Lady Farleigh nodded. ‘Flogged through the streets before transportation for seven years.’ She pursed her lips. ‘Theft is indeed a crime, but the punishment seems a trifle harsh.’
‘Harsh?’ The word erupted from Georgiana with all the force of Mr Trevithick’s new Wylam locomotive. ‘That must be the greatest understatement I’ve heard.’
‘Georgiana, I understand that you feel sorry for these people, but you’re becoming distracted from the point. Mr Praxton is reprehensible to you. He’s behaved abominably and it’s quite clear that you cannot allow your stepfather to believe his lies.’
The fire surging through Georgiana’s blood mellowed and she let out a sigh. ‘I’ve tried. He won’t listen.’
‘Perhaps if you spoke to your mama, she would intercede for you.’
Georgiana wrung her hands miserably. ‘Mama loves me dearly, of that I’m sure, but she would never stand against my stepfather, not for anything in the world. She says that a good wife must do her husband’s bidding, for he always knows best.’
Exactly what Mirabelle Farleigh thought of that statement was written all over her face, but she made no mention of it.
‘Please, Mirabelle, do not blame her. My own dear papa died when I was fourteen years old, leaving Mama and me quite alone. After his death she was so lonely and afraid…and then she met Mr Raithwaite, and everything changed.’
Mirabelle laid a hand across Georgiana’s white knuckles and said gently, ‘Try to speak to your stepfather again. I’m sure that, once the truth is revealed to Mr Raithwaite, he’ll send Walter Praxton packing with a flea in his ear. You must speak to him, Georgiana, even if he doesn’t want to listen.’
Later that night, as Georgiana lay snug beneath the blankets within the four-poster bed she mulled over Mirabelle’s advice. It was the most sensible approach of course. No more moping. No more lying in bed. Mirabelle was right. Papa would be horrified to learn that Walter Praxton had used them both miserably and all talk of marriage would be dismissed. But first she just had to make Papa listen; knowing what she knew of her stepfather, that was not likely to prove an easy prospect. It was very late before Georgiana finally found sleep.
Two days later, and Georgiana had left the sanctuary of Farleigh Hall. The clock ticked its frantic pace upon the mantelpiece as she faced her stepfather across his study. She stood tall with her head high, her hands held tightly behind her back, trying hard to convey an air of confidence that she did not feel. From the moment of her entry to the room, it was clear that Mr Raithwaite’s annoyance with his stepdaughter had not mellowed since their last meeting in Farleigh Hall. He continued to write, refusing even to acknowledge her presence, never mind actually look at her. Georgiana waited in silence. The only sound in the room was the frenzied ticking. And still Edward Raithwaite concentrated on the papers lying neatly on the desk before him. Some fifteen minutes passed.
‘Papa.’ She uttered the word softly, as if to diffuse any notion of confrontation or insult it might contain.
Mr Raithwaite’s flowing script did not falter, his hand continuing its steady pace across the page.
She thought he had not heard or was intent on refusing any means of communication with her when he placed his pen upon the desk with the utmost care. Finally he raised his eyes to meet hers and they were filled with such unrelenting severity as to almost unnerve Georgiana before she even started.
‘Have you come to apologise for your appalling behaviour and the lack of respect with which you treated me the other day?’ His thick wrinkled hands lay calm and still upon the polished wood veneer, a stark contrast to Georgiana’s fingers, which were gripping onto each other behind her back.
‘I meant no disrespect to you, sir, and I’m sorry if my words sounded as such.’
Mr Raithwaite’s austere demeanour relaxed a little. ‘No doubt the shock of falling into the river was responsible for your harsh words. And now that you’ve had time to reflect upon the whole affair, you see the error of your ways.’ The elderly brow cleared a little more. ‘Mmm.’
A woman was expected to be obedient and unquestioning, first to her father, and then to her husband. Her stepfather was an old-fashioned man, fully supportive of the view that his wife and children were merely chattels. Nothing would be gained by antagonising him, or so Georgiana reasoned. The best strategy was to agree with most of what he said, even though it rankled with her to do so, and then, when he was at his most amenable, to reveal Mr Praxton’s lies. Not for the first time, Georgiana wished that she’d been born a man. The feeble weapons of women were not those she would have preferred to use. But they were the only ones available to her. She forced her face into a smile. ‘Indeed, Papa. I didn’t mean to be ill mannered with you. I know that you only have my best interests at heart.’
The old man nodded and looked at her with a strange speculative gleam in his eye. ‘Never a truer word has been spoken, Georgiana. Your welfare lies at the heart of all of my actions of late. It’s well that you realise that.’ And then he looked away, and the peculiar intensity of the moment had vanished.
It was precisely the opening Georgiana was looking for. ‘I never should have doubted it, and it’s with such an understanding in mind that I must speak with you. I ask only that you listen to me, for what I have to say is the truth. I would never lie to you, Papa, you must know that.’
He cleared his throat, rose, and meandered over to stand before the window. ‘Then say what you must, child, and be quick about it.’
