by Julia Quinn
“Surely you jest.”
Georgie’s mouth dropped slightly open, and she neatly laid her spoon back on the table. “Surely you remember Pity-Cat.”
Nicholas had no idea what she was talking about.
“Mary’s cat?” Georgie prodded. “Your sister’s tabby from when you were at Eton . . .”
The memory came to him, then. It had been years and years before. He’d actually liked that cat. It was a scrappy little thing that liked to hide under his mother’s skirts and nip at her ankles. She’d cry out randomly in surprise and yes, it was funny.
Then he frowned. Pity-Cat?
He shook his head. “That cat wasn’t named Pity-Cat.”
Georgie’s whole face turned into a heart-shaped I-told-you-so. “No, Pity-Cat’s name was Turnip, but then you and Edmund thought it was much more fun to say Turnippity, and—
“It is more fun to say Turnippity.”
Georgie pursed her lips. He could tell she was trying not to laugh.
“I mean,” he continued, “who names any breathing creature Turnip?”
“Your sister did. She names all her pets after food.”
“Yes, well, let’s be thankful Felix didn’t let her name their offspring Dumpling, Pudding, or Bacon.”
“One of her cats is named Dumpling.”
He rolled his eyes. “It was only a matter of time.”
Georgie rolled her eyes at that. “I’d named Cat-Head Patch.”
“Why?”
“Have you ever looked at him?”
Not really. “Of course I have.”
Georgie’s eyes narrowed.
“Although mostly I’ve listened.”
She rolled her eyes again.
He snickered. “Oh come now, you must give me credit for that one.”
“Very well, touché.” And then she stared, waiting for him to set the conversation back on course.
“Very well,” he acquiesced, “tell me the story. How am I responsible for your cat’s ridiculous moniker?”
She needed no further encouragement. “As I said, I’d named him Patch. He has little markings around his eyes. Rather like how the broadsheets draw the Dutch sailors with the triangular patches over their eyes.”
Nicholas skipped over the obvious question of how broadsheets depicting piracy occurring mere miles from Aubrey Hall made it out of the security of Lord Bridgerton’s office and into the hands of an impressionable young girl, and instead merely said, “Just the one eye, I’d think.”
She mock-scowled. “Yes, well, I thought it a perfectly proper cat name, but then you and Edmund came home for a few weeks after term and by the time you went back, Turnip went from Turnip to Turnippity to Pity-Cat, and somehow that led to you deciding that Patch ought to be Cat-Head.”
“I have no recollection, although it does sound like something we would do.”
“I tried to bring him back to Patch, but he wouldn’t answer to it any longer. It was Cat-Head or nothing.”
Nicholas was skeptical that cats answered to their names at all, but forbore to argue. “I’m sorry?”
“You are?”
“Shouldn’t I be?”
She took a moment to consider this. Or at the very least, give the impression of doing so. “To be fair, I don’t know that it was you as much as Edmund who led the naming brigade.”
“Regardless, how about I stay out of the naming of our children, then?”
He wasn’t sure where the thought had come from, or why on earth he’d said it out loud, but the words our children seemed to shut down the feels-like-old-times familiarity with the swiftness of a guillotine.
He supposed it was a lot to joke about when they had not even shared a wedding night.
Then, a quirk in her cheek, Georgie raised her gaze to his. There was playfulness in her eyes as she said, “You trust me not to name a child Brunhilda then?”
“Brunhilda’s a fine name,” he replied.
“You think so? Then I’ll—”
But whatever she might have said was cut off by the sound of a door slamming open followed by a panicked male voice shouting, “Is there a doctor in the house?”
Without thinking, Nicholas rose to his feet.
“What do you think . . .” Georgie murmured, and she followed him to the doorway. In the main dining room they both saw a man—a groom by the looks of him—covered in mud and blood.
“We need a doctor in the stables!” he cried.
“Let me assess this situation,” Nicholas said to Georgie. “You should take the rest of your meal in the room.”
“But—”
He looked at her. “You can’t stay here on your own.”
“No, that’s not what I meant. I should come with you. I can help.”
And in that moment, he knew deep in his core that she could. And that she wanted to. And she’d be helpful. But—
“Georgie, they need me in the stables.”
“Then I’ll go with you to the stables. I can—”
“Georgie, women aren’t allowed in the stables.”
“That’s ridiculous.” She smoothed her skirts, making every indication that she planned to follow him. “I’m in the stables every day.”
“You’re in Aubrey Hall’s stables. These are public stables.”
“But—”
“No,” he said, because he could not imagine trying to keep an eye on her welfare and tend to an injured man at the same time. “I’ll send a footman or groom back to escort you to the room where the maids are.”
“But—”
“You cannot come with me to the stables,” he said firmly.
“But I . . . I . . .” For a moment she looked lost, as if she could not decide what to do. But finally she swallowed and said, “Very well. I was almost done eating, anyway.”
“You’ll go straight back to the room?”
She nodded. But she didn’t look happy about it.
“Thank you.” He leaned forward and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “I likely won’t see you until morning. I’m spending the night in the stables, anyway. Once I’m done, I might as well just settle in for the night.”
