by Lex Croucher
‘Yes, of course,’ said Georgiana, hoping it wasn’t obvious from the expression on her face that it was now her dearest hope that their five might become a six. She was sure they could expand to include her without any additional risk of committing arson.
‘My parents actually considered going elsewhere for a change this year, but I insisted. By September, Jeremiah will be back in Manchester, and I shall return to London. Two hundred miles by coach certainly does not make the heart grow fonder, so it all rides on this summer. But I already think it’s going to be one for the ages.’
A season that had stretched drearily ahead of Georgiana was transforming before her very eyes into one full of promise. Perhaps, she thought, hers did not have to be a tale of monotony and loneliness as she had once feared; perhaps she was destined for greater things. If a certain amount of impropriety was the price she had to pay in exchange for them, then so be it.
Frances Campbell did not have to know that she had spent all of her previous summers playing chess, reading Chaucer alone, and barely daring to dream that there might be any other way to live. Frances and her friends were quick-witted, and scintillating, and so very alive. Georgiana ached to be one of them – for everybody to see her in the company of Dugrays, Woodleys and Campbells, and for her to make sense among them. She wanted evenings full of laughter, and wild escapades, and invitations that the Burtons simply didn’t receive. She wanted to be asked to Frances’s house in London, for a friendship that extended beyond summer exploits and into stays at Michaelmas and Christmas. And she really wanted to attend parties with curly-haired strangers who refused to laugh at bawdy jokes, had strangely arresting hands, and groomed their own horses just for the pleasure of it.
‘I’m sorry about my mother the other night,’ Frances said, sighing and reaching for another sandwich. ‘She wasn’t always such a prig. She and my father used to throw the most incredible parties. He’s been a real bastard lately, always off on trips abroad, and when he is around you can hear them carrying on wherever you are in the house. Marital bliss, you know.’
‘Really, it was nothing,’ said Georgiana. ‘If my aunt had been the one to discover us, I’d have been thrown in the carriage and driven to a convent directly.’
Frances laughed. ‘Probably the best thing for us, George, to keep us out of trouble,’ she said, patting Georgiana’s leg fondly.
Georgiana went pink with pleasure at the familiarity and the nickname, then reached for another sandwich in an attempt to hide her face, only to find the basket empty.
‘Oh, damn, I’ve eaten all your luncheon!’ said Frances. ‘You must come up to the house soon, though, and we can see you fed properly. You’ll like it – we’ve got the most darling dogs and the finest horses in the county. Father seems to collect them endlessly, although he rarely takes them out anymore. We can ride out one afternoon. Unless, of course . . . you have other plans?’
It was clear from her expression that Frances had guessed – correctly – that Georgiana had no prior engagements. A moment of understanding passed between them, and Georgiana realised that, although her new friend didn’t know the particulars of her former life, Frances was no fool; she knew precisely what she brought to this partnership, and all the ways in which Georgiana was lacking. If she cut her tomorrow, Georgiana would have to spend the rest of the summer – perhaps the rest of her life – embroidering pastelcoloured nightmares in Mrs Burton’s parlour, reminiscing about the few glorious days she had spent in the company of the esteemed Miss Campbell.
Frances was knowingly socialising below her station. Georgiana couldn’t begin to guess why, but she knew her role: to accept, and to be grateful.
And she was grateful. Immeasurably so. Frances could eat all of her sandwiches every day for as long as they were acquainted, and Georgiana wouldn’t say a word.
‘No. I have no other plans,’ said Georgiana.
‘Excellent,’ said Frances with a grin, rising to her feet and offering a hand down to Georgiana. ‘Come on, George. Off with your boots. I saw a stream back there I’m just dying to dip my feet in.’
Chapter Five
M
rs Burton’s gentle corrections were almost as excruciating as her outright scoldings. When unchallenged, she was quite a mild-mannered woman – definitely prone to fuss and bother when it came to matters of parties and propriety, but a person of kind spirit and good intentions. She had, however, made it clear to Georgiana as soon as she had returned from her outing that she did not approve of her new friendship. She was not showing any signs of letting up. Mr Burton, silent behind his paper, let her get on with it.
