by Lex Croucher
‘Well – I was engaged to be married a few years ago,’ she said quietly. Georgiana’s mouth fell open. ‘Only it went . . . Well, it all went quite badly wrong.’
Frances gave a dry huff of amusement. ‘Always so unlucky in love, aren’t you, Ces? Showed up at the wrong church, did you?’
‘No,’ Cecily mumbled, looking slightly embarrassed.
‘Oh, ignore her,’ Georgiana said, a little more harshly than she had intended. ‘I want to know.’
Everybody seemed to take a collective breath, holding it as they waited for Frances’s response, but she only slumped back in her chair; Georgiana pretended not to see the significant look that Jane exchanged with Jonathan across the table.
‘I liked him quite a lot, actually. He was the first person I liked after . . . well, the first person I had liked for quite some time,’ Cecily said, ducking her head. ‘He was going to be a duke. His family weren’t hugely pleased with me – they wanted him to marry somebody titled, you know – but they had come around. Then he got cold feet, just before the wedding. Said he liked another girl, too, of much higher standing, and he was loath to choose between us.’ She sighed. ‘I told him . . . I told him to follow his heart, and that if it was too hard to choose, I would bow out. I hate to make choices, they’re terribly hard – sometimes it takes me an hour to decide what I want for breakfast, so I truly did feel for him – and I knew his family would be so pleased. It would have been hard to marry him thinking I was hurting his prospects, you know, and they were all so thrilled with the other match.’
Georgiana didn’t know what to say. She reached out and squeezed her hand.
‘You are a sweetheart, Cecily. Far too good for this world. Any gentleman would be lucky to have you.’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ she replied, blushing.
‘If he doesn’t propose, I’ll marry you,’ Jonathan said.
Jane made a little noise of derision.
‘No, I mean it,’ he continued. ‘I’ve been thinking about it, and I think we’d have a perfectly jolly time. I’ll rescue you from the looming spectre of spinster-hood. You can romp about in the countryside and shoot your arrows, I’ll entertain gentlemen while you’re out; it’ll be the perfect modern arrangement. For me, at least. No more clandestine meetings in churchyards and gardens. No more pining and wasting away and secrets.’
‘Oh, but isn’t that sort of romantic?’ Georgiana said.
She immediately knew she had said the wrong thing when Jonathan winced.
‘Not really, George. It doesn’t feel quite so poetic when it’s all you can ever have. I am afraid it’s not some fairytale story where all the pain is worth it in the end. You just get the delightful part with all the pain.’
Georgiana wasn’t sure if she was imagining it, but the tension between Jane and Frances seemed to have suddenly intensified.
‘God, I’m sorry, Jonathan. That’s dreadful,’ she said quietly.
Jonathan wrinkled his nose at her and shrugged.
‘No need to cry about it. There are worse lots in life than mine – case in point, imagine being Christopher.’
Georgiana laughed.
‘I want to know,’ Frances said suddenly, ‘when we all got so bloody boring.’
She was sitting up in her seat again now, eyes fixed on Georgiana and narrowed in some sort of unreadable challenge. The heat of the day suddenly seemed to have caught up with Georgiana, the rail of the chair burning into her back where the sun had crept in under the gazebo, but she held her ground.
She didn’t acknowledge Frances. Nobody did. And Georgiana experienced an odd feeling – a sudden, unexpected twist of grim satisfaction – when she realised that instead, they were all looking expectantly at her.
Chapter Twenty-One
G
eorgiana thought long and hard about how to raise the subject of Lord Haverton’s party with Mrs Burton, but in the end her salvation came in the form of a letter from Betty Walters. She felt a faint stab of guilt as soon as she saw the name signed in neat, round script; she still hadn’t written to her, and clearly Betty had grown tired of waiting. Luckily, it seemed she was much more concise when writing rather than speaking.
