by Lex Croucher
‘But Frances doesn’t mean it,’ Georgiana said to Cecily. ‘Surely?’
‘Hard to say. But it doesn’t matters. Not that you’d understand,’ Jane said dismissively. ‘I’ve known her since infancy. Our families . . . Well, we grew up together in every sense of the phrase. Sometimes she pushes us to the very limits, but in the end . . .’
‘That’s just Frances,’ Cecily finished.
Georgiana opened her mouth to reply – but suddenly, finally, it started to rain. There were no small drops of warning; one moment they were utterly dry, and the next they were instantly soaked, great sheets of water plastering their skirts to their thighs and their hair to their heads. Cecily screamed; Jane spluttered, spilling her wine and swearing as she clambered to her feet.
Georgiana couldn’t help but laugh as they all rushed back to the stairs, sprinting for cover as if their lives depended on it, despite the fact that it was already far too late.
Chapter Sixteen
W
hen Georgiana got back to the Burtons’ in the early hours of the morning, she found it quite a struggle to make it from Frances’s carriage to the front door. She was sure that the garden must have been rearranged somehow – the flowerpot she nearly lost her kneecaps to certainly hadn’t been there just a few hours before – and it also seemed much larger, her journey taking five minutes when it should have generously taken five seconds. Thankfully, it was no longer raining.
She heard muffled laughter from behind her, and muted cheering when she finally placed a hand on the door; she turned to give the carriage a salute, grinning wildly, and then squinted back at the door handle, which presented a new challenge.
After the rain had started at the Dugrays’, she and the other ladies had reunited with Frances, and despite a certain amount of stiffness on the latter’s part at first, they had all ended the night in good spirits. Very good spirits, in fact; Cecily had gone to her father’s drinks cabinet and returned with plundered treasures aplenty. Georgiana had held back from indulging for as long as Christopher was at her elbow, jostling her and attempting jokes as if they were on excellent terms; as soon as he’d left, blowing them all a kiss that Georgiana pretended not to see, she joined the drinking in earnest.
It had seemed perfectly reasonable at the time, but now she had forgotten the fundamentals of doors.
Once she had figured it out and navigated herself into the house, she stripped off her soaked gloves and bonnet and left them dripping in the hall; slightly stale bread was obtained from the depths of the kitchen, and then she took up a candle and wandered into the library, leaving a trail of crumbs in her wake.
Mrs Burton had clearly been writing her correspondence, as there was a pen, a pot of ink and a stack of paper neatly squared off at the corner of the desk. Georgiana found a letter in her aunt’s hand a few seconds later, on top of the pile of outgoing post. On closer inspection, Georgiana realised that it was addressed to her parents.
She immediately wanted to break the seal and peruse the contents, but managed to restrain herself at the very last moment – there was no way she would be able to keep the intrusion from Mrs Burton, even if she had been sober. In this state it seemed unlikely she’d even remember she had opened the letter at all, come morning.
Georgiana attempted to file this information away for the morrow, and then sat down at the desk. A very dangerous idea was beginning to form.
She picked up the pen.
Dear Mr Hawksley—
That was hideous. Georgiana tore a strip off the top of the paper to remove the offending words, and crumpled it into a ball.
Dear Thomas—
Good God, that was so much worse. She couldn’t call him ‘Thomas’, as if they were already ten years married. She might as well send the man a nude portrait of herself and be done with it. She tore that away, too, and resolved to forgo a name entirely. There were a few more false starts, until all that was left was a small strip of paper only fit to hold a few short lines.
Sir,
I write to thank you for taking such great care of my friend Miss Cecily Dugray during her hour of need (incidentally she is doing well, and has not been a bit put off the drink), and also to say that I enjoyed the wine you chose for me very much. Was previously much inclined to think Christ a trifle foolish for changing perfectly good water into wine; can now support him in his endeavour as long as he looks to you to choose the vintage.
