Reputation

by Lex Croucher

  She wasn’t alone in the cellar. A tall figure had emerged from the darkness almost as soon as she had alighted on the ground. He advanced into the lamplight – and was transformed.

  Mr Hawksley, summoned as if by sorcery by her thinking of him with such frequency, was standing before her, looking quite alarmed.

  She clapped her hands over her mouth to cut off the scream that had issued from it and stared at him, hardly believing he was really there, raising his dark eyebrows at her. Having imagined him at least three dozen times since the church, she was surprised to find him a little shorter and less supernaturally beautiful than he had been in her mind. Nevertheless, he was still very pleasing to the eye, and more importantly, he really did seem to be standing there in front of her. He put his hand on her arm very briefly to steady her and she felt the solid warmth of him, proving his existence.

  ‘My sincere apologies – I was sent to select something for a friend – I thought it best not to call out to you and startle you while you were . . . clambering.’

  He removed his hand. Georgiana missed it immediately.

  ‘I wasn’t clambering,’ she said with as much dignity as she could muster for a person who had been shrieking like a banshee moments before. ‘I was making a . . . a controlled descent.’

  ‘Ah, of course,’ said Mr Hawksley politely. ‘My apologies. It looked for a moment like a clamber.’

  Georgiana suddenly remembered how thoroughly she had embarrassed herself during their last conversation, and decided it might be best not to talk at all. She tucked a loose lock of hair behind her ear and walked past him with a wobbly determination that wouldn’t have been out of place on a moving ship. The shelves were lined with hundreds of bottles and casks of wine, and she pretended to cast a critical eye over them. She was keenly aware that she should not really be alone with a gentleman – even one of Mr Hawksley’s standing – in Uncle Crawley’s sex cellar, of all places. Her heart was thrumming in her chest, but she could not pretend it was out of any sort of anguish at the impropriety of the situation.

  The sounds of the party were muffled here, the lamplight flickering across the walls and dancing in the glass of the bottles, and Thomas Hawksley was watching as she ran her hand over a label to rid it of dust and squinted at hand-scrawled names and dates that meant nothing to her. She felt his gaze on the back of her neck like a physical touch.

  ‘My apologies again for disturbing you,’ he said, his voice just as pleasantly deep as she remembered.

  She looked back to see that he had already put a foot on the lowest rung of the ladder and was making to leave. He looked a little defeated, and Georgiana wondered if he had come down here to be alone.

  ‘No,’ said Georgiana loudly, before she’d decided what to say next. ‘Er . . . Do you know anything about wine?’

  ‘I know a little,’ he said, stepping back down, one hand still resting on the ladder as if he hadn’t decided whether to stay.

  ‘Excellent,’ she said, putting an arm to the wall to steady herself. ‘That means you know at least twice as much as I do, and can rescue me from the shame of choosing something squeezed from . . . from inferior grapes, and bottled by some sort of terrible incompetent.’

  He smiled at this, and came to stand next to her, arms crossed.

  ‘What are your usual requirements, when it comes to wine?’

  ‘Something light and not too heady,’ said Georgiana, feeling both of those things herself. ‘Something with the taste of . . . fruit, perhaps, or something floral.’

  ‘So essentially, you want something that tastes as little like wine as possible?’ asked Mr Hawksley, raising an eyebrow. ‘Have you considered a fruit cordial? Some light ale? Or perhaps some water? I can provide you with a delightful vintage, bottled from the well down the road yesterday. It has a light, watery bouquet followed by a pleasant, watery finish.’

  ‘You mock me, sir,’ said Georgiana, not minding a bit. ‘I am wounded.’

  ‘You are drunk,’ said Mr Hawksley bluntly, and now Georgiana did feel a little hurt.

  ‘Are you not?’ she replied.

  Before he answered, he, too, began to look through the shelves, running his hand lightly over the bottles as he searched. Georgiana felt the fine hair rising on her arms; it would be rather agreeable to be a bottle of Uncle Crawley’s Merlot at this particular moment.

