips twisted slightly in a disdainful smirk. "The Bill Lightbody I knew played the fiddle, but he only knew three songs. I'd hardly call him a musician." She lifted her feet out of the water and reached down to remove a long green weed from her ankle. "Still, I daresay Salome of the Seven Veils would make up something better. She always had a taste for the finer things and fancied herself worth more. Ambitious she was, thought she would leave us all behind one day and fit herself in with the higher-ups somehow."
<
br /> "And your Salome was married to the man called Lightbody?"
"Lord no, they weren't never married." After another gust of laughter, she remembered her accent again and clipped it back into place. "Not the two persons I knew. He had all the advantages of a husband, however, if you get my drift, Miss Hathaway."
"I believe I do."
"But Salome always had an eye out for a better chance and would never tie herself permanently to a penniless old scoundrel like Bill. They rubbed along together, getting what they could out of each other. That's what folk do, ain't it?"
"Yes, I suppose so."
Salome? Georgiana thought of that elegant portrait above Mrs. Lightbody's mantle. All that ivory, powdered bosom on abundant display, hoisted upward and decorated with a beauty spot that drew the eye, even when one would much rather not look. Could this be the same woman? A fondness for gin and the "finer things" certainly seemed familiar. There was also the little matter of that slender leather volume of explicit notes that Georgiana had found tucked down behind the woman's bookshelf when sent to clean out her parlor— the book that had, in part, inspired the character of Lady Loose Garters in her column.
"You worked in a house, Mrs. Swanley? What sort of house? You mean, you were in service there together?"
"Service?" The lady laughed again. "You might call it that."
"Before you became an artist?"
"That's right. Before I went out on my own and became...an artiste." Mrs. Swanley rearranged the pleats of her gown over her knees and added proudly. "I am the best in the business and do very well for myself, but one has to know the right clientele. Where the money is. I don't waste my time for a paltry sum. A woman's got to know her worth."
"Yes. I suppose so." Georgiana saw no point in reminding Mrs. Swanley that a lady never discussed finances. Let Lady Bramley tell her that, she mused. "When was it that you worked with your friend Salome?"
"Ha! She weren't no friend of mine." Then she stopped, readjusted her poise again and continued in her studied, more-refined tone, "Turn of the century it must have been, my dear. Nearly twenty years ago, I'd say. Lord, I was a young thing when I started! No more than sixteen or seventeen. So yes, twenty years or thereabouts."
"When you began in service?"
"Hmmm. Service. That's right." Suddenly the woman nudged her hard in the side. "So tell me about this Sir Henry. I hear he's rather eccentric. Not all there in the head, so they say."
Georgiana smiled. "Oh, is anybody all there in the head?" He was certainly all there in body, she thought with a wistful sigh.
Mrs. Swanley considered this for a while, as birds chirped overhead and water dripped lazily over the stone brim of the fountain. "He's younger than I expected. A looker too. I'm surprised he needs a woman brought in," she murmured. "Ought to be able to get one for himself well enough."
If, before then, Georgiana had been in any doubt about Mrs. Swanley's purpose there on the arm of Max Bramley, she did not now.
But the other woman, realizing her slip, hastily added, "His lady aunt brought you here for that, did she? Wants him married off, no doubt, and you're in the running now you're out of that finishing school."
"Me? No, I am only here as a companion for Lady Bramley. I am not in any race." She managed a smile. "The field is quite clear, as far as I know."
Mrs. Swanley looked pleased then, folding her hands together in her lap, a cat anticipating a large dish of cream. "Well, I'm sure I can put the fellow in a better mood than he seems to be. Max warned me I'd have my hands full, but no man resists my charms once I get to work. I'll dust him off and put him straight soon enough." She chuckled throatily at her own jest, probably thinking that Georgiana would not understand it.
Poor Harry, she thought. All these people full of good intentions, blundering about in his house. First came his aunt, marching in like an Army Major, then his cousin with a different idea— using Mrs. Swanley to dust off Harry's cobwebs.
It must be heart-warming to know one had people who cared, she thought. But Harry did not want the attention and shrank away from it. She supposed it might be possible to have too much notice from one's relatives, just as it was to have too little.
Chapter Eighteen
Before retiring to bed that evening she sought out Brown in the kitchen, and quietly suggested he might want to lock his master's bed chamber door from the outside.
"There are now, as you know, a great many more people in the house," she said.
He looked at her as if she had two heads.
"Brown, you do know the matter of which I speak. You warned me of it on my first evening here and I—"
"Why, yes, Miss, of course I know."