She let out a tiny sigh. “Good night, then,” she said. “I guess—”
“Straight back to the room,” he said one more time. The last thing he needed was to worry about Georgie’s welfare.
“Yes,” she said impatiently. “I’m going. You can watch me if you want.”
“No, I trust you. I’ve got to go. I think Wheelock’s got my medical bag, and—”
But she wasn’t listening. She couldn’t. He was already out the door, his feet carrying him faster than he could finish his sentence.
He turned around one last time. “Go,” he said. “Back to the room. Please.”
And then he ran off, feeling rather like he was about to save the world.
Chapter 15
Georgie was not in a good mood when she woke up the following morning. She knew she shouldn’t be annoyed with Nicholas for insisting that she go back to the room the night before while he tended to whatever injury awaited him in the stables, but surely the very definition of emotions meant that they were not always rational.
Also, she was tired.
One very small room, one rather lumpy bed, five women (each with a long braid), and three cats—comfortable was not a word anyone had spoken the evening before.
Sam (the groom who hailed from Aubrey Hall) was sweet on Darcy, and he’d brought a hammock from the stables and strung it from the rafters. He’d offered it to Georgie first of course, but he’d brought it for Darcy, and while Georgie did look at it with curious longing, she did not take it.
So Darcy had been in a hammock, and Marcy had—at her mother’s insistence—slept on the floor, but that had still left three women in a bed that had been meant for a cozy two. Georgie had woken up with Marian’s elbow in her armpit and an unpleasant taste in her mouth.
And no abatement of the frustration from the evening
before.
Now, as the women made their way through the busy loading and unloading areas in front of the stables, she looked for Nicholas. If she could not help him with his medical work, she could at least force him to tell her all about it.
But Nicholas was nowhere to be seen.
“Mr. Rokesby,” Georgie said to one of the footmen as she handed Judyth’s basket up to Marian. “Where is he?”
“He’s sleeping, Mrs. Rokesby, ma’am.”
Georgie stopped with one foot on the blocks. “He’s sleeping? Still?”
“Yes, ma’am. He only finished up with the injured man a few hours ago.”
“My goodness, what happened?”
“I’m not sure, ma’am, but there was quite a lot of blood.”
Another footman appeared at her other side. “It was a broken leg, ma’am. The sort where the bone comes through the skin.”
“A compound fracture,” Georgie said. She might have been showing off. No, she was definitely showing off.
“Er, yes.”
“Will he be all right? The man with the broken leg?”
The footman shrugged. “Hard to tell, but if he’s not, it won’t be Mr. Rokesby’s fault. He was a proper hero, ma’am.”
Georgie smiled. “Of course he was. But, er . . .” What to do? She was in charge now, she realized. It was an unfamiliar sensation. Unfamiliar, but not, she was relieved to discover, unpleasant.
She cleared her throat and drew her shoulders back. “We’d planned to get an early start.”
“I know, ma’am,” the first footman said. “It’s just that he was so tired. We wanted to wait until as late as possible to rouse him. He’s got cotton stuffed in his ears and he tied his cravat around his eyes so it’s not surprising he’s still sleeping, but . . .”
“But?” she prompted.
The first footman looked at the second footman and then into the carriage. The second footman just looked at Georgie’s shoe, still perched on the step.
“But?” she prompted again.
“But we’re really quite nervous about the cat.”
Georgie paused for a moment, then stepped down. “Would you please take me to him?”
“To the cat?”
She forced her expression into one of utter patience. “The cat is already in the carriage. I would like to see Mr. Rokesby.”
“But he’s sleeping.”
“Yes, you’d mentioned.”
The three of them stood for an extended moment in awkward silence. The first footman finally said, “This way, ma’am.”
Georgie followed him to the stables, where he stopped at the entrance and pointed. Over on the left side a single hammock still hung, a fully clothed Nicholas barely discernable in the low light. His arms were crossed over his chest, and his eyes were covered by his cravat.
She wanted to hug him.
She wanted to strangle him. If he had let her help the night before he wouldn’t be so tired.
This wasn’t, however, the time to be petty.
She turned on her heel and strode back toward the carriage. They could delay their start by an hour. Nicholas needed his sleep, and it went without saying that no one was going to get any rest inside the carriage. Holding Cat-Head like a baby seemed to help, but it didn’t keep him completely quiet.
She paused, peering back over her shoulder into the stables. She couldn’t quite see Nicholas any longer, but she could picture him in the hammock, swinging slightly with each breath.
He’d looked so comfortable. She hated to wake him. It was really too bad—
“Ma’am?”
She looked up. One of the footmen was regarding her with concern. And no wonder. She’d been standing there for what had to have been a full minute, frozen in thought.
“Ma’am?” he said again.
A slow smile spread across her face. “I’m going to need some rope.”
Nicholas awoke with a start. It was unnerving to open one’s eyes and see nothing, and it took him a moment to remember that he’d tied his cravat over his eyes the night before. He unwrapped his makeshift sleeping mask and yawned. Christ, he was tired. The hammock had been more comfortable than he’d have anticipated, but as he’d been settling into it the night before, all he’d been able to think was that he really should have had the opportunity to sleep in a bed with his wife.