The time had come. Now she would reveal Mr Praxton for the man he truly was. She pressed her cold clammy palms tighter and began to speak in what she hoped was a calm and controlled voice. Any hint of emotion could condemn her as a hysterical female, not worthy of Mr Raithwaite’s attention. ‘I’m aware that Mr Praxton has spoken to you regarding what happened prior to my accident. And I also know that you hold that same gentleman in high regard.’ She swallowed hard. ‘But I must tell you, sir, that Mr Praxton has not spoken the truth. I would never entertain an improper dalliance with any gentleman, let alone Mr Praxton. You know that I’ve never encouraged his attentions. Why should I then behave in the absurd manner he’s claimed? I swear that I’m innocent of his charges. He’s trying to make fools of us both.’ Her heart was pounding and her lips cracked dry. She waited to hear his understanding, his proud belief in her virtue, his condemnation of Walter Praxton.
Silence, save for the clock’s incessant ticking.
Georgiana longed to still its maniacal movement, but she waited with restrained patience.
Eventually her stepfather turned from the window to face her. ‘No man, or woman for that matter, makes a fool of me.’ His voice was slow and measured.
The breath escaped her in a small sigh of relief. The deed was done, the truth told. Mr Praxton would be banished from her life.
‘How could you even think it?’ He surveyed her with a closed look. ‘Whether you did, or did not, indulge in unladylike behaviour no longer matters. Your marriage to Mr Praxton has been arranged and in time you’ll come to see that it’s a good thing for both our families. Mr Praxton thinks very highly of you and I trust you will endeavour to become a good wife.’
A strangled laugh escaped Georgiana’s lips as she stared at her stepfather with growing disbelief. ‘He lied to you, tried to destroy my reputation. Does that mean nothing? You would still have me wed him?’
Edward Raithwaite’s manner was carefully impassive. ‘There was never any threat to your reputation until you started your foolish twittering in front of Lady Farleigh. Any damage to your reputation was effected by your own hand, my dear. But your forthcoming marriage will rectify any harm that has been done.’
‘You cannot seriously expect me to marry him!’ Georgiana’s voice increased in volume and she placed her hands against the desk’s cool wooden surface, leaning forward towards her stepfather.
‘Sit down, Georgiana,’ he snapped, ‘and do not raise your voice to me.’
Ge
orgiana took a tentative step backwards, but remained standing.
Mr Raithwaite’s face darkened. ‘I said, sit down,’ and his enunciation was meticulous.
Her legs retreated further and she stumbled into the closely positioned chair.
Gone was the bumbling genteel man. Mr Raithwaite’s eyes focused with a shrewd clarity. ‘A woman must marry as her father directs, to consolidate power and wealth, to open up new opportunities for the family. It’s the way of the world. If you’re labouring under some childish notion of love or romance, then I’m here to tell you that it’s nonsense. I didn’t send you to that expensive ladies’ academy to learn such foolishness. No, Georgiana. Walter Praxton is as best a match as can be expected. You will marry him and behave as behoves a decent young lady. And that, my dear, will be an end to the matter. Forget all else.’
Georgiana stared at Edward Raithwaite as if seeing him for the first time. A tightening nausea was growing within her stomach and she could feel the sweat bead upon her upper lip. The terrible sinking sensation arose not so much from what her stepfather had just said, but rather from that which he had not. Her scalp prickled with unease as she struggled to comprehend the enormity of what she had just learned. All his talk of childish notions and nonsense was a distraction, an attempt to divert her from the real issue. But Georgiana would not be distracted so easily. Her mind had grasped the problem in full. ‘You knew,’ she said in a quiet voice, and never once did her eyes leave Edward Raithwaite’s face. ‘You knew all along.’
Mr Raithwaite sent her a look that held nothing of affection. ‘The water has sent a fever to your brain.’
The harsh chill of the truth seeped through to scrape at her bones. Now that she had started she could not stop. ‘It was an agreement between the two of you. That’s why you were so content to allow me to walk alone with him in Hurstborne Park, even when you knew that I didn’t want to go. The seduction was planned.’ She stared at him, the full extent of the horror uncoiling. ‘And Mama…surely she could not have known too?’
‘Your ranting renders you fit for nowhere but Bedlam, an amusing spectacle for the aristocracy, nothing more. Be careful what you say, Georgiana. I would not have your mother any further upset than she already is. I must warn her to watch for any signs of a brain fever in you.’ He sighed and, removing his spectacles, pinched at the bridge of his nose. ‘Both Mr Praxton and I only want what is best for you.’
Her mouth cracked to form a cynical smile that did not touch her eyes, eyes that faded to a bleak grey-blue. ‘How my leap into the River Borne must have dismayed you both.’
‘You jumped?’ Raithwaite’s brow lowered.
Georgiana’s smile intensified. ‘Oh, yes, dear Papa, I’d rather face death in a swollen river than submit to Walter Praxton’s cruel lips.’
‘You’re mistaken about him. It’s a measure of your youthful ignorance, and I won’t let you throw away the chance of a good marriage because of it. You’re one and twenty, and in danger of being left on the shelf. This is the best opportunity you’ll get.’
