by Lex Croucher
Eventually she found an uninhabited corner of the garden where she could sit on a stone wall with her back against a tree trunk, mostly obscured, and watch in a detached sort of way as the party dwindled. It was not lost on her that, even surrounded by precisely the right people, at a party she never could have imagined in her wildest dreams just a few short weeks ago, she was once again hiding and hoping to remain unbothered.
If she couldn’t be alone with Mr Hawksley, she could do the next best thing and be alone with her thoughts of Mr Hawksley. The rational part of her mind, which had been absent for most of the evening, told her that a man like him could never truly be interested in her. He was too kind to snub her outright, as others at this party might, but that did not indicate anything more than basic good manners. It certainly did not indicate attraction. Even if he were attracted to her – and Georgiana had really believed for a moment there, as they sat together in the near-dark of the cellar, that her feelings might be reciprocated – perhaps despite his moralising about drunkenness and his outward displays of geniality, he was really just the same as his wealthy peers. Perhaps he would have kissed her, or let himself be kissed, and then forgotten it the next day, or moved on come the next party – just a story to be retold during the next round of ‘Confessions’. But it was no use obsessing over the meaning of a kiss that hadn’t even happened. She hardly knew the man – even if he did have excellent taste in wine.
She was deep in thought when somebody sat down next to her, jolting her mentally and physically out of her reverie. She thought it must be Frances, and felt pleased at being discovered – but when she turned, she saw Christopher Crawley leering at her, his shirt now almost completely undone and hanging from his frame.
‘Hiding, are we?’ he slurred, leaning towards her and putting his hand on her thigh.
Georgiana moved away from him, but only succeeded in backing herself farther into the corner.
‘I’m not interested, thank you, Christopher,’ she said, attempting to remove his hand from her leg.
‘It’s not a proposal of marriage, Georgie.’ He smirked at her, half of his face lit by the nearby lamps and the other half in darkness. ‘There’s no need to take it so seriously.’
Sluggish as she was, Georgiana was starting to feel panic flaring in the recesses of her mind. They were quite well hidden, and Christopher’s grip on her was surprisingly strong for somebody so drunk. He was leaning in closer to her, but somehow she felt she could not cry out – she could not make an embarrassing fuss, especially as she was at his house, surrounded by his friends – but he smelled so strongly of whisky and pipe smoke and pungent perfume that she thought she might vomit. Her heart was pounding uncomfortably, which felt ridiculous; he wasn’t hurting her – her life was not at stake – and yet she felt as if it were, her every nerve screaming at her to run as she sat frozen in his grasp.
Just as she thought it was actually going to happen – she was going to be kissed by this repellent man who had laid claim to her so casually – she saw Frances staggering from the house, and called out her name.
Frances turned towards the sound, and Georgiana could immediately tell that something was terribly wrong. Her face was contracted in a horrible rictus, her eyes unfocused as she stumbled towards them. Christopher had been surprised enough by her exclamation to let go of her, and she took the opportunity to push past him and rush to her friend’s side.
She reached her at the same time that Jonathan did, and they both saw that Frances was shivering uncontrollably. He immediately removed his jacket and put it around her shoulders, steering her back to the corner Georgiana had just vacated; mercifully, Christopher had disappeared.
‘What on earth, Franny?’ Jonathan asked, with genuine concern. ‘Have you taken something?’
‘No. I mean, yes,’ she slurred. ‘But that’s not . . . I . . . Something happened – but I need your help, I need . . . Oh God, we must go back inside.’ She was suddenly insistent, sounding almost frightened, but still smiling that terrible, stiff smile.
‘All right – inside? We can go inside,’ said Georgiana, exchanging a confused look with Jonathan. ‘Where inside, Frances?’
‘I’ll show you,’ she said.
Jonathan put an arm around her, clearly holding at least half her weight as they walked. Frances directed them upstairs and along the narrow landing to a bedroom lit by a single lamp, where they helped her to sit down on the edge of the four-poster.
