by Lex Croucher
‘He is here,’ said Mr Crawley reluctantly. ‘I saw him in the gardens with a few of his hangers-on when I went to smoke.’
‘Well! Kept that to yourself, didn’t you?’ said Frances, scowling prettily at him.
Miss Woodley laughed humourlessly. ‘Afraid you’d be outdone, Christopher?’
‘All right, all right, let’s pay him a friendly visit and give poor Franny something to think of other than God the next time she opens her legs for a passing farmhand,’ said Mr Smith, steering Frances towards the French windows as she attempted to hit him playfully with her fan. Miss Woodley continued to look as if she’d rather be anywhere else – which was unfortunate, Georgiana thought, as this was her party.
She had never in her life heard so many outright references to fornication – her mother and father had skirted awkwardly around the subject, referring to it once, after Georgiana had seen two pigs getting amorous, as ‘the special embrace’. She was trying to affect an air of nonchalance about the fact that Frances and her friends were as foul-mouthed and salty as a crew of peculiarly well-shod sailors. Sex was something that happened behind closed doors, in broken-in marital beds or the dark recesses of bawdy-houses; it was what happened after the end of romance books, or sometimes, in the more risqué of her novels, what was briefly alluded to and then quickly skipped past for decency; it was not something you discussed openly at a party, as if commenting on the weather or the price of butter.
Georgiana trailed behind Frances and the others, clutching her drink and trying not to draw too much attention to herself as they walked out onto the expansive patio. She thought there was every chance that they might turn and ask her why she was still following them like a demented duckling. A group of young men – perhaps Georgiana’s age, or a few years her senior – were lounging around an ornate fountain, cravats loosened at their necks, laughing loudly and unrestrainedly. As they approached, one of them leaned backwards over the fountain’s lip and opened his mouth so that water cascaded into it; he spluttered, coming up coughing and grinning, and the others cheered. Given that the woman depicted in the fountain’s design seemed to have forsaken clothing and sprung a leak from somewhere most unfortunate, it wasn’t difficult to imagine what they found so amusing.
One of the men wasn’t laughing; in fact, he was exhibiting the kind of polite smile one might employ when meeting one’s dentist or hearing a detailed account of a banking transaction. He was dressed simply in crisp whites and navy blues, with his hands clasped behind his back, as if he were standing to attention; upon closer inspection his whole body was rigid, tension radiating from him palpably, entirely at odds with the others, who were so laid-back they were almost horizontal. He was tall, with a brown complexion – perhaps some Indian heritage, Georgiana thought, although she had a limited frame of reference to place him – and with unfashionably long, loose curls that were half-heartedly pulled back from his face. His brown eyes were large but downcast, giving him a quiet and melancholy air, and the line of his jaw was so sharply defined that Georgiana thought it would probably be painful to the touch.
She immediately wondered why she was thinking of touching it at all.
While the other men met the approaching party with jovial cries of greeting, he gave a polite bow and turned to look out over the gardens.
The best-looking of the bunch, and their natural leader, was clearly Mr Jeremiah Russell. He was tall, well-built and classically beautiful, with pale, neat features and expertly coiffed blond hair. Georgiana wondered how many manservants it had taken to get one single lock of hair to fall so attractively over his left eye. Frances was obviously very taken with him; as hands were shaken and kissed, she couldn’t keep her eyes off him, giggling with surprising girlishness when he lingered with his lips pressed to the backs of her fingers.
‘And who is this?’ he cried, turning his charming smile on Georgiana, who immediately blushed crimson.
Despite a certain excess of coiffing, he was very good-looking.
‘The enchanting Miss Georgiana Ellers,’ said Frances. ‘I discovered her hiding in a wall at a dreadful party, and she made an intolerable evening bearable. She’s new, Jeremiah – staying with her aunt and uncle nearby.’
Georgiana curtseyed self-consciously.
‘In a wall?’ Mr Russell replied, raising an eyebrow as he appraised Georgiana, a faint smile playing about his lips. ‘How droll.’
He turned his attention back to Frances. ‘Would you like something a little special to smoke, Miss Campbell? We were just entertaining the thought of taking a turn about the garden.’
