Georgina found herself in a quandary. The last thing she wanted was to give her uncle any undue hope about her mother’s future intentions, but whatever happened she was determined to petition him for some sort of help in the matter of Rupert’s school fees.
‘Mama does not know of my visit, Uncle,’ she informed him bravely. ‘It is entirely my own idea.’
His face fell and he loosed her hands from his grip. ‘Then you should not be here, my child,’ he said reproachfully and made to stand up.
Georgina grasped his hand with both of hers, forcing him to remain seated. ‘You must hear me out, please,’ she implored him. ‘Papa has left us in such dire straits—we cannot even pay Rupert’s school fees and you surely must see that he has to finish his education and Sophie—’ She found that she could not continue with her pleas; her voice choked on a sob and she had to withdraw her hands to struggle with the strings of her reticule only to search in vain for her handkerchief.
Sir Arthur gently lifted her chin with his forefinger and proceeded to mop her eyes with his own large linen kerchief. ‘It must have taken a good deal of courage for you to—how shall I say—beard the lion’s den,’ he said softly. ‘Such courage shall not go unrewarded.’
He waited until she had composed herself. ‘I had no idea that your father’s affairs were in such a tangle,’ he said slowly. ‘He inherited Westcotes after our father—your grandfather—died because, as you know, your parents agreed to live with him when they married. They cared for him for several years until his death and the house became theirs. I chose to make my living in the City and was already making a great success of my career, as well as having a wife and child of my own, by that time. Your father chose the Church and was, of course, successful in his own quiet and determined way.’
Georgina nodded. ‘His parishioners loved him,’ she said, with a break in her voice. ‘As did we all—but after Harry was killed—’
Sir Arthur patted her hand. ‘Yes, my dear, I do understand,’ he said heavily. ‘I think it broke his heart. I tried to see him, you know, but he was so full of grief and anger that he refused to speak to me. Then I heard that he had virtually given up the living and had become something of a hermit. I was very worried for all of you, but was at a loss to know how to approach him.’
‘For such a gentle person he could be very obdurate at times,’ Georgina sighed, remembering. ‘He either buried his head in his books or took himself off for long solitary walks in the woods—which was how he contracted the lung fever from which he never recovered.’
Her uncle was silent for a few moments and Georgina stared down at her hands, wondering how best to continue, but then suddenly Sir Arthur rose to his feet and pulled at the bell-cord next to the fireplace.
‘You must have some refreshments,’ he said, his voice now quite firm. ‘Fisher will bring you some tea and I shall go and speak to your aunt.’ Turning to leave the room, he added kindly, ‘You need worry no longer, my dear. I shall deal with it all. Everything will be taken care of, I promise.’
As he closed the door behind him he almost collided with the elderly butler, who, having received the sign from the kitchen, had shuffled silently across the hallway to take his master’s orders.
‘Tea for Miss Cunningham, Fisher, and quickly, if you please.’ Sir Arthur was making for the stairs.
‘Tea, sir?’ Fisher hesitated. ‘Mrs Stacpole has the key, sir. Her ladyship doesn’t—’
Sir Arthur stood grim-faced for a moment, then turned and walked back to his servant. ‘I know, Fisher,’ he said gently. ‘But those days are gone. Now be a good chap and tell Mrs Stacpole that the master has ordered tea to be served in the front salon immediately, do you understand?’
‘I believe I do, Sir Arthur,’ replied the butler, suddenly seeming to grow straighter and taller. ‘I shall attend to it with pleasure.’ And not before time, he thought, almost hugging himself with glee as he hurried to the housekeeper’s room to relieve her of her key to the tea-box.
Upstairs in the morning room Sir Arthur faced his wife with resolute determination, having informed her of the purpose of Georgina’s visit.
‘You mean to say that the girl has had the effrontery to come begging?’ she spluttered angrily, rising from her chaise longue and hurriedly twitching her expensive silk skirts into place. ‘Leave her to me, sirrah. I shall soon send her packing!’
