After a moment, he offered her the faintest smile. “Yes,” he said. “I’m a diplomat, after all. We never forgive or forget.”
A strange relief swam through her, making her feel almost giddy. “Poor geese! They crossed the wrong man.”
He cocked a dark brow. “Had you been attacked by them at the age of eight—for the mere sin of attempting to feed them!—you would nurse a grudge, too.”
“They are dreadful creatures, aren’t they? I—” She paused as Countess Obolenskaya approached to hand them each a slice of the pie.
Mr. Tilney was the finest baker in the realm; his crusts could not be rivaled. As Georgie swallowed, she exchanged an amazed look with Mr. Godwin. “I suppose revenge is a dish best served hot, after all.”
He laughed. “Still fond of Shakespeare, I see.”
“Oh, no, that isn’t Shakespeare. Everybody thinks so, though. Do you know—” She hesitated, wondering at herself. Would she confide this in him, when she had not yet shared it with anyone? “I’ve been writing a series of essays, a study of the common phrases misattributed to him. Trying to track down their origins.”
“A fine project,” he said. “I had wondered if you’d stopped writing. That is . . .” He brushed his hands free of crumbs, cleared his throat. “I no longer see your essays in the diplomat circular.”
Had he been looking for them? “I think the editors grew tired of the subject of Shakespeare.”
“You had other subjects in mind,” he said. “Your piece on Machiavelli in his humanist guise—that would have drawn a great deal of notice. Perhaps you never submitted it, though.”
She stared at him. She had given that draft to him two days before he’d left Germany—the very last day she’d seen him. He had taken leave of her that day by kissing her fingers, with no word of his impending departure.
Her fingers, her skin, her entire body, had felt more alive that day than in any before it, or any to follow.
“Your final taste,” Mr. Tilney announced. “Plum pudding. Gather round now; you’ll each need a spoon.”
Mr. Godwin made no motion to approach the counter. As for herself, Georgie felt curiously rooted in place. “You read that piece?” she asked.
Mr. Godwin’s jaw flexed. He was staring very fixedly now at the pudding eaters. “Of course.”
“You approved of it?”
He slid her a quick, unreadable glance. “I always had the highest esteem for your scholarship, Miss Trent.”
Yes. Alone among the men of her acquaintance, he’d seemed to take a personal, deeply felt delight in her bookish pursuits.
“Yet you never wrote me to give your opinion,” she said very softly.
“No,” he said.
She waited, but he did not go on. After a moment, he shrugged. “I expect everyone will retire after this excursion, yes? But later, when you call them downstairs to trim the tree, that should give me time to search the Obolenskys’ suite for the letter.”
She felt jarred by the transition. “I suppose they must be the ones who took it.”
“I expect so.” He paused. “I’ll book a ticket on the morning train, then.”
Her throat tightened. She would be deeply relieved when he left. Wouldn’t she?
Misery tangled her fingers together at her waist. Suddenly she foresaw that she would not be relieved at all. Not if he left without giving an explanation for what had happened two years ago. Her pride could go rot: she needed to confront him. To clarify, once and for all, that she had mistaken the significance of their friendship in Munich—that the face he had shown her was false, and should no longer remain the singular standard by which she judged other gentlemen, and found them wanting.
“Why did you not write to me of the Machiavelli essay?” she blurted.
He sighed. “Would my opinion have been welcome?”
After his rude departure? “Perhaps not. So tell me this: why did you not write to inform me that you were leaving Munich?”
He turned toward her, his handsome face cold. “You think that odd?” he said. “That I should have left without a word? How else was I to go? Tell me, Miss Trent, was my offense so great, the injury to your sensibilities so severe, that you would have preferred an apology before I departed?”
Her breath caught. Here it was: the crux of the matter. Say no, she told herself. Don’t let him see how deeply he hurt you. Have pride. Say no!
The breath exploded from her. “Yes,” she said. “Yes! An apology at the least !”
“An apology,” he bit out furiously, and then stopped, his face flushing.
She recoiled, astonished by the look on his face. Anger, at her ! If anybody deserved to feel anger, it was she! “Yes, an apology!” How dare he try to put her to shame?
