Miss in a Man's World

by Anne Ashley

  He smiled at this very satisfying thought as he beckoned her over to the desk. ‘Now, Georgie, I have instructed Brindle to make ready for our removal to Fincham Park early on Friday morning, so I expect you to make ready also.’

  The initial response was not what he might have expected, or hoped. That wonderful smile disappeared in an instant, and there was a definite troubled look dulling the normal healthy sparkle in her eyes.

  ‘What’s amiss, child? Do you not wish to accompany me into the country?’

  ‘I-I hadn’t considered it, sir,’ she responded, staring meditatively down at the desk. ‘I suppose I thought you’d be staying in town until the Season had drawn to a close.’

  ‘I have been known to do so,’ he admitted. ‘But this year I wish to leave early. I believe the country air will do us both good, enable us to relax a little more together.’ No response was forthcoming. ‘Is there a particular reason why you wish to remain in town?’

  She appeared to consider for a moment or two, then, ‘No, now you come to mention it, I don’t suppose there is, really. But—but, might I borrow pen and paper to make a list of some—er—necessities I must purchase and take with me, my lord?’

  ‘Be my guest,’ he invited, obligingly rising to his feet so that she might make use of his chair. ‘It just so happens I must needs consult one of my ledgers.’

  He left her to seat herself while he wandered across the room to extract the leather-bound tome he required from one of the shelves. He then made himself comfortable in a chair by the hearth so that she might enjoy privacy. He was fairly certain, as he surreptitiously studied that slender white hand moving back and forth across the page, that it was not a list she was composing, but a letter. Naturally he was curious to discover to whom she was writing, but resisted the temptation to pry, and merely said, ‘Was it the good vicar who taught you to write?’

  There was a suspicion of a twitch at the corner of her mouth. ‘And my mother. She was not an illiterate, my lord.’

  ‘I never for a moment supposed she was,’ he assured her, and then remained silent so that she might finish the missive in peace.

  The instant she had sanded down the letter, she left him alone, and he wandered across to the window. As expected, within minutes he saw her leave the house, Ronan, again, at her heels, their destination a complete mystery. Of one thing he was convinced—she was letting someone know where she was bound…

  Therefore she was not totally alone in the world. Someone, somewhere, was concerned about her.

  Although the journey was completed in a day, the afternoon was well advanced before the small cavalcade passed between the impressive wrought-iron gates of Fincham Park’s northern entrance.

  The Viscount had allowed Georgie to spend part of the journey perched up on the box with the head groom, but had insisted she sit inside the well-sprung travelling carriage with him for the last stage. He had wanted to see the expression on those lovely features when she caught her first glimpse of the ancestral home of which he was secretly so very proud, and she didn’t disappoint him. Perfectly shaped lips parted and eyes widened in wonder as the carriage journeyed along the sweep of the drive and the mansion at last came into view.

  The original part of the house had been con structed in the early sixteen hundreds. Although extensive alterations and additions made during the first half of the previous century by both his lordship’s grandfather and great-grandfather had resulted in the mansion more than doubling in size, the architectural splendour of the original building had been maintained.

  ‘You approve my ancestral home, child?’ he remarked, as the carriage drew to a halt before the impressive front entrance.

  ‘Oh, it is truly splendid, sir!’ she enthused, much to his satisfaction. ‘So fine and well proportioned,’ she added, alighting before him.

  ‘Ah! So you are something of an expert when it comes to the finer points of good architecture,’ he teased gently, but she didn’t appear offended.

  ‘Not at all, my lord,’ she returned. ‘I just know what I find aesthetically pleasing.’

  ‘Well said, child!’ he approved. ‘I sincerely trust you will find the interior equally to your taste,’ and so saying he led the way into the wood-panelled hall, where he discovered his trusty major-domo hovering in the shadows.

  As was the custom, the butler had left London three days before in order to ensure all was in readiness at the ancestral home of the Finchams for the arrival of its master. From what his lordship could see his diligent head servant had not failed in his duties yet again.

  ‘Our rooms are ready, I trust?’ he remarked, after handing the butler his outdoor garments and receiving a bow in confirmation. ‘Then be good enough to show Master Green his bedchamber. When you’re settled into your new quarters, Georgie, you may join me in the library. And if I am feeling particularly well disposed towards you, you might even persuade me to take you on a guided tour of my home. We shall see.’ With that he wandered across the hall to his sanctum, smiling to himself.

  He could not help wondering what Georgie herself thought of the preferential treatment she had received since entering his employ. She was far too astute not to have long since appreciated that she was not looked upon as a mere servant. Perhaps she believed she was just her eccentric master’s pampered pet, or maybe she supposed it was reward for her acts of courage on those two occasions when she had come to his aid. Who could say? What his servants thought of his behaviour towards Master Green was quite another matter, however.

  After closing his library door, the Viscount poured himself a glass of wine before settling himself in his favourite winged-chair by the hearth. He considered it safe to assume that Georgie was more conscious of the role she was assuming when in the company of the servants. Even so, there must have been a deal of speculation about his own treatment of his page. It was quite possible that several below stairs had suspected Georgie might be the fruit of their master’s own loins, or maybe even the illegitimate offspring of a close friend of his lordship. They could speculate all they wished, as far as he was concerned, so long as her true sex was not discovered.