Respectfully,
Georgiana Ellers
She sealed it with a drop of candle wax, scrawled Mr Hawksley’s name on the front of it, and tucked it neatly into the pile of post in the hall. Feeling satisfied and only pleasantly devious, she went to bed and fell asleep almost the moment her head collided with the pillow, while the clock distantly struck four.
The next morning, Georgiana was sitting at breakfast squinting blearily into her porridge, pointedly ignoring Mrs Burton’s tutting, when Mr Burton happened to mention that his sister had written to him.
Georgiana’s head shot up; her uncle clutched a letter, and a small stack of unopened post sat next to his place.
‘The post has come, Mr Burton? And – and you sent your correspondence away with it?’ she asked, her stomach roiling.
‘Evidently,’ Mr Burton replied.
‘Shit,’ Georgiana breathed without thinking.
‘Georgiana!’ her aunt cried, absolutely aghast.
Mr Burton looked as if he were tempted to drop under the table and take cover.
‘I’m sorry – I’m so sorry, Mrs Burton, I didn’t – I shall take myself to my room.’
Georgiana flung her chair back and ran from the dining room, rushing up the stairs two at a time, slamming her door and throwing herself dramatically onto the bed. Mrs Burton followed her a moment later, but upon hearing what sounded like her niece screaming into her pillow, she retreated; when Georgiana finally emerged after hours of staring at the ceiling and regretting the day she learned how to use a pen, her aunt seemed quietly impressed by how cowed she was, and satisfied that she must be very sorry indeed.
Georgiana was just beginning to hope that the letter may not have reached its intended destination – perhaps it had been deemed undeliverable without a proper address, or it had been dropped in the lane, or the post had crashed and all had perished in a great and powerful fireball that consumed everything it touched – when a reply came.
She was sitting at the breakfast table a few days later when Mrs Burton handed it to her, and when she broke the unfamiliar seal, opened the letter and saw his signature, she dropped it immediately as if it had burned her fingers; she managed to finish her food, although she kept her gaze fixed warily on it at all times. Once she had picked it up again and retreated to her room, it took every ounce of her strength and fortitude to open it and read what he had written.
Miss Ellers,
Your ruminations on the Christian faith are somewhat disturbing, but I am glad to hear that in some roundabout way, I brought you back to the light of the Lord.
I am also pleased to hear that Miss Dugray is well; a small price to pay in exchange for the lining of my very best hat.
Faithfully yours,
Thomas Hawksley
Georgiana laughed, and then read and reread ‘Yours’ until her vision blurred and the word lost all meaning.
Sir,
The loss of your hat is devastating; please send my condolences to its forty-nine siblings, for they must be feeling it almost as keenly as you yourself. Take solace in the fact that you were very much the hero of the hour, the day and the week (although we do not come into contact with many honourable gentlemen, so do not take the compliment too much to heart).
Faithfully yours,
Georgiana Ellers
Miss Ellers,
It is a wonder you so readily refer back to our first meeting, as your impertinence on that occasion – and your suggestion that I might be unable to tie my own shoelaces – would give any wise man cause to cease all cor
respondence immediately.
I would never consider myself a hero; I put my breeches on one leg at a time, just like everybody else.
Yours,
Thomas Hawksley
Sir,
In that case, I am glad indeed that nobody could mistake you for a wise man.
Yours,
Georgiana E.
Miss Georgiana,
I cannot pretend your observations are unfounded. I often find myself sitting in meetings, or reading endless ledgers, or being asked extensive questions about different varieties of cloth (I confess I have no particular feelings about fabric – but when one’s family has made a habit of importing it, one is expected to at least make a good show of pretending) and feeling exceedingly stupid indeed.
Not because I don’t understand the task at hand, but because despite understanding it, and knowing how important it is that I pay attention, nothing would bring me greater pleasure than abandoning it all and instead whiling away the hours at the pianoforte like an elderly eccentric. Fortune and fabric be damned.
