by Lex Croucher
He took a sharp intake of breath, then let it out slowly.
‘I should have . . . If I had been paying attention, looking outside myself, perhaps I could have prevented this. You, Miss Campbell . . . How many have suffered, because I couldn’t see him for what he had become?’
‘Suffered because of him, Thomas,’ Georgiana said. ‘Not because of you. It is not your responsibility to save everybody.’ She reached out to touch him gently on the arm. ‘Although today you’ve certainly done a remarkably good job of saving me. Now if I can just convince Mrs Burton that I haven’t really been out rutting indiscriminately across the countryside . . .’
He laughed briefly in shock at this, as had been her intention.
‘I have no doubt that Betty is trying to clear your name in earnest this very minute, although she may struggle. When I left, the poor woman was quite incoherent with worry.’
‘We should put her out of her misery,’ Georgiana said.
Thomas nodded; he seemed to be about to get to his feet, but then he hesitated.
‘Georgiana, I must warn you – I can’t waste any more of my time on this damnable scene. I can’t watch people lie and drink themselves half to death and urge each other on to new and more terrible heights – it’s too much for me to bear. I cannot . . . I see my brother, Georgiana. Every time. I see everything I’ve lost. I thought that if I broke off from Jeremiah, from my old friends, I’d lose the last shred of myself I was clinging desperately to, but I see now that it’s no loss. I’m finished with the man I was, and I’m not going to shame Edward’s memory by pretending otherwise. I shall . . . I shall have to learn how to get on with things on my own terms.’
He looked slightly anxious, as if Georgiana might be about to proclaim that she could think of nothing worse than giving up the parties and the melodrama and the vast carelessness of high society that had already worn her down to the bone.
‘Do you know, I’m rather tired of it all,’ she said. ‘I confess, nothing would make me happier than to see out the end of the summer playing cards with Betty, if she’ll have me, and taking very long naps, and enjoying a little peace and quiet.’
‘I can’t imagine anything better,’ Thomas said, relief softening his expression.
‘I might have the occasional glass of wine with dinner, you understand,’ Georgiana warned. ‘I might even get a little drunk, if I have to listen to one of Mrs Burton’s stories about parsnips. But . . . really, Thomas. You needn’t worry.’
‘Not an easy feat, as you are frequently extremely worrying,’ he said.
He took both of her cold hands in his, his thumbs grazing her wrists where her pulse fluttered, and she wondered briefly if she might faint from the sheer pleasure of it before deciding that would be an utterly absurd thing to do.
‘Of course, my intentions hardly matter if my parents are to succeed in dragging me away to repent properly for all of my sins,’ she said instead, sighing.
Thomas pulled her to him, and she leaned heavily against him, marvelling at the fact that the sheer volume of mud on both of them was not in the least bit off-putting.
‘I’d like to see them try,’ he said, his lips brushing her forehead as he spoke. ‘Come swords or hounds or hellfire, I won’t let them take you.’
‘Well, steady on,’ Georgiana said, smiling. ‘I shouldn’t think it’ll come to all that.’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
G
eorgiana returned to the Burtons’ soaked through, filthier than she had ever been in her life, and steeled for battle. She wasn’t sure exactly what she would say to her parents, but just having Thomas with her – helping her down from his horse, standing at her shoulder as she opened the front door – helped calm her nerves and brace her for whatever was waiting inside.
She needn’t have worried, however; the moment Mrs Burton saw her, exhausted and muddy with eyes swollen from crying and pale tear-tracks decorating each cheek, she rushed to pull her into a crushing embrace.
‘Oh, Georgiana, I’m so glad you’re safe,’ she cried into Georgiana’s damp hair.
Georgiana knew she couldn’t be a particularly pleasant person to hug right now, and squeezed her aunt back as tightly as possible to demonstrate how grateful she was.
Perhaps Mrs Burton expected similar displays of affection from her parents; instead they stood awkwardly in the hallway, watching her with matching frowns, a tic twitching away in her father’s temple. Mr Burton, clearly wishing to be as far away from this conversation as possible without actually leaving the house, was standing in the parlour doorway, looking relieved but apprehensive.
