Miss George's Second Chance

by Heather Boyd

  “Walter, please. You must understand how difficult it is to live half a life when everyone around you is in the thick of it.” She turned in her chair and hoped she faced him. “Miss Radley has begged me to watch her challenge some fellow in a swimming race. It is beyond ridiculous. I won’t be able to see her triumph or fail. I spend my days with only my imagination to keep me company. I cannot embroider, I cannot make house calls, I cannot write or do the things most ladies take for granted. The torture of inactivity, of uselessness, with endless hours staring into the darkness is intense. What else is there for me to do with myself?”

  “You used to play the pianoforte very well.”

  “When I was nine. I gave it up and wrote when I should have been practicing. I’m enough of a burden as I am without assaulting your ears by trying to learn again.” Imogen threw her napkin on the table when she heard the clink of glass against the decanter. “Were you going to pour your blind sister a glass as well or just get foxed on your own?”

  “You heard that?”

  “Blind not stupid.” Imogen sighed and stood, her appetite gone. “I hear far too much and not all of it good. Every whisper and snicker is mine to cherish in the dark hours of my life. Excuse me. I rather wish you’d left me to my own company tonight.”

  She fumbled for her walking stick and left the room with her head high and as much dignity as she could muster. She was a burden to her brother’s life but he just would not say so. In time, he’d see that she was right to leave.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  They often said that maintaining a polite mask of indifference in difficult circumstances was a sign of a true gentleman. Whoever said so was mad. Peter’s ability to maintain that mask was sorely tested after the shocking news he’d heard today about Imogen George. Discovering his former fiancée was in so terrible a situation had threatened his calm. Peter schooled his features to blankness as he stepped into the drawing room of Valentine Merton’s modest townhouse and looked about at the assembled guests, even while his heart ached with sadness.

  The ladies he’d grown up beside curtsied to him as if he were someone other than himself. Luckily, his male friends had seen sense and left off ridiculous excess in their greetings. They treated him as he wanted to be. A part of a life he’d been absent from at the worst possible time. He scanned the room for Imogen but could not see her or her brother yet. There was one lady across the room he didn’t recognize at first but her slender form tugged his memory until her identity came to him. The vicar’s daughter. Another chatterbox if he recalled correctly. Hell, he hoped he was spared her company at dinner.

  The first of his friend’s family to reach him was Miss Melanie Merton, an often shrill and unforgiving woman. Today her smiles were friendly, and not for one moment did he believe them to be anything but calculated to curry favor. In the past, Melanie had been far too open in her dislike for him and the fact that he was not rich. He was now, and that likely accounted for her pleased smile at seeing him.

  “So good of you to come and grace our home with your presence, Sir Peter,” she gushed. Her eyelashes fluttered as she continued smiling at him and he almost laughed at her transparent reversal of attitude. Did she think he wouldn’t remember her true nature? He wasn’t forgetful in the least and he did not easily forgive the slights she’d directed toward his sister before Abigail’s marriage.

  “Miss Merton. A pleasure to see you again,” he told her, although he could have gone many days without. He glanced past her as Valentine Merton gestured Peter to come toward him. “Excuse me.”

  He stepped around her but was stopped again by the presence of Miss Teresa Long, his host’s sweeter-natured cousin, blocking his path. He smiled sincerely. “You’re looking very well, Miss Long. So good to see you again.”

  Peter had always made a point of praising Miss Long and just because he was a baronet he had no reason to cease their harmless flirtation. Her cousin Melanie Merton was far too happy to offer all too many subtle snubs and their infrequent talks always seemed to lift Miss Long’s spirits.

  Miss Long smiled warmly, her posture changing to one with greater confidence. “Thank you, sir. I must say, you look rather dashing tonight as well.”

  Her compliment, while sincerely offered, meant nothing beyond the friendly banter it was meant to be. “Thank you,” he replied.

