Reputation

by Lex Croucher

  Georgiana had even gone so far in her daydreams as to imagine a handsome brother, a future Lord Campbell of good humour and pleasant features, whom she might marry to ensure a permanent sisterhood with Frances. They would all go out riding together across the nearby windswept moors; he’d help her out of carriages, his hand lingering on hers just a moment longer than necessary; they would not be showy with their wealth, once wed, and would prioritise taking long holidays in far-off lands, restricting themselves to just two or perhaps three houses out of town.

  Her newly acquired knowledge that Frances only had an elder sister, already married, put a dampener on this dream, but could not extinguish it entirely. Perhaps there might be a dashing cousin? A childhood friend, returned from some dastardly war? She’d even settle for a young uncle, at a stretch, as long as he had shapely arms and most of his hair.

  Conversation in the parlour had turned to repairs on a nearby bridge, so Georgiana felt it safe to stop listening again, being neither a bridge engineer nor an utter bore. The real challenge now was the likelihood of bumping into Frances again, when the Burtons were so chiefly concerned with activities like sitting down in a quiet corner, and being in bed by half past nine. Mrs Burton had reassured Georgiana that summer would bring outings aplenty, but what she had seen so far of the Burtons’ social calendar had not given her much reason to hope. Short of writing Frances a letter, Georgiana did not know how to rekindle their connection, and she could hardly imagine what she’d say if she attempted to put pen to paper.

  Dear Miss Campbell – I did so enjoy our drunken crossdressing the other night, and hope to make it a regular occurrence.

  Yours faithfully,

  Georgiana Ellers

  Perhaps not.

  Once all the tea had been drunk – Georgiana thought Mrs Clenaghan must have had some sort of enchanted refilling teacup, it took her so long to reach the bottom of it – and their visitor had left, Mrs Burton turned an accusatory eye on her niece.

  ‘Don’t think I didn’t see you with Miss Campbell at the party, Georgiana. What on earth were you doing, squirrelled away upstairs?’

  ‘Oh – having deep discussions, Aunt. Discussions of a . . . cultural nature.’

  ‘Discussions of a cultural nature? Which culture, may I ask, were you discussing?’

  ‘Oh, the drinking culture,’ Georgiana answered, straight-faced and wide-eyed. ‘It is a scourge, you know, upon our society. People are falling down in the streets – engagements broken, lives ruined. I have heard that the Thames is running at almost seventy per cent gin.’

  ‘Oh, Georgiana, of course it’s not,’ Mrs Burton scoffed, and then hesitated. ‘Is it?’

  ‘They’re looking into it,’ said Georgiana vaguely.

  Mrs Burton sighed. ‘I know you must find it a little dreary here at times, but I’m sure there shall be more parties, more dinners. You must be patient. There will be plenty of appropriate company – ladies and gentlemen – who don’t incite rumour and gossip the way Miss Campbell does. Be wary of her, Georgiana. She is of immeasurably high station, it is true, but that only means she has all the farther to fall.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ said Georgiana tersely. ‘I’ll be on the lookout for wanton behaviour and sudden nudity when the Gadforths throw their next party to celebrate the acquisition of new tablecloths.’

  ‘Georgiana, there is no need to be rude. I have said my piece. Now,’ she said, smiling tightly in an attempt to return them to friendship, ‘I’ll get my embroidery and you can finally make a start on yours. I’ve got a lovely pattern with some terribly winsome cherubs on it that I think you’ll find to your liking.’

  They passed the rest of the afternoon in a silence that Mrs Burton probably imagined was peaceful and amiable, unaware that Georgiana had considered driving the embroidery needle through her eye and into her brain once she had seen the horrifying, leering little angels she was to be immortalising in thread. She was rather jealous of Mr Burton, who was often successful in avoiding Mrs Burton’s whims by taking many walks ‘for his health’; he had a standing appointment with the fresh air each morning and evening, but his excursions became far more frequent when his wife was in a particularly talkative or trying mood, with new and exciting routes sometimes occurring to him spontaneously when she was mid-sentence. He returned from his latest outing – one that Georgiana could only imagine had become extremely pressing when he heard of Mrs Clenaghan’s impending arrival – just in time for them to sit down to supper.