Frances did seem very drunk, but this wasn’t unusual. What was genuinely alarming was the fact that she looked half-dead and completely stunned; Georgiana was reminded of descriptions she had read in books of those who had seen battle. It was so strange to see her light thus dimmed that Georgiana could think of nothing to say, simply rubbing her arm as Jonathan left to fetch her a drink, returning with gin in one hand and ale in the other. He handed them both to Georgiana, and firmly shut the door behind him.
‘Go on,’ said Jonathan, taking the ale and pressing it insistently into Frances’s hands. She looked at it, barely seeming to comprehend what it was. ‘What is it? What happened?’
‘You mustn’t tell anybody,’ she said. Suddenly her expression grew fierce, and she looked at them both in turn. ‘You must swear it. You must not let it leave this room.’
They both agreed. Frances let out a sigh.
‘I was with Jeremiah. He said he didn’t want to waste his time in the company of anybody else. He only came because he knew I’d be here. I thought he truly cared for me, but now I am sure of it – oh, I suppose he’s my fiancé, now!’
‘Oh, Frances!’ Georgiana cried. ‘How wonderful! He proposed?’
‘Well . . . not in so many words, exactly,’ Frances replied, smiling down at the hands that clasped her cup of ale. ‘But that’s a formality. We are promised to each other, now.’
Jonathan, who had been sitting next to her on the bed, got up at these words. He looked suddenly furious, and Georgiana could not understand why.
‘Franny – look at me.’ She did not. He reached down and took the cup from her hands, and she looked up then, still smiling that strange, pained smile. ‘Look at me. What happened?’
There was a long silence. The feeling of wrongness – that something terrible had happened – weighed heavily on Georgiana, but she didn’t yet understand what was causing so much apprehension. They were almost engaged? They were promised to each other? What was so bad about that?
‘Jonathan, don’t look at me like that,’ Frances said, and Georgiana was horrified to see tears gathering in her eyes and spilling slowly and steadily down her cheeks, her voice cracking even though her tone was light. ‘We’ll be engaged by Sunday! It’s all going to be fine.’
Her hands were shaking so much that Georgiana gathered them both up in her own, just so she didn’t have to see them behaving so pitifully.
She still didn’t understand.
‘Where?’ asked Jonathan, in a voice like thunder. ‘Here?’
‘No.’ She nodded towards a door Georgiana hadn’t noticed before, opposite the bed. ‘That’s why . . . I need your help. There was some – well, I tried, but I couldn’t get it out. I don’t know why.’ She laughed suddenly, and it sounded harsh and strange with tears still wet on her face. ‘But my damned hands won’t stop shaking.’ She stopped laughing abruptly. ‘He said . . . He said he wanted us to be together.’
‘Is that what you wanted?’ Jonathan replied. He certainly wasn’t laughing.
‘Perhaps . . . Perhaps not now. Not like this. But it did seem silly to make a fuss, Jonathan, when we know what we plan to do. He said so, Jonathan. He said we’ll be married soon, so what’s the difference?’
Georgiana looked at her in genuine horror. Comprehension was finally dawning on her. Jonathan crossed the room in a few strides and opened the adjoining door. It was dark beyond the doorway, so Georgiana picked up the lamp and followed him inside, the flickering light illuminating a very small dressing room.
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nbsp; There was blood smeared on the edge of the dressing table. Splashes on the white marble of the tabletop – small drops soaking into the floorboards and the rug. Georgiana could see where Frances had tried to remove it, but had only succeeded in spreading it around. Three bloody fingerprints on the mirror. Georgiana put the lamp down on the windowsill, fighting a wave of nausea, and Jonathan left the room without a word, returning quickly with cloth dark enough to disguise any marks and a pitcher of water that had been left by the bed.
Georgiana and Jonathan worked quickly together in silence, scrubbing the surfaces, doing what they could for the deeper stains until they were just anonymous smudges of indeterminate colour. When they were done, Georgiana took the lamp and they went back into the bedroom to find Frances curled up on the bed fast asleep, looking far smaller and more breakable than Georgiana had ever seen her.
