by Jane Ashford
“Kissing in the shrubbery,” said Hilda.
Sebastian’s attention snapped back to the table. He’d obviously missed a critical turn in the conversation.
“Do be quiet, Hilda,” said Georgina.
The marquess was too engrossed to have heard, but Georgina’s mother was gazing at Sebastian with an enigmatic smile. “Er,” he said.
“A shrubbery is such a pleasant thing, is it not?” the older woman remarked.
She didn’t seem to be angry. Sebastian couldn’t tell what she was, only that with her head cocked to the side, eyes bright and alert, she again reminded him of her pets. What were they doing? He checked on the dogs; they sat at their mistress’s feet, the picture of obedience.
“Are you finished eating, Mama?” asked Georgina.
The marchioness shifted her gaze to her daughter. After a moment she smiled and nodded.
Georgina rose, gathering the female portion of the group with a commanding glance. “Shall we leave the gentlemen to their wine?”
She’d gotten that tone from her grandmother in London, Sebastian thought admiringly. There was no arguing with it.
Miss Byngham looked as if she wanted to. Clearly she would much rather have continued her conversation with Mitra. Emma and Hilda sighed audibly. No one objected, however. As the ladies left the dining room, Georgina glanced back over her shoulder, but if this was a signal, Sebastian didn’t understand what it meant.
He moved down the table to sit nearer the gentlemen and accepted a glass of port. The contrast between his remaining companions struck him as he tried a sip. The Indian visitor was narrow and elegant as a blade, while Georgina’s father was bluff and broad and blond, as English as a fellow could be. He wondered what they could have in common that would justify a lengthy visit.
His host leaned back in his chair, expansive. “So, Gresham, what do you think about reincarnation?” he asked.
Sebastian took another sip of the port, silently repeating the unfamiliar word. He was pretty sure he’d never heard it before. He tried to work the meaning out in his head. Re- was something happening again; that was clear enough. But the rest remained mysterious. There was a flower called a carnation, wasn’t there? Could it signify putting something back into a flower? That couldn’t be right. He’d just have to admit it. “Afraid I don’t know the word, sir.”
The marquess didn’t seem surprised or disappointed. “I’ll let Mitra explain it to you,” he said. “He’s the expert.” With a nod and a gesture, he urged the other man to speak.
Mitra put the tips of his fingers together and looked resigned, then contemplative. “Reincarnation—which my people call punarjanma—is the process of birth, death, and rebirth.”
Sebastian nodded as if this made sense to him, even though it didn’t. He’d found, over the years, that people appreciated signs he was paying attention. It encouraged them to go on. And he often came to understand them eventually, if they kept talking. Of course, some took every nod as agreement or permission. That could be sticky.
Mr. Mitra’s slight smile suggested that he understood Sebastian’s confusion. “We believe that a person’s…soul, the jiva or atman, goes through a cycle of births and deaths. The physical body dies, yes, in the common way, and then the jiva takes on another body, the form depending on the quality of its actions in life. There is no permanent heaven or hell for a Hindu. After services in the afterlife, the jiva returns as an animal, a human, or a divinity. This reincarnation, or re-bodying, you see, continues until moksha, the final release, is gained.”
“Fascinating, eh?” said the marquess.
Sebastian sorted through the spate of words as quickly as he could. It felt as if it took too long. His mind lit on one point. “An animal?” he said.
Mitra nodded. “Those who remain mired in ignorance or overly attached to material desires may experience lives as nonhuman creatures, even a lowly worm.” He smiled at Sebastian with what looked like gentle sympathy.
The thought of the dead returning as all sorts of different creatures expanded in Sebastian’s brain until it felt too large for his skull. Sheep? Mosquitoes? He discovered he could almost accept the idea in the case of Mama’s eccentric cat. There had been moments when Ruff looked uncannily calculating, like an irascible old man plotting revenge. But no. “This is in India,” he said.