Dear Miss Ellers,
It is my most ardent desire to enjoy your company once more after the tea and conversation we shared last month. I could hardly believe so many days had gone by, but then I counted on my hands, and there they were! I understand that you have been busy, and therefore I write to ask if you are attending the ball at the Haverton estate this week. I have been reliably informed that he throws the most fascinating parties! Grandmama will not come, of course, but if you will escort me, she will assent to my attending. I propose that we meet at nine o’clock at the West entrance – that is, if you do not wish me to collect you in our carriage – for I would not be bold enough to go it alone! Please write back at your earliest convenience.
Yours affectionately,
Miss Elizabeth Walters
‘You see? Betty needs me to go,’ Georgiana said, bran-dishing the letter like a weapon as soon as Mr and Mrs Burton had finished their supper.
‘They haven’t even cleared the plates, Georgiana, you’re going to get butter on it.’
Mrs Burton rescued the letter from its buttery fate and peered at it. She showed it to Mr Burton, who gave so quick a perfunctory nod that there was no way he’d been able to read it.
‘I don’t know, Georgiana. Lord Haverton has always seemed like quite a peculiar fellow. I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all.’
‘I think . . . I think he’s monstrously misunderstood,’ Georgiana cried, clutching at straws. ‘He is just lonely, that’s all. Imagine having such a big house and hardly any family to fill it.’
‘Well, I suppose, if Mrs Walters was not concerned . . .’ Mrs Burton was wavering.
‘Betty needs me. She cannot attend alone, Aunt, you know that. We will care for each other, and make sure we stay far away from anything out of the ordinary. And . . . And Lord Haverton needs us, to stave off the terrible shadow of loneliness!’
Georgiana thought she might be laying it on a bit thick now, but it seemed to be working.
‘Very well. But you must be home by midnight, Georgiana. And look after Betty, won’t you? She’s a sensitive soul. She’ll be taking Mrs Walters’ carriage, I expect – have her come and call for you, so you can arrive together.’
Dear Betty,
Thank you most kindly for your letter, it brought me more joy than you’ll ever know. I will certainly be attending the ball at Haverton House – I shall see you there!
Yours,
Georgiana Ellers
In the end, Georgiana did have to wear a bed sheet to the party. It was one of Mrs Burton’s best; she had no idea how she would explain all the holes she’d had to make in it to pin it in place, but she began concocting wild stories of pernicious mice in the bedrooms as soon as she decided to steal it, and reasoned that she’d sort out the details later. She made sure to whisk it away when the Burtons were out, and when the day of the ball came, she told Mrs Burton she was going to have a ‘quiet lie-down’ before the party, then locked her door and fashioned herself something akin to a dress. It wrapped around her waist and then carried on over both shoulders, and was inclined to bunch unattractively if she did not adjust it every few minutes.
A clean getaway in costume relied on careful timing. Mrs Burton had retreated to the parlour after dinner and Mr Burton had gone for his evening walk, just like clockwork, but if her aunt sensed even a hint of movement, she’d come rushing out to see Georgiana off and say good evening to Betty. As Georgiana had in fact arranged for Cecily and Jonathan to pick her up, Betty would have stopped in to be polite, and Mrs Burton would certainly have banned Georgiana from taking one more step towards Haverton House if she saw her dressed in bedlinen – she needed to ensure a foolproof distraction.
When Georgiana finally heard the quiet rumble of a carriage approachin
g, she rushed to the back of the house, where an ugly vase sat on the windowsill above the stairs. The windows were usually closed, but Georgiana had opened them a few hours earlier so as not to arouse suspicion. She hesitated for a second, then winced and gave the vase a good shove. It dropped like a stone and then smashed spectacularly on the patio, shattering so loudly that Georgiana gasped, despite the fact that she had been the one to push it to its doom. She heard Mrs Burton’s exclamation immediately, and waited for a moment, listening.
Sure enough, her aunt was hurrying to the back of the house, calling out to her to ask if she had heard anything amiss.
‘Oh no, what a mess! It must have been the wind – and the windows! Open! Who left the windows open?’
Seizing her chance, Georgiana took the stairs two at a time, almost tripping over her sheet in her haste. She was almost free when she came skidding to a stop – Emmeline was standing in the doorway to the dining room, holding the silver she had been polishing, staring at Georgiana in shock.