Jonathan sighed heavily, sitting down on the floor at the foot of the bed and taking a deep swig from the untouched gin. He handed it up to Georgiana, who sat down beside him.
‘She’s living in a fantasy,’ he said quietly, leaning against the bed, looking exhausted. Georgiana didn’t know it was possible to convey such venom with a whisper, but somehow he managed it. ‘He’s not going to propose. He’s a jumped-up little shit with a reputation. She likes to think she’s special, that it’s different for her, but it’s not. She’s just another silly girl in a long, long line of silly girls.’
Georgiana felt this was rather unsympathetic, for a man who had moments before been cleaning up his best friend’s blood.
‘She seems . . . shaken,’ she whispered back. ‘What if she truly didn’t want this, Jonathan?’
Jonathan exhaled sharply through his nose.
‘Even if she didn’t, who would believe it? Who’s going to believe she didn’t want him, unchaperoned at this party, alone with him in an upstairs room? What if she’s with child, Georgiana?’
Georgiana stared at him hopelessly.
‘I suppose . . . I suppose if she isn’t, there’s a chance she’ll get away with this,’ Jonathan said, closing his eyes and scrubbing a hand across his face. ‘Jeremiah may talk, but it may not go beyond schoolboy bragging. Perhaps people will think he’s lying. She might even be able to marry someone else before it gets out, if she acts fast. She’s not some farm girl, Georgiana, she’s . . . She’s Frances Campbell. Jesus Christ.’
‘And if she is with child?’ Georgiana breathed.
‘Then I very sincerely hope I’m wrong, and Jeremiah Russell isn’t an unendurable fuckwit, and he’s left post-haste to ride through the night and prise his grandmother’s ring from her finger so he can come back and propose tomorrow.’
When Jonathan phrased it like that, the prospect did not seem particularly likely.
‘What do we do?’
‘We say absolutely nothing to absolutely no one. We hope that Jeremiah Russell is shooting blanks, and we pray very hard that he takes an unfortunate tumble off his horse tomorrow and isn’t found for at least twenty-four hours,’ he said darkly. ‘Come on. I’m going to see if he’s still here.’
‘I’ll stay,’ said Georgiana, not wanting to leave Frances, and suddenly exceedingly tired of everyone and everything. Jonathan shrugged, patted her shoulder distractedly and then exited.
Georgiana lowered herself onto the bed as gently as she could and arranged her limbs so that she would not disturb Frances, whose face was pressed into her clenched fists, thinking she’d almost certainly be lying awake until dawn, and then falling asleep almost at once.
Chapter Thirteen
G
eorgiana woke up late the next morning with a pounding headache and a very strange, bitter taste in her mouth. She sat up fully clothed, looking around through bleary eyes to find that Frances was no longer in the room. She entered the dressing room, trying and failing not to think about what had transpired there the night before as she cleaned her face and combed her hair through with her fingers, attempting to pin as much of it back up as she could by herself. She couldn’t help but stare at a dark stain on the rug by her feet.
What had it been like? Had he used force? Was it usual, that amount of blood? Had she enjoyed it? Had he enjoyed it? Had she led him in here herself, given in to her instincts like Georgiana nearly had in the cellar? Had it felt just like that – pleasant sparks of sensation, shortness of breath, a racing heart? Or had she been trapped like prey, pushed into a corner; leaving a trail of blood behind like a wounded animal?
Her brief toilette complete, Georgiana went down-stairs in search of Frances. She was surprised to see everybody up and dressed; most of the guests had departed during the night, leaving just a handful behind. They were sitting at a long table in the garden, eating a large array of breakfast foods that had clearly arrived just before Georgiana had. Most surprisingly of all, Cecily and Jane were with them, Cecily looking drawn and exhausted but smiling nonetheless as she picked at a boiled egg. Christopher, she noticed, wasn’t eating anything at all. He had his head in his hands and looked barely conscious, but she sat down as far away from him as was possible anyway.