His wife.
He’d been married a day and he’d barely even kissed her.
He was going to have to do something about that.
He looked around. His was the last hammock hanging and the stable door was wide open. The sky was a bright English white. Blue would have been cheerful, but white without rain he’d take.
His feet hit the ground just as one of the Crake footmen appeared in the doorway and waved at him.
“Good morning, sir,” the footman called. “We’re just about ready.”
“Ready?” Nicholas echoed. What time was it? He reached into his pocket for his watch, but before he could take a look, the footman said, “Mrs. Rokesby has been very busy.”
“Arranging for breakfast?” Nicholas asked. It was half eight, much later than he’d meant to start his day.
“That, and the, er . . .” The footman frowned. “You should really see for yourself.”
Nicholas wasn’t sure whether to be curious or scared, but he decided to go with curious until convinced otherwise.
“She’s right clever, she is,” the footman said. “Mrs. Rokesby, I mean.”
“She is,” Nicholas agreed, although he could not imagine what cleverness she’d managed to display at half eight in the morning at The Brazen Bull Inn.
He made his way to the stable door and stopped short. There in the middle of the driveway were the two carriages, surrounded by a small crowd of onlookers.
Who all seemed to be watching his wife.
Georgie was standing on the main carriage’s step, dressed for travel in a plum-colored frock, her gingery hair unadorned by a bonnet.
“Yes, like that,” she said, calling out instructions to some unseen person within. A pause, and then: “No, not like that.”
“What is going on?” Nicholas asked the first person he came across.
“Strangest thing I ever did see.”
Nicholas turned and blinked, only just then realizing that the man with whom he was speaking was not a member of their traveling party. “Who are you?” he asked.
“Who are you?” the man countered.
Nicholas motioned toward Georgie. “Her husband.”
“Really?” The man grinned. “She’s something.” And then he started to laugh.
Nicholas frowned. What the devil?
“Been watching her for a quarter of an hour at least.”
Nicholas decided he did not like this man. “Have you now?” he murmured.
“If she makes this work . . .” The man shook his head with admiration before turning to face Nicholas head-on. “You wouldn’t happen to be heading north?”
“Why?” Nicholas asked suspiciously.
His new best friend took this as yes. “Do you know where you’re stopping? I’m desperate to know how it turns out. We’re taking bets on it.”
“What?”
“Or we would be, if we could be assured we’d hear the results. Don’t suppose you’re planning to make a stop at Biggleswade? Could you leave word at the King’s Reach and let us know how it works out?”
Nicholas gave the man one last irritated glance and stomped off to Jameson, who was standing closer to Georgie.
“Jameson,” he said, perhaps a little more gruffly than he’d intended. “Why has a crowd of spectators congregated around my wife?”
“Oh, you’re awake!” Jameson said. “Good morning, sir.”
“Is it?” Nicholas asked. “Is it?”
“We all hope so, sir. Mrs. Rokesby is certainly trying her best.”
“But what is she doing?”
“A little higher!” Georgie called. “Right, good. N
ow tie a knot right there. Make sure it’s tight.”
GRAOWWW!
Nicholas had almost forgotten the particular horror of that sound. “Where is it?” he asked in a desperate voice. Good Lord, he had not slept well. Or rather, he had not slept much. He could not bear to ponder another full day in the carriage with the beast.
“We found its basket,” Jameson said, pointing to a wicker basket currently resting on the lead carriage’s footboard. “It doesn’t seem to like it, though.”
GRAOWWW!
Nicholas resolutely turned his back on the cat. “Would I be correct in assuming that Mrs. Rokesby’s current machinations have something to do with the cat?”
“I would hate to spoil her surprise, sir.”
“Almost . . .” they heard Georgie say, followed by, “Perfect!”
She poked her head out. “We—Oh! You’re awake.”
Nicholas gave a little bow. “As you can see.” He glanced around the crowded courtyard. “As everyone can see.”
“Oh, yes.” Her cheeks turned slightly pink, although it seemed to be more with pride than embarrassment. “We seem to have garnered a bit of an audience.”
“One can only wonder why.”
“Come in, come in,” she urged. “I must show you my masterpiece.”
Nicholas took a step forward.
“Wait!”
He stopped.
She held up a hand. “One moment.” Then, looking past him, she said, “Could someone hand me the cat?”
There was no question which cat she was referring to. One of the grooms retrieved Cat-Head’s basket and handed it to one of the maids, who handed it up to Georgie.
“I will be ready for you in just a moment,” she said. Then she shut the door.
Nicholas looked at Jameson.
Jameson grinned.
GRAOWWWOOOWWW!
Nicholas frowned. That didn’t sound quite right. Not that anything that cat did sounded right, but this sounded more wrong than usual.
GRAAAAAOOOWWWAAAOOOWWW!
Nicholas looked at Jameson. “If she doesn’t open the door in five seconds, I’m going in.”
Jameson shuddered. “Godspeed, sir.”
There were sounds of a tussle, followed by another howl, slightly muffled. Nicholas took a breath. Time to save his wife.
GRAaaa . . . Graaaa . . .