  ‘No,’ he said eventually, bending to look closer in the gloom. ‘I have had exactly two glasses of wine – very good wine, it must be said – but I have no need for a further, especially if I am to be climbing ladders, assisting ladies in their choice of libations, et cetera.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Georgiana, giving up any pretence of looking for wine herself and instead watching him as he explored. ‘I have had . . . more than two glasses.’

  She found herself admiring his hand again. Large, with short, even nails, the pads of his fingers perhaps a little gently calloused from riding – but most attractive in the surety with which it travelled.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr Hawksley, as if there were no need for her to state something so obvious.

  Georgiana had swayed a little on her feet again, and struggled to right herself.

  Mr Hawksley looked round at her and frowned. ‘Miss Ellers?’

  Hearing him say her name was so deliciously distracting that she almost forgot to reply.

  ‘Oh . . . I’m fine. Just getting my sea legs, you know. This is only perhaps the third or fourth time I’ve continued past the bottom of a bottle.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Mr Hawksley, as if this explained a lot, looking at her for a moment longer before turning back to the wine. ‘And have these occasions happened to coincide with time spent in the company of Miss Campbell?’

  Georgiana narrowed her eyes at him. ‘And what if they did?’

  Mr Hawksley found a bottle that seemed to hold promise and pulled it from its resting place, blowing gently to dissipate its fine shroud of dust.

  ‘I only ask because I have observed that she and her friends often seem to be operating under the influence of various . . . substances.’

  ‘It is not some sort of requirement of her friendship,’ said Georgiana, frowning.

  ‘Yes. Well,’ he said, presenting her with the bottle. ‘It is none of my business, of course. I just thought you seemed like you might be in need of . . . Anyway, this is a white wine, from Bourgogne.’

  Georgiana reached for the bottle, but – her hand-eye co-ordination being more than a little off – managed to drop it immediately. It hit the floor with a thud, and they both looked down to see if it had broken. It seemed intact. In unison, they bent to pick it up, and in a last-ditch attempt to avoid colliding with Mr Hawksley’s head, Georgiana veered wildly to the side and ended up hitting him anyway and knocking them both to the ground.

  The air was forced from her lungs by the impact of her chest against Mr Hawksley’s shoulder, and for quite a few seconds all she could do was wheeze attractively. He let out a little pained huff of breath, sat up quickly and grasped her gently by the upper arm and the small of her back to help guide her into a sitting position. For what felt like a deliciously long moment his hands held her, and she felt strangely hot at every small point of contact, as if he had taken them straight out of a furnace to touch her.

  She’d been touched before. She’d been steered into rooms, walked arm in arm, shared chaste – or at least, mostly chaste – kisses. Christopher had just been touching her legs, for goodness’ sake, and it also wasn’t as if she had never felt Thomas Hawksley’s hands on her before – unfortunately, she was making a habit of performing ill-advised amateur acrobatics in his presence. Despite all this, somehow this touch – alone in the cellar, in the semi-darkness, with wine on her tongue and scuffs on her dress – was nothing like any of the ones that had come before it.

  Even if she had abandoned all sense of propriety long ago, he had not. He looked quite mortified by the prolonged contact, retracting his hand from her bare skin, and starting t
o mutter apologies. Too drunk to restrain herself from her baser instincts, too desperate to know how it would feel, Georgiana reached out and took his retreating hand in her own.

  He did not resist. His palm was cool and dry, but she could feel the callouses she had imagined before, an infinitesimal amount of drag against her skin. They were sitting extraordinarily close together – she could have counted each of the long lashes that framed his dark eyes. She was still winded, which accounted for her erratic breathing; he had not been winded at all, so there was no logical explanation for the rapid rise and fall of his chest. She could actually feel his breath, hot against her cheek.

  It occurred to Georgiana that she very much wanted to kiss him, and she was horrified to discover that she actually might follow through; she felt thrilled to her core and slightly sick all at once just thinking of it. She tugged gently on his hand to pull him towards her and close the gap between them – and then suddenly a shout came from above them and she pushed away from him, feeling as shocked and ashamed as a rutting dog doused in cold water in the street. There were more shouts – they were more distant than they had seemed at first, but still far too close for comfort – and, the wine forgotten, Georgiana sprang to her feet and pulled herself shakily up the ladder, not daring to look back to see if Thomas Hawksley was following as she went.

