She stepped inside the public house, looking around at the noisy room. There were mostly men and a few painted ladies, who turned to look at her as she stood there. She forced her way to the counter, managing to elbow her way through without offending anyone. The room smelled powerfully of unwashed bodies and tobacco. She ordered a tankard of ale, having to shout to be heard, making sure she sounded arrogant. She could feel eyes on her, but refused to be intimidated. She found a place to sit near the fire, out of the way, where she could observe people from under her cap.
The inn was filled with sailors who mixed with the local dock workers. A black man sat drinking amongst his shipmates, and she watched him, fascinated, as she drank. She had seen dark-skinned Africans before on the streets, but usually from afar and never was she able to just sit and watch one. The crowd grew thicker and she listened to the different languages around her. She listened to an Asian man as he tried to speak English with a heavy, strange accent. She marveled at the sounds that came from his mouth.
Someone addressed her in a foreign tongue and she shrugged, not understanding. Those who addressed her in English, she couldn’t understand either. After a while, no one disturbed her and so she simply watched. She watched a young boy work his way to a gentleman’s side and brush up against him to lift his purse. It happened so quickly and so easily that Georgiana wondered if she had seen it at all. The boy’s eyes met hers and he froze, knowing she had seen him. She smiled and shrugged and he disappeared into the crowd.
A beggar removed a patch from his eye and put it in his pocket to use again the next day. He had two perfectly good eyes. Georgiana recognized a girl she had seen earlier begging. She had given her money. She sat at a table eating a hearty meal with her day’s collection.
Those around her had worked hard all day and into the night and now sat down to good suppers, which they relished. They laughed and told stories, happy in the company they kept. They were beggars and thieves and hard-working men and women and she envied them despite the hardships she knew they endured. She watched as a fight broke out between two groups of sailors. Chairs and tables went flying and those around the melee stood aside with their suppers in hand waiting for the spat to be over, as it soon was. Everything settled again into conversation and laughter.
The pickpocket arrived in front of her with a platter of bread and cheese. He sat down at her table across from her. He didn’t speak, only motioned to her that she should share his food. She reached for the loaf of bread, tore off a piece, and took a bite. The bread was old and stale, but she ate it, taking a piece of cheese as well while watching the boy. He kept his eyes on her, and ate quickly, jumping at every loud noise. After he finished, he nodded at her and slipped between the crowds. He left through the front door without a word spoken.
She couldn’t stay all night, so reluctantly she finished her ale then made her way out. She found a hackney and stepped into its darkness, preparing to return to her own realm. Neither she nor the hackney driver noticed the pickpocket who came out of the shadows and climbed on board as they moved off down the street. He clung to the back of the carriage, a silent shadow that followed her home and watched her climb up the wall and back into her privileged world.
5
Charles woke slowly, aware that his valet stood beside his bed with glass in hand. Suddenly the need for the tonic made itself known, as the pounding in his head began again. He groaned in pain, remembering the long night of brandy and women.
“Thank you, Harris,” he said and reached for the glass. “What time is it?”
“Noon, sir.”
“Blast it. I told Georgiana I would breakfast with her today.”
“Your bath is ready, and I have laid out the blue coat.”
Charles nodded and sat up, drinking the glass of foul-smelling liquid, which the valet prepared every time his master drank too much. He had no idea what was in it, only that it worked. Grimacing at the taste, he set the cure down, and staggered next door where his bath awaited him. Harris shaved him as he sat in the hot water.
“I heard little girls giggling in my sleep.”
“Indeed?”
“Are there little girls present in this house?”
“I wouldn’t know, sir.”
“Maybe I was dreaming.”
“Quite possibly, sir.”
After a quick wash, Charles donned his shirt and pantaloons, and tied his cravat. He combed his hair, letting the curls fall where they may. He looked into the mirror. Satisfied with the fashionable wildness he had created, he let Harris help him into his coat and went in search of Georgiana.
He helped himself to a quick breakfast, eating some bread as he walked, much to the servant’s surprise. In the drawing room, he found only his mother, sitting alone. She seemed relieved to see him.
“Charles, I had almost despaired that I should see you at all today.”
“Madam,” he said, and bowed formally before sitting on the settee, eating his sandwich, opposite her. “Has Georgiana not come down yet?”
“Georgiana? Come down?” she asked puzzled. “Georgiana is indisposed, Charles. Why are you eating in the drawing room?”
“Indisposed?” he asked. “Permanently?”
She blinked at him as if trying to understand something that confused her.
“Georgiana has lost the use of her legs, madam, not her faculties,” he said.
“I see,” she said, as if hurt, and glared at him. “It is not proper to eat your breakfast with your hands, Charles. Have you lost all sense of good manners?”
He knew the look well, remembering it from his childhood. What was she more upset about, he wondered: his manners, or the fact that he was questioning her about Georgiana? He also knew that the next hour would be painful unless her good humor was restored by his paying attention to her every whim.
