Reputation

by Lex Croucher

  Clumsily, in the near-darkness, she moved until her face was almost touching Georgiana’s; their noses brushed together, and Frances looked so forlorn and serious that Georgiana leaned forward to kiss her cheek. Her aim was off, and instead she found her lips pressed to the corner of Frances’s mouth. She tasted like sweet sherry and pipe smoke, and her cheeks were hot and wet from crying; Georgiana felt a tear that did not belong to her slide down her cheek as she pulled away.

  As quickly as it had begun, the moment had passed.

  ‘This is silly,’ Frances said evenly, as if their conversation had not been interrupted. ‘Forget – just forget I said anything. I will be married soon, like Eleanor, and away, and none of this will matter.’ She took another deep, steadying breath. ‘Jeremiah and I will be engaged before the summer is out.’

  Georgiana, confused and tired and drunk but wanting to soothe her nonetheless, put an arm around her friend. Frances settled into her, a warm and comforting weight against her side.

  ‘I know you will,’ said Georgiana. ‘It’ll be all right, Frances.’

  ‘It’s just . . .’ Frances said, sounding thoroughly worn-out. ‘It’s all so much sometimes, George. Everything out there. Everything in here. I am quite tired of it. People look at me and they expect me to be something particular, for better or worse, and I often think . . . it would be nice to just be. You know?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Georgiana, not sure she really understood at all.

  ‘It shan’t be like that with us, though,’ Frances mumbled, turning her face into Georgiana’s neck with a little sigh. ‘You’re not like the rest of them, George. Not at all.’

  ‘Am I – am I not?’ Georgiana whispered back, tensed for an answer; but Frances said nothing, and within a few minutes, she was asleep.

  Georgiana lay awake for a long time afterwards. Her arm became quite numb with Frances’s weight, but she didn’t move it; she listened to Frances breathing, and the creaks of the house, and eventually fell asleep just where she was.

  Chapter Seven

  T

  he next morning Georgiana awoke, still curled on her side, to find the other pillow empty; Frances

  was standing at the foot of the bed, fully dressed and groomed, looking for all the world as if the previous night simply hadn’t happened.

  ‘Look alive, George,’ she said, throwing a dressing gown at Georgiana’s head. ‘The morning is wasting!’

  They breakfasted in the garden at a table set up on the back patio, enjoying all manner of breads and pastries and fruit, Frances entreating Georgiana to try little bites of everything. Afterwards they walked the grounds, down sweeping lawns and through gated gardens, all the way to the stables some two miles away, with three lean, dark greyhounds following at their heels. Frances showed Georgiana her father’s horses, introducing each one by name and pedigree, telling her how her father had come to acquire them without a hint of malice in her tone. Georgiana didn’t see hide nor hair of Lord or Lady Campbell, but Frances noted that her father’s favourite horse was gone, indicating that he must have gone for an early ride.

  She kept studying Frances for any signs of what had occurred the night before; she could almost tell herself that she had dreamed it all – the crying and the hushed words in the dark and the quick brush of her lips – but she knew she hadn’t imagined Lord Campbell’s fury or the sound of china being thoroughly obliterated against the wall. Frances was smiling while speaking of him and his horses now, and Georgiana couldn’t understand; couldn’t understand how Frances could laugh prettily while telling some anecdote, or link her arm through Georgiana’s as if she hadn’t gripped it so hard the night before she had left telltale marks. She had expected Frances to mention their strange half-kiss, to make light of it perhaps, but that, too, seemed to have been put aside along with the rest. It occurred to Georgiana in passing that it hadn’t felt as odd as it should have.

  When the afternoon came and the Burtons’ carriage arrived, Frances was still all smiles, bidding her to keep the necklace she had worn last night and saying that she must come again.

  ‘Oh! And before I forget, Christopher Crawley has been planning a little jaunt out into the deepest, darkest countryside on the fourth of July. He’s invited a whole group of us to stay in this quaint little cottage owned by this dastardly relative of his for a few nights. You must get permission to come, I’ll be bored out of my wits if you don’t.’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ Georgiana assured her, thrilled and somewhat relieved to have secured another invitation.

