Dangerous 01 - Dangerous Works

by Caroline Warfield

  “How many did you see?”

  “Too many. One of them demanded to know the lady’s name. He said ‘scandal sells.’ That about did it for me.”

  “Pity. Lady Georgie worked hard on this for a long time.”

  “You don’t know the half.”

  “Still, it’s not like you to give up.”

  “I’m not giving up. I found one more printer this morning that may do. I’ve an appointment tomorrow.”

  He wanted to be done with the whole ordeal and go home, but anger drove him to continue. He wouldn’t let fear that the Haydens might block the printing force him to give up. He knew that the work deserved to be printed. He owed Georgiana that much. He owed himself that much. Tomorrow he would see Mr. Bailey, without question Andrew’s best hope.

  “If you don’t want that fine sweet cake, I do.” Jamie grinned at him slyly and snatched the cake. “Told you, Andrew, months ago, what you needed was a woman.”

  You have no idea how right you were. That thought made Andrew too morose to answer. He would see Bailey tomorrow, and his obligations as a partner would be done. His craving for her might never be done.

  Jamie’s face took on a momentary look of sheer bliss when he devoured the cake, but something about Andrew must have caught his eye. His face tensed into touching anxiety. No matter how difficult his life, Jamie did care about his friends.

  Andrew spoke before Jamie embarrassed them both with it.

  “Dinner again would be good, but somewhere other than this place. In fact, I have been given access to a box at the theater. Let’s make use of it.” It was a lie but an easily maintained one. Jamie couldn’t even afford a floor seat; a night at the theater would do them both good.

  Georgiana bent again to start the fire, her hands hampered by gloves. When it sparked to life, she felt her mouth spread in a wide smile. Small victories filled her with pride. This particular skill had taken Mrs. Potter an hour to teach her. She returned to her chair and poured a cup of steaming tea for the old woman and another for herself.

  “Are you quite certain, my dear?” Edwina Potter’s eyes darted with uncertainty. They were sitting in one of the upper rooms of Helsington, the only heated one.

  “Quite. Even if I changed my mind, I don’t believe there is any going back. Quarterly allowances were due a week ago. His Grace withheld funds. He knew I couldn’t pay the staff. He sent them all their notices instead. He assumed I would return to Mountview with Chambers and the upper servants. They’ll be absorbed into the Hayden estates.”

  “Eunice?”

  “Is gone, praise God.” The memory of poor Eunice torn between relief to be gone from her household and fear for the future brought a smile to her lips. Ridding herself of her forced companion was her first order of business when she returned to Cambridge, the first act of her newly emancipated life.

  “I found her a place with my great-aunt’s cousin in Wales. They will be good for each other, but I can’t imagine just how the world will absorb the mountain of needlework they will leave behind.” She sighed. “The rest progresses more slowly than I like. I’m just grateful that tradesmen here are willing to extend credit for fuel and food.”

  “Well, of course, they are! The Duke of Sudbury’s daughter is a good credit risk if anyone is.”

  “More fools, they.” A momentary anxiety so strong she feared her companion could see it wracked her body. “I’ll manage. I’m sure of it. In any case, it is too late to go back. The estate agent already has prospects for Helsington. He found a small house in town—a kitchen below and two rooms above. It is at the end of Sheep Street and has a tiny garden, room enough for a rose bush or two. If I get a good price for this property, I think it’ll do nicely. The estate agent will have the keys to show the house on Monday.”

  Mrs. Potter made an unladylike sound. “Really, Georgiana. You have no idea.”

  Georgiana forced a smile. “I’m beginning to. If the rest of the world manages, so will I, and I have you to turn to when my ignorance confounds me.” It wouldn’t do to show her fear. She needed Mrs. Potter’s encouragement to continue.

  “I can’t say as I’m sorry you stood up to that family of yours. You’re intelligent and strong but alone, dear! I don’t wish to discourage you, but you must remember that I have a grandson to look in on me.”

  “I have friends,” she said firmly.

  “I won’t live forever.”