“What I mean to say, my dear mama, is that Georgiana is quite capable of joining us in the drawing room.”
“Charles, you know that it is unseemly for someone so indisposed to be in society. My sole consideration is for Georgiana. Her physician has also made me to understand that she should not be overtaxed.”
Any idea he had of trying to put her back in a good mood disappeared with those words. He put what was left of his sandwich on a side table and leaned toward her.
“Do you mean to tell me that since the accident, Georgiana has been shut up in her room with no visitors, no friends to keep her company and not even her dear mama?”
“She has had her nurse for company and seeks no other. I assure you she is quite content with the arrangement. I do my duty to sit with her when time permits me for you know I am kept quite busy with my engagements.”
Charles stood up and strolled over to the window, trying to keep his temper in check. “How long has it been since the accident?”
“I believe it’s been three years. I don’t remember.”
Dear God, he thought, three years of being quarantined.
“Mama, you have been remiss in your duty as a mother. Georgiana is to be brought down every day. She is not to be hidden away like a shameful secret.”
“Charles, propriety must always be the first consideration and I will not have my visitors exposed to an invalid,” she said, her voice rising in anger.
He turned away from the window to look at his mother. She had been a beauty in her youth and still retained a handsome appearance. She took great pains with her dress, and prided herself on her place in important society. He tried to remember what kind of a mother she had been and couldn’t. He remembered nannies and governesses. The few occasions he had been in her presence, she had been a polite stranger who looked him over like a prized possession.
It was Georgiana, he remembered. She was older by two years but she was the one who had soothed him as a child after his nightmares or nursed him when he was ill. It was Georgiana who had stood between him and his father. “Madam, I shall speak plainly. If you wish to remain in this house, you will do as I h
ave requested,” he said, raising his hand to silence his mother. “I have no more to say on the matter.” He left the drawing room and took the stairs two at a time in search of his sister.
The second floor rooms were empty, but on the third floor, he heard footsteps running along the hall and giggling. The same giggling of little girls he had heard in his dreams. He made his way up to the old nursery and opened the door onto a large room flooded by sunlight and scattered with toys. Georgiana turned to look at him, and smiled before returning to her task. He entered the room and closed the door behind him.
It was their old nursery room filled with the toys they had played with as children. He frowned, finding it strange that this was where he would find her. She sat at a table near the great window painting a puppet.
He strolled over to her and examined her work. She was applying black paint to the eyebrows.
“What do you think?” she asked.
She was dressed in black, her hair short, adorned with a ribbon instead of the customary cap. The dark bruises were still visible but they were much fainter now. She had chosen to not cover them up today. The sunlight shone on her clear skin and she glowed in its light.
Their mother was beautiful but her looks were far surpassed by Georgiana’s. Her short dark hair only seemed to emphasis her beauty, her blue eyes larger and the lines of her long neck elegant. He wondered if their mother’s animosity toward his sister stemmed from jealousy, but then dismissed the idea. Their mother had despised her even as a child, he remembered, long before Georgiana had grown into a beautiful young woman.
“Charles?” she said and turned to him in inquiry.
“Think about what?” he asked.
“My painting?”
He glanced at the puppet and smiled. “These are our old puppets. You changed the colors.”
“Yes, they were in need of color as the old colors have faded.”
He heard the laughter again and thought himself going mad. Had Georgiana heard it too? She gave no indication and he turned toward the soft giggles, following them to a table draped with sheets. Kneeling down next to the table, he pulled back the cloth and discovered a small world of dolls and teacups, a tea party. In the circle sat two little girls of maybe four who looked up at him with curiosity. They looked much like Georgiana as a child. They both had long, curly brown hair and big blue eyes and they had the same nose and smile. Twins, he thought, surprised.
“Would you like some tea?” asked one girl, holding out a teacup while the other reached for the tea pot to pour him some.
Astounded, he stared at them and they giggled again.
“Are you Charles?” asked the second girl.
“Yes,” he said, finding his voice.
“Georgy told us you came home. I am Jane and she is Margaret.”
“Pleased to meet you,” he said.
They returned to their tea party, dismissing his presence, and he replaced the bed sheet and stood slowly up.
When he returned to Georgiana, he saw that she was watching him closely. “You didn’t know,” she said softly. He shook his head and frowned. “Father never wrote and the few letters I received from our mother never mentioned that I had gained two sisters.”
Georgiana looked relieved, and he wondered briefly at this reaction to his words but she glanced toward the window, denying him access to her emotions.
“Her maternal instinct is not her strongest.”
“That does seem the case,” he said thoughtfully. “But why keep it a secret?”
Georgiana didn’t answer. He took off his jacket and sat down at the table next to her. He undid his cuffs, and then rolled up his sleeves. She watched him, the look in her eyes weary, and it made him sad that she should feel that way about his presence. He reached for a paintbrush. Dipping it in the paint jar, he began to paint a long black strip down the front of the puppet stage.
