Reputation

by Lex Croucher

  ‘Yes. He will not leave us for a while yet, though, I am happy to say. It is not the ailments of his body that truly plague him. I think’ – He stopped himself, and gave a little shake of his head as he lowered his voice – ‘I think the young Mr Taylor is bursting to speak with you again.’

  ‘Please,’ whispered Georgiana urgently, her eyes wide, ‘he will go on about cupboards, and I do not wish to wed someone who wants to pledge themselves to me purely to distract them from their inferior storage space.’

  He laughed, as Georgiana had hoped he would, and continued in a low voice so they could not be overheard.

  ‘We shall have to pretend as if we are deeply engaged in a conversation of utmost amusement and importance.’

  ‘Are we not?’ Georgiana replied.

  His eyebrows raised infinitesimally, and she had to bite her lip and turn away lest she blush.

  ‘I was glad when you – I was glad to hear that Miss Dugray did not suffer any lasting ill effects, after our last meeting.’

  ‘She did not. Miss Woodley says it is only a matter of time before the performance is repeated, however.’

  Reminded of wine, even in such an unflattering light, Georgiana picked up her own untouched glass.

  ‘You have not been drinking tonight, though.’ It was stated as a fact.

  Georgiana frowned. ‘I have not. I imagine it would be considered bad manners to get foxed past the point of reason at an extremely respectable dinner party. If young Mr Taylor accosts me again, though, I will certainly be driven to drink.’ She put her glass back down. ‘You seem rather concerned about my drinking, or lack thereof.’

  ‘No, no, I don’t mean to give the impression . . . I mention it only because it is impossible to ascertain a person’s true character when you only encounter them very drunk,’ he said, lifting his own glass and taking a sip. ‘But – ah – I seem to have offended you.’

  ‘You just seem very quick to pass judgement,’ said Georgiana. ‘You attend the same parties as I do. You keep similar company. You drink! You are literally drinking this very second. Why is it that I am not permitted to enjoy myself, to indulge in the same vices as you and the others? Do you dislike it only . . . only because I am a woman? Would you prefer that I left every party at nine o’clock, and never touched a drop of alcohol again, and . . . and excused myself from company every time I had a somewhat impure thought?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ he said quietly, and the low cadence of his voice sent a pleasant chill up the length of her spine. They shared a brief look, and Georgiana wondered if he, too, was thinking of the wine cellar, the current setting of all her most obscene thoughts. ‘I will admit, I do not personally enjoy drinking to excess. It is, of course, your choice what you do with your leisure time. But I am enjoying having a conversation with you in which you have not fallen over even once. A rare pleasure.’

  Georgiana blushed thoroughly this time, unable to hide it. Although she was not overly fond of falling over, she was quite keenly interested in what happened when she fell over in his presence – chiefly, that it was a very good excuse for rare and stimulating physical contact.

  ‘Whatever you think of me, Mr Hawksley, even I would struggle to fall from a sitting position,’ she said, smiling at the man who took away her untouched soup and replaced it with the next course. They sat in charged silence until all the servants had retreated and the conversation around them had swelled again.

  ‘You wrote to me,’ he said.

  There was a strange intimacy to these words, spoken quietly, a tiny oasis in this crowded room. Georgiana was so startled by them that she couldn’t think of a witty response.

  ‘Yes. Er – sorry,’ she said awkwardly.

  ‘Don’t apologise.’

  He was looking at her – really looking at her, holding her gaze with intensity – and then suddenly his face went blank and impassive, and he picked up his knife and fork to eat.

  Georgiana realised why a split second later; Mr Taylor was clearing his throat with increasing volume to try to get her attention. She sighed with frustration, and then fixed a smile on her face as she turned to find out what he wanted.

  Chapter Nineteen

  D

  inner dragged on for an age, with Mr Taylor completely unwilling to release Georgiana from his particularly dire company. She was glad when it was over and she could sit with the other ladies in the drawing room, half listening as her aunt talked to the offending gentleman’s mother. Another summer storm had begun outside, and she focused on the raindrops beating steadily against the windowpane as she willed time to go faster. From her position near the door she could hear the men engaged in whatever mysterious rituals they undertook after dinner, and was so eager for the chance to see Thomas again that she almost knocked Mrs Burton’s glass of sherry from her hand at the mere suggestion that the two parties should merge.