“Ah!” Countess Obolenskaya swanned up, looping her arm through Georgie’s. “Where do we go next, Mistress of Revelries?”
Chapter Six
Georgie stood on her tiptoes, straining to reach the uppermost boughs of the Tannenbaum as Lady von Bittner barked at her. “Higher. Yes, even higher! All the way to the top!”
“Perhaps somebody taller ought to step in.” Georgie cast a speaking look across the room. Count Obolensky and Lord von Bittner were kneeling by the fire, roasting chestnuts under Mr. Lipscomb’s supervision. “Much taller,” she called pointedly. It had required all three footmen to cart the von Bittners’ fir into the drawing room; the tree stood over seven feet high.
“No, only women decorate the Tannenbaum. Drape it so—” Lady von Bittner stepped forward, tugging at a loop of beaten silver. It slipped off the bough and fell straight into Georgie’s face, making her sputter as she clawed it away. “The tinsel must hang in swags, else there will be no room for the candles.”
“Candles, on a tree?” Mrs. Lipscomb, who stood to one side clutching a tray of crystal baubles, looked dubious. “Is that not a fine way to start a fire?”
“Only rarely,” said Lady von Bittner.
“What Miss Trent needs is a hook,” Countess Obolenskaya said. She was sipping her third glass of local wassail—a spiced mixture of rum and cider—and sounded lazily amused. “I have one in my rooms, for tightening my laces. Shall I go fetch it?”
“No!” Georgie blurted. Mr. Godwin would be searching the Obolenskys’ rooms. “That is—I’m determined to do this in the traditional fashion. But perhaps you could fetch over that chair?”
This small innovation was deemed acceptable by Lady von Bittner, who remained squinting until Georgie finally managed to lasso the top boughs. “Yes, that’s precisely right,” she announced, then promptly lost interest and wandered over to the fire to request a chestnut. The countess followed suit, leaving Georgie alone with Mrs. Lipscomb, who watched mutely as Georgie hauled the chair around the tree, clambering up and down like a monkey to arrange the tinsel in an elegant, looping pattern.
“It seems a bit pagan,” said Mrs. Lipscomb at last. “To kill a tree to celebrate the Savior’s birth.”
“Her Majesty always has a Christmas tree,” Georgie said. “I would not call her pagan.”
“Hmph, well. She was married to a German.” With a sour tug of her mouth, Mrs. Lipscomb laid her tray of ornaments onto the carpet. “I think I will roast chestnuts, too.”
Thus did Georgie find herself alone by the tree as her guests disported themselves with wassail, chestnuts, and a game of dice—the last of which rather marred the holiday flavor. Sighing, she finished wrapping the tinsel, then took up the tray of baubles to hang.
“It’s done.”
She jumped out of her skin. Mr. Godwin had sneaked up behind her. He looked grim-faced. Still sulking over her remonstrance at the bakery, no doubt. Scalawags had little practice with being called to task for their rudeness.
“Good,” she bit out. “Bring the letter to me after supper.”
“Oh, no, I didn’t find it.”
“What?” But who had stolen it, then? In her surprise, she fumbled the ornament.
Mr
. Godwin made a swift, graceful lunge, and caught the bauble in midair. From their position by the fire, the other women took note. Hearing their appreciative coos, Georgie felt her general irritation sharpen into a particular and pointed resentment. “It’s not done, then,” she said in an undertone. “It’s not done until you find the letter.” And until he managed that, he would have no choice but to remain here, antagonizing her with his very presence—his athletic grace, his innate and effortless and infuriating ability to charm anybody who happened to glance at him.
Why, the countess and Mrs. Lipscomb were still mooning. Georgie scowled at them until they turned back toward the fire.
Mr. Godwin lifted the bauble to the light of a nearby stand of candles. The ornament was etched with miniature engravings, vines of ivy entwining around snowflakes and stars. “Lovely,” he said.
“Factory-made,” said Georgie.
His mouth twisted as he handed it back to her. She carefully hung the globe on a lower bough, then knelt to take up another. When he followed suit, she snapped, “Only women may decorate the tree.”