  Georgiana patted her hand. “I’ll have you for a good long time. I have other friends.” The old woman looked at her skeptically. “There is Peabody. And Molly.” Mrs. Potter’s lips twitched. “I will make more friends. I can do it. I know I can, now that I’m out of my gilded cage.”

  “Of course you can, dear. If any woman could do it, you can.”

  “Will you come with me to see the house?”

  Mrs. Potter nodded and took another sip of hot tea against the chill. A moment of silence passed companionably before she said, “Have you heard from that scoundrel, Andrew Mallet?”

  “My messages to his house came back undelivered. I have no idea where he is.” She fumed inwardly. She returned to find her notes in good order but incomplete. He had taken more in her absence and returned nothing. No notes. No translations. No Andrew. With luck, she would move in a few weeks. Without the work, she had no idea how she would fill her days once she did.

  Georgiana jumped when a wrinkled hand reached over to pat hers. The naked sympathy in Mrs. Potter’s knowing eyes shattered her. Her voice, thick with tears, protested. “Don’t weave fairy stories, Edwina. I am angry about my work, only the work.”

  “A woman you say?”

  “Yes,” Andrew replied. “It’s important for you to understand that the primary author of the work is a woman. She did the preliminary research and the final translations.”

  Bailey’s print shop, Andrew’s last chance, lay tucked in a small alley, the public mews really, just off Fleet Street. The place proved to be a happy surprise. Windows displayed a number of lovingly printed works. Most of them were poetry and history; there were no gossip rags or caricatures. It gave Andrew hope.

  “Y’don’t say! Poems by women. Greek. Translated by a woman?”

  John Bailey, a small, balding man with perpetually rolled sleeves and an ink-stained nose, looked amused. He grinned infectiously. “Always did believe their minds work as well as ours. Better in some ways. Might make it a novelty to some folks, generate some interest that way.”

  The little man rubbed his chin doubtfully. Finding him had been a stroke of luck. He asked to see the work and left Andrew to cool his heels while he read it through. He handled the manuscript with care—and the respect it deserved—as he spoke.

  “Marvelous work. What’s the lady’s name?”

  “The lady prefers to remain anonymous.”

  “Pity that. Most of them do. Not that I’ve seen this work from a woman before. More than a pastime, this.”

  “The lady is a scholar.”

  “I can see that. Can’t go to those fancy university presses, though, can she?”

  “No. She can’t.”

  “Still, if we’re to do business, Mr. Mallet, perhaps you best tell me what you’re struggling so hard to hide.”

  Bailey’s was a small establishment with two to three books in wide distribution. He relied on small print runs from the aristocracy to stay in business. He might not want to risk the wrath of the Haydens. Andrew owed him honesty.

  “The lady is the Duke of Sudbury’s daughter.”

  Bailey’s whistle was low and slow. “That bunch won’t like the uproar, if there is one, now would they? Might add interest.”

  “No. The lady will remain anonymous.”

  “Pity that. And you act as her agent?”

  “Yes.” Andrew didn’t hesitate. They had shaken hands. He was her partner.

  “Fair enough. Too fine a work to go by the wayside, Mr. Mallet. Shall we talk business?”

  “Do you plan to marry, Lady Ge
orgiana?” Peabody beamed at her. Georgiana regretted the impulse that led her to ask him if he had changed his opinion about her ability to bear children. He had been so sure in her first visits, but that was months ago. She felt much better now. Strength and energy filled her. Her monthly problems had disappeared. It seemed pointless now, however. She felt like a fool for asking.

  “No, Mr. Peabody, of course not. It is just that my courses have become normal.” If anything, they had slowed and were late this month for the first time. “I feel infinitely healthier due to your regime. I wondered, that is all.”

  The little man’s brown eyes warmed with sympathy. “I am delighted to hear that you feel so much better. You are remembering the dark green vegetables, I hope?”

  “I had difficulty with some details of your regime while at Mountview, but now that I am home, I am following them to the letter.” She wondered briefly how she would manage the Yorkshire spring with few funds, but she put the thought away. The other parts of her instructions would be easier without a high-strung chef to contend with. Henri paled at the thought of brewing tea from nettles, alfalfa, and seaweed. She had learned to do it herself very quickly. It had been easier to brew the tea than to gain access to Henri’s kitchen, but she had managed. Beef tea, herbal tea, bushels of dark green vegetables, and iron-rich water—taken together they worked magic.

