“She helped you with Ravenstone, has she not? Perhaps she is trying to do now what she could not do before.”
“You are overly generous, Charles,” she said, hurt. “I needed her to be my mother long before Ravenstone.”
He took a moment before he spoke. “You don’t think Father put her through hell?”
Georgiana hardly wanted to discuss Charles’ sympathies for their mother because she did not want to feel sorry for one moment for the woman who had allowed her father to touch her.
“I hope he did,” she said. “Our mother looked the other way as her husband molested her daughter. She accused me of lying about it, of wanting to destroy the family name. She cursed me when I told her I was with child, and called me a whore, refusing to listen to my pleas for help. The one consolation I had in those years was her suffering at his hands. You are a great deal too generous in your regard for her.”
Charles rose from his chair to sit down next to her. He reached for her hand and held it in his. She was shaking.
“I will not pretend to know what it is you suffered, but you cannot let the past influence what you do in the future.”
The tea arrived and with it her mother returned, her letter written. Charles returned to sit in his chair as Mrs. Bristow set the tea down. Georgiana was thankful for the respite for she was far from forgiving her mother.
Grace joined them to be introduced to Lady Wyndham and Charles. She had been warned by Georgiana of her mother’s rudeness, but Grace flinched as Lady Wyndham barely acknowledged her presence. Georgiana smiled to reassure Grace but she had lowered her eyes to the carpet in her old habit.
Lady Wyndham handed the written note to Elton.
“Please see that this is sent to Hamly House right away.”
Georgiana poured the tea, and listened to her brother and mother as they talked of the dinner she had planned. They discussed the menu and invitations and she was annoyed that her mother should behave as if Ravenstone were hers.
Lady Wyndham sat so correctly with her feet tucked away so her shoes were not visible. Everything about her was correct. The color of her dress was black for she would be in mourning the longest. Her hair was perfectly pulled back into a knot at the nape of her neck. She wore a cap as was correct for someone her age. There was no jewelry around her neck or on her arms. She sat on the settee without leaning against the back or sitting on the edge. She sipped her tea delicately and spoke in a well-modulated tone of voice as was also expected. All was perfectly correct about her mother, except for her black soul. Why did Charles not see it?
She had never met anyone who had ever been as correct as her mother in all she did and said. She never spoke of personal feelings, and never spoke of money or politics. She never expressed an opinion, or allowed any thought of an adversarial nature to enter her comments when in company. She remained at all times elegant and graceful, and a true model of the fairer sex. It was her mother’s ambition to be the paragon of genteel softness. If only others knew her as Georgiana did.
Her mother spoke now of inviting ten for the dinner. It was the best number for conversation. She glanced briefly at Grace, who had remained silent throughout.
“I suppose we shall have to make room for some unfortunates, but it cannot be helped.”
“Mother, Grace is not an unfortunate,” Georgiana said. She smiled at Grace, trying to apologize for her mother’s rudeness.
Her mother ignored her comment but she did not make another quip at Grace’s expense. “Invitations should really be sent out two weeks and two days in advance but being in the country that rule is far more flexible,” she said.
She had rules, so many rules to live by and consider and keep as if she would fall apart without them. Ten was proving a hard number of guests in the country where one did not have much choice; should she invite more so as not to risk offense? It was challenging work, being correct.
After dinner, Georgiana excused herself early, going to sleep and waking a few hours later to change into her breeches. She slipped into Charles’ bedroom, waking him as she closed the door.
“Georgiana, it’s late. Go to sleep,” he said, putting his face under his pillow.
She pulled at his arm until he sat up reluctantly. “What is it?”
“You are going to teach me to use a sword.”
“Certainly not, Georgiana.”
“You are a great deal too sure of your answer. Why not?”
“For one, swords have sharp pointy ends meant for harm and I trust not your motives in this request. Secondly as I recall, sword play is not an accomplishment for a fine young lady as you.”
He fell back onto his bed but she only pulled him up again.
“Please, Charles,” she begged. “You would not wish me to die in a sword fight.”
“I would wish you no harm for sure and it is that sentiment and your good sense to not engage in swordplay that will keep you far from death’s door.”
“It can’t be helped.”
“It most certainly can, if you will only please remember you are a lady, and ladies, Georgiana, do not fight with swords. It is, as you see, a problem with its own solution. Now go to bed.”
“Then I assure you it is certain I will die in a sword fight and, you dear brother, will have played a hand in allowing the fatal blow.”
He pulled his pillow over his head, and screamed into it with frustration. She watched him a moment as he debated with himself, then he rose from the bed with a scowl and proceeded to change his clothes while she waited outside his door.
They slipped downstairs and she led the way out to the woods. She followed a path in the moonlight until they came to a clearing. Searching the low shrubs amongst the trees, she found two swords made of wood that she had borrowed from Rupert.