  It was just as this very troubling possibility yet again crossed his mind that the object of his concerns sauntered brazenly into the room, after the lightest of taps on the door, and appearing as though she’d not a care in the world. Really, he ought to reprimand her for such forwardness! But how could he when he had actively encouraged her to take such liberties with him? Furthermore, her behaviour was so natural where he was concerned that it seemed almost safe to assume that, at some stage in her life, some person of high standing, somewhere, had allowed her equal freedoms, and to behave in a most casual way, because it was patently second nature for her to do so… It was all so damnably intriguing!

  A short time later his lordship was fulfilling his promise and showing Georgie round his country home. After exploring each and every ground-floor room, Lord Fincham led the way up the ornately carved Jacobean staircase to the upper floor, where a long and well-lit picture gallery granted access to both east and west wings. It was here that Georgie betrayed most interest, studying each portrait of his lordship’s ancestors in turn, before pausing before one of the present holder of the title, painted only a few months after he had attained the viscountcy.

  ‘You do not approve, child,’ he remarked, observing the slight frown. ‘It is considered a fine painting by most.’

  ‘I’m sure it is, sir. Just as I’m certain the artist is extremely skilful. It’s a pity, though, he captured you in such a bad humour.’ She turned her head on one side as she continued to study the likeness. ‘You do have a way of looking down your long nose that way, it’s true—most especially when in a haughty frame of mind. More often than not, though, there’s a glint in your eyes that proves you’re not really in a bad mood. I’ve witnessed it often when you’ve been speaking with me,’ she continued ingenuously. ‘But it’s lacking in this picture. Of course, you were still mourning
the loss of your brother. But it isn’t so much sadness I see in your eyes as anger…or bitterness, maybe. No, you were definitely not yourself.’

  Dear God, he reflected, how right she was! He’d never considered it before, but he was now seeing the painting through new eyes. In the months after his return from France he’d been both angry and resentful at the way Charlotte Vane had behaved towards him. He’d hardened his heart, and with very few exceptions had allowed no females to get close to him, most especially those with whom he had since enjoyed more intimate relations. Over the years he had thought less and less of the woman who had destroyed his youthful romantic notions in that single act of treachery. In recent weeks he’d recalled her to mind not at all. Was this simply because she had not put in an appearance in town throughout the entire Season…or for a different reason entirely?

  He raised his eyes from that imaginary spot on the wooden floor to discover a violet pair regarding him with keen interest and smiled. ‘You are right, child. This is not a particularly good likeness. It is high time I commissioned another—one that captures the true character of this handsome, debonair aristocrat. What say you?’

  There was no mistaking the glinting mischief now dancing in her eyes. ‘It all depends whether you want the artist to paint an honest representation, or merely pander to your ego.’

  He adopted the haughty pose of his likeness on the wall before them. ‘Do I infer correctly from that, that you do not consider me an Adonis, child?’

  ‘Since you ask…no, not particularly,’ she returned, at her most candid. ‘You have strong, regular features, a face of character not masculine beauty. That said, I do not consider you ill looking—far from it, in fact.’

  Ignoring his twitching smile, she considered him for a moment. ‘I think, though, if you are seriously considering sitting again for a new portrait, you should adopt the new mode of attire advocated by Brummell. I saw him first at the Duke and Duchess of Merton’s ball, remember? I didn’t know who he was then, of course. It was only later I discovered his identity, when we visited that gaming house, and he happened to put in an appearance shortly before we left. But I did think his attire most becoming. Like yourself, my lord, he’s a most striking gentleman. It’s just a pity that most of those who are now attempting to ape him fall far short of his high standards.’

  ‘And you would expect me to become one of their number?’ He paused to remove a speck of fluff from his heavily embroidered dark blue coat. ‘I think not.’

  ‘Ah, but you see, my lord, you would maintain your own distinctive style,’ she argued, clearly not ready to admit defeat quite yet, ‘even if you were ever to adhere to the Beau’s strict rules governing male attire.’

  ‘Now, there’s a thought!’ he remarked, no longer prepared to dismiss the suggestion out of hand. ‘It might be amusing, at that, to offer the young dandy some serious competition. I shall consider it. And now, if you’re ready, we shall repair to the west wing, where you may cast your eyes over my private apartments.’ He slanted a half-mocking glance down at her, which contained an element of a challenging gleam. ‘Unless, of course, you’d rather not?’

  ‘Why should I not wish to, sir?’ She appeared genuinely nonplussed. ‘You’ve never given me reason to mistrust you. In truth, I cannot think of anyone I trust more.’

  He was all at once serious. ‘In that case, I earnestly hope, my child, that I never give you any reason to alter your high opinion of me.’

  Chapter Five

  What his lordship had expected to happen sooner rather than later occurred the following day. Brindle informed him, shortly after breakfast, that Georgie had complained of feeling not quite the thing and had remained in bed, having succumbed to a suspected chill. His lordship didn’t hesitate to endorse this course of action, suggesting also that it would be best for all concerned if the child was allowed time to recover in the privacy of his own room. Furthermore, Georgie was not to be disturbed, except on those occasions when meals were taken up to him. After all, it wouldn’t do for the rest of the staff to contract the malady, he had added artfully.