"Then why—"
"But I have been locking his door," the big man whispered fretfully, grey eyebrows writhing in concern. "I didn't know he was still getting out."
Her eyes must have been as large as his then. "Well, he is," she muttered. "Somehow."
"Miss," Brown set down his pipe and rested both hands on his thighs. "I did tell you to bolt your own door, did I not?"
She hiccupped and nodded.
He stared at her steadily, lips pursed. Slowly he heaved a deep sigh and shook his head. "He must be getting out of his window and climbing around to the next room."
"No. He manages to unlock his door somehow. I have taken him back to his room and he walks in so the door is unlocked."
"Then he must have another key I didn't know about." The old man cursed under his breath and then added a curt, "Sorry, miss."
"That's quite all right, Brown. I'm feeling rather desperate myself and anything could come out of my mouth at such a time. We must try to stop him."
"Short of tying him up in ropes, miss, what would you suggest? Nailing the fellow's feet to the floor?"
"There's no need for sarcasm, my good man."
But Brown was evidently very tired, worn out by all these additional guests and the renovations to the house. In no mood to worry about anything else today, he had been looking forward to a late-night pipe, a porkpie and a large tankard of cider in his peaceful corner of the kitchen.
"Why not give me the key," she said casually, "and let me manage the Commander this evening?"
He paused, pie half way to his lips, mouth already open.
Georgiana held out her hand, palm up. "You might as well. I'm the one he wakes up. Why should you be bothered too? And since I already know the secret, who better than me to stand guard?"
Adding to her sense of urgency, she had overheard Maxwell Bramley advising Mrs. Swanley on the location of his cousin's bed chamber and suggesting she "take the bull by the horns". Under no circumstances did Georgiana want that eager lady discovering Harry in his altogether. Her concern was purely for Harry, of course, and nothing to do with her own confused thoughts.
But her hiccups intensified as she clutched that key in her sweaty hand and took it upstairs that evening.
* * * *
On his way to bed, Harry stopped at the door of Georgiana's room. He listened a moment but there was no sound within, so he assumed she was asleep already. Good. Safely abed. He didn't want her wandering tonight and encountering Cousin Max, who was also something of a nocturnal creature. And who knew what Mrs. Swanley might get up to? These corridors could be busier than a promenade in Vauxhall Gardens this evening.
Harry had stayed up later than usual, drinking brandy with Max in his study, for as long as he knew where his cousin was, the man couldn't be pursuing anybody and making an ass of himself. But as a result of this delay he was feeling rather worse for wear. Trying to keep up with Max's drinking was always a mistake and he should have known better.
However, he made the sacrifice for Miss Hathaway, did he not? Any sore head in the morning was worth it to keep her out of Max's clutches. The girl did not deserve that.
He entered his own room and found the fire cheerfully burning, just as he liked it, even in summer. The heat replenished him somehow and he always woke refr
eshed. But tonight he was still too restless to sleep, so he poured yet another brandy night-cap from the tray by his bed and then paced— or rather staggered—back and forth before his fire, trying to make order out of the chaos in his brain.
Having watched Max flirting with Georgiana all evening, he had a great deal of pent up anger and frustration to dispel before he could lay down and close his eyes. He didn't really know why it bothered him to such a degree. It was not as if he wanted her for himself, was it? He simply thought she could do better than Max. Not that she wanted anybody, or so she claimed.
"I am not looking for a husband, sir. I would only misplace him, or forget to feed him, or something equally dire... young women often have other plans for their future. Not every girl seeks the bother of a husband. Men, as I have observed, are most often in the way."
Finally he set his glass on the mantle to begin undressing. He flung off his jacket and then his waistcoat, tossing them across the room. Aiming for an old chaise in the corner, he missed by several feet. Who moved the bloody chaise?
Harry groped along the mantle for his brandy glass and tripped, stubbing his toe on the fender and splashing brandy over his fingers. "Oh, ballocks!" And then he tapped his wrist and mimicked his aunt's voice, "Henry! Language!" He snorted.
Ouch, but his damnable toe hurt. Everything hurt.
This being alive business was much more trying than he remembered.
Glass half way to his lips, he paused.
What was that sound? A mouse?
More like a bird chirping somewhere in his room. Or a cricket— which was, of course, not native to this country and so must be utterly lost.
Perhaps it was his imagination. Perhaps it was the drink. He took another sip of brandy, just to be sure. Silence.
Harry set his glass on the mantle and began removing his shirt, almost ripping the neck-cloth in his haste to be free of it.
There it was again. An odd chirp, a little bubble of air.
The Trouble with His Lordship’s Trousers Page 20