Charles showed her how to stand and the basic movements of leading with one foot or the other. He adjusted her hand on the sword so her grip was stronger. Then he raised his own sword and showed her how to attack and how to defend. He adjusted the position of her elbows making sure she kept them close to her body and made her stand in the en garde position as he moved her limbs into the correct angles.
When she had mastered the basics, he showed her how to lunge in an attack and how to defend herself from the same. There was a move to cover her upper left torso and her lower right torso and right leg and one to cover her upper right torso and sword arm. He showed her how to hit after a parry and how to fling herself at her opponent with her arm out and run past the villain so he could not hit her. Then, he demonstrated how to flick her blade over that of her opponent as opposed to underneath, and how to execute a fake attack to distract an opponent from one’s real intention.
Then they practiced some basic movements and his sword hit her on the head when she did not raise her own high enough. She collapsed on the ground and he cursed as she struggled back to her feet.
“Georgiana, why can you not distinguish yourself in this world as something other than a sword-wielding pirate?”
“Because embroidery is far too dull to hold my attention for long,” she replied as she shook her head to clear the ringing inside it. If his sword had been real, her head would now be split in two. “Let us try it again.”
She took her position and raised her sword.
“There are far better pursuits for improving oneself.”
“I can think of none,” she said.
She lunged forward. He parried her blows and with a flick of his sword managed to remove the sword from her hand and send it flying into the brush.
“Show me how you did that,” she said as she retrieved her sword.
He showed her first how to parry the sort of attack she had made. “Don’t swing so wide, keep it short and tight, close to you. Let them come for you. Then touch their sword on the inside, but take a step closer, and wrap your blade around theirs and point the tip down suddenly, and pull it toward you hard and fast.”
He showed her a few more times slowly, then h
e lunged toward her and she quickly parried his blows, then, remembering every small detail, she pulled the sword from his hand and sent it to the ground. Her own sword was quickly at his throat.
“Well done,” he smiled. “You have an aptitude for murder.”
“Show me something else.”
“For shame, Georgiana, do you treat all your guests to midnight bouts of sword play? I am for bed.”
He handed her the sword and retreated back down the path. She placed the swords back in their hiding place and ran to catch him up.
“Tomorrow, then,” she said.
“You are beyond tiresome. Tell me, dear sister, are you merely trying to relieve the boredom of a life of leisure, or are you preparing to fight Napoleon himself?”
“I require merely the advantage of a new skill.”
He paused and turned toward her, causing her to come to an abrupt halt.
“It’s very important, Georgiana, that you take great precautions. You are not a duchess, to whom everything is forgiven, nor overly wealthy, and should it ever be known that you are running about fighting duels you will, for certain, be cast out of society.”
“Oh, that would be terrible,” she said. “A fate worse than death, I think.”
He glared at her a moment, then continued down the path. “If it was to affect only you, I would still caution you, but you must see that your behavior reflects on others around you and I will own that society is necessary to me, as I am sure you will come to realize it is to you, were it ever to be removed.”
“You are thinking of your political aspirations,” she said.
“It stands to reason that I would not wish my name tarnished.”
“Now you sound like dearest Mother.”
“Mama is not always incorrect.”
“It did not take you overly long to be swayed to her thinking—less than a full year.”
He stopped again and turned to her. “Have a care, please, for others besides yourself. I spent these last few weeks trying to find the information you requested. I do much for you, not only because it is my duty as your brother, but also because I care what happens to you. I will, however, not be forced to listen to your attacks upon my character.”
“You have my apologies,” she said contritely.
He continued down the path.
“What were you able to discover?” she asked, calling after him.
“I am overly tired, Georgiana. I will see you in the morning.”
She had to be content with that because she realized her little brother was turning out to be far stronger in character than she had realized.
***
She was up early, despite her late night, and was able to complete the estate business before breakfast. She had asked Grace to join her on her ride that morning. It was now early November, and the temperature had become increasingly cold as winter settled over the land.
The plowing had begun for the early spring wheat crop. The boys plowed parallel rows to break up the earth, and then it was harrowed to break up the remaining clods. The boys from London had never plowed a field, so their rows were far from straight.
“It takes me longer with thems than if I had done it meself,” Mr. Turnball complained.
She nodded in sympathy at the man as he stood watching their progress from next to her horse. Stooped with age, his back crooked, he was trying to teach them how to be plowboys. Born on the estate sixty-four years before, Mr. Turnball had worked its fields ever since, and his experience of the estate’s fields had proved invaluable
“But think, Mr. Turnball, how much easier next year will be with their help,” Grace said.
“Not likely to make it, for they will be the death of me.”
“They are but boys, Mr. Turnball, in need of a hand to guide them,” Grace replied.
“Half asleep most of the time is what they is,” he complained. “City folk don’t belong on the land.”
“And how would we have gotten the harvest in without them?” Georgiana asked.
He made a grumbling sound deep in his throat, and spat a gob of slime at the ground next to him. “When the war is over, we won’t be needing them no more. The local lads will return then.”