  ‘It’s such a shame that you missed her, Mr Burton.’

  ‘The Middletons have planted sunflowers,’ he replied, somewhat ignoring her. She did not notice.

  ‘Sunflowers! Well, I hope they keep them in check. Garish things – when they get too tall they put me in mind of peeping Toms, ogling over the wall at you as you pass.’

  Georgiana tried to put this comment aside and get on with the business of eating quietly, but found she could not. She put down her knife and fork.

  ‘Is the sunflower the lewdest flower, do you think, Mr Burton?’

  Mr Burton choked on his ale, and took quite a long time to recover. Georgiana kept looking at him expectantly.

  ‘Ah . . . I expect so,’ he eventually replied.

  ‘I find many flowers quite aggressive in that way,’ said Mrs Burton with a shudder. ‘There is something very vulgar about them.’

  ‘I quite agree,’ said Georgiana nonchalantly, reclaiming her cutlery and tucking into her chicken. ‘They should be banned.’

  ‘Banned?’ said Mr Burton in quiet horror. ‘Ban flowers? Ban the natural world’s crowning glory?’

  Georgiana pretended to think very hard upon the matter.

  ‘Well, if not banned – trimmed. Trimmed into more appropriate shapes.’

  ‘Yes, I think that would do,’ said Mrs Burton approvingly, while her husband looked at her, aghast.

  ‘I saw a flower once, you know, in the exact shape of a gentleman’s—’

  ‘Georgiana!’ her aunt exclaimed.

  ‘—top hat, Mrs Burton. Honestly! Sometimes I don’t know where your mind goes.’

  They resumed eating in stony silence.

  Luckily for the Burtons, Georgiana was soon distracted from her attempts to torture them at the dinner table. Just a few days later, she was sitting alone with a book in the dining room, breathing in the smell of wood polish and watching dust motes dance through shafts of sunlight, when Mrs Burton entered triumphantly, clutching a letter above her head.

  ‘Is it Mother? Or Father?’ Georgiana asked, brightening at once and making to get up.

  ‘Oh no, dear, I’m so sorry, it’s not – although I’m sure they’ll write with as much haste as the situation allows.’ Georgiana sat back down, her heart feeling leaden in her chest. She knew she was hardly some sort of impoverished orphan – was not begging in the streets for coins, or squaring up to fight a malnourished bear on London Bridge to earn a paltry meal – but she would have liked some indication that her parents remembered they had a daughter. And besides, she had been left behind in the dullest county in England; it might have been quite an interesting change of pace to take on a bear in hand-to-hand combat.

  Mrs Burton came to the table, and placed the object that had inspired such hope in front of her niece. Georgiana took it, finding the paper of surprisingly high quality.

  ‘It’s an invitation,’ she said, trying to read as fast as she could. ‘To a party – who are the Woodleys?’

  ‘A great family indeed! They have a daughter about your age. I haven’t had the pleasure of their direct acquaintance, but I put it about that we had a fine young lady to stay who was in need of company, and it must have reached them!’ A thought seemed to occur to Mrs Burton, and she wrung her hands in sudden despair. ‘Oh, but we must have new dresses – and I’ll need to see about Mr Burton’s shoes – we’ll have never attended such a party! Their house is ever so large, and they keep such an extensive rose garden.’

  Ge
orgiana felt a jolt of nerves, but it could not compete with the more pleasant emotions of hope, delight and exhilaration; a large house and extensive rose garden sounded like exactly the sort of place where one might be lucky enough to bump into one flighty, ruinous Miss Frances Campbell.

  Chapter Three

  M

  rs Burton, infamous for her ability to fuss over almost anything, was a sight to behold when she genuinely had reason to do so. New fabric was ordered for dresses – plain ivory muslin, although Mrs Burton took great pains to point out that it could be improved with a little lace – fresh ribbon was cut for their hair, and come the evening of the party, Georgiana even saw Mr Burton standing very still, newspaper in hand, allowing his wife to trim his moustache with sewing scissors.

