Dangerous 01 - Dangerous Works

by Caroline Warfield

  “I beg you to excuse me. There is work to do before bed.”

  She thought he might ask, “What work?” Instead he saw her gone with a bow and relief he didn’t bother to hide.

  Alone in her room, Georgiana leaned against the door. ‘The French were not kind,’ her brother had said. Andrew’s scarred body flashed through her mind. The French were brutal. Richard knew. Richard sent him.

  Emotional collapse accomplished nothing and held no place in Georgiana’s universe. She forced herself upright and picked up her inlaid lap desk and the heavy portfolio with it, both thoughtfully arranged on her bedside table by Richard’s servants.

  She flipped through pages of vellum until she located her most recent translations of Praxilla of Sicyon’s fragmentary poems. The work looked adequate, but Georgiana no longer settled for adequate. There was no eros here, merely domestic concerns. She closed her eyes momentarily, forcing her mind into Praxilla’s world. Blank walls greeted her in every direction. She knew nothing of Praxilla’s world. She damned her lack of education for the thousandth time.

  A moment later she picked up her quill and began to write notes for the partner she could no longer see, the colleague she could no longer debate.

  She wondered if he also worked alone by lamplight in the house on Little Saint Mary’s Lane. It gave her comfort to imagine him there. A slight smile relaxed her face and eased her heart. She listed questions for Andrew and began to anticipate his answers. He would answer. He wouldn’t fail her.

  Sir Isaac Newton glared down at Andrew from his pedestal on the end of the book shelf. He, Sir Francis Bacon, and marble busts of the other distinguished Cambridge alumni seemed to view Andrew’s work with great skepticism. They were cold comfort and no substitute for Georgiana’s wit and enthusiasm. He ignored them.

  A familiar voice broke into his concentration. “All these wonders and you wish to read Praxilla? Isn’t she the dreadful poet who—”

  “—dared put cucumbers and the sun and moon on an equal footing?” Andrew capped Geoff Dunning’s well-known assessment of the poet. “Good morning, Dunning. How are you?” Pleasure flooded him. There had been no one to speak to in over a week—not since Georgiana left, taking half the work and half his heart. Company felt good.

  “I am well, Andrew, but surprised to see you here. Good to see you working, though.” The greeting appeared to be equally sincere. Geoffrey Dunning may be a bit of a fuzzy academic, but he was a kind man and an excellent scholar. “But Praxilla? I thought old Selby had you on the Neoplatonists.”

  “This isn’t for Selby. I finished a passage for him two days ago. He doles his bounty out slowly. I’m still waiting for another.”

  Dunning nodded sympathetically. “But Praxilla?” he asked. “A diversion?” If Dunning suspected Andrew was helping Georgiana, he didn’t say.

  “Have you actually read Praxilla?” Andrew asked.

  “No, no. Goodness no. Her work isn’t much studied,” Dunning said, shaking his head. “Zenobius put her in her place two thousand years ago. You just quoted him—cucumbers and all.”

  “Yes, I know what Zenobius said. ‘Only an idiot would put cucumbers on a par with the sun in the same verse.’“ Andrew thought Zenobius as narrow-minded as Watterson and the others. They maligned Praxilla as they maligned Georgiana.

  “Does seem a bit strong. Perhaps Zenobius mistook her meaning. Did she really write about cucumbers?” Dunning’s suggestion stunned Andrew.

  “Listen to this verse, yourself, Dunning. Tell me what you think of it.

  “The fairest thing I leave is the light of the sun

  And the next the bright stars and face of the moon

  and also ripe cucumbers, apples and pears.”

  Andrew pointed to the text. “What do you think it means?”

  “Probably not much more than is obvious. She seems to be cataloging pleasures of life—things one would miss.” Dunning squinted to reread it. “Perhaps for Apollo in Hades.”

  Andrew smiled at the man’s earnest interest. “It does seem to refer to death, doesn’t it? What little pleasures would you miss, Dunning?”

  The impassive scholar appeared to give that serious thought. After a moment he said, “Sunlight of course—”

  Andrew raised a brow, giving him a schoolmaster’s best frown as if to say ‘you can do better.’