He grasped her wrist and swung her towards him. ‘No, my dear, you will not,’ he said harshly. ‘You will sit down and hear me out.’
Her face contorted with fury, Lady Cunningham tried to push past him, but he thrust her back into her seat and stood glowering down at her.
‘Be warned, Edwina,’ he advised her flatly. ‘It is finished. You have had your way for far too long. Your rigid attitudes have deprived me of fifteen years of happiness—fifteen years of my family’s history, even. No more, Edwina, no more. Do I make myself clear?’
A narrow-chested and hard-faced woman, his wife was beside herself with passion. ‘Happiness, pah! How dare you speak to me like this!’ she ground out, squirming beneath his hands and again she attempted to rise from the chair. ‘After all their rebuttals and attempts to scorn us in public, it is now my turn to swear that I will not have them in my house.’
‘My house, Edwina,’ he pointed out bluntly. ‘My furniture, my money, my servants, my everything, a fact you would do well to remember.’
‘Oh! It is clear that the little minx has poisoned your mind!’
‘No, she has merely re-opened it. I have been far too lax for far too long. Thanks to your narrow-minded pettiness my dear brother has been lost to me. I have forfeited the affection of much-loved nephews and nieces, unable to make peace with them because of you, and I am telling you now, my dear wife, I do not intend to deprive myself of the chance to make whatever amends I can to the remaining members of my family.’
‘But you cannot mean to take on the responsibility of Henry’s parcel of children! You have family enough of your own!’
‘One daughter only, thanks to your constant rejection of me! One horribly spoiled and ungrateful daughter who, since her wonderful wedding to her wonderful viscount, cannot even bring herself to visit her lowly parents, let alone invite us to her wonderful house to meet her wonderful new friends.’
‘She has to move in the top echelons of Society,’ protested his wife. ‘She has a great many social obligations to fulfil. Her life is everything we planned and wished for!’
‘Everything you wished for,’ returned Sir Arthur tersely. ‘I merely wished for a loving and affectionate wife and child, such as my brother was blessed with.’
Lady Cunningham eyed her husband obliquely. ‘Your brother was a sentimental fool,’ she flung at him, still intent upon regaining the upper hand she had held for years. ‘Never more than a simple village parson; his nose forever stuck in a book. No wonder he left them penniless! What shift did he ever make to improve his lot?’
‘Not like me, you imply? Working day and night to increase our investments and dividends, spending all my time endeavouring to enlarge our overseas assets, just so that you could queen it over your routs and musicales with your fawning sycophantic friends and relations.’
She stared at him haughtily. ‘My relatives come from the very best of families. They have always been considered ton.’
He shook his head pityingly. ‘Your father’s sister married a minor baronet, woman,’ he said drily. ‘You have spent your entire life trying to climb the social ladder and don’t even realise what a pathetic figure of fun you have become.’ He grimaced. ‘I now see that I, too, must have been a laughing stock for years because I have never bothered to exert myself to control your excesses. I allowed you to give rein to your intemperance because, in truth, it was no longer of any interest to me how you and Clarissa spent your time—and my money. You are a selfish and foolish old woman, Edwina, and, in future, you will do as I say. Do you understand?’
She laughed in his fa
ce. ‘And how do you propose to enforce this new regime?’ she said, sweetly sarcastic. ‘Will you resort to beating me in front of the servants?’
‘No, my dear,’ he smiled. ‘Although it is a tempting idea, I must confess. However, the simple withdrawal of your allowances should be sufficient, I imagine. I wonder I never thought of it before.’
Lady Cunningham stared at him in abject horror. ‘No, not that, Arthur,’ she croaked, stretching out her hand towards him. ‘You would not. Please, Arthur, I beg of you—I will try—I promise…’
He turned on his heel. ‘We’ll see, my dear. Now, if you will excuse me, I must return to Georgina. I have kept the poor child waiting far too long. I recommend that you compose yourself and join us presently in the front salon—if you are wise.’