  Miss Long gestured to the slightly built lady lingering in her shadow. “Are you acquainted with Miss Jane Pease? She is the daughter of our vicar, Mr. Pease, if you recall and has recently come out in society.”

  When he bowed over her outstretched hand, the frail creature dipped a curtsy and smiled up at him in transparent joy. “So happy to make your acquaintance, Sir Peter. My father was pleased to hear of your return today.”

  Was he now? Peter couldn’t fathom why. The vicar had cast many a sour look in his direction on Sunday mornings during services until he’d quit the district a year ago. The only thing to account for Mr. Pease’s sudden happiness was that Peter was titled and rich, and the vicar had a daughter to marry off.

  Peter sneezed suddenly. His eyes watered and as he inhaled, he became aware of the scent of lilac lingering heavily in the air between them. He hastily dug for a handkerchief and apologized.

  Miss Pease touched his arm. “I do hope you’re not in poor health, Sir Peter.”

  “No. No. I’m sure it’s nothing.” Peter sneezed again, certain now that Miss Pease’s scent was the trigger for his reaction. A year of dodging traps and snares laid by wily debutants in London had prepared him for heightened local interest, but his response to the scent of lilac gave him the perfect excuse to move away. He bowed to her again and dabbed at his eyes. “Excuse me, there must be a scent in the air that disagrees with me.”

  Before Miss Pease could delay him, he slipped around her toward safer territory and an open doorway. Miss Julia Radley, a firm friend of his sister, stood in the path of the light breeze blowing in from the sea. She grinned from ear to ear and when he joined her, Miss Radley quickly curled her arm through his, leading him out into the night just a few steps. With fresh air in his overwhelmed senses, he quickly recovered his composure. He was grateful of the lifeline but then he grew aware of what he’d unwittingly done. He glanced back into the room anxiously. Luckily, they were in full view of all and in no danger of being considered alone. He did not wish to marry Miss Radley. No sane man would. The girl was exhausting.

  Miss Radley shook her head. “She’s not here. I doubt she’ll come if you’re looking for who I think you’re looking for.”

  He glanced down at the cheeky sprite on his arm in alarm. “Am I looking for someone?”

  “I think you were from the moment you joined us. It’s in the way you scanned the room and couldn’t wait to leave the others behind. I knew you wouldn’t turn your back on her as others have done.” She patted his arm. “The perfume Miss Pease doused herself in tonight merely gave you the perfect escape from her clutches. My brother had the very same reaction earlier. I overheard Miss Merton reassure Miss Pease that the scent was utterly delightful. Devious of her indeed. Be mindful or one of them will catch you.”

  Peter glanced inside again and his gaze settled on Miss Merton and Miss Pease while they engaged in whispered conversation. Miss Merton paused, turned her head toward him and her smile brightened as if she’d discovered a rare jewel. Peter shuddered. “Hmm, that is an unfortunate development. Miss Pease could do with a friend who would tell her the truth. I didn’t come home to find a bride.”

  Miss Radley peered at him. “Are you married then?”

  “Good God, no. Why ever would you think that?” He held up his hand. “No never mind answering. You’re too much like Abigail for me to not remember how you all think. A man must be married, yes?”

  For an answer, Miss Radley merely laughed. The girl was trouble.

  “Before I forget, would you by chance be at home tomorrow? I ask because my sister sent some additional parcels to Brighton with me. She sai
d it’s rather urgent but the contents have to be kept private from everyone. I’ve no idea what that entails so I hope you understand. If nothing else, my calling on you first may thwart whatever plans and hopes are being hatched over there.”

  Miss Julia clutched his arm tightly. “Oh, I cannot wait until tomorrow. Abigail is so sweet to have remembered my request. I cannot wait until I can show Imogen or maybe I should not. She’s always fretting over the things that matter to me.”

  Miss Merton joined them. “Showing Miss George anything is an exercise in futility. Even when she could see she lacked that certain panache in her mode of dress to truly stand out from the crowd.” As Miss Merton delivered her put down, she fanned herself with the languid air of someone who was sure of her place and her right to say whatever she liked. She may be in her own home, but Peter’s blood boiled. How dare she say such a thing?