‘Oh, you are terrible – but I suppose I would,’ replied Frances, beaming at him.
Georgiana tried to parse this exchange, and failed; ‘taking a turn about the garden’ clearly meant something quite different in this particular circle.
‘We all would,’ said Mr Crawley pointedly, and without further discussion the procession moved down into the dark grounds, leaving behind only the hostess, Miss Woodley – who rolled her eyes and waved them away with a shrug – and a few of Mr Russell’s friends. Georgiana noticed that the curly-haired man was among those who stayed, and felt a little deflated.
Their intended destination was a small, fragrant rose garden, framed on all sides by high hedgerows that shielded it from the view of the house. The main pathways through the grounds were lit with flickering lamps, but once they’d slipped through the opening in the hedges they were all cast in the faded indigo of the darkening sky. They sat down on cool stone benches, the men chuckling at some joke Georgiana hadn’t heard, barely visible to each other in the gloom until someone struck a light.
Georgiana was just wondering what exactly they intended to smoke when a pipe flared into life nearby, and the man who held it disappeared behind a cloud of hazy smoke. She watched, fascinated and a little nervous, as it was passed from hand to hand. A few moments later it was pressed into her own by Mr Smith, who was sitting on her left. Georgiana had absolutely no idea what to do with it; she had seen her father and her uncle smoke, but had never imagined that she might be permitted to do something so singularly suggestive with her mouth. Besides, she wondered wildly, what was so special about this pipe in particular?
She stared at it for a moment, and Jeremiah looked up from where he was sitting with Frances.
‘We don’t have all day, Miss Ellers,’ he said, in an uncanny impression of a flinty governess. Frances laughed.
‘I’m not sure this is—’ Georgiana started, but Frances cut her off with a small smile and a shake of her curls.
‘You are certainly not obliged to take it – but I’m sure you’ll like it, Georgiana. In fact, I’d bet my life on it. If you don’t, I’ll . . . Well, I’ll give you the keys to my house and you can move in forthwith – how’s that?’
Jeremiah laughed, putting a hand on her arm; she turned back to him, obviously pleased, and murmured something Georgiana could not hear.
She turned to Mr Smith in desperation. ‘I don’t . . .’ she said to him in a small voice. ‘That is, I haven’t . . .’
He grinned at her conspiratorially, and she couldn’t help but smile back.
‘Just put your lips to it and breathe in,’ he advised quietly, lifting the pipe to her mouth. ‘Hold it in your chest for as long as you can before you expel it. Try not to cough,’ he added sternly, ‘or you’ll embarrass me.’
She did as instructed, and although her eyes watered, she managed not to choke before handing the pipe to Miss Dugray on her other side. She watched in utmost awe as Cecily inhaled and exhaled deeply three times, and passed the pipe on; she undertook the whole thing as nonchalantly as if she were simply taking in fresh air. She noticed Georgiana watching her, and smiled beatifically.
‘Frances said you’re staying with your aunt and uncle?’ she asked. ‘Are your parents visiting, too?’
Cecily was so beautiful that it took Georgiana a moment to realise that she was expected to respond.
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��Ah . . . no. My mother is unwell – headaches – so they’ve taken to the seaside for a change of air,’ explained Georgiana. The tips of her fingers felt oddly numb; it was quite pleasant. ‘Personally, I think they grew tired of the restraints of parenthood.’
Georgiana had never voiced this aloud – had barely allowed herself to think it – and had no idea what had compelled her to do so now, in front of a veritable stranger. She was feeling rather light-headed, and deduced that the special nature of whatever was in that pipe was to relax the smoker until they felt comfortable letting all manner of nonsense escape their lips. She dimly registered that from the moment she had taken in a lungful of thick, fragrant smoke, everything around her had felt somehow much less shocking. Women smoking? Fine. Unchaperoned youths ensconced in a garden in the dark, sitting so close that their knees and shoulders kept bumping together? Absolutely run-of-the-mill.
‘Oh, you poor thing,’ said Miss Dugray, shaking her head in what seemed to be genuine remorse. ‘Here – have some more of this.’