  “—in the morning, on the Cam!” Dunning finished.

  “Be honest, Geoff, what would you really miss?”

  “Soft sheets, scones and butter, my good leather chair, a delicious beverage I receive at Christmas from a cousin who is a pastor in the glens, deep in the Highlands—but not one of them would be subject for high poetry. Those are domestic things.”

  That was it then. Praxilla’s work—and Georgiana’s—dismissed in one blanket statement.

  “High?” Andrew’s anger flared. “Who is to say what is high?”

  Andrew could not think of any poet who wrote of everyday things. Neither the odes of Keats nor the oddity of Coleridge covered tea and scones. Perhaps they should.

  “Love, ladies, nature, mythology–who decides what subjects are fit for poetry?” Andrew demanded.

  Dunning didn’t take offense at Andrew’s vehemence. “Good question, old boy. The consensus of the scholarly community one supposes. Interesting question, that.”

  “Can you think of one who wrote of scones and jam?”

  Dunning looked surprised by the question but gave it serious thought.

  “Not any of the respected poets. There’s that Scots fellow, Burns. He writes of domestic things. No scholars, certainly.” Dunning furrowed his brow. “Must be others. ‘Pon thought, can’t think of any reason why one can’t make a verse of homely things. Praxilla did, didn’t she?” He smiled at Andrew. “Translating them, are you?”

  “My partner is.”

  Dunning raised his eyebrows as if to ask about the partner but didn’t voice it. “How is the work progressing?” he asked instead.

  “Well enough. Some questions have arisen though. What do we know of Greek eating habits?” That is Georgiana’s question. She had asked what was known about the foods and other simple pleasures of ancient Greece.

  “You mean, if they had no scones for comfort, what would they turn to?” The thought amused Dunning.

  Andrew grinned back at him.

  “Might be interesting to find out,” Dunning said. “Somewhere in this temple of knowledge we should be able to find that between us, old boy. Shall we have a go? What do you have so far? Old Featheringham the librarian will let us up in the stacks if I ask him.”

  Georgiana would love this. It was a pity Old Featheringham would never have the pleasure of her curiosity and intelligence.

  Hours passed before Andrew finally packed away his notes. Dunning was long gone. Andrew picked up the papers and made his way through the reading room to the gated entrance, passing under brilliantly painted glass of the arched transom, burnished to a dark gold in the setting sun. The students who passed with him ignored its message: Honi soit qui mal y pense. In English, it meant “shamed be the person who thinks ill of another.” They don’t often practice it either.

  Old Featheringham scowled when he passed, reminding Andrew how lonely he felt. Dunning’s company had cheered him, but Dunning wasn’t Georgiana.

  God how I miss her! He ached to have her by his side. His dialogs with Georgiana delved layer by layer down into the ideas of the poets, prodded on by her persistent questioning. Together they produced far better work than either of them could have managed alone.

  Andrew turned toward the Cam, grateful his improved gait let him walk across the commons to the river. Georgiana’s voice, its throaty undertones pitched exactly right to recite the women’s works, aroused him even in memory. Memories of her lilac scent were still his nemesis; now they carried the added burden of remembered love-making.

  He worried that she might never come back. He tried to push the thought from his mind, but fear lu
rked in the shadows of darkening Cambridge. She had been gone just three days, but each one felt to him like a thousand years. The first set of questions arrived yesterday; he would have to be content with them. For tonight, he would compose his response. He would give as generously of his mind as he longed to give generously of his very self.

  “Ardmore, must you overfill my plate?” Ardmore’s countess, the former Eloise Hayden stretched out her nasal drawl but skillfully avoided slipping into a whine that guests nearby might perceive as low-class. “You know my appetite is dainty.” She rolled her eyes in disgust and tucked into the plate of delicacies from the Duchess of Murnane’s overflowing wedding breakfast.

  Georgiana tore her eyes from the bride and groom and smiled up at her brother-in-law. Weak of chin, dim of mind, and plump of pocket, the Earl of Ardmore was perfect for her sister Eloise and harmless enough.