Kneeling, he looked up at her. The candlelight flattered him; it had no standards or taste; it painted shifting shadows in the hollows beneath his cheekbones, and played in the curve beneath his full lower lip. “Is the tree a very modest specimen, then?” he asked cuttingly. “Heaven knows I would hate to offend its tender sensibilities.”
She turned away. He was making a jab at her, alluding in some obscure way to her remonstrance in the bakeshop. But she would not be ashamed for what she had said there. As she hooked the bauble around a sprig of needles, she hissed, “If you wish to pretend that your departure from Munich was gentlemanly, very well. It fools nobody but you.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him rise and square his shoulders. “I suppose if you want gentlemanliness, you’ll need to look to a better-bred man.”
What nonsense was that? She was sick of his excuses. “Even children know how to bid a farewell. But perhaps it was my fault to expect one. Certainly it seems bizarre to imagine that I once considered you a friend—but I did. And friends owe each other that much, I think!”
“Friends, were we?” His laughter was jagged. “Tell me, Miss Trent. Did you truly expect me to look on you as a friend—to treat you as a friend—after instructing me to be ashamed for having pestered you with my attentions?”
She frowned up through the boughs at him. “What on earth are you talking about?”
His expression was grim. “You know very well what I mean.”
“No, I do not!” She stepped around the tree to face him. “I have no idea what you mean! I never once—”
“Would you like some chestnuts?” called Countess Obolenskaya.
What a gift she had for interfering! “Not right now,” Georgie said tightly.
“How marvelous the tree looks!” Lady von Bittner caroled. “Keep at it, Miss Trent!”
Georgie held out her hand for another ornament. Mr. Godwin shoved it into her palm with a dangerous degree of force. “I have no more interest than you in speaking of this,” he said tightly. “It is not a memory I cherish. We can let it be.”
And leave her with another festering mystery? “No,” she said. “I want to know. When did I . . .” Her courage nearly faltered; she swallowed hard, taking great care to pin the ornament to the tree. “When did I instruct you on any matter to do with your . . . attentions to me? We never . . . You and I never spoke of . . . such things.”
“Come now,” he said sharply—halted, and then laughed again, a dark and awful laugh. Dragging a hand through his hair, he shook his head. “There is no need to spare my sensibilities. Your father will have told you I spoke to him.” His voice roughened. “Certainly you told him how mortifying you found my interest.”
“What?” For a moment, she could only gape at him. “My father? You spoke to my father of me? When?”
He gave a sharp tug of his mouth. “When I asked his permission to court you,” he said, “and thereby discovered that my attentions had become an embarrassment to you. That, Miss Trent, is no inducement to pay ‘friendly farewells,’ I think you’ll agree.”
Glass shattered. Somebody by the fireplace called out in concern. Georgie could not answer. Speech was beyond her.
A line appeared between Mr. Godwin’s brows. His glance dropped to the floor, where lay the shattered remnants of the Christmas bauble. As his gaze lifted again, his face seemed to loosen and sag, so that suddenly, briefly, he looked ancient.
“Do not tell me,” he said slowly, “that you didn’t know this.”
She tried once, twice, to say it: “I didn’t.” Never. “I . . .” Her lips felt numb. “We never even spoke of you.”
Suddenly he was gripping her arm. His hold was so tight, his hand so hot, that the sensation seemed to ripple out over her skin, the shock of it causing her to draw a strangled breath.
“And what of the rest?” he demanded. “That you found my suit distasteful?”
She opened her mouth. Her voice failed her again. She shook her head violently.
“I say,” Mr. Lipscomb called. “Is everything all right, there?”
“That my parentage made me unfit for you,” Mr. Godwin said rapidly. “What of that?”
“We never spoke of you,” she said again in a whisper. “Never, Lucas. Not until you . . . left.” She groped behind her for the chair; sank into it abruptly, dizzy.
He did not let go of her arm. He followed her down, kneeling in front of her, and opened his mouth as though to speak again—then closed it and studied her face as though he had never seen her before.
“He lied.” The ragged words came from her—such a simple truth, to have rearranged her life entirely.
“He lied,” he agreed, in a voice like gravel.