“Well, we believe it is the way of the world,” replied Mitra. “But we do not insist that you agree.”
“The thing is, Mitra has developed a process for revisiting your former lives,” put in the marquess.
“A possible method,” murmured the Indian. “An idea, a theory.”
Georgina’s father ignored his caveats. “I have no doubt that I was King Offa of Mercia,” he continued. “Every inner impulse tells me so.” He gazed brightly at Sebastian, awaiting a reply.
“From history,” Sebastian said. He was pretty sure this was a safe bet. The marquess’s nod confirmed it.
“Eighth century,” the older man said. “Offa fought the Welsh all his life. He built Offa’s Dyke to keep them out of this area. Ancient Mercia, you know.”
The word sounded like mercy, but wasn’t. Unfortunately.
“And now I can establish the relationship for certain,” said Georgina’s father.
“I have told you again and again that I cannot guarantee any particular—” Mitra began.
“I can almost feel the building of it,” the other interrupted. He looked down at his large, square hands and flexed them. “As if it was in my bones.”
“Offa’s Dyke,” echoed Sebastian, catching up. Dykes had been mentioned earlier. Not Holland, then, but this Offa fellow.
“We’ll ride out tomorrow, and I’ll show it to you,” said the marquess. “Parts of it are still there after a thousand years. Can you imagine such an achievement?” Finally seeming to recognize confusion on Sebastian’s face, he added, “It’s a great earthen barrier that runs along the border between England and Wales. I’ve set Joanna Byngham delving through old records about it. Ha, delving, earthworks.” He gave a bark of laughter. “Good, eh? Accident, I assure you.”
Sebastian smiled and nodded.
“Too bad she’s not here to tell you all about it.”
Sebastian sent up a prayer of silent gratitude for her absence.
“The dyke’s mentioned by some old monk in his biography of Alfred the Great.” Georgina’s father gave Sebastian a piercing look. “Another past life of mine, I believe. Same name, you see.” He waited for Sebastian’s nod before going on. “The fellow wrote something along the lines of: ‘a great king called Offa had a dyke built between Wales and Mercia from sea to sea.’ Not all of it’s left, of course.” He shook his head. “But that any should be, after a thousand years…” He gave a great happy sigh and spread his arms as if to embrace something. “Mitra’s going to show me how to revisit Offa’s court.”
His Indian visitor’s expression was wry, but he didn’t speak.
Sebastian felt as if he’d wandered into some fantastic tale. He couldn’t be drunk; he hadn’t even finished his first glass of port, and he knew his capacity was well beyond that. Perhaps he’d wake up in a few minutes and find it had all been a dream.
“You’re welcome to join in,” said the marquess. “You should! Damned exciting, ain’t it? To think you might have lived anywhere along the way. Rome, Egypt. Maybe he was one of those pharaohs, eh, Mitra? Crocodiles and pyramids and palm fronds?”
“Everyone thinks to be a king,” the man murmured.
Sebastian heard it, though he didn’t think Georgina’s father did. It occurred to him that rulers were very few compared to the mass of common people. What if your past life turned out to be the endless toil of a downtrodden peasant? Or the presumably dead bore of existence as a sheep? A worm crawling through the dirt? And…what was he thinking? He didn’t actually believe in
this idea of reincarnation. He shook his head.
“Why not?” asked the marquess, taking the gesture for a response to his suggestion. “Ah, but you’ve Norman blood, haven’t you? One of the damned invaders.” He glowered. “It was a dire day when we lost Harold at Hastings.”
He spoke as if referring to someone they both knew, but as far as Sebastian could recall, he had never met anyone named Harold. “Ah, just so,” he ventured.
“Well, it can’t be helped,” Georgina’s father replied. “Difficult to find an English nobleman who doesn’t, eh?”