‘Are you all right?’ Georgiana asked Cecily as she took a place opposite her. She also wanted to direct the same question at Frances, who was currently laughing at something Jeremiah was saying as if nothing at all had happened between them.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Cecily. ‘Thomas found me a doctor. Jane said he pounded on every door until he found the right one, and went and woke the poor man up. I don’t remember that part. He made me eat something ghastly, and I got up whatever it was that was making me so ill. I had a terrible stomach upset.’
‘Yes,’ said Jane, rolling her eyes. ‘A stomach upset. Must have been something you ate.’
‘Oh, hush, Jane. Thomas was wonderful. He was due somewhere else today but he stayed with me at the doctor’s until I was feeling better, and then he brought us back here just before dawn.’
‘Careful.’ Frances’s voice cut across the table; Georgiana hadn’t realised she was listening. ‘You’ll make poor George jealous.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Georgiana, attempting a laugh.
Truthfully, she was a little jealous. Of course it was wonderful that Mr Hawksley had taken care of Cecily. Of course he should stay with Jane and Cecily until the latter was feeling better; he could hardly leave them alone at a strange doctor’s house in the middle of nowhere. And of course Cecily could call Mr Hawksley ‘Thomas’ if she wished, even though the easy familiarity made Georgiana want to grind her teeth into dust.
The real issue was that Cecily was so beautiful that Greek gods probably would have thrown themselves willingly onto pikes for the chance to see her unclothed shoulder, and there was absolutely no chance Mr Hawksley hadn’t noticed. Even in the midst of copious vomiting, she’d given off an air of grace and delicacy that Georgiana couldn’t master in a thousand years of trying. Perhaps Mr Hawksley liked his women pale and sickly, fainting against him at the doctor’s, instead of obstinate and bold in the wine cellar? Perhaps it was alluring, to look as Cecily had last night – as if you were already laid out at the mortuary, ready for embalming?
‘I’m glad you’re all right, Cecily,’ Georgiana said with some effort, reaching for the eggs herself.
She caught Jonathan’s eyes across the table – they were really only half-open as he leaned on his elbow, looking as if he hadn’t gone to bed at all – and he rolled them in Frances’s direction before tucking in to his own breakfast.
Everybody was rather subdued all day. Cecily seemed to have given up on her previous conquest, and both of the Jameses sat with Christopher and Jeremiah in the shade of an apple tree for most of the afternoon, playing cards and losing outrageous amounts of money to one another. Georgiana could tell that Frances wanted to go over to Mr Russell and engage him in conversation, or invite him to be alone with her elsewhere; she kept laughing a little too loudly at things that weren’t particularly funny, and shooting sidelong glances at him f
rom where they sat on the patio. He ignored all of this, only responding when she spoke to him directly, and doing so with perfect, painful cordiality.
Frances did not seem outwardly concerned, but Georgiana noticed that her fingers kept beating a drum on whatever surface they alighted on, a sure sign that she was keenly aware of his absence. Georgiana desperately wanted to speak to her alone, but did not manage to do so all that afternoon; Frances and Jonathan were inseparable, and drinking again, making up limericks and being insufferable to all but each other. Instead, she had to sit and listen to Cecily extolling the virtues of her dear friend ‘Thomas’, until she wanted to go back down to the cellar and scream where nobody could hear her.
‘He is just what a young man ought to be, don’t you agree, Jane?’
Jane gave a ‘hmmph’, which could have signified agreement or disapproval. She had been stony-faced and impressively dead behind the eyes all day.
‘So thoughtful. So kind,’ Cecily went on. ‘I know he can be a little dull, but I think what happened with his brother has given him a sort of sensitivity – and an inclination to be sensible – that so many men seem to lack.’
‘What happened with his brother?’ asked Georgiana, torn between wanting Cecily to shut her perfectly formed, beautiful mouth and wanting to know anything more there was to know about Mr Hawksley.
‘He died just a few years ago – he was the younger brother. James told me yesterday. Oh, he was making some terrible snide remark about how it had made Thomas boring – such a dreadful thing to say. So sad, to lose family so young.’
‘How did he die?’ asked Georgiana, trying to sound no more than casually interested.