  “Splendid! As to fertility, I can’t say for certain. I wouldn’t be unhappy to be wrong, but unless you put it to the test, we won’t know, will we? Still, I see no barrier to you taking a husband if you wish.”

  His sympathetic face made Georgiana uncomfortable. She brought their consultation quickly to an end. She found no reason to linger. She wondered briefly if she could ask him to tea but quickly realized that that wouldn’t do. She did not know how to go about making friends. She thought that perhaps Mrs. Potter might invite him.

  He walked her to the door, chatting about town matters and mutual acquaintances. “Did I hear that Andrew Mallet has traveled from Cambridge?”

  “That is correct Mr. Peabody. He is gone. I don’t know where he went. Do you?”

  “Goodness me, no. I am simply delighted that he is well enough to travel. We seem to have finally corrected his problems also.” The little surgeon beamed with pride.

  Ten minutes of vigorous walking brought Georgiana to Sheep Street and what was likely to be her new home. The estate agent, a rotund gentleman with jovial manner, sharp wits, and thinning hair, chatted with Geoffrey Dunning.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Dunning. Has your grandmother dragooned you on my behalf?”

  “She told me about your dilemma, and I am only too happy to be of assistance.” He smiled fondly at his grandmother. If Mrs. Potter needed a man’s assurances, Georgiana would let her have it and try not to resent it.

  “Shall we be about our business then? Mr. Wilson, what do you have to show me?”

  “A trim little house, my lady. You will find no dry rot, no vermin, and no damp.” He rocked on his toes briefly. “It is my obligation to warn you, however, that it isn’t at all what you are used to.”

  “I understand, sir. That is as I expect.”

  “To give much better news, the sale of Helsington may bring even more then we discussed. Colonel Warrington is quite, quite anxious to purchase a comfortable home such as you offer, and you could–”

  “Excellent, Mr. Wilson. I will be happy to get more money from the sale, but I am determined to conserve those funds by spending as little as possible on a new residence. Shall we take a look?”

  Mrs. Potter, concern in every line of her face, took her arm and entered the narrow blue door behind her. Georgiana was grateful the woman made no attempt to dissuade her from her decision.

  The little house didn’t disappoint. The lower floor kitchen had stone walls and a stone floor. A large fireplace dominated one wall and a stairway ran along the other, the one shared with the neighbor. She would learn to cook for herself in this place. The upper story had two rooms: a small sitting room and a tinier sleeping chamber. She would bring her work here. She would write and be productive, if not fruitful.

  The house, white with blue shutters, was situated farther back than its neighbors, leaving space for a tiny garden in front, one surrounded by a stone wall. It would have fit inside Helsington’s stables with room to spare, but it would be enough for her.

  Her head almost reached the top of the front door. She watched Geoff Dunning duck his head to go out, and it struck her that this house was even smaller than Andrew’s house. It lacked his magnificent study. She suppressed all memory of the man. This house was enough.

  “It is exactly as you described it, Mr. Wilson. Thank you.” She turned to Geoffrey Dunning who inspected the foundation with earnest attention. She wondered if the amiable University Fellow even knew what to look for, but she humored him. “Mr. Dunning? Do you see any problem.”

  “No, my lady. If you are determined to take this step, this house is sound enough. The roof, I think, ought to be looked at, but the rest will give you no problems.”

  “Very well then, Mr. Wilson, I believe we have a contract. You may tell your buyer that Helsington is his as soon as I can arrange to move. Shall we say one week?” The little gentleman beamed at her and produced the documents for signature. He left her in the care of her friends with a key in her hand and a knot in her stomach.

  She forced a smile. “Well then, Mrs. Potter. It is done. I need only lay in firewood, sweep the hearth, scrub the kitchen, sort through my belongings, and arrange an estate sale. It is good that I kept the services of at least one footman for the end!”

