by Lynne Barron
Then that little ditty made the rounds and the countess took no more angels under her wing. Shying away from any sort of affection or companionship, abhorring her natural desires, isolated and bitter, she fell into a sharp decline.
Henry pressed a damp handkerchief to his eyes and drew in a ragged breath as his carriage rolled over a stone bridge. Relinquishing the chillingly honest tale of his mother’s slow descent into madness, he lifted the curtain and peered out the window. Twilight had fallen and the storm had moved on, leaving behind a horizon blurred by muted orange light and a sky awash in myriad shades of purple, from palest lavender to deepest indigo.
His carriage approached an immense raised portcullis, the ends of the vertical bars sharpened to spikes. Two fat towers complete with dozens of arrowslits flanked the gate. A crenellated stone wall rose from the murky water of a moat and stretched out on either side as far as the eye could see.
Beyond the wall, the castle rose, dark and majestic against the backdrop of the setting sun. Tall round towers soared into the sky at irregular intervals, some of them listing precariously, others standing perfectly straight, proud sentinels of a bygone era. Ivy clung to the walls, climbing over the battlements and curling around narrow windows built deep into the stones.
This was the crumbling castle where Georgie had lived as she’d grown from a wild child, more boy than girl, into the confident, irreverent woman she was today?
Good God, it was enormous, a massive, medieval structure built to defend against invasion, to support an entire clan of Buchanans. Tag likely hadn’t exaggerated when she’d said Idyllwild Cottage would fit in the great hall.
The bailey was a wide open space of gently rolling hills, small cottages and lean-tos built flush against the inner walls. Dozens of men hurried around, some carrying sacks over their shoulders while others herded sheep across the muddy lawn. A handful of women clustered around a laundry shed, stirring huge vats of boiling water and hanging garments on lines strewn on wooden posts. Children scrambled about, helping and hindering the adults in what appeared to be equal measure.
Beyond a few curious gazes, no one paid the slightest attention to the crested carriage on the muddy road.
Nor did anyone open the massive doors set deep into the walls of the keep when Henry hopped down from his carriage, his boots sinking into a good three inches of muck.
It wasn’t until his groom pounded on the doors for a good five minutes that they swung open.
“What the bloody ‘ell do ye want?” A giant with a shiny bald head and a gold hoop dangling from his ear glared down his bulbous nose. Behind him men and women rushed around laughing and shouting, dogs barked, crockery and silver clanked.
“Mind your tongue,” Thomas retorted. “You are speaking to the Earl of Hastings.”
“I don’t care if ’e be the fuckin’ king o’ England,” the man bellowed. “We ain’t got time for ’ospitality, what with a storm coming down the mountain.”
“I have come for Miss Georgie Buchanan.” Henry pitched his voice to carry over the cacophony.
“Ach, go on wit’ ye.”
“Seamus Campbell, since when do we allow travelers to languish outside in the cold?”
Henry peered past the unlikely butler to find a tiny woman with dark hair scraped back from a pale, pinched face striding through the throng. Dressed in gray from her high-necked blouse tucked into a pleated skirt to her half-boots, the woman pushed the giant aside and opened the door wide.
“Bloke says e’s the Earl o’ Hasty,” Seamus grumbled. “An’ ‘e’s looking for Georgie.”
“Welcome, Lord Hastings,” the lady said, her words colored by a stiff French accent. “I am Mrs. Alogne. I’m afraid Miss Buchanan has not been in residence this past year. But you’d best come in and allow me to make you comfortable.”
“We’re ta’ be snowed in.” Seamus replied with a grin that showed off a gap between his two front teeth.
“Snowed in?” Henry repeated in alarm.
“For a wee bit.”
The Scotsman’s definition of a wee bit greatly differed from that of the Earl of Hastings who found himself snowed in at the Duke of Mountjoy’s castle for fifteen days.
On the sixteenth day Henry headed south again, the horses picking their way carefully down the mountain pass and splashing through a near flood of murky melting snow.
Three days later his carriage crossed into England.
Five days after that, as he took luncheon in the crowded taproom half a days journey from London, he opened the last volume of his mother’s diary. It was slow going, wading through the ramblings of a lady whose mind jumped between past and present without rhyme or reason.
His head was aching by the time he reached the final pages, his gaze jumping ahead, skimming over a paragraph devoted almost entirely to her desire to see Olivia married to the Marquis of Belmont.
A single word caught his eye at the bottom of the page, a name written in spidery script.
Connie’s child paid me a call today. Not a boy at all but a tall red hen, a gangly girl with her father’s features and nothing of her mother at all. Oh, my darling angel, how I remember our time together, secluded at Bastion’s Cross, just the two of us.
“Jesus Christ.” Henry jumped to his feet and sprinted across the room, heedless of the stares following him or the elderly man he nearly knocked to the ground to get out the door.
James and Thomas were fiddling with one of the fresh horse’s harnesses in the stable yard.
“James, how long have you been driving for my family?” Henry demanded, splashing through the muddy yard.
If James was surprised by the sudden query or by his master’s excitement he gave no indication, simply removed his hat and scratched his head. “Right about twenty years, I suppose, my lord.”
“Did you drive Lady Hastings and a friend, a blonde lady, to the country some twenty-one years ago?” Henry asked.
“Can’t say as I did.”
“Damn,” Henry muttered. “How about my father, did you ever drive him to an old hunting lodge somewhere to the north? I’m not certain where exactly. I only know it was part of Mother’s dowry and went to Olivia upon her first marriage.”
