Reputation

by Lex Croucher

  ‘You know, I’m not sure. James didn’t say. An illness, I think. I’m sure it must have affected Thomas quite keenly.’

  Georgiana, never having had a sibling, could not ever understand the loss of one. It had been bad enough losing her parents to a better climate, but at least they might return, or invite her to tea, however unlikely either possibility seemed at present; death was so unsettlingly permanent. She could not begin to imagine how it might affect her to lose her family forever – how ‘boring’ she might become to those around her.

  ‘Anyway, he knew there was a doctor in the village because his house actually isn’t too far from here. I’ve heard it’s magnificent, I wonder if he would ever—’

  ‘Are you still talking about bloody Mr Hawksley?’ Frances asked, distracted from giggling with Jonathan. ‘Did he give you his carriage, Ces? Did he catch your vomit in his cupped hands, so not to waste a drop? Did he pull down his breeches and show you his solid gold—’

  ‘All right, all right, I was only saying,’ said Cecily reproachfully.

  Georgiana laughed along with the others, grateful to Frances for putting a stop to Cecily’s endless exclamations of admiration.

  They passed the rest of the day quietly. At one point almost everybody fell asleep, woken only when Christopher slipped from his chair and hit the ground with an angry shout of fear, which roused them all in a panic which quickly turned to laughter. He did not seem to enjoy being mocked, and stalked off into the house to nap somewhere else. Georgiana felt some part of her unclench as he went, still feeling his hand on her thigh as if he had bruised her.

  He hadn’t. She’d checked.

  It was much more pleasant to reminisce about Mr Hawksley’s hands on her – although the more she did, the more she came to realise she had practically thrown

  herself at the poor man, who had probably volunteered to take Cecily just to get away from her brazen advances. In the pleasant space halfway between wakefulness and sleep as they all dozed in the garden, Georgiana carefully rewrote the narrative; she imagined that he might return to the house later that night, ostensibly to check on Cecily’s well-being, but really to see her again. He’d catch her eye and tell them all that he was going for another bottle of wine – code that only she would understand – and she’d steal away to meet him in the darkness of the cellar, his hands on hers the moment she set foot on solid ground. He’d tell her he could not stop thinking about her; that the musty smell of a cellar would make him burn for her for as long as he lived. He’d say that Cecily was beautiful, but a touch too pretty, and that he much preferred brunettes of average height with a tendency to let their mouths run away from them. The frisson she had felt between them the night before would return – real, not imagined – but this time there would be no interruptions. He’d take her in his arms, and brush her hair aside, and kiss her.

  And then what? She could not imagine what would happen next. Certainly not what had transpired between Frances and Jeremiah. And she couldn’t imagine a proposal, either. No – the fantasy ended there, and she had to start again from the beginning. Luckily, replaying it was not too much of a hardship; the part where they kissed was a particular favourite of hers.

  When evening came and they all went upstairs to wash properly and dress for dinner, Georgiana seized her chance and followed Frances into her room, closing the door behind them.

  ‘Are you – how are you, Frances?’ she asked, sitting down on the edge of the bed as Frances crossed to the adjoining room, sat down at the dressing table apparently without self-consciousness, and considered herself in the mirror. The sun was setting and the room glowed pleasantly, the pinkish light burnishing Frances’s dark curls.

  ‘How am I? I’m fine,’ Frances said casually, unpinning her hair and beginning to comb it out carefully in short, even strokes.

  ‘But . . . are you upset, about what happened? Do you want to talk about it?’

  ‘Upset? Why should I be upset? You sweet thing, George. I know Jonathan hates him, but Jeremiah isn’t the cad he makes him out to be. He’s good, you know. He’s honourable. He simply doesn’t want to propose surrounded by this dreadful rabble, and I can hardly blame him. Imagine agreeing to be his wife at Bastards’ Cottage.’ She put the comb down and uncorked a bottle of a sweet-smelling oil, rubbing a little between her fingers before smoothing it through her hair. ‘In all honesty, I think Jonathan may be a little jealous. It’s sad.’