She shook her head sadly. ‘He is not a kind man, Papa. How can you justify what you’ve done?’
Edward Raithwaite slowly sat himself down in the comfortable chair behind his desk. ‘I said that my actions are for the best, and so they are. The end justifies the means, my dear. You’ll thank me in the years to come. Now, our discussion is at a close. It would be well if you did not mention that of which we have spoken to your mother. I will not have you run bleating to her. Do not seek to flout my judgement, Georgiana, for, if you refuse to marry Walter Praxton, then I’ll have you deemed of unsound mind, and I don’t need to explain what the consequences of that would be.’ His mouth shut in a tight grim line.
Indeed, he did not need to offer any explanation at all. It was with a very heavy heart that Georgiana made her way out of the study.
Nathaniel propped himself against the sturdy wooden gate and was content to enjoy the view before him. Collingborne was set amidst the soft rolling splendour of the Hampshire countryside, close to Harting Down. The green velvet of fields stretched ahead, dotted periodically with prehistoric mounds. Above yawned a rich russet canopy, its seasonal castings rustling gently around his feet. The air was damp and still, the sky grey with cloud. Within the hour the light would fade to darkness and the gentle patter of winter rain begin…and he would be back within the great house to suffer the hatred of his father. A robin flitted between the branches overhead, singing its distinctive call, alone in a field of crows and starlings and magpies. It was a feeling that Nathaniel knew well, and not one on which he wished to dwell. This was his respite, his time of peace, and from it he gathered the strength to face the sombre house once more. He would be gone tomorrow, and he could endure all that his father would throw at him until then. The leaves crunched beneath the soles of his riding boots as he strolled with purposeful resignation towards the place he could not call home.
‘Mirabelle?’ Nathaniel halted in surprise upon the gravel drive.
‘Nathaniel!’ His sister by marriage clambered down from the travelling coach. ‘You’ll think that I’m following you! But I couldn’t wait four more weeks for that dratted brother of yours to return. He sent me a letter saying that he couldn’t leave until then. So I decided right then and there to come. And here I am. Won’t Henry be surprised?’
Nathaniel thought that perhaps surprise might not be Henry’s primary sentiment when he viewed the arrival of his wife and children. Not that his brother did not care for them, it was just that Mirabelle’s presence was not entirely conducive to performing matters of business. Quite how the relationship between his straight-faced sibling and Henry’s vivacious wife worked was something that Nathaniel was often given to speculate upon. Mirabelle certainly brought happiness to his brother. Perhaps there was more to the lady than her chatterbox ways would suggest.
Behind Lady Farleigh a stout woman had just emerged from the carriage carrying one small child wrapped within a blanket, and holding another by the hand. ‘Unc Nath!’ The child loosed Nurse’s hand and threw himself towards Nathaniel. On reaching the now mud-splattered high boots, the small boy stopped, looked solemnly up with his big pansy-brown eyes, and raised his chubby arms towards Nathaniel. ‘Up, please, sir,’ he said in a polite voice, and waited patiently for Nathaniel to respond.
Nurse tutted and stepped forward to reclaim her errant charge.
But without a further thought Nathaniel lifted the child against him, unmindful of the buckled shoes scraping against his smart country coat, and the small sticky fingers pressing against his cheeks. ‘Have you missed your uncle Nathaniel?’
The curly head nodded seriously.
‘And have you been a good boy, Charlie?’
Again the head nodded and the arms tightened around his neck, rendering his carefully arranged neckcloth a mass of crushed linen.
‘Then I think we’ll have to play a game of horses.’
A broad grin spread across Charlie’s face and he uttered with reverence, ‘Horses, yes, play horses.’
To which Nathaniel set the boy upon the ground, turned around and crouched down as low as he could. Charlie clambered upon Nathaniel’s back, gaining a firm hold around his uncle’s neck. He was secured in place by Nathaniel’s arms and then the pair were off and running, galloping up the broad stone stairs in front of Collingborne House, accompanied by Mirabelle’s laughter and Nurse’s snorts of disapproval.
Charlie’s giggles reverberated around the ornate hallway, up the splendid sweep of the staircase and along the full length of the picture gallery, through the green drawing room and back down the servants’ stairwell. The boy squealed with delight as his uncle attempted some neighing noises and stamped his boots against the marble floor to simulate the clatter of hooves. Just as they rounded the corner to head back to the blue drawing room and Mirabelle, Nathaniel stopped dead in his tracks. For there, not two feet in front of them, in imminent danger of being mown down by N
athaniel and his small passenger, stood the Earl of Porchester and Viscount Farleigh. Both heads swivelled round to view the intruders, the old man’s face haughty with censure, the younger’s gaping with shock.
‘Charles?’ Henry managed to utter, as he regained a grip on himself. His countenance resumed its normal staid facade and he raised his eyebrows in enquiry to his brother.
The earl said nothing, only looked briefly at Nathaniel with sharp brown eyes. His cool, unwelcoming expression altered as his gaze shifted to his grandson, and although it could hardly be described as a smile, there was a definite thawing in its glacial manner.
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