Edwina watched her husband’s retreating back with an expression of grim malevolence on her face and remained seated for several moments more as she weighed up the possible consequences of dismissing his words. They had lived such virtually separate lives for so many years now, at least in private, that she had long ago formed the opinion that he was spineless and tractable. She came to the conclusion that this unexpected aberrance would probably prove to be a nine-day wonder and that, with careful handling, he could easily be brought back into line again. She was clever enough to recognise that it was possible that she had pushed him a little too far this time but, having held sway for so long, she was damned if she was going to give up her position without a fight.
Chapter Six
Georgina had finished the tea and cakes that Fisher had taken such delight in ordering. The tray had been brought in by a young footman who, while making a great play of setting it down, had made absolutely no effort to conceal his unwarranted interest in the unexpected visitor, which had occasioned her to wonder, especially in view of the butler’s odd behaviour at her arrival, if her uncle’s servants were, perhaps, unused to callers. Since this was so unlikely to be the case she had eventually reached the conclusion that discipline amongst the staff must be rather lax which, she had to admit, was also rather hard to believe if her distant recollections of her Aunt Edwina’s autocratic manner were to be trusted.
For the umpteenth time her eyes strayed to the ornate brass clock on the mantelshelf, anxiously aware that it was well past the time at which she had requested that Latimer should meet her. Why could she not stop her mind from dwelling on the expression that she had read on his face when he had enquired if she was in need of any assistance? His eyes, so gentle and concerned, had seemed to burn into her soul, so much so that she had been on the verge of telling him everything. But what good would that have done? she admonished herself angrily. He was nothing but a penniless artist, no matter how attractive and beguiling he might be. Maybe she should have accepted Frank Turner’s proposal and been done with it. She would have been well and truly married by now and her family would be secure and none of this underhand duplicity would have been necessary. Had it been high-handed of her to turn down so many reasonable offers? Try as she might, she had been unable to see herself married to any one of the young men who had begged for her hand. Perhaps she had been too particular. But there had been no lift of the heart, no undercurrent of excitement, no joy in meeting, no sadness at parting, never anything more than the humdrum. She gave a wry smile as she remembered the times she had taken Katharine to task over the younger girl’s excessively romantic dreaminess. ‘Romantic nonsense’ she had termed it, but that was before she had experienced any of the breathtaking sensations herself. Not until the arrival of one Edward Latimer, it would seem. ‘Edward!’ she softly whispered his name, and then blushed hotly as the sound of her voice reverberated across the silent room. She must not allow herself to fall in love with a strolling vagabond! And one who was so clearly full of his own self-confidence. She ruminated once more on his reasons for choosing Compton Lacey, of all places, to rent a cottage. And how quickly he had latched on to her family, she marvelled, cleverly discerning each member’s vulnerability and playing on it, without ever giving anything of himself away. She sat bolt upright at this last thought for, all of a sudden, that was how his behaviour seemed to her. He had probably covered half the country in the same way, making the acquaintance of some suitable family and worming his way into their affections, joining in their activities, eating his meals at their expense and, she was painfully forced to suppose, making love to innumerable daughters of the house, before moving on to pastures new. And now, to her despair, it seemed that, unless she was very careful, she, too, was about to add her name to his list of conquests. A tremor ran through her body and a small tear crept into her eye.
She cast another look at the clock and began to grow quite agitated at the length of time that her uncle had been absent from the room. She got to her feet and went to the window but, as far as she could determine, there seemed to be no abatement in the passing traffic. She prayed that Katharine was still up to her eyes in headgear; Andrew would indulge her sister without question, she knew, and then experienced another moment of sadness at the thought that she herself was unlikely ever to find herself the object of such steadfast and unstinting adoration.
Just at that moment, there came the sound of the door opening and she turned with a ready smile of welcome on her face, but it was not her uncle who entered.
‘Well, well! And what have we here?’