I write to you now, in fact, sitting at the aforementioned instrument; it grows dark, and I must conclude this letter before my candle burns out and I upset the inkwell I have balanced so precariously somewhere near Eb.
Yours,
Thomas
Sir,
I would lament with you upon the difficulties of managing a great many responsibilities but unfortunately I am not even trusted to go to town alone in case I either fall down, ill, or in love with a passing down-and-out and throw it all away for him on a girlish whim.
I wouldn’t worry about the pianoforte. I am sure you have a spare.
Yours,
Georgiana
Georgiana,
I am inclined to believe that your letters are so short because you deal primarily in petty insults. It is not becoming for a lady to address a gentleman thus, or in fact for anybody to have to suffer your faint grasp on the ancient practice of written correspondence; you should write about the weather, the company you have been keeping, pleasant developments in your garden &etc.
You should ask who I have seen, enquire after my business transactions (fabric, I hear you cry! But it is my very favourite subject – please, tell me more about wefts and weights and market value, for I long to hear it!) and pretend to take great interest when I tell you I have had many quiet, respectable dinners at home of late without even one solitary altercation with a drunkard in a cellar.
I will not allow any disparaging remarks about the pianoforte; it is, I’m afraid, my closest companion and confidant.
Thomas
Dear Thomas,
My apologies – please do expand on the endlessly fascinating subject of wefts. Did you always know that you wanted to be a man of the cloth?
All my love to your pianoforte,
Georgiana
Georgiana,
My father met my mother while working in India. They were both great lovers of literature, and apparently they fell in love during a heated discussion about a poem by Mirabai. They returned man and wife, but their partnership also extended to a thriving business through her family connections – a business which has now somewhat crumbled at my hand.
All this to say, it was entirely hereditary, and therefore rather difficult to misplace or give away.
I refuse to write any more when you remain so taciturn. Please urgently reacquaint yourself with the usual standards and traditions of letterwriting and provide something of a decent length so that I may respond in kind.
Thomas
Dear Thomas,
Paper is expensive.
Yours,
Georgiana
Chapter Seventeen
‘G
et in, Georgiana. We’re going shopping.’
Georgiana had only been roused from her bed by her aunt tapping incessantly on her door twenty minutes previously, and was still a little confused. She had been up late the night before, writing and rewriting her reply to Thomas’s latest note, until she gave up entirely and sent just the one line on a narrow strip of paper, hoping to at least make him laugh. Frances and Jonathan had arrived without warning and then waited impatiently while she dressed, calling up to her from the drive every few minutes and threatening to leave without her, while Mrs Burton watched out of the window and sighed in a long-suffering sort of way. Now Georgiana was finally clambering into the carriage, squeaking with surprise as Frances tapped her lightly on the backside with her fan.
‘I can’t believe you haven’t been shopping yet,’ Jonathan said pityingly. ‘You’ve been here for two months, George.’
‘I did venture into town once to watch Mrs Burton fondle ribbons, but she’s very particular about the use of the carriage,’ said Georgiana, leaning her head on the plush interior of the coach and closing her eyes, still feeling half-asleep. ‘She chiefly uses it to travel half a mile down the road to visit our elderly neighbour so she can experience the dreadful potholes, giving them something to complain about together for the entire afternoon.’
‘Gosh, it’s always a party at the Burtons’, isn’t it?’ said Frances, and Georgiana kicked her very gently. ‘Watch it, you cad. This dress is Italian.’
‘What are we shopping for, anyway?’ Georgiana asked, eyeing Frances’s impeccable sartorial choices. It occurred to her that she had never seen her in the same dress twice.
‘Oh, everything. And nothing. I’ve exhausted my stock of party dresses so I need something new for the end of the season. I do love shopping for an occasion, don’t you?’
The last occasion Georgiana had shopped for before the Woodleys’ party had been a distant relative’s funeral. Otherwise she relied on the same tired rotation of frocks, mostly sewn by a friend of her mother’s. She had worn the new dress she’d bought for Jane’s party far too many times now, in fervent denial about the fact that no new ribbon or shawl could make it look truly different.