  When the men entered, Mr Hawksley was deep in conversation with his father, a hand resting on his arm. The youngest Mr Taylor spotted her immediately, and as she had no polite means to avoid him, Georgiana could not pretend she had not heard his suggestion that she play something for them on the pianoforte.

  ‘You’re too kind; I’m afraid I am not a particularly accomplished pianist, Mr Taylor,’ she said, suddenly wishing she had managed to get far more drunk, no matter what Mr Hawksley might think of her.

  ‘Nonsense! You have such pretty hands, I’m sure they make beautiful music,’ Marcus replied plummily, undeterred.

  Georgiana reflexively clasped her hands behind her back, out of his sight.

  ‘I’ll play,’ said Thomas abruptly from across the room. He strode over to the piano before anybody could protest.

  ‘Very good, very good,’ said Mr Taylor, his smile wavering a little. ‘I must admit, I’d have preferred to hear Miss Ellers play – not to say that you don’t have handsome hands yourself, Mr Hawksley, eh!’ He laughed far too heartily at his own joke. Georgiana smiled to herself for entirely different reasons.

  Mr Hawksley sat down, paused for a few seconds to indulge in just the slightest flex of his fingers, and then began to play; softly at first, but gaining momentum, until the piece became violent and jarring and all-consuming. Georgiana had never seen a man play the pianoforte, and was immediately entranced. Thomas played with a confidence – almost an aggression – that should have been ugly, but was instead mesmerising. Most music, Georgiana thought, followed familiar patterns; you could make an educated guess at what the next note might be, and it lulled you into a sense of safety. This, whatever it was, did precisely the opposite. She felt as if she were constantly teetering on a musical precipice, grasping for something to hold on to that made sense, only to be hit suddenly with a discordant run of notes or a minor chord – and then all bets were off as to where it was going next. Conversation ceased, and all eyes turned to watch him. This was not music you spoke over, or that you drank tea to; it demanded to be heard. After just a few minutes, he stopped abruptly.

  ‘But you must play more, Mr Hawksley! You have such a talent!’ cried a young lady breathlessly from the other side of the room.

  ‘I’m afraid I cannot.’ He shrugged apologetically, rising from the piano. ‘It is a partial transcript, sent by a friend in Vienna. I have only learned a little.’

  ‘Why – you must teach our Georgiana, Mr Hawksley!’ said Mrs Burton. There was a manic glint in her eye that made her intentions so clear that Georgiana wanted to kick her shin under the side table. ‘You are by far the most accomplished player I have ever heard, and she needs a little encouragement in that direction.’

  Mr Hawksley looked at Georgiana, who rolled her eyes back.

  ‘There’s no time like the present! Nobody else wants to play anyhow, do they?’ Mrs Burton waited only a split second, to ensure that nobody had time to protest. ‘Good, then that’s decided.’ She beamed at both of them.

  Mr Hawksley’s expression was unreadable as he gestured to the piano. Georgiana walked over to it
and took a seat at the stool while he pulled up another chair. Luckily, conversation had resumed around the room; she did not particularly fancy displaying her musical ineptitude in front of a large audience.

  ‘Play something,’ he said quietly. His leg was almost touching hers beneath the piano.

  As lightly as she could, with one foot firmly pressed on the soft pedal, Georgiana played the opening bars of Mozart’s Sonata facile. She felt herself getting hot with embarrassment; after what Mr Hawksley had just performed, she sounded like a child at her first lesson.

  ‘It’s no good,’ she said. ‘I’m a hopeless case.’

  He smiled. ‘You’re coiled as tightly as a spring. Sit up a little straighter.’