  Chapter Twelve

  G

  eorgiana emerged into the kitchen and followed the source of the commotion until she reached the doors that led to the garden patio, where Christopher, not sounding entirely serious, was shouting ‘Is there a doctor in the house?’ while waving a lit candle above his head like a distress beacon.

  ‘What on earth has happened?’ asked Georgiana as he passed her.

  ‘Ces is dying,’ he slurred, alcohol thick on his breath. ‘It’s . . . most unfortunate.’

  ‘What?’ cried Georgiana in alarm, looking about. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘She’s in the parlour, poor duck,’ he said. He squinted at her, and leaned a little too close to her face for comfort. ‘Are you a doctor?’

  ‘No,’ said Georgiana firmly, pushing him away and heading back inside to the small parlour at the front of the house.

  Cecily did indeed seem to be in a state of some distress. She was lying on the sofa in a tangle of long, pale limbs, pink muslin and golden hair, which had come partially undone throughout the course of the evening, and she looked frightfully grey. Jane was sitting by her side, holding what seemed to be a chamber pot. Horsey James, Georgiana noted, was nowhere to be seen – and neither was Frances.

  As she watched, Jane put a comforting hand on her friend’s forehead and stroked her hair away from her temple. This tenderness still seemed so out of character to Georgiana that she hardly knew what to think. Jane leaned down and muttered something in Cecily’s ear; Cecily responded by pitching suddenly forward and retching into the proffered chamber pot, instantly demonstrating its part in the proceedings. Whatever was coming out of her mouth was so dark it looked black, which wasn’t a particularly encouraging colour for some-body’s insides to be.

  ‘She’s poisoned herself,’ said a voice from behind Georgiana’s left ear.

  She jumped, but recovered quickly. Mr Hawksley had come into the room after her. She imagined that he had probably lingered a little longer in the cellar for the sake of decency, both to allow her time to climb the ladder without accidentally getting a glimpse up her skirts, and so that nobody saw them exiting a confined underground space together.

  ‘Poisoned?’ asked Georgiana, unable to meet his eyes.

  ‘Yes. By the consumption of large quantities of alcohol,’ he said, similarly unable to meet hers.

  She noticed that he was holding the bottle of wine she had abandoned; it seemed inappropriate, given the circumstances, and he placed it awkwardly on a side table.

  ‘Well deduced,’ Jane said sarcastically, wincing as Cecily demonstrated the point by vomiting again. ‘She usually gets it all out of her system on her own within a few hours.’

  ‘She needs a doctor,’ said Mr Hawksley firmly. ‘She’s unwell. My carriage is outside, I hadn’t intended to stay long. I will take her.’

  ‘You?’ Jane asked sharply. ‘She’s my friend, and to be quite honest, I don’t really know you.’

  ‘I can assure you that she will be in safe hands. There’s a doctor in the village – it’s but half an hour from here. I will deliver her myself.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Jane. ‘I’m coming, too.’

  ‘Fine. Will you. . . ?’

  He gestured at Cecily’s limp form, and Georgiana hurriedly stepped forward to help Jane. Between them, they managed to heave Cecily to her feet and manoeuvre her outside, where Mr Hawksley did indeed have a man and a carriage waiting. Having deposited her friend and given a half-hearted wave goodbye to Jane and Mr Hawksley – both of whom ignored her – Georgiana stood in the dark driveway watching them pull away with a strange sense of anticlimax. She eyed the hazardous front step of the cottage and briefly considered tripping over it to necessitate her own visit to the doctor, but then sighed and went back inside, her mind fixed on the bottle of wine awaiting her in the parlour.