  The carriage set off and they rumbled slowly away, Georgiana turning and waving until Frances seemed impossibly small in the shadow of her beautiful, cavernous house.

  Georgiana was awoken on Sunday morning by a series of taps on her bedroom door, so light she thought she had dreamed them. She turned over to face the wall, eyes half-focused on the faded floral wallpaper as she tried to will herself back to sleep, but the tapping came again.

  Expecting her aunt – although confused as to why she hadn’t just burst in, as she usually did – Georgiana forced herself out of bed and flung the door open. It wasn’t Mrs Burton after all; it was Mr Burton, looking mightily uncomfortable, averting his eyes immediately when he saw that Georgiana was in her nightclothes.

  ‘Your aunt wished me – ah – to bid you good morning, and to tell you it is time for church.’

  Georgiana hadn’t forgotten church; she had just been so wrapped up in a number of relatively unholy thoughts since her visit to the Campbells that it had momentarily slipped her mind. Her parents, it had to be admitted, had been slightly lax when it came to her spiritual upbringing. She had attended the school chapel with them weekly, mostly staring fixedly at her Bible so she could pretend not to notice the mutterings and attentions of the schoolboys around her, but otherwise had not been encouraged to think very frequently of the Lord. It was the teachings of great writers – of Homer and Virgil, Shakespeare and Burns – that were treated as scripture in their house, and that Georgiana might be quizzed on at any moment while simply trying to enjoy her breakfast.

  The Burtons approached church differently. They dressed carefully, always had the carriage brought out despite the relatively short walk, and expected Georgiana to treat the whole morning with reverence befitting the occasion. Georgiana found it rather dull, and had spent all her Sundays since her arrival somewhat sentimental for the days when her father might point his fork at her and demand that she recite ‘Address to the Woodlark’ from memory.

  ‘I thank you for wishing me good morning, Uncle,’ Georgiana croaked, ‘as I don’t imagine Mrs Burton really bade you say that part.’

  ‘Nevertheless . . .’ said her uncle.

  Georgiana waited for a moment, expecting more, but he simply nodded at her and walked quickly away.

  Emmeline was called to help her dress, and Georgiana complied, still half-asleep; it was only when she stumbled downstairs and caught sight of the time on the carriage clock that she realised something was amiss.

  ‘Why are we leaving so early?’ she asked, befuddled, as Mrs Burton came rushing down the stairs, swept her up in her momentum, and bundled her out of the door.

  ‘I told you, Georgiana, for goodness’ sake – the vicar has taken ill, and they could not replace him. We are all to travel out to St Anne’s instead.’

  Georgiana pretended to recall what her aunt was refer-ring to, and therefore could not ask any more questions. The journey to their local church usually took but five minutes by carriage, while St Anne’s clearly necessitated a much lengthier trip. It took them northwards, away from the town, mirroring the route to the Campbells’ estate and then continuing even farther until they reached a very small village, with only one or two other buildings that were not St Anne’s.

  ‘Are we early?’ Georgiana asked, seeing only three other families approaching, rather than the usual steady Sunday stream.

  ‘They have to fit two congregations into one church, Georgia
na – I am not taking any chances,’ Mrs Burton said, straightening her bonnet and squaring her shoulders as if for a fight.

  She led them all determinedly through the pleasant, rambling churchyard and into a church so neat and quaint that it looked straight out of a painting. Some of the others already gathered seemed to be friends of the Burtons; they took a well-polished pew near the front and her aunt started talking in hushed, important tones with the family in front of them, while Georgiana attempted to take a small nap without being noticed.

  The church began to fill up around them as it approached a more respectable hour, and Georgiana was jolted from her reverie by Mrs Burton’s fingers, which were poking her in the arm.

  ‘What?’ she mumbled, receiving a disapproving glare in response.

  Georgiana straightened up reluctantly, and then turned to see Miss Cecily Dugray entering, with two equally statuesque and blond people she assumed must be her parents. They slid into a pew a few rows back from the Burtons on the other side of the aisle, and then Cecily’s gaze alighted on Georgiana, and her eyes lit up.

  ‘Oh, Miss Ellers!’ she said, not bothering to temper her voice. ‘Are you well? You must come and sit with me.’