“How old are they?” he asked.
“Four. They were born October 2nd.”
“Not even a year after I left. I must have angered him greatly by leaving. He never wrote to me, never answered any of my letters. You know, I think he would have disowned me were I not his only heir.”
“Probably.”
“Dear Lord,” Charles said. “That explains it.”
“What does?” she asked, alarmed.
“After I absconded to join the navy, Father saw it necessary to supply himself with a new heir, for fear I would surely not come home again. I can only imagine his reaction when he fathered two more girls.”
His sister kept her silence, returning her attention to her paintbrush.
“Was it terrible for you here?” he asked, not willing to let her ignore him.
“Not entirely.” She smiled but said nothing more, picking up instead another brush, and changing colors, she continued to paint the eyes. They painted for a while in silence, listening to the soft chatter and giggles from under the table.
“They resemble you greatly,” he said, and thought he saw her flinch, her brush hesitating before she continued.
“Do you think so?” she asked. Her voice was guarded, he thought.
“Big blue eyes, long brown hair. Yes, I would say, most definitely. Is Mother not pleased?”
The strain he sensed between them irked him. He wanted his Georgiana back, the one who talked to him endlessly, telling him stories and laughing with him. He didn’t know this stranger who sat opposite him now, keeping so quiet and reserved. His Georgiana had laughed at life, and dared defy it. She was brave and full of life, and he had worshipped her. This silent and meek stranger angered him. “What happened to you, Georgiana, to turn you away from me so?” he asked, putting down his brush to look at her. “You are angry with me for having abandoned you?”
She glanced at him for a moment before she continued to draw the line across the wooden face. He could tell nothing from her expression, her emotions and thoughts locked away now. She used to be so easy to read. When they were younger, she had worn her emotions on her sleeve, not caring for propriety or the punishments her nanny or mother would inflict on her for doing so. When had she become so clever at hiding her feelings? And why had it become necessary to do so? This last question frightened him.
“The last time we were together, we were still at Evansgate,” she said. “Do you remember?”
“Of course, I remember. Nicholas and I left for school and you returned to London.”
“Eight years is long time, Charles. You, too, seem a stranger to me.”
“Do I?” he sighed. “I suppose I must.”
“You didn’t expect it would be the same?”
He looked at her closely, not wanting to admit she was right.
“We were children, Charles. You were twelve when you left for school and then you ran off to fight Napoleon.”
He flinched at the sadness in her voice. “I wrote you letters but you never answered.”
“Did you?”
He swore under his breath, and stood up pacing in front of the window. She must have felt abandoned. He hated his father even more.
“What did you write about?” she asked.
“The war,” he said curtly, his temper barely under control.
“You are so changed. What did they do to you?” he asked.
“They sent me to a convent.”
“What in heaven’s name for?”
“Just that,” she said with a smile. “Schooling in humility, I think mother would call it. I was wild and unwilling to comport myself as a young lady should. I believe those were the official charges. I told untruths and risked the family’s good name with my wild notions. I tried to run away.”
“Yes, so I heard. Did you get far?”
“Not terribly. I had no money and Father hired some constable to bring me back. It didn’t take them long to find me walking along the road.”
“Where were you going?”
“Back to Evansgate.”
“Of course, to Lord Markham—and he
would have helped you, too. He always liked you.”
“Yes, only I failed.”
“So they stuck you in a convent, and it was the nuns then that turned you into this former shadow of yourself,” he said. He regretted the remark instantly as he saw the effect of his words on her. It was the first real emotion he had extracted from her, but her pain only hurt him. “I’m sorry,” he said, sitting down next to her again and taking her hands in his. “That was uncalled for. You have been through much with the accident, and God knows living with our parents must have been enough to drive anybody to madness. It’s just that….” he paused, not knowing how to continue.
“What?” she asked softly.
He took a moment to answer. “Did he hurt you, Georgiana?”
She pulled her hands from his, and he had the feeling could she have walked away, she would have. Instead, she took a minute to study her hands in her lap before she lifted her eyes to his, and smiled at him. It wasn’t what he had expected, and it frightened him more than anything else could have.
“You know Father,” she said and shrugged. “He disciplined us.”
“What he did was not discipline,” he said angrily.
“Perhaps, but I was quite wild once and he did his best,” she said.
He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Not from her. She had as a child received more lashings than he did, and still she dared to defy their father.
“Was it that bad?” he asked. “You are not even willing to speak about it even after he has gone?”
“What does it matter anymore?” she asked, her voice low but angry now.
“It matters to me.”
“Why? What good will it do?” she asked, her eyes flashing. “Let it be, Charles.”
“I can’t, damn it,” he roared and the chatter from under the table seized and two small heads poked out to see, their faces concerned.
“Georgy?” Margaret asked, fear in her voice.
Ravenstone (Book 1, The Ravenstone Chronicles) Page 7