  ‘Jealous?’ asked Georgiana. ‘But I thought—’

  ‘Oh, not in that way, of course. But he and I are thick as thieves, and have been for a long time. You’ve seen how we are together. I think he sees Jeremiah’s gain as his loss. I can hardly be gallivanting about the country-side with Jonathan if I’m Mrs Jeremiah Russell, can I?’

  ‘I suppose not,’ said Georgiana, watching as Frances expertly twisted her hair up and pinned it into place. ‘Frances, I . . . What about Jane?’

  Her friend stiffened minutely, then placed her hairpins down on the table in front of her.

  ‘What about her?’ she asked slowly.

  ‘You know I saw you, Frances. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, but . . . I did. And I don’t know what it was, or what it means, but I do know that Jane – she seems quite upset.’ Frances laughed, shaking her head. ‘Georgiana, what do you think you saw? Have you never had a friendship like that? We’re young. It’s summer! We were drinking, we were . . . It doesn’t mean anything.’

  Georgiana wasn’t quite sure that they could write off all of their behaviour as youthful summer indiscretions anymore past the age of twenty, but held her tongue.

  ‘It’s a little tradition of ours, the fair – mine and Jane’s, I mean, since we were children. But that is all it is. A bit of . . . summer nostalgia. Jane, upset. Imagine.’ She was pinning her hair again with firm precision. ‘What a thing to think of, honestly – especially now, with everything that’s happened with Jeremiah . . .’ She trailed off, studying herself in the glass with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

  Georgiana came to stand behind Frances, looking down at her hands so she would not see her reflection as she spoke.

  ‘What was it . . . like with him, Frances?’

  She had been trying very hard not to ask this question, but found it impossible; Frances was now the oracle of what went on beyond locked doors with handsome young men.

  Her friend was opening a small pot of carmine now, and applying it to her lips with a light hand. When she was finished she turned her head from side to side, admiring the effect in the glass.

  ‘It was . . . Well, I can’t tell you everything,’ she said, with an air of worldly knowledge. ‘You have to experience it to know. Parts of it were . . . awkward – you should have seen the expressions on his face, he looked positively possessed – but I felt very close to him. Very exposed, but . . . But I feel now that I can trust him completely. And he was kind, after. He only left me because I told him to go, so we wouldn’t be discovered together. You needn’t look so worried, and you certainly shouldn’t pay Jonathan any mind – I’m not sorry it happened. He really is a gentleman, George.’

  ‘If you’re sure,’ said Georgiana, hoping dearly that Frances was right, and Jonathan wrong – that they would both dance at her wedding before the year was out. The alternative was too terrible to consider.

  ‘I’m sure. Sit – I’ll do your hair,’ Frances said kindly.

  Georgiana took her place on the stool, enjoying the intimate feeling of deft fingers in her hair and the gentle pull of the comb as Frances worked.

  ‘Cecily was in raptures over your Mr Hawksley,’ she said as she brushed. ‘Christ, you’d think he’d personally brought her back from the dead, the way she carries on.’

  ‘He’s not my Mr Hawksley,’ said Georgiana, but her tone of voice betrayed her true feelings, and Frances laughed.

  ‘Don’t take it to heart – poor Ces is just too foolish to know better. She doesn’t realise she’s hurting your feelings. I
don’t think anyone has ever managed to hurt hers, so she can’t empathise. She seems to float through life, absorbing its blows, bouncing off to the next thing when something falls through. It’s charming, in a way – but extremely aggravating when you’re collateral damage.’

  Georgiana had thought Frances a little unkind to Cecily in the past, but this assessment of her character was cheering her mightily. Whatever Mr Hawksley was, he certainly wasn’t a fool, and she didn’t think he’d suffer foolishness in a partner. Even one as tall and slender and helplessly beautiful as a tree sapling.

  ‘I’m not sure he likes me at all,’ Georgiana said aloud. ‘It’s so hard to tell. And then, even if he did . . . Well, I’m hardly a catch.’

  She was reluctant to draw too much attention to this; after all, she imagined that her friendship with Frances relied entirely on her friend not thinking too hard about how much she outranked her.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think that matters,’ said Frances dismissively.