  Her aunt kept up a constant rattle of conversation during the rickety carriage ride there, and Georgiana was gripped by a sudden urge to fling open the carriage door and fall gracefully out into the hedgerows just to get away from her. Luckily, by the time they arrived, Mrs Burton had talked herself to the point of exhaustion, and they sat in awed silence as they travelled up a grand driveway to the biggest house Georgiana had ever seen up close. Mr Burton, half asleep, seemed unmoved.

  A thrill of nervous excitement coursed through her as she entered the busy front hall, trying to turn her head in small increments to make it less obvious that she was struggling to take it all in. This room alone was so large it was a wonder that they’d managed to fill it with guests, but fill it they had; at least fifty people were laughing politely, fanning themselves, clinking their glasses and calling delightedly to their friends across the crowd. An enormous tapestry depicting a biblical-looking battle presided over the curved staircase, emblazoned at the top with what seemed to be the family crest, and a chandelier that looked positively weary with crystal hung above their heads.

  Georgiana wondered if the owners of the house might be some poorer relations of God.

  Mr and Mrs Burton were fussing over something behind her in the entryway – probably occupied counting the rose bushes – and Georgiana took the opportunity to step away from them and disappear into the gilded crowd, accepting a drink as she did so. This was truly no painting unveiling at the Gadforths’; the dresses were all rustling silk and dazzling trim, the champagne flowed freely, and the gentlemen were well combed and upright in their neatly starched linens.

  It had taken Georgiana three hours to dress and prepare for the evening. The maid, Emmeline, had taken the utmost care that every curl was pinned precisely in place, every ribbon tied and tucked neatly away, smiling shyly at Georgiana in the mirror when she had finished. Georgiana did not find her own reflection particularly inspiring – she knew her hair to be too dull a brown, her pale face grossly marred by a light sprinkling of freckles – but she had made an effort, and thought the result possibly as comely as she had ever looked.

  Even with so much time set aside for preparation, the Woodleys’ house was so intimidating that Georgiana now felt she may as well have fashioned an outfit out of dishcloths. She kept tugging at her dress and smoothing her hair as she made her way through the throng, most likely achieving the opposite effect to that intended and dishevelling herself further. In reality nobody was sparing her a second – or even a first – glance, but she still felt as if every eye appraised her and found her wanting; at any moment someone might spot her and cry ‘Oh, good God – a poor little match girl!’ and throw sympathetic coins at her feet.

  Georgiana navigated a long hallway lined with imposing oil paintings and constipated-looking marble busts until she found the main ballroom, carefully avoiding dancers and revellers as she walked the perimeter. There were more beautiful young men and women in this one room than she had ever seen in her life, and they seemed incandescent in the candlelight; it was hard to take them in individually, as they blurred into a mass of elegant hands touching gloved wrists, polished heels clicking against the marble floor, and well-bred mouths lowering to whisper in flushed, dainty ears.

  Everybody here seemed in some way Of Consequence. Not one of them looked as if they had ever experienced more than ten seconds of boredom in their entire lives. Georgiana felt like a starving person who had stumbled upon a feast.

  A few people nodded politely to her as she passed, and she returned the gesture shyly, thinking that soon she might be forced to loop back and rejoin the Burtons – but suddenly there was Frances, standing near the open French windows in the glow of a candelabra, and looking even more magnificent than the last time Georgiana had seen her. Then, she had been withering away in the dark, drab hallway of the Gadforths’; now she was absolutely in her element, radiant in shades of palest green and gold, with a wineglass dangling from her hand.

  She was engaged in lively conversation with a group of young men and women who looked so glossy and well put together that Georgiana felt far too afraid to approach, let alone speak to them, lest they take offence and spit on her.

  Gripped with the sudden anguish of indecision, Georgiana made to turn away, intending to take another lap of the room to fortify herself before making an approach – but then she heard Frances call her name. She had barely raised her voice, but somehow those four syllables cut through the clamour of the crowd and the music to reach her ears instantly, like a whistle to a dog.

  Flushed with nerves, Georgiana made her way over to the group.

  ‘Well, look who it is,’ said Frances, looking genuinely thrilled. ‘My erstwhile wife!’