  She patted the space next to her; Georgiana glanced at her aunt, who looked slightly flustered but nodded her approval.

  Georgiana expected to be introduced to the Dugrays, but they were already talking to another couple on their other side.

  ‘How are you?’ she asked Cecily, who was wearing cornflower blue and looking very well indeed.

  ‘Very well indeed,’ she said, confirming Georgiana’s suspicions. ‘I shot five threes and a seven this morning.’

  ‘Five threes and a—?’

  ‘Oh! Longbow,’ Cecily said enthusiastically. ‘I shoot targets in the garden – or in the ballroom, if it’s raining. I’m dreadful, but I’m getting better.’

  ‘But you were shooting already? This morning?’ Georgiana said, rapidly trying to keep up with this new information. ‘It is not yet ten o’clock.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t sleep much,’ Cecily said, perfectly cheerful. ‘It’s quite light this time of year, even at six o’clock in the— Oh, here’s Jane.’

  The Woodleys had indeed arrived. If she had realised this was the church favoured by all of Frances’s friends, Georgiana thought ruefully, she’d have combed her hair a little more diligently.

  ‘Morning,’ Jane said as she drew level with them. ‘Good shooting, Ces?’

  ‘Five threes and a seven,’ Cecily said with a smile, drawing herself up to full height.

  ‘You’re improving,’ said Jane, raising an eyebrow. ‘Any casualties?’

  ‘Oh,’ Cecily said airily, ‘not really.’

  ‘Not really?’ Georgiana said, alarmed, and Jane seemed to notice her for the first time despite the fact that she’d been speaking over the top of her head.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Ellers,’ she said, her eyes immediately darting to Georgiana’s hair. ‘Windy in town, is it?’

  She was hurried along by her parents before Georgiana could think of how to respond. Christopher Crawley walked past a moment or two later, with a man who must have been his brother; he looked monstrously hung-over, and stopped only to kiss both of their hands before collapsing into a pew, taking the position closest to the wall and sliding down into what was almost a horizontal position.

  ‘Will Miss Campbell be joining us?’ Georgiana said, glancing around to see if she had already arrived without her notice. ‘Or . . . Mr Smith?’

  ‘Hmm – unlikely,’ said Cecily. ‘Frances doesn’t usually make appointments before eleven o’clock, and her parents are often away so there is nobody to force her. Jonathan doesn’t come at all.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He says he’s circumvented God, looped back around and now only does business with his next of kin.’

  ‘What – Christ?’

  ‘No,’ Cecily said brightly. ‘The Devil.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Georgiana, once again at a loss for words.

  ‘There’s Jeremiah,’ Cecily said, glancing back at the door. ‘Only, don’t stare. Frances gets ever so angry when I do.’

  It was difficult for Georgiana to follow her instructions; it soon became apparent that Mr Russell had entered with quite a large crowd, including various family members, some of the men Georgiana had seen him with at Jane’s party, and finally – crucially – the tall, dark and very miserable-looking Mr Hawksley. The front pews, perpendicular to the rest so that they flanked the lectern on either side, seemed to have been left empty for them; they descended, greeting friends and neighbours as they went, with Mr Hawksley taking up the rear. Georgiana was prepared to look away and appear uninterested the moment he saw her, but he walked past without noticing her at all.

  As soon as they were seated, the rather stout young vicar, Mr Weatherby, took his place and cleared his throat for quiet, which he mostly received. The sermon began, but Georgiana found herself unable to focus. She was watching Mr Hawksley’s profile – the loose curls that had already slipped from his queue, his slight frown, and the careful journey of his hand as he turned the pages of his Bible. She only looked away when Cecily asked her which hymn they were supposed to be singing next, and she had to explain that she had no idea.

  The hymn sung, they took their seats again and Cecily leaned over to whisper in Georgiana’s ear.

  ‘That fellow Mr Hawksley is looking at you.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Georgiana, keeping her eyes fixed on the back of the pew in front. ‘Well – what kind of looking is it? Is he looking on purpose, or are his eyes just here by accident?’