Doesn’t what? Sebastian gathered he was supposed to know. So he didn’t ask. He smiled to conceal a growing sinking feeling. The challenges of this visit were racing so far ahead of anything he’d expected. He was becoming convinced that he should have waited until much nearer the wedding date to visit. Hindsight was always so acute, he thought. And foresight so dashed elusive.
* * *
In the drawing room, Georgina fidgeted as she waited for the gentlemen to join them. It was taking much longer than she’d hoped, and she was very conscious of having thrown Sebastian to the metaphorical lions when she left the dining room. He was bound to learn about her father’s current enthusiasm at some point, however. There was no way around it. No doubt he would find it as surprising as she had when she’d returned home from London. Or was disturbing a better word? Georgina hadn’t decided exactly how she felt about the idea that people lived a long succession of different lives.
Joanna took Georgina’s sisters off to bed, and still there was no sign of the gentlemen. Georgina set aside the book she had been failing to read.
Her mother looked up from a letter. “I don’t think you have cause for worry,” she said.
Georgina turned to stare at her.
“Your young man is clearly enamored. I don’t believe he’ll be put off by your father’s…foibles. Alfred always means well, after all.”
Georgina was astonished that Mama had noticed her agitation. She seldom showed any awareness of emotional undercurrents. She was also gratified by her parent’s opinion of Sebastian’s feelings. Indeed, she would have liked to hear a good deal more on that subject. But she was hampered by a touch of shame over her wish that her father might be just a bit more conventional. Or at least rein in his…venturesome…spirit until after her wedding. It all added up to a complete inner muddle.
Her mother put down her pen and gazed at her. “Why did you choose Lord Sebastian? I understand you had a horde of suitors. As you were bound to, with the fortune Great-Uncle George left you.” She sat back and folded her hands, her expression as complacent as Drustan’s when he sat on the hem of one’s gown. “It was my notion to name you after him, you know.”
Georgina was too used to her mother’s plain speaking to be surprised by any of this. And the answer was easy. “He listens to me,” she replied. It suddenly occurred to her that he was one of the few people in the world who did.
Mama raised her eyebrows. “Does he indeed? That’s a very good reason.” She cocked her head, as if unexpectedly impressed. Drustan, sitting at her feet with his paws neatly crossed, mimicked the gesture perfectly. “You know, I didn’t accompany you to London last season because I knew your grandmamma would do a much better job of bringing you out.”
Georgina nodded. She’d heard this before.
“I also trusted your good sense.”
“Thank you, Mama.” That was gratifying.
“Which seems fully justified by young Sebastian.” Before Georgina could pursue this interesting topic, her mother nodded as if concluding. “I just wanted you to understand that my absence was a decision, not neglect of my responsibilities.”
She seemed about to return to her letter. But Georgina was eager to prolong this unusually open conversation. “You weren’t sorry to miss a taste of society?” she asked. “You haven’t been up to London for years.”
“I never cared much for parties and balls,” her mother replied. She laughed. “Emma and Hilda would make dreadful faces at such heresy, wouldn’t they? I can’t think where they get their longing for great crowds of people. Your father is just like me. Perhaps when they actually try to push their way through a stifling crush of chattering, staring strangers, they’ll see their mistake. Do you think so?” She gazed at Georgina, seeming genuinely curious.
The vivid description gave Georgina a new and rather touching insight into her mother’s character. “I don’t know. I can imagine Hilda gathering a circle around her and chattering right back.”
The marchioness’s laugh altered the downward cast of her features. She looked much less like her pets and a good deal more like Edgar, Georgina realized. She hadn’t seen her brother’s resemblance to their mother before, because he was so different in other ways.
“Truly, you didn’t find those great masses of people horrid?”
Georgina considered the matter. “No. A little oppressive sometimes, at the largest parties.” She’d learned to carve out her own space, with friends, in such cases.
Her mother gave a decisive nod. “There, you see. It’s in your blood. Your papa and I first formed a bond over our mutual dislike of society.”