‘Be that as it may,’ her mother said, ‘this little distraction is over. No more delaying tactics, no more hysterics. You’re coming with us.’
‘Distraction?’ Mrs Burton said, releasing her grip on Georgiana and gaping at her sister. ‘She could have fallen! She could have died!’
‘She wanted our attention, and she has it,’ Mrs Ellers said evenly. ‘This changes nothing.’
‘If I may,’ Thomas started, ‘there are certain circumstances that you may not be aware of—’
‘I am perfectly aware of what happened, or of what this girl claims happened.’ Mr Ellers waved his hand towards the open dining-room door, where Georgiana saw Betty Walters standing with a handkerchief clutched in her hands. She had obviously been crying, but was attempting a wavering sort of smile in Georgiana’s direction now. ‘Perhaps there are a few discrepancies between the story Miss Campbell told and the one Miss Walters has just relayed, but the fact remains that our daughter has been attending unchaperoned parties – drinking – making herself vulnerable to advances from all manner of knaves and rogues—’
‘Mr Ellers,’ Thomas said stiffly, perhaps aware that he was also being implicated in this speech, ‘I can assure you—’
‘And who are you?’
‘My name is Thomas Hawksley, and I must say that I object in the strongest terms—’
He stopped speaking abruptly, because Mrs Burton had reached out and patted him on the arm.
‘Don’t worry, Mr Hawksley,’ she said, turning to Georgiana’s parents and pulling herself up to her full height. ‘I’ll handle this from here.’
‘You’ll what?’ said Mrs Ellers coldly. ‘I am afraid this is no longer your concern.’
‘You will listen to what my wife has to say,’ Mr Burton said suddenly. Everybody turned to look at him, distracted for a moment by the very fact that he had spoken.
‘Yes. Yes. You heard me, Mary,’ said Mrs Burton, buoyed by her husband’s support. Georgiana exchanged a startled look with Betty, whose hand had flown to her mouth. ‘I’ll not deny that Georgiana has displayed questionable judgement, and I blame myself for not keeping a better eye on her. No, no, Georgiana, it’s true – I know you’re not a child anymore, but I am still your guardian while you live here, and I failed you. I did. But I will not stand here and allow you’ – she pointed at Mrs Ellers, whose mouth had dropped open in shock – ‘to blame her, and shame her, and try to have her punished, when Miss Walters has just told us what that hideous man Mr Russell did to her. She’s not a criminal, she’s not the Devil, she’s just a young woman who has made some mistakes and has suffered very badly for them – and I won’t have it. She needs to rest. She needs someone to look after her. She needs to buck up her ideas, yes, and she has a lot of hard work to do if she ever wants to be trusted under this roof again – but I won’t let you take her anywhere, and if you still want to try, you’re going to have to come back here with all the militia in England. I’ll fight the lot of them. I mean it, Mary.’
‘This is ridiculous,’ Mr Ellers said, taking a step towards Georgiana. ‘She’s our daughter. We will decide what’s best for her – how best to deal with this.’
‘I believe,’ Thomas said, putting a protective hand on Georgiana’s shoulder, ‘that has already been decided. Georgiana?’
‘I’m staying here,’ Georgiana said, a little teary. �
��For as long as my aunt and uncle will have me.’
‘Right,’ said Mrs Burton, crossing her arms and glaring at Mr and Mrs Ellers as if they were two interloping rats in her hallway, rather than very close relatives. Georgiana thought that her parents had never looked quite so small. ‘That’s that, then.’
The rest of the day passed in a strange, surreal blur. Georgiana’s parents departed, with a few more choice words exchanged with Mrs Burton on the garden path. Thomas stayed long enough that Mrs Burton stopped fretting and started shooting Georgiana knowing little smiles, at which point Georgiana rolled her eyes and told him to go home and get some rest.
Betty wouldn’t budge, cheerily waving Georgiana upstairs and saying she would wait for her in the parlour and work on her penmanship – ‘Grandmama doesn’t need the carriage anyway, today is her napping day, so really I can stay as long as you need me’ – and Mrs Burton instructed Emmeline to draw her niece a bath.
‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Burton,’ Georgiana said wretchedly, as her aunt helped her upstairs. ‘I really am. I promise to do better. All you have ever done is show me kindness, and I have behaved monstrously.’
‘Oh, hush. I shall be angry with you later, Georgiana, but I can’t quite work myself up to it now,’ her aunt said, wiping her eyes and then sending her niece off to bathe.
Georgiana received the warm water like a benediction, feeling it loosen every muscle that had been pulled taut as she soaked in it. She expelled so much mud that she felt as if she had been encamped in the wilderness for weeks, not one measly night.
The bruises on her collarbone were blossoming in ugly clouds of purple, yellow and green; she ran her fingers over them, wincing, and finally turned her thoughts to the hand that had made them.
Thomas believed that he could have stopped Jeremiah Russell, had he known just how far he had fallen; Georgiana now found herself in the uncomfortable position of not only knowing, but having experienced for herself how utterly out of control he was. In the safety of her home – for it was truly her home now, she thought tearfully – her wits thoroughly worn out, she was tempted to close the book on him. To stop speaking of it. To cross it out, and try to forget.
She could not, however, rid herself of the thought that he would just go on to do the same again – and worse. Frances was unlikely to tell another soul what had transpired between them in the cottage that night – at fault or not, she would be ruined – but perhaps Georgiana could tell, and still keep some piece of herself intact. Even if she was labelled a harlot, a liar – even if half the county took his side – perhaps it was worth it, to sow the seed of doubt; perhaps ladies would keep their distance, parents think twice about leaving their daughters in the company of Jeremiah Russell. She might be whispered about in polite society; she might struggle to find another man to have her, if Thomas took another look and changed his mind – but there was more than one way to be considered ruined, and Georgiana had realised which of them mattered to her the least.
She knew, now, how she wanted this particular story to end.
She slept briefly after her bath but could not let her guard down completely, and spent the rest of the day in a state of intense agitation, unable to explain herself to Mrs Burton, who probably put it down to general nervous exhaustion.
Betty had been invited to stay for dinner; Georgiana did not eat much of anything, despite all of her aunt’s fussing, and Betty kept throwing her worried sidelong glances as she tucked into her pie.
Afterwards, when she finally found herself alone with her friend, Georgiana pulled her to the side and whispered conspiratorially in her ear, laying out a plan that had begun to form somewhere between the pie and her untouched pudding. Betty looked a little nervous, but nodded gamely. A few hours later, once the Burtons had retired to their beds and Betty had supposedly gone home for the night, Georgiana was once again sitting by the door and listening intently for the sound of hooves on the road. When the carriage arrived, she climbed in as quietly as possible, gazing out of the window wordlessly as they set off, not realising how tense and still she was until Betty reached out to pat her hand reassuringly.
‘Thank you, Betty,’ she said quietly once they had reached their destination. ‘Please, if you don’t mind – I think I must do this alone.’
Georgiana got out and walked up the last stretch of the enormous drive, shivering a little, although whether it was from nerves, the night air or fatigue, she couldn’t tell. Despite the lateness of the hour, many rooms on the ground floor of the house were still lit; Georgiana hesitantly knocked on the door, half-praying that it wouldn’t be answered and she’d be able to slip away as if she had never been there at all.
A servant opened the door, and went away to convey her message while she stood uncertainly on the threshold. When he returned, however, he was alone. His mistress, reportedly, was ‘indisposed’. Georgiana considered asking more emphatically – considered, very briefly, pushing past him and running into the depths of the house – but instead she thanked him, and gave him every impression that she was leaving.
Instead of returning to the carriage, she glanced about and then walked quickly around the side of the house, hoping she would not be spotted by some eagle-eyed groundsman and shot on sight. She reached the back gardens, the familiar lawn, and through the closed French windows she saw what she had been looking for.