‘In any other circumstance, I’d commend the connection, Georgiana – but your mother and father entrusted us with your well-being, and if they should return from their holiday to find the countryside rife with rumours about the company you keep, I shall never forgive myself.’
‘It’s hardly a holiday, Aunt, unless they sold the house by accident,’ Georgiana retorted, hanging up her cloak. She made to walk past Mrs Burton towards the quiet refuge of the library.
‘Oh, no, you don’t! I understand you long for companionship, I really do, but Miss Campbell is not an appropriate choice. I will find someone suitable who is equipped to take you under their wing and show you the benefits of the neighbourhood. Clearly at home you are allowed a freer rein – and I suppose I cannot fault my sister, as she has been so distracted of late – but it ends now.’
Georgiana’s urge to roll her eyes was so strong that it actually hurt her head to resist; she settled on looking intently at Mr Burton’s back as she pulled off her gloves. The stitching of his jacket, she noticed, was coming loose at the shoulder. Her aunt was correct in assuming that her mother and father had never paid particular attention to her comings and goings – they had, in fact, often gone about their business as if they did not have a daughter at all – but Georgiana had grown used to this state of affairs, and was certainly not in the market for any additional fussing or meddling. Mrs Burton sighed, tutted, then reached for the letters on the table and, riffling through them, discovered what she had been searching for and held it aloft in triumph.
‘Aha! Miss Walters is in town! My dear friend Mrs Walters’ grandaughter – around your age. Let’s see here – a Miss Betty Walters, a bright young girl, most accomplished at penmanship and needlework. She has been living with her cousins, but is coming to stay, perhaps for good. Betty Walters would make a fine companion. I shall arrange something immediately.’
‘You shall do no such thing!’ cried Georgiana, unable to restrain herself further. ‘I’m sure Miss Betty Walters is a bright young girl by your estimation, and I’m sure she’s all the more dull for it. I cannot think of anything more excruciating than spending my leisure time with somebody who is most commended for her penmanship and needlework. Honestly, if that is all Mrs Walters can think of to say to recommend her grandaughter – she might as well have said that Betty is accomplished at “breathing in and out, at regular and most pleasing intervals”.’
Mrs Burton spluttered, going red, and then faltered. She opened her mouth to speak and closed it again, looking to Mr Burton for help. His eyebrows had appeared from behind the paper, and Georgiana could see that he was frowning.
‘You go too far,’ said Mrs Burton finally, before rushing from the room in a whirl of skirts and hurt feelings. Georgiana felt guilt curl in her stomach as she went.
There was silence for a moment and then, to Georgiana’s astonishment, Mr Burton lowered his paper. He was so averse to conflict or dramatics of any kind that she had honestly expected him to pretend he hadn’t heard a bit of it.
‘Georgiana,’ he said firmly, in the deep voice she heard so seldom, ‘there is such a thing as considering one’s self too clever. You’d do better to apply that mind of yours to the improvement of yourself and of those around you, rather than letting your cleverness fester into cruelty.’
The newspaper was snapped fully open again and p
ut back in place, and Georgiana was left staring at it.
She supposed there was nothing else for it; at some point she would have to make it up to Mrs Burton by acquiescing to an afternoon with Miss Walters, a girl she had already – perhaps unfairly – decided would be about as much fun as a medicinal bloodletting.
Mrs Burton was very much not speaking to Georgiana. Occasionally she asked her husband to relay pieces of information or questions to her niece, but as Mr Burton was so naturally taciturn, they rarely reached their intended destination. As a consequence, Georgiana only found out with a day’s notice that she and the Burtons had been invited to a group outing to make the most of the fine June weather – a picnic, with some of the local families who also lived on the outskirts of the town.
Mrs Burton had taken to talking to the cook, Marjorie, with some frequency now that she couldn’t talk to her niece, and this was how Georgiana learned of their excursion while skulking in the hallway. Her eavesdropping bore further fruit as she heard Mrs Burton going on to discuss who would be in attendance: neighbours and friends who were not even of the slightest interest to Georgiana, and of course, ‘Mrs Walters will be there with her grandaughter – I only hope that seeing how a lady should behave will knock some sense into a certain someone who has been rather bull-headed of late.’
