Reputation

by Lex Croucher

  She gave a final nod, blinking rapidly to disguise what Georgiana highly suspected were actual tears, and then walked away.

  Georgiana saw her reach the pew that held her former friends, saw Jane reach for Frances – and then to her surprise, saw Frances reach back. She sat down and leaned into Jane, allowing her to put a protective arm around her once more and press a quick, chaste kiss into her hair.

  Perhaps, Georgiana thought, there was hope of some sort of happiness for Frances Campbell after all. It was certainly out of the ordinary – but then, so was almost everything else about her.

  Thomas sat down beside her.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Georgiana, shifting in her seat and grimacing again as sharp twinges of pain shot up her arm in response. ‘She told me that she was glad that I wasn’t dead. I think that’s about as close to an apology as I’m ever likely to get from her.’

  ‘I think you’re very discerning for somebody with a head injury,’ Thomas said, and she gave him a squinting smile.

  ‘I haven’t thanked you for running head first into a fight with an armed man, yet, have I?’

  ‘Well, in the retelling of it, I won’t mind if you forget to mention that I had no notion he was armed,’ Thomas said, taking her good hand.

  ‘He’s going to get away with it, isn’t he?’

  There was a tremor in her voice as she spoke; she hated to think that he held any sort of power over her still, but it frightened her to think that one day she might encounter him again, see him from across the room at some party or wedding, or in this very church, and be unable to do a thing about it.

  ‘I don’t think he’ll be arrested,’ Thomas said gently, ‘but we all know who he truly is, now. He’s not going to return in a hurry. And Mrs Burton isn’t the only one equipped to write angry letters. My father, for one, is very enthusiastic about the prospect of taking up her campaign.’

  Georgiana sighed and then looked at him properly, taking in their joined hands, and the earnest affection in his expression, and the gash on his temple from where he had quite literally thrown himself to her defence.

  ‘You look quite lovely with blood all over your face,’ she said, and he laughed, leaning forward and very gently kissing her on the forehead.

  ‘You have very queer and disturbing tastes, for such a nice young lady. Come on – let’s get you home.’

  Chapter Thirty-One

  M

  r and Mrs Gadforth were hosting perhaps their most garish dinner party to date. They had acquired a truly horrific piece for their collection – a real polar bear, captured abroad and stuffed by an acquaintance of Mr Gadforth’s who seemed only to have a vague idea of what a bear – or indeed any beast – should look like. It leered across the hall and upset all who looked upon it – all except the Gadforths, who were treating it as if it were their long-lost son, home from the war. A few drinks in, Mrs Gadforth was observed giving it sips from her wineglass, until Mr Gadforth roared at her that she was going to ‘destroy the integrity of the preservative’, and she slapped him with her fan and continued as if she had not heard a word of it.

  Due to the presence of the bear, they had announced that the evening would be on the theme of ‘the Arctic’. In the true spirit of the English imagination, they had simply invented what the Arctic might look like based on their own whims, rather than asking a person who might have travelled farther north and been able to give them a true account. To that end, they were serving a strangely blue ‘polar punch’ which mostly seemed to be made of cider, the quartet were playing only jaunty Irish-sounding jigs, and the servants had been costumed with rather moth-eaten fur hats.

  Mrs Burton found all of this perfectly delightful, and kept saying so to her husband and to Georgiana, who only clutched her drink and smiled encouragingly when necessary. Her arm was not quite fully healed, and she was very conscious of it, feeling that even though it was no longer in a sling, it needed some sort of support at all times. It still hurt occasionally, but she wasn’t sure if that was residual pain from the break or simply the memory of how she had obtained it repeating on her. Whenever she thought of it, she felt an unpleasant dropping sensation in her stomach, and the strange notion that if she did not hold on very tightly, the arm might fall off altogether.

  She had not been perilously drunk for almost two months, since the day of the party at Haverton House; she had dabbled a little in the realm of opioids when the surgeon had needed to set her arm properly, but she felt very strongly that this should not count against her. She was perfectly happy to sip Mrs Gadforth’s disgusting punch, knowing that she did not really need another – although this would not seem like such a great feat of restraint to anybody who had tasted the vile concoction.