  He put a careful hand on her shoulder blade to help correct her posture, and she didn’t breathe until he had removed it again. A burst of laughter made her turn quickly to see whether they had been observed, as if she had been discovered doing something far more illicit than brief shoulder-touching. The others had gathered together by the fireplace to play some sort of parlour game involving rhyming, and Georgiana could hear Mrs Burton struggling to think of something to rhyme with ‘blossom’. The elder Mr Hawksley was alone in the corner by a lamp, happily absorbed in his book once more.

  ‘Try it again. Play it with certainty; you might get it right by accident, and then it will sound as if you always meant to.’

  Georgiana laughed, and played again with a little more confidence. It did sound better. She missed a note but continued, and Mr Hawksley smiled encouragingly.

  ‘Your father seems to have the right idea about how to pass an evening,’ she remarked quietly as she played.

  ‘Ah – yes. He does not particularly enjoy spending time outside the house, but I encourage him to do so.’

  ‘He doesn’t?’ Georgiana looked up at him, surprising herself when her hands kept moving and hitting almost all of the right keys without her keeping a watchful eye on them. ‘He seems so pleasant, so amiable. I cannot imagine such a man deciding to shut himself away and deprive the world of his company.’

  ‘He tires very quickly,’ said Mr Hawksley, frowning down at the piano. ‘You must curve your hands – imagine you are holding an apple in each of them, like this.’ He demonstrated with his own. Georgiana attempted to copy him. ‘No, do not let your wrists become rounded. Here.’ He reached over and corrected them – and then he stopped for a long moment, his hand resting beside hers. ‘My brother Edward died two years ago, very suddenly,’ he said, so quietly she could barely hear him. ‘My mother, shortly afterwards. It has been hard on both of us, but my father especially . . . Well, he has not recovered, and I do not think he ever will.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Georgiana, her hands pausing on the keys as she took in the full weight of his words.

  To lose a brother was bad enough, but to be so closely followed by his mother – she could not imagine the depth of his despair. Before she could think better of it, she reached out and gently squeezed his hand. He did not pull it away at first, and she marvelled at the warmth of his fingers, the press of his knuckles against her palm – but then suddenly he was up, pushing back his chair, muttering something about getting some air before he vanished.

  Georgiana looked around. Nobody had noticed his swift exit. No one was looking at them at all; they were all too engrossed in their game.

  She sat for a moment at the piano, listening to their laughter, and then decided to be bold. She abruptly got to her feet and followed him, noting as she went that Mr James Hawksley had glanced up from his book and then returned to it with a small, private smile.

  She walked down the hallway in the vague direction of the back of the house, unsure of where exactly Thomas had gone, and then she saw him; one of the French windows to the garden was open, and he was standing just outside it under the shelter of the upper balcony, unable to go any farther due to the driving rain. Both of his hands were fists, curled tightly at his sides as he looked out over the surrounding grounds.

  Georgiana walked to the doorway and paused for a brief moment with her hand on the glass before stepping through it.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  He did not turn around.

  ‘You must stop apologising,’ he replied hoarsely.

  She could only just hear him over the rain; it seemed to have increased in ferocity the moment she crossed the threshold.

  ‘I just wanted . . . I just wanted to thank you for telling me. What you told me, I mean. If it were me, I don’t know how I’d go on. I – er – I know that’s not a particularly helpful thing to say. But you can talk to me, if you need to. I know you don’t really know me, but the offer is there, so . . . if you need to say it, I want to hear it.’ She paused to take a breath, and in that brief moment all of her bravado left her. ‘Anyway, I . . . I’ve intruded. I’ll leave you.’ She made to go back inside.

  ‘Don’t,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Don’t leave me. I mean – you haven’t intruded.’ He put a hand to his brow as if his head pained him. ‘I enjoy your company. Stay.’

  ‘I thought – I’m sorry, I thought I had upset you.’

  Georgiana moved to stand by his side. She studied his profile with concern as he massaged his temple and then put his hand to the stone pillar next to him. He looked bone-weary all of a sudden, barely keeping himself upright.

  ‘No. I find you a pleasant escape from the things . . . from the things that do.’

  He took a deep breath, clearly trying to pull himself together. They were quiet for a moment.