Some very childish part of Georgiana thought to dramatically interrupt and restart their quarrel anew, but she knew that no good could come of angering her aunt further; if anything, she should make amends for the sake of poor Marjorie, who had once glanced at Georgiana while her aunt’s back was turned and mimed hanging herself to get out of listening to another complaint about a neighbour’s roof thatching.
Georgiana returned to her room – she had to try three times to get the door to close, warped as it was in the frame – and then she collapsed into the chair at the tiny desk beneath the window and sighed. She would meet Miss Walters at this picnic. She would be perfectly polite and cordial. But there was no reason why she shouldn’t also be allowed to have a little fun of her own design.
Without allowing herself time to think it through and change her mind, Georgiana scraped open the desk drawer and felt around for the pen, paper and ink that she had pilfered from downstairs while considering writing to her parents. She scribbled a hurried note addressed to Miss Frances Campbell and immediately went in search of Emmeline, insisting it be sent away that very hour.
Surely Mrs Burton couldn’t be angry with her if Frances seemed to appear at the picnic of her own volition – and Georgiana might be spared some portion of endless inevitable conversations about the joys of good penmanship with Miss Walters.
A few hours after the initial excitement of the idea had worn off, Georgiana began to feel very nervous, pacing about the house and rearranging things at whim. The best-case scenario was now that Frances didn’t come, and it was simply a terrible waste of a sunny day with dreary companions – because if she did come, Georgiana could now imagine all manner of disasters that might befall her. This friendship was newly fashioned and exceedingly fragile; one dull remark from her aunt about bridge repairs might bring the whole thing tumbling down.
The next day, they set off mid-morning to the extensive grounds of an estate held by a young earl called Haverton, who, being so rarely at home, had opened his manicured gardens to the public. It was the sort of agreeable day without a cloud in the sky; the glare of the summer sun was tempered by a light, cool breeze. Mrs Burton made a lot of fuss about setting up their blankets and unpacking their picnic food, but once they were in place, Georgiana found the situation surprisingly pleasant. There was a good turnout of some ten or eleven families, and as they all got reacquainted and the women shared news and gossip about their animals, children and husbands (in that order), she was left alone to enjoy the birdsong, and the smell of crushed grass, and the gentle murmur of conversation that didn’t require her participation. Couples strolled past arm in arm, and over on the ornamental lake a gaggle of aggressive swans were winging each other in the face.
Frances would not come to this picnic, Georgiana reassured herself; in fact, Frances would probably rather be shot in the street than be seen sitting on Mrs Burton’s slightly hairy horse blankets. She could not imagine Miss Campbell making idle chit-chat with the Burtons about the weather any more than she could imagine her aunt and uncle accepting an invitation to engage in illicit drug-taking in the shrubbery.
Georgiana felt extremely relieved to have settled the matter in her mind, and was just allowing a small sigh of pleasure to escape her lips when she saw a stout young woman approaching her with purpose, arm in arm with an older lady, whose face was set in a grimace despite the loveliness of the day.
Miss Betty Walters – for it seemed inevitable that this was she – was pleasantly plump, rather plain in the face and very fair. The only parts of her not the colour of straw were her cheeks, which were flushed and pink, and her eyes, which were a thin, watery blue. Her mouth was smiling, but her eyes were full of terror, as if she expected their quiet picnic to be set upon by wolves at any moment.
Despite how vehemently she had argued against this meeting, in her newly relaxed state Georgiana felt it would be charitable to give the poor girl the benefit of the doubt. After all – there wasn’t a pen or needle in sight.
Mrs Burton seemed to conveniently forget that she wasn’t talking to her niece, and immediately launched into enthusiastic introductions. Miss Walters went even pinker, and sat down awkwardly next to Georgiana, after which an uncomfortable pause ensued.
‘How are you finding . . . the neighbourhood?’ Georgiana ventured, to break the silence.
‘Oh! Most pleasing indeed!’ Betty said, almost gasping in obvious relief at being asked a question she could answer. ‘Well – I have not yet been into the town proper, but I intend to do so tomorrow. You know, there are such a great many wonderful driveways and fence posts around here – everywhere I look, I think, what a fine house must be just beyond this fencing or – or this wonderful entrance. You cannot see many houses from the road, of course, but you can often tell by – by the quality of the gravel.’