“But you…” Georgina felt daring and trepidation in equal measure. She’d wondered so often about her parents’ marriage. She couldn’t let this unprecedented opportunity pass. “You don’t seem to have many interests in common.”
Her mother’s limpid blue eyes met hers. “We are both extremely interested in the freedom to pursue our own interests,” she replied. “And if that sounds like a small thing, let me assure you it is not. What would I do with a husband who expected me to organize hunt balls and embroider slippers and pour tea for a pack of brainless gossips?”
Georgina couldn’t imagine. And then she could. It wasn’t a pretty picture.
“We share mutual respect,” her mother continued. “Which is critical, my dear. Believe me. We also have you children. There’s no connection stronger than that.”
This didn’t seem quite enough, though Georgina didn’t say so.
“And of course there’s physical attraction. That side of things is quite important, though it’s never talked about. Which is silly, is it not? Such a very pleasant activity, too.”
Georgina blinked. She felt a blush spread over her cheeks. She was getting more than she’d bargained for. She wasn’t sorry, but the conversation was moving into…uncharted territory.
“I take it you enjoyed kissing in the shrubbery?” continued her mother. At Georgina’s wince, she nodded. “Yes, Hilda needs to be kept busier. I shall mention it to Joanna.” With a steady gaze, she waited for an answer.
Georgina swallowed. “Yes, Mama,” she murmured.
“Good,” was the robust reply. “He’s quite a handsome fellow, but pretty men can be as clumsy as ugly ones. More, I believe, as they don’t have to try so hard to attract.” She fixed Georgina with a steady gaze. “Make certain you keep on enjoying it, my dear. All of it. And if you aren’t, say so, and urge him to correct the situation. Then you’ll be fine.” With a brisk nod to cap these startling pronouncements, she returned to her letter.
Georgina appreciated the respite, because she didn’t know how to reply. She was glad her mother approved of Sebastian. Indeed, she hadn’t known how important that blessing was until she had it. As for her advice, well, that was fascinating and astonishing and welcome and embarrassing all at once.
Her thoughts shifted back to the dining room. What was Sebastian thinking now that he had, no doubt, heard all about her father’s latest start? She was used to Papa and loved him, and she’d found it exceedingly strange.
“He should enjoy it, too,” her mother said. “But men generally do. So people say, anyway.”
“I beg your pardon, Mama?” For a confused moment, Georgina imagined she was speaking of Papa.
“Your S
ebastian. Ask him what he likes. It adds quite a delicious dimension.”
Beyond the amazement at this new side of her mother, Georgina found her suggestion both daunting and enticing. It opened up a thrilling vista of pleasures beyond kisses. But would she dare ask?
“You should go and extricate him from Alfred’s clutches,” her mother added absently. “Ah.” Apparently struck by a thought, she bent to scribble a sentence on her page.
Georgina realized that she’d been governed by the social strictures laid down by her grandmother in London. They were practically the only set of rules she possessed. But as her mother had made clear, such scruples hardly applied here. Neither of her parents were much constrained by convention. She rose. “I think I will.”
“Yes, dear” was the vague reply.
With a mixture of regret and relief, Georgina saw that Mama had reverted to her customary manner. The sense of distance—of being only half heard—was more familiar, and thus more comfortable. But it was melancholy, too. Still, Georgina left her mother with a sense that she had a new resource at hand. Who knew what other unexpected gifts might emerge?
Three
In the dining room, Sebastian had lost the thread of the conversation some sentences back and was unlikely to ever pick it up again. Georgina’s father and his Indian guest had dropped into a discussion peppered with foreign words and unfamiliar ideas. Sebastian longed to escape, but he didn’t want to offend his newly met future father-in-law. So when the door opened to reveal Georgina, he’d never been gladder to see anyone.
“I haven’t managed the full envisioning as yet,” the marquess was saying as she approached the table. “Not as such.”