  Eloise downed the lobster patties and cheese pastries from the Murnane House chef with more energy than she had exhibited for any other activity. Georgiana let her eyes drift back to the couple making their graceful way among their guests. Chadbourn leaned possessively over his bride, one hand at her back, guiding her. He stooped to whisper in her ear before each encounter to explain every distant cousin and interesting acquaintance. The new countess glowed with a calm joy that clutched at Georgiana’s heart.

  “How can you stand to watch that performance and still eat, Georgiana?” Eloise demanded. “All that billing and cooing positively turns one’s stomach.” She popped another pastry into her mouth and licked her fat little fingers.

  Marianna, youngest of the Hayden children tittered musically, a carefully modulated titter designed to strike a balance between appreciation of her sister’s wit and unseemly laughter. “They are overflowing with nauseating sentiment, are they not?” she said.

  Her remark drew a sharp look from her mother. “Young ladies do not remark on the behavior of their hosts,” the Duchess pronounced. She shared a knowing look with Eloise and went on archly, “Even if the remarks are true.”

  Marianna sunk back into her habitual pout. “One can become quite weary of being reminded of all the things young ladies cannot do,” she fussed.

  “Catch a husband, Marianna,” Eloise said with a smirk in Georgiana’s direction, “and then you may do as you please.”

  Georgiana squeezed her eyes shut for a moment and tried to let the barb fall away. Her armor wore thin after only one day in her mother and sisters’ company. She glanced up at her brother and pondered his remote look. The clockwork efficiency of his mind at work almost shown forth behind ice blue eyes. She wondered if he was busy maintaining the Sudbury estate on his father’s behalf, seeing to the welfare of the entire country, or managing the lives of all his friends to suit his own notions of rectitude. All of the above at once, she suspected, while delicately partaking of the wedding breakfast and never once leaving so much as a crumb on his pristine neck cloth.

  Glenaire’s sudden movement caused her to straighten. He rose to his feet in one fluid motion and bowed over the bride’s hand before Georgiana realized the couple had reached their table.

  “Lady Chadbourn, my congratulations,” Glenaire said, giving her a look that held more approval than warmth, a look that seemed to say he had inspected her and found nothing lacking. He probably had. He and the Earl exchanged an enigmatic look. Chadbourn nodded before turning to the ladies.

  The Earl formally introduced his wife to the Duchess as “My Countess.” Georgiana’s formidable mother gave the woman a perfectly correct nod of acknowledgement, confident that her superior rank demanded no more. The Earl frowned slightly but didn’t look surprised.

  “Lady Georgiana, what a pleasure to see you,” he exclaimed with a perception of warmth and (Georgiana suspected) some relief. “It has been too long. Let me make known to you my wife.” The word “wife” echoed with pride.

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Chadbourn,” Georgiana said.

  The lady smiled back. “Call me Catherine, please. Will has told me how much your friendship and your brother’s meant to him growing up.” She tossed a teasing glance at Glenaire who smiled back.

  The Earl chuckled. “I suspect we’re long past the need for titles, Georgiana. Can you bear it?”

  Georgiana laughed back. “At least you didn’t call me Lady Georgie, like Jamie Heyworth did the last time I saw him,” she said. “Where is he, by the way? Hiding from matchmaking mamas?” A faint vibration to the table, the sure sign of her mother’s sharply stiffening posture, should have been a warning.

  The Earl grinned. “Probably, but I actually believe he and some of my rapscallion cousins have gotten up a match in the billiard room where there is more freedom.”

  “And drinks other than tea or lemonade.” The new countess said. More vibrations.

  “I see you know our Jamie, already,” Georgiana replied. She bit back a grin. Let my mother be shocked, she thought.

  Catherine smiled at Glenaire. “Not all of Will’s friends are quite so wild.”

  Glenaire bowed in acknowledgement. “Nor so thoughtless. This is your day.”

  “I’m just pleased Will’s friends are here to share his happiness,” Catherine said. “Even the less sober ones.”