  ‘I know . . . I know you are a man,’ Georgiana began, rushing to finish her sentence when she realised that she had left it in a rather ridiculous place, ‘and there are probably all sorts of rules about how you’re supposed to feel, and how you’re meant to behave – but I hope you know, you don’t have to pretend that you don’t have feelings. At least, not for my benefit.’

  He finally looked at her; she was not prepared for the naked and unguarded hurt she saw in his eyes, the sadness that had clearly taken root in him. It speared her through the chest. She was surprised at the intensity of her feelings; surprised to find that this sudden moment of vulnerability did not alarm her one bit. No hero in any romance she’d read before had been allowed to feel anything other than righteous anger, any sorrow turning immediately to swift and red-blooded retribution. She was glad that he was going off book; she could tell that anything less would have been a lie.

  As if in a dream, Georgiana moved closer and reached for his face; he did not try to stop her. Her thumb brushed his cheekbone and he closed his eyes, his face softening at last, relaxing into her touch as a single tear escaped from between his lashes.

  She was going to kiss him. She wanted to tell him that however foolish it was, she already liked him a great deal – that it pained her to see him hurt – that he bore too much on his shoulders. The kiss would say it all for her. She tilted her face towards his, and he opened his eyes, his gaze suddenly fierce – as if daring her to be repulsed by his pain and back down.

  When it became clear she would not, he shifted suddenly, one hand reaching for her waist, pulling her a little roughly towards him, and then—

  ‘Miss Ellers,’ said a voice from behind them, with the sort of timing that Georgiana couldn’t fathom outside of a Shakespearean farce. They sprang apart.

  A tall, slightly disapproving-looking servant was standing in the doorway, his gaze pointedly averted.

  ‘A Miss Campbell is here and wishes to speak with you.’ He gestured inside the house.

  Georgiana swallowed her adrenaline and followed him back into the hallway, not daring to look back at Thomas. The moment she left him, she was half-convinced she had invented the entire thing; had she really touched him? Had he really laid himself open to her – looked at her that way – wanted her?

  The servant’s words caught up with her as she hurried along behind him. She had no idea how Frances could have fo
und her, or what could have brought her to a stranger’s door at ten o’clock at night.

  When they arrived in the entrance hall and Georgiana saw her, she gasped; her friend’s gown was wet through, her bonnet clutched in her hand with its ribbons trailing dejectedly on the floor. Her hair was ruined. Make-up was smeared down her face, and she was openly weeping.

  ‘Frances! What on earth?’ cried Georgiana. Another servant came rushing down the stairs with a blanket, and Georgiana helped to pull it around Frances’s shoulders. ‘Are you ill? Should I ask the Taylors to call for a doctor? Or, dear God – they can have somebody draw you a bath, you’re soaked through.’

  ‘No, no,’ mumbled Frances, choking back another sob. She waved the maid away and half-staggered over to the staircase to sit down heavily on the bottom step. Georgiana followed suit. ‘I came to see you, George. I needed to . . . I needed somebody who would understand.’

  Her eyes were very pink, and Georgiana could smell the alcohol on her; it seemed to come not only from her breath, but from her very pores. Georgiana put a comforting arm around her damp shoulder. She could still hear shouts of laughter from the drawing room, and prayed that nobody would come out and discover Frances in such a state.

  ‘How did you find me?’ asked Georgiana, as Frances pushed a wet curl out of her eyes.

  ‘Oh, that. It wasn’t hard. I was with Cecily and Jane, but I haven’t told them, and I needed to talk to somebody who knew. I can’t tell Jane, I just can’t, so I went to your house, and Mr – Mr Burton told me you were here. He did look terribly funny, in his nightgown,’ she said, with a snort of laughter – but this quickly turned into a sob. ‘Oh, George, he hasn’t written. He hasn’t called on me. He certainly hasn’t spoken to my father. It’s been over a month. Bloody Jonathan was right. It’s all such a mess, I can’t – I just can’t . . .’

  Georgiana put a hand to her mouth, and then spoke tentatively through her fingers.

  ‘But . . . might there be some kind of . . . arrangements to be made? He must tell his family, or make plans, or—’