  ‘Are you well enough to dance, Georgiana?’ Mrs Burton asked eagerly, as the band launched into another spirited number and dancers lined up down the hall to begin.

  ‘I think I’ll . . . er . . . sit this one out,’ Georgiana said, gesturing vaguely towards the other side of the room.

  Mrs Burton shrugged, took Mr Burton’s hand and dragged him towards the fray.

  Georgiana had not been to a social gathering this large for quite a while, and she was finding it frankly exhausting. She could no longer hide in anonymity, stand at the back of the room and nurse her drink while the others revelled; since the incidents with Jeremiah, she had been the subject of endless gossip and intrigue, and simply entering the room had been enough to set off a wave of whispers and muttering that had all the subtlety of Mrs Gadforth’s bear. Even now, as the dancers began, she could easily identify the conversations about her that were taking place – people leaning in to each other to discuss her in loud stage whispers, glancing away when they caught her eye. It seemed impossible to her that she had once stood in this very room and been bored out of her wits; now she was so on edge that she ached for quiet.

  She put her glass down on an end table and swiftly exited the room. The house was just as darkly lit as it had been on her previous visit – ‘Well, the Arctic’s quite dark, isn’t it?’ Mrs Burton had said in the Gadforths’ defence – but Georgiana could just about make out the geography of the hallway. She made a beeline for a familiar Grecian pillar that loomed palely out of the darkness.

  After all that had happened, it seemed ridiculous to Georgiana that she was once again hiding in an alcove in this dreadful house, listening to the murmur of voices and faint strains of music as she hoped ardently to remain undiscovered. Instead of the intolerable rest-lessness she had experienced when here last, she felt soothed by the solid feeling of the wall against her back, and the promise that absolutely nothing untoward was going to happen at this party. Nobody was going to expect anything more of her than to be polite and perhaps try one of Mrs Gadforth’s ‘penguin pies’ (Mr Burton had tried one and assured her that it was chicken, somehow painted blue).

  She heard footsteps in the hallway and risked peering out from her refuge – and then smiled widely when she saw who was approaching.

  ‘Betty!’ she hissed. ‘Betty! Come over here!’

  ‘What? Why are you there?’ Betty replied loudly, and Georgiana laughed.

  ‘For the love of God, Betty, be quiet! We’re hiding,’ she whispered as loudly as she could manage.

  Betty dutifully followed the sound of her voice and joined her in the alcove, hitching up her skirts in a most ungainly fashion as she struggled up onto the ledge next to her friend.

  ‘Why are you hiding? Oh gosh – are they still talking? People keep asking me, but I’ve told it so many times now, I always get a bit lost around the middle of it – and honestly I don’t enjoy reliving the part where his head made that dreadful cracking sound,’ Betty said, shuddering.

  She offered Georgiana a fresh glass of Arctic punch, which she quickly declined.

  ‘Yes. They are still talking. To be fair to them, I think it’s probably the most interesting thing that’s happened around here for centuries.�
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  ‘That’s not very fair of you at all,’ reprimanded Betty, and Georgiana sighed.

  ‘You’re right, of course. I am crotchety and ill-tempered, and I should leave these poor people to enjoy their dead bear party.’

  Betty nodded, obviously pleased with her friend’s moral progress.

  ‘Does it still hurt?’ She touched Georgiana’s arm gently. ‘Only I broke my ankle when I was a child and apparently I dragged the leg around after me for months, perhaps even a year – Grandmama says it was all part of a ploy, you see, to get more biscuits, as every time I cried it was the only thing that would stop me – she said that once I realised that pain resulted in sweets, I schemed to get as many as possible – my parents had physicians coming to look at me, there was talk of needing a full body brace. I think at one point they even considered calling a priest in case it was a malady of a spiritual nature! The funniest thing is, the same thing happened with her dog – not the priest part, I don’t think they were afraid for Fifi’s soul – but she pretended to have a limp for, you know, personal gain. Biscuits.’