  They both knew this to be patently untrue, but Georgiana was happy to pretend otherwise, both when it came to any imagined relationship with Mr Hawksley and her current, very real relationship with Frances, who was currently putting the final pins in her hair.

  ‘There. You’re as pretty as a show pony. Go and change your dress and we can play a drinking game at dinner – take a very big sip every time Cecily says the name Thomas.’

  The rest of the trip passed without incident. They drank quite a lot with dinner on Saturday, and Jonathan treated them to a performance of increasingly filthy stories as the evening drew on, but they were too exhausted to do much more than laugh at him and sporadically refill their glasses. Christopher left Georgiana alone, nursing such a terrible hangover that he constantly wore an expression of acute pain. Frances’s reprimand had worked, and Cecily did not treat them to verse twenty-seven of the many virtues of Mr Hawksley.

  Georgiana staggered up to bed that night feeling tired but on the whole rather happy. The niggling worries and concerns that had plagued her all day were nothing compared to the feeling of belonging – the memories of her friends laughing at her jokes and refilling her glass, of being enclosed on all sides by people who truly wanted her.

  On Sunday, after a late breakfast, the carriages arrived. The front drive was suddenly a busy metropolis, with servants crossing back and forth carrying trunks, and horses snorting and stamping their hooves, impatient to be away. Georgiana lingered on the threshold of the cottage, wondering if she was crossing it for the last time or if it would become familiar to her, part of the tapestry of summers to come – until Frances grew tired of waiting, and called for her to hurry up. While the others slumped down in their seats, clearly settling in to sleep all the way home, Georgiana craned her neck to look back, watching as the house grew smaller, and eventually disappeared.

  Chapter Fourteen

  G

  eorgiana’s head was so full of Frances, and Thomas Hawksley, and everything else that had happened at the cottage that she barely heard Mrs Burton when she told her that they were soon to receive visitors at the house.

  She had tried to say as little as possible about her trip away while still satisfying Mrs Burton’s endless curiosity, and in the end had invented a headache that had theoretically kept her in bed for most of the past two days; Mrs Burton was sympathetic and a little disappointed, as if Georgiana should have tried a little harder not to be ill, if only to provide her with interesting stories.

  This phantom ailment also meant that Georgiana was allowed to languish in her bedroom for days to properly nurse her prolonged hangover, only surfacing for meals and to fetch new books from the library; she was there-fore in quite tranquil spirits until Wednesday, when her aunt reminded her at breakfast that they were to entertain Miss Betty Walters and her grandmother for tea.

  She did not want to complain and ruin her position in Mrs Burton’s good graces, so she said nothing, and when the time came was readily dressed and waiting downstairs for the Walters to arrive. When they did, Georgiana resolved to be as pleasant as possible. Her resolution was almost immediately undone when Betty opened her mouth.

  ‘It feels such a long time since we last met, Miss Ellers – I don’t know if you recall – everybody looked so fine at the picnic, I thought – it is the outdoor light, perhaps, it means you can see everyone so clearly – and Miss Campbell especially had on such a pretty dress. I was not sure of her friends at first, but then, one’s first impressions can be wrong – I am wrong frequently, so I’m sure we shall get on just wonderfully if our paths cross again – we have been invited to a party at the Gadforths’ on Friday – I believe they have just bought a delightful new dining set and wish to show it off to their friends – will you be there, Miss Ellers?’

  She seemed to have forgiven Georgiana for whatever wrongdoings she had previously attributed to her at the picnic; Georgiana wondered if she was very kind, or if she simply had an extraordinarily short memory, like an octogenarian, or a goldfish.

  ‘I regret I shall not be there,’ said Georgiana, regretting nothing. ‘I shall be at another party.’

  ‘Oh! With whom? We have been dining with all manner of local people of late – I have met so many new acquaintances – but you shall be with Miss Campbell, I imagine? And Miss Woodley? Miss Dugray? Mr Smith? Mr—’

  ‘Yes,’ Georgiana said quickly. ‘Yes, Miss Campbell and her friends.’

  ‘Hmph,’ said Mrs Walters suddenly, and they all looked at her in surprise. While it seemed Betty would not stop talking even if held at musket-point, Mrs Walters was usually quite taciturn. ‘I can’t say I think much of the Campbells.’