It was jarring to hear Frances mention the end of the season – she had known, of course, that they weren’t all going to stay forever, but September had been creeping ever closer without her notice. She could only hope that by the close of the summer it felt entirely natural for her friends to extend an invitation to London at once, so they could continue their escapades uninterrupted.
She must have looked a little concerned, for Jonathan patted her knee fondly. ‘Don’t worry, George, Frances will steer you right. She’s like a hurricane with a purse caught in it when she gets going. She just starts flinging coins and notes of credit at people pell-mell, they’re lucky to escape with their lives.’
‘Oh, shut up,’ Frances replied.
It had not really occurred to Georgiana that she might be expected to shop on this trip, too, and the implication was somewhat of a worry. She had hoped to simply trail after Frances and give her advice about which fabrics looked most becoming and which gloves might veer towards the tawdry; the money Mrs Burton had pressed into her hand as she hurried out of the door would not be enough to buy so much as a bonnet, unless there were rogue cut-price milliners in the more shady part of town.
They pulled up outside an establishment that purported to sell ‘hosiery, hats & delights’, and all climbed out. A man who looked rather down-at-heel shambling past tried to catch their attention, and Frances let out a little huff of contempt and put a protective hand on Georgiana’s shoulder as they entered the shop.
Georgiana sensed immediately that everything in sight was out of her price range, and resolved not to touch a thing, lest she mark something dreadful with a spot of dirt – like the hat topped with a rabid-looking ferret eating an apple – and have no choice but to purchase it for approximately the price of a new horse.
‘Oh, look at it, George, isn’t it lovely?’
Frances had immediately found the most expensive-looking thing in the shop, a white fur shrug frosted with a beautiful hue of blueish-grey, and she slung it around her shoulders with apparently no concerns about dirtying it.
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‘It’s still got a head,’ said Jonathan dubiously.
A middle-aged, moustachioed and bespectacled man came rushing over, his navy dress coat easily grander than anything Georgiana had ever owned, a thin gold tape measure slung about his neck.
‘Arctic fox, Miss Campbell,’ he said, bowing deeply.
Of course he already knew Frances. She had probably already purchased the rest of the fox’s extended family, and was back to complete the set.
‘It’s just the thing, Basil. What do you think, George?’
The fox’s glassy eyes seemed to be staring directly at her.
‘Well . . . it’s summer,’ Georgiana said weakly.
‘Yes, and after summer comes autumn, and then it shall be winter. It’s pretty reliable, that way.’
‘Ignore her, George,’ Jonathan said. ‘It’s best to agree with her on all things accessories or risk becoming one yourself.’
He did a startlingly accurate impression of the fox, going limp and dead-eyed, his tongue sticking out for effect.
‘Send the bill to Longview, Basil,’ Frances said, ignoring him. She handed the fur to the obliging Basil and immediately moved on. ‘Look at this, George, this is just the thing for you.’
She was pointing to the most beautiful necklace Georgiana had ever seen. It was formed of delicate gold link and flashing red stones; in the centre they had been arranged in the shape of a flower.
‘Yes, yes, a lovely bit of paste,’ said Jonathan, rolling his eyes.
‘No, sir! Not paste.’ Basil seemed deeply affronted. ‘These are garnets. Allow me, miss.’
He took it from the display, the links of the chain falling softly from his hands like water, and hung it about Georgiana’s neck, steering her to a mirror before she could protest.
The necklace looked so much finer than her dress that she almost felt ridiculous, but she could not deny how well it looked against her collarbones. Her hair, which she normally felt rather let her down by being so dull, seemed warmer and richer; her skin much more rosy and pleasing to the eye. She instantly wanted it more than she had ever wanted anything in her life. Even Jonathan gave a long, low whistle at the sight, and Frances reprimanded him (‘We are not in a public house, Jonathan’). As soon as Georgiana realised how much she desired it, she had to begin the painful process of refusing it.