  However, she was his friend’s sister. He couldn’t say exactly what he pleased without consequences. He forced a tight smile to his lips. “Unlike some, Miss Watson has no need for the expense of a London modiste to make herself presentable. I’ve always thought her natural beauty was without artifice or design.” He examined Miss Merton’s fussy gown and artfully arranged hair with as mocking a stare as he could manage. How many hours had she spent primping before her looking glass?

  Miss Merton pinked slightly and looked beyond his shoulder as if he hadn’t just insulted her. “Dinner should be announced soon. Excuse me while I tend to my brother’s guests. A hostess must see to everyone’s needs.”

  Peter did not miss her one last dig at Imogen’s sightless state. He cursed softly, but then caught Julia’s open-mouthed stare. He quickly apologized for his poor choice of words.

  “I am so pleased to see you haven’t become entirely top-lofty.” Miss Julia smiled as a blush climbed her cheeks. “Is it wrong that I don’t disagree with your sentiments?”

  He smiled at her honestly. “Not even a little in my opinion, but let’s keep that a secret between us.”

  Recovered sufficiently from his sneezing fit, Peter stepped back inside, accepted a glass of wine from a servant, downed it, and then wished for another. He might need reinforcement to make it through to the end of the meal.

  When they went into dinner, Peter was forced to sit at Miss Merton’s side and endured even more subtle jabs at Miss George’s expense. He couldn’t imagine why Walter George had failed to attend but he didn’t blame him one bit if this was the usual dinner conversation. From a disparaging remark he overheard, Walter George had changed his mind at the last minute.

  Despite the annoyance of Miss Merton’s company, he did glean more information from her conversation to cause him further alarm. The loss of a woman’s sight was a huge blow to her status and prospects for a fulfilling life she assured him. As an unmarried woman with hopes of one day making a match, her chances for future security would be greatly reduced. Miss Merton heartlessly confided that Imogen George would never marry, despite her fortune, and that ‘poor Mr. George’ would be saddled with an unwanted burden.

  Imogen could never be a burden. Some lucky man would fall in love with her easily if given half a chance. The idea of her married, and it was not the first time the thought had crossed his mind, didn’t appeal. It never had. Peter applied himself to the meal laid out before him and made small talk, but he lapped up every single mention of Imogen George—the woman who would never see him again.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Imogen stretched her senses as far as she was able but detected nothing except the quiet night of Brighton beyond the black of her vision. Walter had long since retired for the night oddly quiet of chatter and not in the least willing to consider her suggestion of moving to a less populated location. She should not have lost her temper with him. Her blindness wasn’t his fault nor was there anything he could do to improve her situation. She bit her lip. Her decision was the only sensible future she could imagine for both of them.

  She eased her way down another step, aware that her brother would splutter and bluster should he discover her outside and alone like this. But he was fast asleep in his bed, muttering to himself in his dreams. Until recently she’d no idea Walter had such interesting ones. The repeated mention of a particular lady of their acquaintance had been an eye opener, if such an expression could ever be used by a blind woman.

  She sighed heavily. Once, she would have meddled or at least discussed the depths of Walter’s feelings to ascertain what she might do to help. But without her vision to guide her questions, she didn’t dare involve herself. She might embarrass him or make him angry. Imogen couldn’t afford to lose his support. Until she had her own future settled, she was utterly dependent on him. She relied on him to keep her informed of any news and provide companionship.

  Tomorrow she would apologize and perhaps he would regale her with the latest escapades of their friends. Surely something important had happened today. There was always some to-do to laugh over together.

  She eased her bottom onto the top step and pressed her hands together on her lap as she breathed in the crisp warm night. Imogen had always enjoyed the dark as a child. She had never feared what couldn’t be seen in the shadows and had slipped from her back door to Abigail Watson’s garden gate more times than she could count without concern of being discovered.