  ‘You really are the most fascinating creature,’ said Georgiana.

  ‘Oh! Is that a bad thing or a good thing? Fascinating doesn’t sound half as good as “charming”, or “eloquent”, or . . . or . . .’

  ‘It is a marvellous thing,’ Georgiana reassured her. ‘Betty Walters, you are a delight to be around. An endless source of fun. I can honestly say that I never have any idea what you might say next.’

  ‘Me neither, to be honest,’ said Betty, and she sounded so genuinely in horror of it that Georgiana laughed and gave her a spontaneous hug.

  ‘Oh! Be careful of your arm,’ Betty said, flushing pink as Georgiana released her. ‘Is Thomas here yet?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Georgiana couldn’t help but smile, pressing her lips together to try to keep herself in check.

  ‘Do you think he’ll . . . he’ll ask? Would he do it here? Oh, I do hope he asks, Georgiana – it is beyond time for it, and it’s clear to all who look upon the two of you together that you are made for each other – I can just picture you as the most radiant bride, although perhaps it would be best to choose another church, go farther afield – I think your head left bloodstains on the pews at St Anne’s, and you would not want to look upon your own blood on your wedding day. Oh! And when you’re settled at Highbourne House you must have me to stay – I’d especially like a south-facing room as Grandmama has been and says those are the best, the most charming rooms of all the rooms they have—’

  ‘Betty, he has not asked, and if he asks here, among Mr and Mrs Gadforth’s odd friends and servants dressed up like wayward explorers, I shall turn him down most vehemently,’ Georgiana said, laughing.

  Thomas had not yet made her a formal offer of marriage, but she was not the least bit concerned – he simply gave her no reason to doubt him. They had been almost inseparable since the day she broke her arm; she had enjoyed many dinners with the Hawksleys, and he had endured just as many at Mrs Burton’s table. They had joined Mr Burton for his morning walk on a few occasions, and gone for gentle hacks on Thomas’s horses, returning home wind-chapped and happy. He had played for her at his beloved piano, and she had watched, entranced, as he lost himself entirely in the music and came back to her smiling.

  Many parts of his house had been long shut away, but every time she visited they seemed to open another, the rooms coming alive again as Thomas told her their stories.

  He had led her through the gardens and to the tree house he had built for his brother, to all the secret places they had shared before they had forgotten how to be children. He had shown her his mother’s portrait, stoic and serious in shades of brown and blue, above the fireplace in the room that had been her parlour, but then pulled out a different painting – one that his father had commissioned when they were married in India, of the two of them wrapped in bright silks and gold jewellery and flowers.

  In that one, she had been smiling.

  Just last week, Thomas had bade his servants open a room she had somehow not yet entered in the expanse of Highbourne: the library. She had been lost to him immediately, exploring every shelf with her eyes and her hands, pulling out old favourites, reverently tracing the spines of beautiful editions that she was frightened she might ruin with her touch. Half the books had been his mother’s, and they expelled little clouds of dust when retrieved, as if they had not been opened for a very long time. She had just been telling him the details of a particular favourite – a Gothic novel so gripping that she had once stayed up all night reading it at her father’s desk, only realising what she had done when dawn began to encroach through the window – when he had gently closed the book, taken it from her hands and kissed her; not with the passion of the clandestine kisses of their past, but tenderly, with the promise of what was to come.

  ‘We shall have a day bed moved here,’ he had said, laughing. ‘Reading all night over a desk tends to give one a terrible crick in the neck.’

  Betty could not be dissuaded from the topic of marriage, and Georgiana let her talk about gowns for bridesmaids, and floral arrangements, and the most romantic symphonies to dance to, until she heard more footsteps in the hallway – and suddenly Thomas himself was standing right in front of them.

  ‘Oh! We weren’t talking about you,’ Betty said unconvincingly, and Georgiana raised her eyebrows at him.

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ said Thomas. ‘Mrs Burton said you had vanished and that I would most likely find you hiding somewhere inappropriate.’

  ‘It’s not inappropriate, Mr Hawksley, it’s an alcove,’ said Betty helpfully. ‘I’ll leave you two to talk.’