Georgiana bit her lip and ducked her head a little so the shadow of her bonnet obscured her expression, which was not particularly kind.
‘Yes,’ she said once she was composed. ‘Such wonderful gravel, indeed.’
‘I wonder – yes, I wonder where one gets gravel from, incidentally. I can’t imagine it comes naturally from the ground in such small pieces. Perhaps it is – like sand, on beaches? Or perhaps they take a larger rock, and they set upon it with mallets and axes until it is all broken up. Oh, Grandmama—’ Here, her grandmother looked up from where she had been conversing with Mrs Burton. ‘Do you know from where they obtain gravel?’
‘Gravel, dear?’ Mrs Walters said, looking puzzled. ‘Gravel?’
‘Oh, yes, gravel. Gravel, for driveways. Little stones – and pebbles, and the like.’
‘I shouldn’t care to venture,’ said Mrs Walters, turning back to Mrs Burton.
‘Ah! Yes.’ Having failed to bring her grandmother into the conversation to rescue her, Miss Walters looked positively panicked. ‘In any case, it is often such lovely colours. All shades of grey, and white, and brown – and darker, and lighter browns—’
‘I think perhaps we have exhausted the subject of gravel,’ said Georgiana firmly, wondering how long Betty would have continued her list without intervention. ‘Have you been to many parties since you arrived?’
‘Oh! Not yet – but I hope to do so – I hope very much so – I do love parties. At home we have such merry little gatherings – there’s food, and drink, and dancing if we’re lucky, and everybody looks so well dressed up in their finery, and – we dance, and eat, and drink. I do think it helps to have one very small drink, perhaps a little wine with water – then one doesn’t feel so conscious of one’s – well, it’s a little easier to converse, I think.’
Georgiana could not imagine that any am
ount of alcohol would improve Betty’s conversational skills. At least she seemed to find herself almost as ridiculous as Georgiana did; she was blushing even redder now, apparently mortified to hear the things coming out of her own mouth.
Georgiana knew she ought to be sympathetic to her plight, but Miss Walters had such a keen look of longing and palpable urgency to belong that she could hardly stand to look at her; it was evident in her clenched fists, the sweat on her brow, the apologetic little grimace she gave once she’d finished speaking. The uncomfortable truth was that had Georgiana not chanced upon Frances in the darkened hallways of the Gadforths’, she, too, may have been desperately searching for a friend at this picnic. Admittedly she would never embarrass herself by talking a mile a minute about the virtues of fence posts – she sincerely hoped that she gave a much better first impression in general – but Betty’s friendlessness, that quality she and Georgiana might have shared, was all over her like a rash. Looking at her now was like seeing her own past desperation in a mirror, and Georgiana reacted with a rush of revulsion, as if such a thing were contagious.
Miss Walters kept talking, saying nothing at all of consequence, and Georgiana made small non-committal noises when appropriate and tried not to let the constant flow of chatter distract her from the glory of the day. She let her eyes wander, looking from the vast, lush lawns to the lake, and then the orchard – and then stopped abruptly. Between the branches laden with unripened fruit, Georgiana could see a familiar black carriage pulled by two gleaming horses, which was just coming to a stop. As she watched, five well-cut figures slipped lightly out, linking arms and swapping jokes, their laughter audible from where she sat.
Unless Georgiana was very much mistaken, Frances had defied all reason and decided to attend this lowly picnic after all.
Georgiana was not the only one extremely startled that Frances and her friends had deigned to attend; the rest of the company set about whispering and muttering to one another as soon as they noticed the new arrivals making their way towards the picnic. Georgiana suddenly felt just as bumbling and red-faced as Miss Walters, watching Frances’s brows dance as she leaned over to whisper something in Jonathan’s ear as they drew nearer. Georgiana had no idea what they were doing here – what could possibly have possessed them all to give up an afternoon that she was sure they would normally have spent drinking imported spirits on their own vast lawns, or hunting commoners for sport, or whatever it was that extremely wealthy people usually did to while away pleasant summer hours. One thing seemed certain: if Frances saw her speaking to Betty Walters, she was absolutely done for.