  These days, Imogen didn’t like her chances of making the trip alone without misadventure. It was one thing to not see into the dark night but quite another not to see the dark night at all. She missed quite a lot that went on about her and she was just a bit apprehensive about that. Abigail had once told her she was brave but that was a long time ago. An eternity it seemed.

  As she sat in silence, she became aware of footsteps drawing closer. She fumbled up a stair, thudding into the closed door behind her back. The footsteps stopped. A sigh reached her. Male. Deep tones that made her senses tingle. More footsteps sounded until whoever it was stood directly before her at the foot of the stairs. Her pulse pounded so loud she could barely hear her own breath. “Who’s there?”

  “Hello, Imogen.”

  She startled, her limbs trembling at the shock of hearing Peter Watson’s voice again. Sir Peter Watson. He couldn’t have come. She would have heard someone speak of it. Walter surely would have told her if he’d known her former betrothed was living next door again and so would the Perkins’. Her brother wouldn’t be so cruel as to keep the news to himself. Or was that why he’d asked after her happiness? Did he fear telling her that Peter was visiting Brighton briefly?

  She forced herself to her feet on the step and dipped into a barely passable curtsy in the direction she thought he stood. “Sir Peter.”

  He sighed loudly again. “Forgive me for disturbing you. I was unable to sleep and saw you sitting there in the dark. I thought I should at least say hello. How are you?” A softly uttered curse left him. “I mean, um, its good to see you again.”

  Imogen smiled a little sadly. She couldn’t really say the same because she couldn’t see how he’d changed in the past year. Peter had always been a handsome man, proud in his appearance and neat to a fault. She hadn’t minded that streak of vanity in the least. With the funds to secure a London tailor and boot maker, she could only imagine he was turned out splendidly. “It’s nice to hear your voice again.”

  “Please sit down, Imogen.”

  She imagined him gesturing to the steps beneath her and suppressed a smile. During their engagement he’d been unfailingly polite, never once taking liberties or flirting. That lack of deeper feeling had made it easier to let him go. His heart hadn’t been involved in their engagement and it would have been unfair to keep him to their arrangement. She hoped someone special had turned his head while he’d been away. He deserved to be happy.

  Imogen eased onto the step cautiously, eager not to fall on her face and embarrass herself before the man she might have married if circumstances had been different. “And how did you leave your sister? Is Abigail still leading Hawke
a merry chase?”

  “She’s so happy it makes one’s stomach churn. They both are.”

  The amusement behind the complaint made her chuckle. “They are definitely in love then.”

  Peter moved, brushing against her legs as he sat one step lower than her. She inhaled the scent of sandalwood, brandy, and a lingering scent of lilac she wasn’t used to, discovering in the process she did not care for the combination in the least. Had he married and brought a wife with him to Brighton? She should be happy but the idea gave her little peace tonight. Not when her own future seemed so bleak.

  “I spent the last months sharing the London townhouse with them,” he advised. “Quite unsettling the way they carry on still. It’s good to be home again and unpacked.”

  She frowned. Abigail had mentioned none of that in her weekly letters. In fact, now she thought over her correspondence, Abigail had barely mentioned Peter at all. “You’re not going to live in London or at your estate?”

  “That’s right,” he grumbled. “Why does everyone seem surprised I prefer Brighton to London or Hereford?”

  “Well, you are a landowner now, or so I recall you telling me you would be.” As her eyesight had failed, Imogen was left to her memories and imagination more and more for a source of entertainment. Picturing Peter, a man who never cared for muddy boots, striding through cultivated fields had proved an amusing remedy when her spirits were low.

  Another deep sigh and his boots scraped on the steps. “Your brother didn’t tell you I’d come home today, did he?”

  “No.” She wrinkled her nose. It itched. Now that Peter was sitting at close range, the scent of lilac was growing annoying. “He didn’t tell me anything at all tonight. I did think him quieter than usual.”