A large, florid faced man stepped inside the room and, quickly closing the door behind him, leaned negligently against it. Georgina felt a moment of panic as he raised his quizzing glass and, in a somewhat insolent manner, silently inspected her. Dressed in what she assumed to be the height of gentlemen’s fashion, with pale yellow inexpressibles, brightly striped satin waistcoat and a blue velvet tail-coat bearing the largest silver buttons she had ever seen, the man’s eyes brazenly raked her from top to bottom and back again, registering with scorn the unadorned simplicity of her clothing.
‘And who might you be then, my little sweeting?’ he asked lubriciously as, with an insolent gleam in his eye, he sauntered arrogantly towards her. ‘Come for a position below stairs, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘Sir Arthur told me to wait here, sir,’ stammered Georgina, growing increasingly nervous at the man’s unusual behaviour. She found herself backing away from him and put up a hand to keep him at bay. ‘He will be returning momentarily.’
‘Oh, will he, the sly old dog!’ The man gave a little snigger. ‘Well, let’s you and I enjoy ourselves in his absence, shall we, m’dear?’
To her horror the man then proceeded to put his pudgy hand around her waist and pull her towards him, so close that she could smell the strong stench of brandy on his breath. She gave a small cry of dismay and struggled violently to extract herself from his grasp, but he was a powerfully built man and before she could turn her head away from him he had fastened his fleshy lips upon hers. Her fists were frantically beating him about the head and shoulders as he pressed his body into hers, which seemed to excite rather than restrain him and, unable to breathe properly, Georgina gradually felt her head beginning to swim. Still doing her utmost to fend the man off, she was fearful that she would lose consciousness as he slavered over her, all the time bending her further and further backwards towards the window seat in the curtained embrasure.
Suddenly, the door clicked open and, in an instant, the man had released his hold on her, pushing her roughly down into the seat as he hurriedly stepped away from her, just as Sir Arthur entered the room.
‘Carstairs! What are you doing here?’
Georgina, drawing in great gulps of air, tried to get to her feet, but was trembling so violently that she seemed to have little control of her body. She felt extremely sick and was endeavouring, with all her might, to prevent herself from swooning away.
Incredibly, her uncle seemed not to have noticed her distress. His attention was focused upon her assailant who was standing, apparently totally unconcerned at his recent actions, with a careless smirk on his face. She clenche
d her teeth and sat up straight, her shaking hands trying to right her bonnet.
‘Afternoon, Cunningham.’ The man threw himself down on the sofa and stretched his legs out in front of him. ‘Called in to see m’cousin, don’t ye know. Likes me to drop in whenever I’m in the area. Nice place you’ve got here.’ He waved his heavily be-ringed hand airily about the room and Georgina shuddered in disgust as she recalled the repellent sensation of that same hot, damp hand caressing her throat and neck.
Sir Arthur continued to regard his wife’s relative with distaste. ‘Edwina is upstairs in the morning room,’ he said coldly. ‘Please feel free to take yourself up to her. I have business with my niece.’
‘Niece, is it, by jove?’ Carstairs got lazily to his feet and, once again, put his quizzing glass to his eye to study his victim. ‘Was just about to introduce meself, m’dear, when your uncle arrived.’
‘This is Gerald Carstairs, my dear,’ intervened Sir Arthur hurriedly. ‘Your Aunt Edwina’s cousin—no need to get up, he’s just leaving.’ He stared pointedly at the man, who returned his look with an insolent grin and then bowed carelessly in Georgina’s direction before sauntering out of the room, whistling softly to himself.
As soon as the door closed behind Carstairs, Sir Arthur spun round and grasped Georgina’s hands and drew her to her feet.
‘Did he—did he hurt you, my dear?’ he asked, the concern and anxiety clearly in his voice. ‘I’m so sorry—so very sorry. I saw what was happening—you must forgive me—but I thought it best not to make you the object of an ugly scene. Has he—did he…?’ His voice broke, as he was unable to finish his question.
Georgina, torn between a laugh and a sob, pressed his hands. ‘No great harm was done, Uncle,’ she assured him doughtily, although she was still trembling. ‘Your arrival was certainly well-timed, however. He is, without doubt, the most horrid man I have ever encountered.’
Dorothy Elbury Page 8