It didn’t seem like the worst solution; the more Georgiana smoked, the less urgent her problems became, until the idea that her parents had grown bored of their only child and abandoned her in favour of a sea view seemed almost a trifling concern.
Frances and Jeremiah were sharing a bench and speaking to each other in low voices that spoke of mutual affection and confidence; he had her hand in his, and as Georgiana watched, he curled his index finger and stroked gently along the inside of her palm. Georgiana felt a pang of something as she watched – embarrassment, perhaps, for witnessing something so intimate, but also a vague sort of yearning. Frances was so obviously happy, engaged to a man she seemed to love – something that was never guaranteed.
Georgiana dragged her gaze away and looked surreptitiously around at the young men sitting about her. Jeremiah’s anonymous friends were good-looking and obviously well off, but they also had an air of hardness about them, a carelessness that put her on edge. Georgiana had never much bothered with men, and they had returned the favour – the children of her parents’ friends had not been promising candidates for courting, matrimony, or any sort of tension that occurred outside a rousing game of cards.
Mr Jonathan Smith was perfectly friendly, but Georgiana still thought he seemed inclined towards Frances, despite the fact that she was a lost cause; he was currently talking to one of Mr Russell’s friends, but with one eye on Frances at all times. Mr Crawley honestly alarmed her a little; he kept twirling his moustache, apparently unaware that it was the classic hallmark of a literary villain. Mr Russell himself was obviously spoken for, currently exploring the underside of Frances’s wrist. Georgiana’s thoughts drifted back to the curly-haired stranger who had remained at the house – now he was another matter entirely, fascinating precisely because he had simply looked a little morose and said nothing at all. Compared to some of Jeremiah’s other friends – one of whom was currently trying to smoke the pipe through his left nostril – this made him eminently promising.
The reality, of course, was that nobody in a hundred-foot radius would ever dream of considering her an equal match. Unless Georgiana’s parents had somehow acquired land, inheritance and titles since she had last seen them, she was of too little consequence to be worth a second glance. Her tenuous friendship with Frances, still very much in its infancy, was as close as she came to having her own connections; even if she did take a fancy to one of the gentlemen present, to make those feelings known would surely only invite ridicule.
After all, she still hadn’t entirely ruled out being spat on.
‘Who was that man with Mr Russell by the fountain?’ she asked Cecily anyway, trying and failing to sound casual. ‘The darker gentleman, with the curls?’
‘Oh, I think he’s a . . . maybe a Hornsley? Horsely? Hawksley, that’s it. He’s a family friend of the Russells, he lives up at Highbourne House. His mother is from somewhere abroad, I can never quite remember—’
‘India?’ Georgiana asked.
‘Oh, that’s it! You clever thing. India. From some immensely rich family out there, they did something to do with . . . trade. New money, although I’m sure his father had plenty of his own. He used to hang about with Jeremiah, but I haven’t seen him for years. Quiet sort of fellow now, although I’m sure he wasn’t always – they say he is outrageously rich, but then, they say that about everyone. And – kind, too,’ she added as an afterthought. They were interrupted by a flask, passed by Mr Smith.
Georgiana tried again. ‘Are the Hawksleys—’
‘Hawksley?’ One of Mr Russell’s friends cut her off, leaning in and laughing unkindly. ‘I wouldn’t waste your time there, ladies. The word “fun” left that chap’s vocabulary quite a few years ago. The closest he comes to a lively jape these days is when he wears a cravat that doesn’t quite match his stockings.’
He reached for the flask, claiming it before Georgiana had taken her turn, and then turned back to his companions.
‘He does look terribly sad most of the time,’ Cecily said, frowning. ‘Like his horse has just died.’
‘Perhaps it has,’ said Georgiana.
‘I had a lovely horse once,’ said Cecily wistfully. ‘She was called Hestia. I told her all my secrets, you know, and I really do think she listened to me. It’s so rare to find somebody who truly understands your heart, man or beast.’
Georgiana checked to see if she was joking; Cecily had a slightly vacant air about her, but she was also extremely earnest, and seemed perfectly serious about communing with her horse.