If they weren’t dead, Georgiana thought. She praised the state of the fields overall, and his hard work, making sure his humor was restored before they returned to the house.
“It is admirable of you to employ them,” Grace said. “I know many young ladies who do charity work, but not another of them that has so changed the lives of a few street children.”
Georgiana felt guilt rise. She was a fraud. If Grace knew the truth, condemnation would follow.
“I have not done so much.”
“You have done a great deal,” Grace insisted. “I wish I could be so generous to others, but your modesty is no less than I expected. You have done so much for them and for me. You have a giving and generous heart, Georgiana, but you do not like others to see it.”
Georgiana pulled Bella to a stop, and Grace looked at her inquiringly.
“Grace, I am not so good as you think.”
“To me, you are. I have never had a better friend or greater champion.”
Georgiana smiled with difficulty, but pushed Bella on. She would have to live with her own guilt.
She didn’t want to contemplate the pitiable state of her soul so she explained the lambing season to come. They would have to see the shepherd soon to make sure he had all he needed. The threshing of the corn harvest would also be underway now.
Rupert and James were waiting for them by the front door when they returned. Mud rose from the ground next to them, and barked as they approached, his tail wagging.
She had breakfast with the children in the kitchen, knowing her mother and brother would still be asleep. Mrs. Blackwell arrived to take the boys for their lessons, and Jane and Margaret went with them.
Georgiana adjourned to the study to work on her accounts. Following a routine they had easily settled into, Mrs. Bristow arrived to inform her of purchases that would need to be made for the dinner Lady Wyndham had planned. One of the maids was unwell and would require bed rest, so a village girl would be needed for a few days.
After Mrs. Bristow left the study, Georgiana rested her head on the desk a moment, taking uneasy note of the nausea she had been feeling that morning. It had crept up on her slowly, and the breakfast of tea and bread had not restored her. She straightened as she heard the door open.
“There you are,” Charles said. “You are at your work uncommonly early. Has it been a good morning?”
“It has not been without its challenges.”
“That, dear sister, is your profit for keeping a poor fellow up half the night. I trust we shall not have a repeat performance then?”
“I still have much to learn.”
“You are positively unnatural,” he sighed. “You mean to deprive me of my sleep.”
“You can sleep in Parliament,” she said. “I hear most do.”
He laughed and seated himself in a chair. “I must confess, for someone who abhors the accomplishments of a young lady, you are good at entertainment.”
“Will you give me leave from your banter and please inform me what news you have of your inquires?”
“Well, it would seem Major Price is a highly decorated and respected man. He fought well in India and the peninsular war. He was born in Shropshire to Anthony Price, the second son of a baron. His mother died when he was only three. His father sent him to live with an aunt who was married to a captain in the infantry, and when he was of age, his father bought him his commission.”
She sighed. Nothing in Price’s background gave any hint of how to deal with him and his tenacity.
“As for Mr. Madden,” Charles continued, “I was able to discover nothing. No one knows of him. I even hired a detective to see what could be found but it is as if the wretch did not exist outside your acquaintance of him.”
“I believe I now know why
Edward will not allow me to dismiss him.”
Charles raised an eyebrow in question.
“They are lovers.”
“That is an unsatisfactory perversion. You have proved this?”
“With my own eyes,” she said.
“I dare not ask, I suppose,” he said and walked about the room as if in search of an answer. “Is it possible this Mr. Madden could be your Frenchman?”
“His absence alone does not confirm it and I have never heard him speak a word of French.”
“Perhaps that is why no one has caught him yet? I understand that this spy’s genius lies in information on enemy troops and has led to some decisive defeats on our side.”
“Where did you learn this?”
“I heard mention of his name at the club in a conversation I was probably not supposed to be privy to.”
“It is probably at that club where information of our own troops is also so easily overheard. Were I French and seeking information that is where I would go.”
“You are, no doubt, right but as I have no idea what this Mr. Madden looks like I could not confirm his presence.”
“It is his genius, appearing and disappearing at will. I have been searching the countryside for him with no success. I can only conclude he is in London gathering what he needs. I think it is time I visited my dear husband.”
“And what will you do if you find this Mr. Madden?”
“Find the proof and give him to Major Price, of course.”
“If they are, as you say, lovers, will he continue to conceal his relations with your husband upon capture?”
Charles was only suggesting what she herself feared, but his concern confirmed that the threat was real. It was one circumstance for people to suspect that Edward’s interest lay in men. It was quite another for the suspicion to be confirmed. He was not of the elite in society in whom such behaviors would be easily overlooked. Edward would be ruined.
“I will give the matter more thought, but I must find an end to my association with the Major.”
“You do that,” he said and stood up. “I am going to have some breakfast.”
At the mention of food, she felt her nausea return.
Raven's Shadow (Book 2, the Ravenstone Chronicles) Page 10