‘Please,’ Georgiana mouthed, widening her eyes pleadingly.
For a second it looked as if Emmeline might object, but then she just sighed and shook her head, bemused, and followed the sound of Mrs Burton’s complaining into the garden. Georgiana completed the final phase of her escape and climbed into Cecily’s carriage, breathing hard.
‘You are a nymph of the bedroom!’ Jonathan exclaimed, handing Georgiana a bottle of wine before she had even finished sitting down.
‘I am! Ces, we’d better get away quickly,’ she panted, looking furtively back at the house.
‘Oh! Done a runner, have you? Say no more.’ Cecily leaned her head out of the window. ‘Drive on, Simon! Make haste!’
They took off at speed, and Georgiana could finally relax against the seat and knock back a fortifying gulp of wine as she took in her friends’ attire.
Cecily was dressed in green, with what looked like real foliage woven through her hair. She had acquired a shawl of mossy fabric patterned with leaves, so light it seemed to float about her shoulders and never settle. There were emeralds in her ears, and she had even painted her décolletage with greens and golds to complete the effect. She looked so ethereal that Georgiana had no trouble believing that she was from a completely different realm from the one she, a woman wearing a bed sheet, was currently inhabiting. Jonathan had thankfully decided to wear clothes, and was sparkling in a frock coat in shades of cerulean.
Georgiana was alternating wildly between nerves and excitement as she took another pull on the bottle of wine and tried to listen to Cecily talking about axe-throwing, a new hobby she had apparently picked up in the past week. Georgiana could not be sure what awaited her at this party, but it somehow felt more significant than any of the others that had come before it. It had not escaped her notice that Cecily had offered her carriage without prompting, and that Frances was absent – that she had somehow become essential to their plans without Frances’s invitation. If Frances did not ask Georgiana to stay in London come September – an outcome which currently looked all too possible, if this coolness between them persisted – surely, she reasoned, Cecily or Jonathan would instead?
By the time they had travelled up the length of the enormous driveway her palms were damp and her head was light, but Georgiana knew with certainty that she was exactly where she was meant to be.
They had to wait in a queue of carriages before they could pull up to Haverton House, and when Georgiana stepped out she was greeted by the sight of towering grey walls, pillars the width of ancient tree trunks, and an audience of leering gargoyles and stone unicorns gazing down at her from the balustrades. The wide steps that led to an enormous oaken door were flanked by flaming torches and costumed servants holding trays of drinks, and Jonathan insisted that they stop multiple times on their way up to refresh themselves for the final ascent.
The interior of the house also did not disappoint. It gave the impression of a pawnbroker’s shop visited only by the incredibly eccentric and insultingly wealthy, with miscellaneous clutter adorning every wall and surface. In the hallway they were greeted with the sight of an enormous model ship, with a figurehead that Cecily explained was quite a good likeness of Lord Haverton, if a little more generously lithe and muscular. An entire wall was given over to hundreds upon thousands of knives, forks and spoons, which had been arranged in careful patterns as one might display military swords. On their way through the house, they passed what looked like a model village; on closer inspection, it was a reproduction of their own town, and they exclaimed with delight and pointed out their respective houses (Georgiana tried not to be offended that the Burtons’ was represented by a tiny, anonymous brown box).
Guests were packed into the ballroom, which had been decorated with what looked like living trees; water features had somehow been installed at regular intervals and were trickling away prettily. It was like stumbling into an enchanted wood – the light strangely green, the room’s inhabitants all painted and costumed and other-worldly. Frances and Jane were already standing by one of the fountains; Jane spotted them, and beckoned.
They were both just as exquisitely costumed as Cecily and Jonathan, and Georgiana tugged at her sheet self-consciously, hoping she didn’t look quite as foolish as she felt. Jane was draped in warm autumnal reds and browns, a crown of poisonous-looking berries on her head; Frances was also in flowing white, but her dress looked a thousand miles away from Georgiana’s bed sheet. The fabric was so fine that it cascaded around her like water.
It was immediately clear that Frances had started the evening long before the rest of them – perhaps even before breakfast. She was swaying on her feet, her dress in constant danger of being splattered with wine from the glass that she could barely hold upright.