  Now that there was no chance of another surprise encounter with a certain dark-haired gentleman – and with the dramatics of Cecily’s poisoning behind her – Georgiana’s interest in the party was beginning to wane. This could have been easily remedied if she could locate Frances, but her friend had been missing in action for quite some time now. She felt a little abandoned; Frances, after all, had invited her here, and there was this nagging feeling of being left out of the real fun if she were not by her side. Frances radiated a kind of energy that drew all around her closer, made her the centre of every party, every conversation, every orbit. Without her, Georgiana was left adrift.

  She wandered between scattered groups, clutching the bottle of white wine, taking little sips from it and treasuring this small connection to Mr Hawksley. She did like it, and in her well-lubricated state this made her feel as if he must truly understand some key facet of her being.

  It must have been past midnight when she was called over to a group by name, and she didn’t hesitate to join them, feeling flattered that her presence was being specifically requested. When it turned out to be Christopher who had called to her, the feeling abated a little, but Jonathan was there, too, so she took her place in a circle of partygoers who seemed to be engaged in some sort of drinking game.

  ‘The game is “Confessions”,’ Jonathan explained. He wasn’t slurring his speech like Christopher, but he was still clearly very well liquored. ‘Somebody confesses something dreadful, and if you, too, have partaken in the dastardly deed, you drink.’

  A pretty red-headed girl next to Christopher was taking her turn.

  ‘I confess to . . . er . . . breaking a family heirloom. And passing the blame to my mother’s maid.’

  Everybody around the circle drank. Georgiana’s wine was left untouched.

  ‘Oh, come now,’ said Christopher, sounding scandalised for the wrong reasons. ‘Is that the worst you’ve got? Absolutely pathetic. I borrowed my father’s favourite horse when I was twelve and broke the poor beast’s leg on an ill-advised jump. Father shot it himself – closest I’ve ever seen the old bastard come to weeping. I blamed it on a servant’s boy. I thought he might shoot the gormless little lad, too, but he just dismissed them both.’

  Everyone laughed. Georgiana did not.

  ‘All right, Georgie, it’s your turn,’ said Christopher, and she had the uncomfortable feeling of every eye on her, greedily awaiting something salacious. Her mind was completely, impossibly blank; luckily, Jonathan saved her.

  ‘Leave the poor thing alone, she’s new to this,’ he said crossly, probably just for the joy of berating Christopher. ‘I confess to stealing an afternoon of kisses from a pretty little thing who works in the Campbells’ stables. The smell of horse shit, though pungent, did nothing to dampen our ardour.’

 
Everybody laughed, and Georgiana wondered how many knew that the Campbells only employed stable boys.

  ‘Stolen kisses, then – come on. Drink up, you miserable harlots.’

  To her surprise, almost everybody drank – even the women. Georgiana was once again astounded at the extent to which the rules really did not seem to apply to these people. To kiss somebody you were not engaged to – somebody who you were not in any way promised to beyond that night – and flaunt it so flagrantly would have been the end of her at home, or in her aunt and uncle’s regular circles. She had always imagined that the same rules applied to all, that all characters were judged equally, but she supposed that some sort of agreement of secrecy existed among this particular class of people. They did not seem to think any less of one another for it. After all, if everybody had been running amok, kissing whoever they pleased – how could they? And how could you ever restrict your potential future partners to those who had remained ideologically pure and not engaged in any of this illicit kissing, if it was as common as catching a cold?

  Christopher had noticed that she wasn’t taking a drink.

  ‘Goodness, a saint walks among us,’ he drawled unkindly. ‘I’m sure we can find someone to remedy that tonight, Georgie.’

  ‘Has anyone ever told you that you sound exactly like those men who sit in the back of brothels, leering and sweating and parcelling out the women to scabby customers?’ Jonathan said scathingly.

  ‘What were you doing in that sort of brothel, Smith?’ Christopher spat back. ‘Trying to cure yourself of your terrible ailment?’

  The mood thus ruined, the game abruptly ended, and Georgiana was back on her feet again, now simply looking for a place to hide until it was quiet enough to go to bed. It was strangely claustrophobic to have her bedtime dictated by the whims of other people. She was feeling the unsettling combination of drunk and sick that came from imbibing over a long period of time, and would have swapped all the wine in the cellar for a quiet, comfortable place to rest her head.