  She looked around her tiny sitting room and fought panic. “Do you think the Colonel might want my furnishings?”

  Edwina Potter said nothing. She leaned over and gave Georgiana a hug. Over her shoulder, Georgiana saw Dunning’s look of disapproval. He would have to get over it.

  Dunning looked at her intently and colored slightly. “Tell me, my lady, have you heard from Andrew Mallet. He is gone a full month now.”

  “No, I haven’t. The knocker is still gone from his house.”

  “You went by Andrew’s house, Georgiana?” Mrs. Potter looked bemused.

  “It was on my way to Mr. Peabody’s premises, Mrs. Potter,” Georgiana’s voice sounded tight. “I merely passed through Little Saint Mary’s Lane.” And lingered a moment. “Have you had word from him, Mr. Dunning?”

  “Mercy no! Mallet left without warning. His departure was quite sudden. We had spent an entertaining afternoon not long before researching Praxilla’s cucumbers and the habits of the Greeks in the library at Trinity.”

  The image of the two of them pouring over Praxilla in the hallowed halls of the Wren library amused her.

  “He quite turned my thinking on that subject. Turned it around completely. Pity others can’t see it. Who is to say what subject is fit for a poet? Not I. There was another, too, something about cockleshells and newly hatched chickens.”

  “Hedyle. We don’t have much of hers. She didn’t leave enough for us to know her meaning.”

  “Shame about Selby,” Dunning said.

  “Selby?” Georgiana’s mind raced. “Andrew took the poems to Selby?”

  “Gracious no. Old boy found out on his own. Must have been old Featheringham the librarian. Got wind Andrew was—” He colored abruptly.

  “Helping me?”

  “Translating rubbish.” His red face darkened. “His words, not mine. He said he didn’t have time for Mallet after that.” Dunning’s words came in a nervous rush. “Mallet showed me some other epigrams over dinner.” He rushed on, “Anyte, was it? Quite well done, quite, I thought. Well worth scholarship. I wasn’t aware of them before.”

  “Enough! I am too old a lady to listen to you talk about literature in a cold house,” Mrs. Potter broke in. “It is getting dark, and there are no candles. See me to my house, and I’ll feed us all a light supper.” The old woman took Dunning’s arm and led him to the
door. Georgiana lingered. “Are you coming, my dear?”

  The house was dark and cold, but it belonged to her. It would be enough. It had to be. She couldn’t go back. “I’m coming, Edwina. Supper would be lovely.”

  She locked the door behind her.

  For a man who made his living on the printed word, Bailey was remarkably careless about lighting—or cleanliness come to that. The smell of ink and clouds of paper dust permeated his office. Andrew brushed the latter from his sleeves. Three hours of squinting over newly printed pages in the dim light of Bailey’s office left him with a headache. Harley would lecture him again when he went back to his rooms with a sore back.

  “Sooner looked at, sooner finished,” Bailey said. For his part, Andrew was grateful for any excuse to delay his return to Cambridge and the cold, empty house in Little Saint Mary’s Lane. He chose to stay in London to review the first run page by page and correct it as it was set up. He found Bailey’s company congenial and Jamie’s a distraction. The work consumed him. He wanted to finish it, give it to her, and move on with his life. If he stayed and made corrections, he and Bailey would save weeks of shipping pages back and forth.

  He told himself that printing it was the right thing, the only thing he could do. He tossed the pages down in disgust. He hated going through it without her. A book wouldn’t bring her back, but he could think of nothing else to do.

  Georgiana wouldn’t marry him. She made it plain she didn’t want him as a writing partner either. He refused to think of establishing her as his mistress. The thought was insupportable. They had been lovers, but she was never his mistress.

  She called their lovemaking “this beautiful thing between us, this fragile, private thing.” Andrew knew such a relationship wouldn’t stand up to the realities of daily life as long as she lived at Helsington and he lived on the edges. Eros, he thought–that yearning of one soul for another–wouldn’t survive if they weren’t together. If she wouldn’t marry him, he could see nothing left between them except the book. Georgie might not want me, but she cares about the work.