‘What’s the difference?’ Georgiana replied, as if she had all manner of dalliances under her belt, and Cecily tilted her head to the side and smiled sleepily. Everything about her gave Georgiana the impression that she was speaking to some kind of ethereal princess, imported from another realm. Her only perceivable flaw was perhaps a certain lack of wit, but Georgiana was certainly not in a position to judge at the minute; whatever had been in the pipe was potent, and everything was getting dreadfully muddled.
There was a lull in the conversation, and Georgiana realised that neither she nor Cecily had spoken for what must have been at least a minute. Some subtle change in the atmosphere, most likely fabricated by her pipe-addled brain, meant that Georgiana suddenly felt constrained and crowded among all these people; she had an immediate, fervent desire to be away from the group and closer to the lights at the end of the garden. Lights, she thought, were innately good. People, on the other hand, had the potential to be bad.
Excusing herself, she gracelessly exited the hedgerows and stumbled down the gravel path with what she hoped was a look of polite and casual interest upon her face, focusing on the pleasing glow of the lamps, the only bright spots in the darkness.
She was quite alone this far from the house, with the cool evening air keeping most guests confined to it; all conversation was no more than a gentle murmur in the distance.
Georgiana’s spirits were buoyed; she had almost made it to her desired destination when some troublesome stone steps appeared as if from nowhere. She noticed them a second too late and tripped quite spectacularly on her hem, hurtling towards the bottom of them. Visions of broken bones and ghastly wounds flashed before her eyes, but she was pleasantly surprised to find that something warm and solid caught her before she hit the ground.
‘You have saved me,’ Georgiana said dramatically, her words indistinct.
Her rescuer gave a short, surprised laugh, and gently helped her sit down on the steps. When he sat down beside her, Georgiana squinted at the figure half-illuminated by the lamplight and saw that it was none other than Mr Hawksley.
‘It’s you!’ she said loudly.
He did not seem to know the proper response to this, and simply gave her a slightly strained smile. Up close – and she was rather close to him – he was undeniably handsome, although he looked positively exhausted. He had the most extraordinary eyelashes she had ever seen, and in the darkness his irises looked almost
black; it was disarming, frankly, to have those eyes focused so intently on her. She almost wanted to shield her face, but luckily some part of her brain registered that it would seem quite insane.
Georgiana realised she had been looking at him in silence for some time.
‘Are you enjoying the party?’
‘Oh? It’s . . . very pleasant,’ he replied, looking about as if he hadn’t realised he was at a party. His voice wasn’t clipped and polished like Jeremiah Russell’s; it was deep and a little hoarse, like worn velvet.
‘I’m sure it’s nothing compared to the parties you’re used to,’ Georgiana said for some reason. ‘I’m sure you attend balls hosted by Prussian royalty, where they race pigs and – and eat exotic fruits, and serve turkeys stuffed inside chickens stuffed inside sparrows.’
‘Sparrows would be in the centre,’ he said evenly. ‘You can’t fit a turkey inside a sparrow.’
‘Oh,’ said Georgiana, feeling foolish and wrong-footed. ‘Well, you would know, of course. I’m sure you have fifty acres, and fifteen thousand a year, and an enormous collection of tall hats.’
Mr Hawksley shifted uncomfortably. Georgiana’s mouth dropped open.
‘You do, don’t you? You have fifty acres and fifteen thousand a year, and almost as many hats!’
‘I don’t have anywhere close to fifteen thousand hats. Fifty . . . perhaps.’
‘Oh,’ said Georgiana again.
After her initial rush of adrenaline-fuelled confidence, she was quite at a loss as to what to say next. She wondered that anybody had ever known what to say, in the history of life on earth. After a moment, inspiration struck.
‘I’m Georgiana Ellers,’ she said, holding out a hand.
‘Thomas Hawksley,’ he said slowly, taking her hand in his, ‘although apparently, my reputation for pig-racing precedes me.’
While there was nothing at all clandestine about the brief kiss on the hand one might receive from an over-enthusiastic man in a crowded room – often from a gentleman twice one’s age, leaving behind an unpleasant smear of spittle that had to be surreptitiously wiped on the furniture immediately afterwards – there was something extremely intimate about a painfully good-looking stranger slowly pressing one’s hand to his lips in a deserted garden, lit only by the flicker of distant lamps.