  She winked exaggeratedly at Georgiana as she slipped off the ledge and then hurried away towards the party. ‘Do I want to know what that was about?’ Thomas asked, offering his arm so that Georgiana could get down one-handed with some semblance of grace.

  She smoothed her dress as she got to her feet.

  ‘I didn’t want to know what it was about, and I had to hear it all, but I’ll spare you out of the goodness of my heart.’

  ‘Much obliged, I’m sure. Are you having a pleasant evening?’

  ‘Not particularly,’ Georgiana said. ‘It’s recently become markedly better, though.’

  ‘Excellent news,’ Thomas said. Georgiana didn’t need to turn her head to know exactly how he was looking at her. ‘Listen, I do have to ask a favour of you – I hope it won’t put you out too much.’

  ‘What is it?’ Georgiana said warily as they approached the drawing room. ‘I won’t drink your punch for you, if that’s what you’re after – but if you give it to Mrs Gadforth, she’ll feed it to her bear.’

  ‘Thank God,’ Thomas said. ‘I’ve already left a glass behind a sculpture, and they immediately tried to give me another.’

  ‘Stop stalling – what’s the favour?’

  ‘Oh. Well. I know it will inconvenience you terribly, as you are still a little injured, and I’m aware that you are finding public life extremely tiresome of late – but I have a selfish inclination towards dancing with you tonight. What do you say?’

  He kissed Georgiana on the hand, and she rolled her eyes, then sighed benevolently.

  ‘Come on, then. You are insufferable for asking – but I suppose I can permit just one, very short dance.’

  Dear Miss Ellers,

  I have received your many letters; please rest assured that there is absolutely no need to send any more. Your penman-ship is so poor that it must be a very arduous task, and I do not wish you to risk causing yourself an injury. As I am sure you’re aware by now, I have also written to Miss Betty Walters, so you may desist on that account, too. I certainly do not intend to make a habit of it.

  In response to your latest note – yes, Miss Woodley and I will be attending your wedding in March. My mother and father will not, as my father is abroad and my mother is in Bath staying with friends, and both intend to be away indefinitely.r />
  Frances Campbell

  P.S. Incidentally, I would like to point out that it was very presumptuous and impertinent of you to address the invitation to Jane at my residence. No matter what rumours you may have heard, Jane certainly does not live here.

  P.P.S. Jane has asked me to include a recommendation that you do not wear green ribbon, as you look very ill in it. We shall see you on the eighth.

  Not in green, Georgiana.

  I’m serious.

  Acknowledgements

  I’ve got a lot of people to thank, but first a note about the historical context of this book.

  At the time of publishing, the UK government and large sections of the media are attempting to whitewash Britain’s history. They are actively impeding the progress we have made – and must continue to make – towards understanding the UK’s past, including its imperialism and prominent role in the transatlantic slave trade. This history has shaped and continues to shape the power structures of present-day Britain.

  This story portrays a multicultural Regency Britain in a bid to reverse the trend of whitewashing the historical stories we tell. While Reputation is fiction, there were many Black and Indian people in various positions in society living in Britain during the Regency period and throughout the history of the isles, and it was important to me that these communities had a place in this narrative.

  Now it’s time to roll up my sleeves and acknowledge the hell out of some people.

  Endless thanks to my brilliant agent Chloe Seager for understanding Georgiana straight away, for always fighting my corner and for just generally being a good and hilarious egg. This has been a lifelong dream come true, and it wouldn’t have happened without all your help. Thanks also to the entire team at Madeleine Milburn for your support, and for throwing a truly excellent Christmas party.

  Thank you to my editors Sarah Bauer and Katie Lumsden for making this experience so wonderful, and to Blake, Grace, Jenna, Eleanor, Louise and everybody else at Bonnier Books who had a hand in birthing this book. Thanks to my cover designer Sophie McDonnell and illustrator Louisa Cannell for bringing Georgiana and her pals to life. Thanks too to Sarah Cantin at St Martin’s Press for taking Georgiana on her grand voyage across the big drink to the USA.