‘You’re here,’ she said slightly redundantly when they approached.
Jane deftly swiped the glass out of her hand before it fell, as Frances abandoned it completely and threw an arm around Jonathan’s shoulders. Georgiana had been braced for conflict, and was pleasantly surprised by how amiable she seemed, even if it had clearly been chemically induced.
‘Is she all right?’ Georgiana mouthed to Jane once she had been released from Frances’s sweaty grasp.
Jane rolled her eyes and shook her head briefly, placing the glass out of sight on the other side of the fountain before Frances could pick it up again.
‘Christopher said he had something for us,’ Frances slurred, leaning a little too far into Jonathan before being subtly righted by him. ‘We’re to meet him.’
‘Did he now?’ Jonathan said, grimacing. ‘I can’t say I’m much inclined to acquiesce to that invitation.’
‘Oh, don’t be . . . Don’t be clever, Jonathan,’ Frances said irritably. ‘It doesn’t suit you. Come on, Ces, Janey.’
Nobody moved.
Georgiana saw it hit Frances, saw the surprise and fury twist her expression – she was too drunk to conceal it. Whatever power she usually held over them all seemed to be unexpectedly faltering. She opened her mouth again, and Georgiana decided to avert disaster.
‘Better to go now,’ she said, shrugging, ‘and meet him while we’ve still got most of our wits about us. Harder for him to pickpocket us or sacrifice us to Bacchus if we’re still standing upright.’
‘Who’s standing upright?’ Jane said, cutting her eyes towards Frances – but when the latter pushed away from Jonathan and started across the room, they all followed.
They ducked and weaved past the other partygoers, Frances leaning over to snatch another glass of wine from the tray of a waiter dressed like a faun, and then squeezed down a packed corridor until they reached a scarlet parlour, filled to the brim with all manner of taxidermied creatures. Christopher, looking the epitome of an ill-intentioned Greek god and flanked by four other similarly dressed men, was lounging inside it, smoking something that had filled the room with a thick, pungent fog. He had apparently decided that wearing a shirt was optional, and Georgiana looked ever
ywhere but at him, her skin prickling with discomfort.
‘Ah! Miss Georgiana,’ he called languorously.
Georgiana realised that he was in fact leaning on a vast, dead, striped cat – it could only be a tiger, although she had never seen one in person before. She nodded and gave him a tight-lipped smile, thinking that he seemed far too slow-moving at the minute to pose any real sort of threat.
‘Come to sample some of my many delights, have you?’
‘Alas, if only we could identify them,’ said Jonathan, but Frances was already at Christopher’s side, holding out a hand for the tiny dark bottle he was dangling from his fingers. He grinned at Georgiana as he handed it over, but then turned sharply to Frances when she clumsily removed the stopper.
‘Careful,’ he snapped, grabbing her wrist, his previous practised cool nowhere to be seen. ‘Don’t spill it. You only need a drop or two.’
Frances focused long enough to deposit two heavy drops of liquid into her glass of wine, and then drank the whole thing down in one.
‘What is it?’ Georgiana asked dubiously, as Frances handed the bottle to Jane.
‘Blood of innocents,’ Jane said seriously, but she followed suit and added some of whatever it was to her own drink, wincing as she swallowed it.
‘It’s a special concoction of mine,’ Mr Crawley replied, which was perhaps even more alarming than being given no information at all.
Nevertheless, Georgiana would not be left behind on the wildest night of the year; she took her turn, drinking deeply from her glass and then passing the bottle to Cecily, coughing and spluttering when the bitterness of the tincture hit her tongue.
‘A little much for you, is it?’ Christopher sneered, reaching out to rub her back while she was incapacitated.
‘Don’t touch me,’ she spat back, shrugging him off.
The room was already spinning around her, and she had the strangest suspicion that her hands were no longer at the end of her arms. She put them out in front of her and observed that she was still fully intact – but when she flexed her fingers, they seemed to move with a few seconds’ delay. It should all have been faintly disconcerting, but she couldn’t bring herself to feel anything but pleasantly detached.