  Feeling he had done all he could to ensure Georgie had as much privacy as possible, his lordship took himself off to the library in order to deal with urgent estate matters. Unfortunately it swiftly became clear that he just wasn’t in the mood to concentrate.

  Rising from his desk, he went to stand before the window and stared out across the acreage of majestic parkland that surrounded the house. Usually the sight never failed to stir him; today he was hardly conscious of its natural beauty. His mind was fixed on that being alone in one of the smaller and much less impressive bedchambers in the east wing.

  He supposed it ought to have offered him immense satisfaction to have had this further proof that his judgement was sound: Georgie had not run away from home because of a foolish indiscretion and was not carrying another man’s child; she was indeed the innocent he had always believed her to be. Strangely, though, it brought scant consolation. If anything her having to endure the monthly curse only went to substantiate his belief that their somewhat unorthodox situation couldn’t possibly continue for very much longer.

  With a feeling of deep regret, he returned to his desk and, before he could experience second thoughts, penned a missive to his sister-in-law, requesting she call upon him at her earliest convenience. The servant despatched to deliver the letter by hand duly returned with a reply. It was from Lady Eleanor Fincham’s housekeeper, who had written to inform his lordship that she expected her mistress to be away from home until the following week. The Viscount didn’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed. At least, though, he had been granted a little more time to enjoy the companionship of his unique page.

  Once Georgie had emerged from her bedchamber, after the customary number of days, he wasted not a precious moment of the limited time left to him to enjoy the singular and poignant relationship he had experienced with this very special young person. Had he considered her a typical member of her sex, it might have occurred to him to suggest a visit to the local town, where they might explore the more fashionable shops that had sprung up in recent years in the thriving community; since she was a most unconventional member of the weaker sex, he suggested, instead, a visit to the trout stream so that they might enjoy a morning’s pleasant relaxation, a suggestion she heartily embraced.

  It quickly became apparent that she was no novice with a rod. Half-a-dozen fine specimens were soon safely contained in the fishing basket and two more rapidly followed. Well satisfied with the bumper catch, his lordship set rod aside and lay down on the grass, happy to relax in the pleasant warmth of the early June sunshine.

  ‘It goes without saying, Georgie,’ he remarked, opening one eye to see her deposit yet another meaty specimen in the basket, ‘that you have enjoyed this pastime on many occasions before. I trust you were not indulging in any unlawful practices?’

  She chuckled at this. ‘Assuredly not! I had my godfather’s full permission. In fact, on numerous occasions he came with me.’

  Indeed, he mused. Then it was perhaps safe to assume this godfather of hers had been a man of property—interesting, but not wholly surprising.

  Before he could enquire further into the identity of this unknown worthy who had evidently been a real and, he very much suspected, beneficial influence in her life, she touched upon his own skills with a rod. ‘I expect you spent much time here in your youth with your elder brother.’

  ‘We did sometimes fish together,’ he acknowledged. ‘More often than not, though, I used to come down here with Charles Gingham. He was a frequent visitor to the house back then, in the heady days of our youth.’

  Evidently she had detected the hint of melancholy in his voice, for she regarded him keenly. ‘But he doesn’t visit so often now, and quite naturally you are sad about that. But then, he wouldn’t, of course. He’s married, and has other responsibilities.’ She continued to regard him in a thoughtful way. ‘I believe I’m correct in say
ing he married a Frenchwoman, a girl you saved on the occasion you both went over to France to rescue Mr Gingham’s cousin?’

  He slanted a look of reproach in her direction. ‘I very much fear, Georgie, my boy, that you are guilty of the sin of listening to servants’ gossip. You should be ashamed of yourself!’

  Clearly unrepentant, she gurgled with mirth, and then, abandoning further attempts to catch more fish, sat companionably beside him on the bank. ‘You forget, my lord, I am a servant. It’s only natural, therefore, that I should enjoy the society prevailing below stairs.’

  ‘You may well do so, child,’ he returned abruptly, ‘at least the novelty of it. But you’ll never be one of their number.’

  Again she glanced at him sharply, only this time there was an element of wariness in her regard, before she hurriedly returned to the subject of his jaunt across the Channel, requesting a more detailed account.

  As always with her he was of a mind to be indulgent, even though he did sigh. ‘There’s very little to tell, Georgie. Many years ago, long before you were born, one of Charles’s aunts married a Frenchman. After the Terror had begun, news reached Charles that the family was in trouble. By the time we arrived in France both his aunt and the Frenchman she had married had been executed. However, their only son, Henri Durand, was being held, awaiting trial—ha, if you can call it that!—in a town some thirty miles west of Paris. The prison there was little more than a moderately fortified house. Adopting various stratagems, and with the help of a few sympathetic local peasants, we managed to break in. There were only two prisoners being held at the time in the cellars: Henri and a young girl, Louise Charvet, who was little more than a child.