Frances was sitting inside, eating supper with her friends. She looked sullen and exhausted in the candle-light, her hand clutching a full glass of wine, her dress falling carelessly from her shoulders. Jonathan was speaking to Jane; Cecily was listening to Christopher, who was gesticulating with his fork as he spoke. They took on a sort of supernatural glow as they sat ensconced in the candlelight, but the scene that Georgiana would have once been desperate to be a part of looked a little different to her now. She did not see youth and vivacity and glamour; she saw people old beyond their years, people who seemed unhappy more often than not, people with desires and wants and needs so often unmet. Even now, despite everything, she could not be angry at Frances; her friend looked so thin, so thoroughly worn down, the light casting shadows in the hollows of her cheeks. Georgiana thought she understood some of that feeling after just a few months trying to keep up with her; she couldn’t imagine the toll an entire lifetime would take.
She was staring at them all, for a moment still captivated by them, when Frances looked up and their eyes locked. She thought that Frances would pretend not to have seen her, or perhaps send for her father’s hounds and have her run out of the grounds rather than talk to her. Instead she got up unsteadily and walked to the doors. The rest of her friends turned to look as she pushed them open and stood staring down at Georgiana.
‘What?’ she asked bluntly.
‘Frances . . .’
Georgiana did not know where to begin. She had felt resolved in the carriage, but now her voice was shaking. Jonathan got slowly up from his chair and came to stand behind Frances, saying nothing, his expression wary.
‘I came to tell you that what you saw – what you thought you saw between Jeremiah and me – it was not some sort of romantic embrace. Had you not interrupted . . . Well, I dread to think what he would have done. I am grateful that you were there. You saved me, however inadvertently. I promise, I did not go looking for him, I did not seek him out, I was looking for Cecily and then . . . he attacked me, Frances.’
Frances took a deep breath as she absorbed this. She did not speak, but Georgiana saw the comprehension in her eyes – the sagging of her shoulders as some of the anger went out of her. For a moment, she felt relief. Frances believed her. She was sure of it. Jonathan looked as if he did, too; his eyebrows had shot up so high they were almost concealed by his hair, and he was studying Frances’s face carefully, as if looking for cues.
‘And I wanted to say . . . I wanted to say that I’m sorry. I haven’t been a good friend to you, when you really needed one. I don’t think that quite excuses what you did to Betty, or what
you tried to do to me, but I understand why you did it, even if I sorely wish you hadn’t. And . . . Frances,’ Georgiana continued, quietening her voice to almost a whisper, ‘What happened last night, it made me realise . . . back at the cottage, I believe that Jeremiah attacked you, too.’
The change in Frances was instantaneous, even though the individual adjustments were minute; she straightened up, squared her shoulders, tilted her head very slightly as she considered Georgiana.
‘You have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,’ she said, her voice cold and clipped. ‘And I wouldn’t go repeating that little fantasy you’ve concocted, if I were you.’
After all that she had endured already, it surprised Georgiana that these words still cut her to the quick.
‘Frances, I am not saying this to hurt you. I mean, you tried to ruin me, you hurt Betty, and I should be furious – I am furious – but this is more important. Why else would I come to you now? Please . . . just . . . you don’t have to be alone in this.’
‘This pathological need to be at the centre of everything is wearing thin,’ Frances said, sounding almost bored. ‘You’re not the protagonist of our lives, Georgiana. You’re not even particularly interesting. I can see why you’d invent something like this, why you’d project all of your melodramatics on to me—’
‘I haven’t invented anything,’ Georgiana said, feeling her cheeks flare red with frustration. ‘He . . . I am bruised, Frances.’ She yanked down on the fabric of her dress. Frances watched her without a word, but she saw Jonathan start at the sight, glancing back over his shoulder to where Jane, Cecily and Christopher sat, watching silently. ‘That’s the sort of man he is. We both know it. Whatever has happened between us – I care for you. I think . . . I think that he must be brought to some sort of justice. I want to tell people what he did to me. I will not tell your story for you, or ask you to speak, for that is your decision and yours alone. But I need my friend . . .’ Her voice broke, and she tried to swallow it down, ‘I need to know I have your support in this.’