  ‘I think he looks quite annoyed, actually – have you quarrelled with him? He’s blinking quite a lot, which seems . . . Oh, no, wait, I think he might have something in his eye. Yes, he’s trying to get it out. Goodness, he’s really going for it.’

  ‘Great,’ whispered Georgiana despairingly. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Cecily said, nudging her, ‘Now I think he is looking this way. He’s just quietly asked that gentleman something. I’m sure he nodded in our direction . . . Never mind, he was asking for a handkerchief. And the gentleman – yes, the gentleman does have a handkerchief he can borrow. He has the handkerchief now.’

  ‘Thank you, Cecily, really,’ said Georgiana. ‘I think you can stop, now.’

  ‘Have you quarrelled with him?’ Cecily asked – but Georgiana was saved from answering by the announcement of yet another hymn.

  The rest of the service dragged, Georgiana’s nerves dancing with anticipation of the moment when Mr Hawksley would walk past and perhaps, this time, notice her. When the time came, she was so focused on trying to look casual, on smiling pleasantly at Cecily so that he might see her looking favourable, that she didn’t notice he and Jeremiah Russell were actually standing right next to her until Cecily’s smile over her shoulder became overly wide and very pointed.

  ‘Miss Dugray,’ Mr Russell said, nodding at her. ‘And . . . Forgive me, I’m not sure we’ve been introduced.’

  ‘Georgiana Ellers, sir,’ Georgiana said, feeling herself blush, despite the fact that they absolutely had been introduced, and he had clearly immediately forgotten her. He was the sort of handsome that made one feel bathed in a ray of sunlight while under his gaze, even if he did seem to have a very short memory.

  ‘Ah, yes. Well, be good, ladies – God is watching,’ he said, raising an eyebrow suggestively and giving them another nod of farewell.

  Mr Hawksley had been standing silently at his elbow; as Jeremiah made to leave, he finally met Georgiana’s gaze, and visibly flinched as if startled. Georgiana didn’t know much about gentlemen, but she was relatively sure that flinching at the sight of you wasn’t a good sign.

  She and Cecily both looked expectantly at him, and he flashed them a quick, terse smile and inclined his head.

  ‘Good day,’ he said, before walking swiftly away.

  They sat in silence for a moment
as the rest of the congregation milled past.

  ‘Maybe,’ Cecily said charitably, ‘he still had something in his eye?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Georgiana, getting to her feet as Mrs Burton made furtive gestures for her to come. ‘Yes. I imagine that was it.’

  Chapter Eight

  W

  hen word finally came from Georgiana’s parents, she was sitting in the library windowsill reading in a most unladylike position – hair loose, back against one side of the sill, legs lifted and braced against the other. They had enjoyed shortbread with luncheon, and Georgiana had furtively visited Marjorie in the kitchen afterwards and traded a dramatic reading of part of the book she was holding – Henry Fielding, all domestic tragedy and lukewarm adultery – for some more biscuits, which she was enjoying rather messily as she turned the pages.

  The letter from her father was delivered directly into her hand by a very curious Emmeline, as her aunt and uncle were out on an afternoon walk, and she immediately gave up her book, shook out the crumbs on her dress and pulled up her uncle’s chair to the small desk to give it her full attention.

  Georgiana,

  Apologies for the delay of this letter, but we have been setting up the house and making it habitable, and we finally feel settled enough to catch up on our correspondence. Your mother is much improved, taking regular walks and sea baths, and enjoying every part of life on the coast apart from the near-constant cries of the gulls. I have shot five so far, and hope to shoot many more. We regret that you are not with us, of course, but know you are in capable hands. We will arrange a visit later on in the summer, if time allows. Please pass our thanks to your aunt and uncle for taking you into their care.

  Additionally, it has come to my attention that I seem to be missing my copy of Richard II. If you are currently its guardian, please have it sent by post at your earliest convenience.

  Your father,

  Mr Jacob Ellers

  Georgiana turned it over to see if there was a postscript, and then checked the envelope again to see if it might be the first of many letters. It was not. She read it again, trying to extract some further meaning from it, and then put it down, overcome with emptiness. All she could do was stare at the desk in front of her and will herself not to cry.