  “You haven’t met Andrew yet,” Georgiana blurted out helplessly. Chadbourn shot Glenaire a speaking glance; Glenaire merely raised one eyebrow. The table quivered ominously. The Duchess must be ready to explode.

  “The major?” Catherine asked. “No, I have not. Will had hoped to invite him, but Glenaire told Will he still suffered from his wounds and assured us it was kinder not to invite him. I understand he was the scholar of the group, and I am anxious to meet this soldier-scholar. I think I will like him very much.”

  Georgiana thought she heard an unladylike snort from her mother’s direction? Surely not. Perhaps an outraged puff of air? Looking at Catherine’s intelligent brown eyes, Georgiana found it easy to ignore the Duchess. “You would like him very much, I think,” she said. Her voice came out a deep and breathless murmur.

  “I have no doubt of it. If we can’t get him here, we’ll have to come round to Cambridge and invade his solitude.”

  A few more polite words, then they moved on. Georgiana felt a sense of solitude come over her like a cloak. One didn’t need to be the only one in a room, she knew, to know solitude. It was possible to sit among many people and be entirely alone.

  As if from a distance, she heard her mother’s hiss. “Really, Georgiana. First names with that woman? The title at least gives her the facade of respectability. One must keep climbers like that firmly in their place. And Mallet! Did you have to mention that jumped-up schoolmaster’s son?” Outrage shook her jowls and pinched her mouth.

  Georgiana watched Catherine smile up at Chadbourn as they floated to another table. The love she saw there pulled at her heart. “She whom Aphrodite loved.” Georgiana could see with absolute clarity that Catherine knew “what sort of roses the flowers are.”

  She felt a firm pinch and turned back to the outraged face of her mother. “You’re becoming common, Georgiana. It will not do. You’ve been left on your own too long. You shall come back with us to Mountview for a good long while, long enough to pound some sense of your family’s consequence back into you. I shall insist on it.” With a flounce, she turned one sturdy shoulder to Georgiana and her face to her other daughters.

  “A good long while.” Georgiana groaned helplessly. She thought she should warn Andrew. Will he care?

  Chapter 20

  “If you ain’t going to eat, give a man warning so he don’t waste time in the kitchen.” Harley yanked a plate away.

  I should hire a real cook, Andrew thought. Work absorbed Andrew for the first six weeks since Georgiana had dumped work in his lap and left. He forgot about cooks until now.

  “Take it back, Harley. Bread and cheese will do.”

  “Fine then. Them I can buy. No need to muss the pots.”

  Or burn t
he pots. Andrew would fetch lunch at one of the little coffee shops tomorrow, if he felt like eating.

  Harley dropped plates in a dry sink. Andrew ignored lunch; he ignored Harley, and he ignored muffled banging in front of his house.

  Georgiana’s last letter lay spread out on the worn table. She sent two short cryptic notes during her journey to Mountview after Chadbourn’s wedding, each scribbled out in haste in a moving carriage. They looked it.

  Muffled voices floated into the kitchen with the scent of rain. Andrew cursed the date on the last letter, three weeks past. Damned woman gets to Mountview, and she forgets the work. She forgets me. He tipped the paper toward the window light.

  Harley’s voice sounded more irritable than usual. Andrew reread the letter, looking for something personal. There was none.

  Chadbourn and his countess (Will’s beloved!) are four days gone on their wedding journey, and the Hayden caravan makes its way to Mountview in slow stages.

  Georgiana consistently referred to the young woman as “Will’s beloved.” The Earl must be besotted. He had hoped Georgiana was as envious as she sounded. Three weeks without word made him less confident. He should have gone to the wedding. Will would have welcomed him.

  “Sorry to barge in. Not the way for a proper call.” Geoff Dunning stood in the doorway. Rain dripped down his neck and onto the shoulders of his professorial gown.

  “Not at all. Delighted to see you!” The delight was genuine. Dunning promised to hint to Wallace Selby that Andrew waited for more work, something to keep his mind off Georgiana. “You have work for me?”

  Dunning took the seat Harley offered. “Hot tea wouldn’t go awry,” he said with a twisted smile to Harley. “Beastly out.”