“Are you quite well?” Mr. Lipscomb had come to stand over them. “Miss Trent? Perhaps you require sustenance. A chestnut?”
Chapter Seven
Two years!
Why, he had asked permission to court her. Their friendship had meant something more to him. She hadn’t been wrong! Georgie’s spirits soared—then plummeted as she realized the implication.
She would have accepted his suit.
They would have been married by now.
She could not play hostess with this shock coursing through her. She could not lead the guests into the dining room and sit down across the table from Lucas Godwin and chatter idly about stocks and politics and fashions without leaning over and seizing his hand and spilling her heart to him. But with everyone’s interest already piqued by her “swoon,” she could not risk a private audience with him, either.
She took the coward’s way out, pleading a headache. That Mr. Godwin did not do the same astonished her. His impassivity, as he watched her leave the drawing room, seemed more than heroic: it seemed superhuman.
Alone in her bedchamber, she stewed and paced, and time dragged. Once, a knock came at the door, Countess Obolenskaya’s voice speaking kindly. “Miss Trent? I came to see how you’re faring.”
Panicked, irrationally convinced that she might be caught out, she changed into a nightdress and retreated to her bed. But of course the countess did not barge in to test whether she’d lied about her health. The lady took herself back downstairs. Dinner was laid at half seven. But not until eleven o’clock did Georgie at last hear the guests returning to their suites.
Once the house had settled into silence again, she stole out of her room, to the far wing where Mr. Godwin was lodged. But he did not answer her knock, and when she bent to peer through the keyhole, his room was dark.
Where had he gone? How could he not long to speak with her? She made a furtive survey of the likely spots—the billiards room, the smoking room, the drawing room and library. But he had vanished.
He could not have left!
In her turmoil, she found herself flying through the service passage, down into the kitchen. Here, in this warm, slate-floored chamber strung
with drying herbs, bright copper pans glinting from hooks, and barrels of flour and sugar stacked against the walls—this was the place she felt most at home in the world, safest and most herself. The staff had just finished cleaning after the night’s industry; the long table in the center of the room had been cleared and swept clean, and Gladys, the scullery maid, was polishing the last piece of glassware.
Cook came out of the pantry and spotted her with an exasperated sigh. “Never say they’re up again? Fourteen bottles at dinner! They drink more than sailors on holiday.”
“No,” Georgie said numbly. “They’re all in bed, I think. But—has anyone seen Mr. Godwin?”
Cook glanced toward Gladys, who laid down her broom, bobbed a curtsy, and left.
“That one went for a walk,” Cook said, with a snort that bespoke her opinion of such affairs. “Barton had to scrounge up a lantern for him, for the moon’s clouded over. Barely a star to see by tonight.”
“Oh.” Deflated, Georgie took a seat on the bench before the great hearth. The fireplace could hold two boars spitted side by side; two or three hundred years ago, it had done, no doubt. But more recently, it had been partitioned into three separate chambers, only the center of which was used. She held out her hands to the dying flames. The labor of the ranges, earlier, had left the kitchen toasty. Why did she feel so cold?
Perhaps she was falling sick in truth. She felt profoundly off-balance, hovering at the edge of a precipice—and the fall would pull her into a world of regret, wasted days and months and years . . .
A gentle touch landed on her shoulder. Cook took a seat beside her, her wrinkled face pinched with concern. “What’s this?” she asked gently. “Barton says you took your supper in your rooms. What’s got you so upset?”
Georgie pulled her hands back into her lap, fisting them. “Do you remember when my father sacked the Lyalls?”
“Aye,” Cook said slowly. “That’s old history. What of it?”
Sir Philip had come home early from a treaty talk in Antwerp. Nobody had expected him. Georgie’s twelfth birthday had been approaching, but he never paid attention to holidays. After Georgie’s mother had died, he’d gone off them entirely. “I was so surprised to see him,” Georgie murmured. He’d found her playing chase in the garden with Jenny and Tom Lyall, the second coachman’s children. He’d embraced her. Announced that he had a present for her, a grand birthday excursion to London, where they would visit the zoo. How delighted she’d been!
What Happens Under the Mistletoe Page 30