  ‘Oh, but they are so kind to our Georgiana!’ cried Mrs Burton, at once leaping to defend these people she barely knew. ‘Only recently they had her to stay, and then they took her along on a little holiday, and nursed her when she fell ill! I cannot imagine two more agreeable people.’

  ‘Lord Campbell is a funny sort of man,’ said Mrs Walters, ignoring her. ‘I knew him as a boy, and I never liked him. Joined the militia when he was still just a scrap – I must say, I do feel sorry for any troops he came up against. I recall I once found him trying to drown a neighbour’s kitten. He said he was just giving it a wash, but I know a drowning when I see one.’

  Mrs Burton was aghast. ‘Lord Campbell is a fine man! Is he not, Georgiana? The very picture of a doting father and husband!’

  Georgiana could not disagree with Mrs Burton now, after all her intricately embellished lies about their trip away together.

  ‘Yes, Aunt. A fine man,’ she said without emotion.

  ‘Hmph!’ said Mrs Walters again. She was looking at Georgiana, wispy eyebrows raised. ‘I feel for his wife, you know.’ Georgiana was momentarily stunned by her astuteness – but she lapsed back into silence, and Betty took up the conversation again.

  ‘Have you read a great deal of good books lately, Georgiana? I must say, your aunt has told us all about your reading, and I am very impressed! I have only finished a few in my time – they contain such a multitude of words – a multitude! I think myself not half as clever as you are, with all the words you must know – is there a favourite word you have come across? A word that has surprised you, perhaps?’

  Georgiana bit back her instinct to scoff, and genuinely considered this question for a moment.

  ‘You know,’ she said, lifting her teacup to her lips and taking a sip, ‘I’m not sure. I always struggle to identify favourites of anything, when asked.’

  ‘I like bum-fodder,’ said Mrs Walters, so suddenly that Georgiana almost choked on her tea.

  ‘Bum-fodder, Mrs Walters?’ Mrs Burton said, sounding a little faint.

  ‘Oh, I’ve never – what does it mean, Grandmama?’ Betty asked, all wide-eyed innocence; Georgiana would have believed her entirely, had she not noticed the corner of Miss Walters’ mouth twitching ever so slightly as she awaited the answer.

  ‘Newspapers,’ Mrs Walters barked, ‘that are good
for nothing but wiping your arse with.’

  Georgiana couldn’t look at Mrs Walters, who was entirely straight-faced, or Mrs Burton, whose expression had frozen in a polite grimace; she stared determinedly into her teacup, and when she glanced up, saw that Betty was doing the same, biting her lip and looking almost tearful in an attempt to control herself.

  Thankfully, conversation moved away from the subject of arses, and when Mrs Walters asked for a little nip of sherry with her tea and then promptly fell asleep midsentence, Mrs Burton whispered to Georgiana that she should give Betty a tour of the house.

  A little confused, as there wasn’t much house to demonstrate, Georgiana nevertheless agreed. She led Betty through the hallway and towards the library on instinct, and was surprised when she opened the door to find her uncle sitting within, reading the paper and smoking a pipe. Usually so stoic, he looked somewhat guilty, his moustache bristling as he pursed his lips.

  ‘Mrs Burton said you were asleep,’ Georgiana said curiously, and the moustache-bristling intensified. ‘She said you were taking a nap, and not to disturb you.’

  ‘You know,’ said Betty brightly, ‘perhaps – well, maybe we did not visit the library straight away. Maybe we walked in the garden first, and lingered for a time?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Georgiana, catching on immediately and exchanging a quick look with Miss Walters. ‘I imagine we were so enthralled by the flowers that we didn’t have time to discover who may or may not be smoking in the library.’

  ‘Right,’ said Mr Burton, clearing his throat. ‘Indeed.’

  ‘I also imagine that when we did reach the library, somebody had kindly left a pipe and a considerable amount of good-quality tobacco on the desk,’ Georgiana said, aware that she was trying her luck.

  ‘They had not,’ said Mr Burton flatly.

  ‘Alas,’ Georgiana said, shrugging. ‘We must have been confused – seeing things – dazzled by the begonias, Uncle.’