  Georgiana was introduced to each of those present in turn. Miss Cecily Dugray was tall, pale and exceedingly handsome, with hyacinth-blue eyes and a delicate pillow of a mouth; she put one in mind of a golden palomino. Miss Jane Woodley, whose family’s party they were attending, was short, darker and plainer; she was a little stockily built, drawn in much bolder strokes than Miss Dugray, and her expression was guarded as she took Georgiana’s hand in a perfunctory sort of way.

  Of the two gentlemen present, one – a Mr Jonathan Smith – was effusive in his greeting, sweeping back the strawberry-blond hair that had fallen into his smiling eyes as he bent to kiss Georgiana’s hand. The last, Mr Christopher Crawley, who sported a well-waxed moustache and was quite shockingly dressed in scarlet, gave her a roguish wink that startled her so much she almost forgot to curtsey. She was instantly reminded of a description of a pirate she’d read, and felt a little uneasy, as if he might be about to hold her at sword point and plunder her for her hairpins that very instant.

  So far, not one of them seemed the least bit inclined to spit on her.

  They returned at once to the conversation they had been having, and Georgiana was content to listen, delighted by the first-rate company and her inclusion in it – plus more than a little concerned that if she opened her mouth to speak she might say something extraordinarily foolish about the weather, or the life cycle of a frog.

  ‘No, I’m telling you – if Mr Weatherby looks at me askance again on Sunday I shall publicly name him a pervert, and tell the congregation that when I adjusted my position during the service he tried to get a good look at my ankles,’ Frances was saying, to much general amusement. ‘Honestly, it is no wonder I hardly attend – it’s enough to drive a woman into the loving arms of the Devil. When he gazes at me while preaching of family and duty, I can see what he’s imagining – me his wife, fat around the middle with a litter of children, opening my legs once a year for the sole purpose of procreation and thinking keenly of God all the while.’

  Georgiana choked on her drink, and accepted with many quiet thanks when Mr Crawley smoothly offered her his monogrammed kerchief.

  ‘Well, if not the venerable vicar, who will be gazing freely upon those ankles, Franny?’ asked Mr Smith, with a familiarity that instantly gave Georgiana the impression that he himself would quite like to see the limbs in question. ‘I’ve heard plenty a rumour, but I do like to go directly to the source.’

  ‘I couldn’t possibly comment,’ said Frances, sipping her drink and flashi
ng the other ladies a smirk. Georgiana wished she knew what it was that Frances was being coy about, so that she could join Miss Dugray, who was giving her a knowing smile in return. Miss Woodley’s only response was a barely audible sniff.

  ‘Who is the lucky man?’ asked Mr Crawley. ‘Oh, Frances, don’t tell me it’s that puffed-up, arrogant dandy – the inimitable Mr Russell?’

  ‘You’re quite as puffed up as he is, Christopher, and you know it,’ returned Frances. ‘And you’re wearing velvet in June, for Christ’s sake. A little self-awareness might do you some good.’

  ‘Well, yes – but I have the dignity and good grace to know and accept all of my many advantages and scant flaws,’ said Mr Crawley, not seeming the least bit offended. ‘He pretends to have no inkling of his few, inexplicable charms – all twenty thousand a year of them – and affects a positively baffled expression every time another mother approaches with a brood of daughters practically swooning in her wake. He’s been like that ever since Eton. And besides,’ he added smugly, with the air of someone in possession of portentous intel, ‘he took Kitty Fathering to bed.’

  The ladies gasped in unison. Georgiana felt her eyes widen, and took pains to return them to a more appropriate size.

  ‘He did not, and you know it,’ said Frances sharply. ‘Kitty Fathering probably fell down drunk in her father’s stable and slept in an amorous embrace with a particularly handsome pony, convinced it was Jeremiah by the colour of its forelock.’

  ‘And the smell,’ said Mr Crawley, over his drink.

  ‘Miss Ellers, we must be frightfully dull, speaking of people you’re not yet acquainted with,’ said Mr Smith. ‘Mr Russell lives half the time up in some dreary city in the Midlands, but he comes here for the shooting and for most summers with his cohorts and his family. I’m surprised he isn’t here, actually.’

  Georgiana was a little flustered to be addressed so directly, and simply smiled.