“You wouldn’t be meaning Bastion’s Cross, would you?” James blinked rheumy eyes. “Bastion’s Cross is clear up north, just to the other side of the border.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Georgie strolled into the small church in Bethnal Green on a blistery cold October afternoon as if she had received her own gold-embossed invitation in the morning post. She’d received no such thing but seeing as the groom was a distant relation she felt no need to slink in at the very last moment.
It was the ninth wedding Georgie had attended in the two months since her own botched betrothal had fallen by the wayside. Each one of them had brought her to tears.
Of course, it seemed as if everything brought her to tears these days. She’d become a watering pot, worse - a fat rain barrel without benefit of a spigot to stem the flow.
She cried if her bread was unevenly toasted, if her tea was served tepid, if the fire in her bedchamber burned low.
The previous day when Tag had tossed her hands in the air in defeat, unable to button her favorite lavender striped gown around her expanding girth, Georgie had wailed like a baby. She’d howled to the ceiling of her bedchamber when she’d discovered her fat toes could no longer be squeezed into the pretty blue half-boots she’d bought to replace those she’d abandoned in her mad dash to leave Town.
Thankfully, after that one unfortunate incident involving the Countess of Piedmont’s beaded ebony gown, Georgie’s belly had settled but for the occasional nausea upon waking. The insomnia that had plagued her for nearly her entire life was long gone. In fact she fell asleep at the drop of a hat and often in the most awkward of places, on a park bench, in a milliner’s shop, at the museum and once while waiting in line for lemonade during intermission at a matinee.
“Dea
rly beloved,” the minister began and Tag shoved two fresh handkerchiefs into Georgie’s hands in preparation. “We are gathered here today to join together Miss Louisa Anne Fitzroy and Mr. Chesterfield Chatsworth McDougal.”
“Chesterfield Chatsworth?” Georgie let loose an inelegant snort and the groom turned to look over his shoulder, his eyes widening when he found her sitting in the sixth pew on the right.
She lifted her hand and wiggled her fingers at him, laughing outright when he flushed and whipped his head back around.
Chester may have been her nemesis and a ribbon thief to boot, not to mention a would-be peeping Tom of the worst sort, but his wedding was positively lovely.
Georgie cried throughout the entire ceremony, quiet little sniffles interspersed with the occasional gulping sob that turned the heads of the invited guests and the groom more than once. When Chester led his bride down the aisle and past the pew Georgie occupied, he shot her a pleading look, one that begged for mercy.
Poor Chester, she really ought to have called on him to set his mind at ease when the scandal did not appear in his paper.
But those first days had been a nightmare, a great yawning pit into which she’d fallen.
It had taken her two full weeks to emerge from the darkness, two weeks she’d spent cocooned in her carriage with a frightened Tag who’d sat by helplessly while Georgie railed at fate and her own vicious heart. Brain had driven her through the countryside, day after day, mile after mile until finally they’d stopped at an inn on the coast in Essex.
The next morning, as the trio trekked across the inn yard, Georgie had heard music coming from the church, a tune as familiar to her as her own voice. Following it, she’d found a wedding just beginning in the quaint little white-washed clapboard church across the street.
She’d also found hope, bittersweet and barely recognizable, but hope nonetheless. And so she’d returned to London, returned to the site of her greatest folly, only to find she’d been abandoned by everyone who mattered to her.
Killjoy had decamped for parts unknown, leaving behind nothing more than a hastily scrawled note telling her that he’d gone off after a pair of pretty tits and a bit of Buchanan business.
According to Bobbin, whose two mischievous great-nieces worked as parlor maids at Henry’s town house, the earl had packed a bag and climbed into his carriage the day after his cousin’s ball. With only an ancient coachman and a single footman, he’d set off for Hastings Hall, stopping long enough to retrieve a heavy trunk, its contents a mystery that had garnered much debate amongst the servants, before heading north.
Discreet inquiries had revealed that his relations had evacuated the city along with the rest of the ton, gone off to their various country estates to entertain themselves with hunts and house parties. All but Alice and considering their last encounter, she rather doubted the lady would allow her through the front door.
With nothing else to do but wait, and knowing full well Killjoy hadn’t meant a word of his ridiculous threat to displace her from Lady Joy’s house, Georgie had settled back into her pretty floral bedchamber and resumed attending weddings. Only now she did not do so in hopes of gleaning information but rather to shear up her flagging spirits. She invariably felt better after she’d indulged herself with a wedding.
On occasion, funerals brought about the same wondrous feeling of hope and renewal, especially if the dearly departed had been embroiled in some sort of scandal but much loved all the same. Why, then she might just wander away feeling almost happy.
Almost, but not quite.
When Georgie stepped from the church into a world gone bitter cold and gray, she floundered for a moment, not certain where to go, what to do. “What were we about before we dipped into the church?”
“We were after finding you peaches,” Tag replied, pushing her hands deep into her muff and staring up at the gray sky. “We’d best give up on that else we’ll get caught in the snow.”
“Snow in October?” Georgie rested her hands over the bump beneath her buttery-yellow pelisse, the bump that would soon be too big to hide, though by Dr. Sam’s calculations she was only four months along.
“They were snowed in at Joy on the Mount for weeks,” Tag replied. “And aren’t the English forever coveting what we Scots have? Even an early winter.”
“Have you received a letter from your mother, then?” Georgie paid little attention to their conversation as she watched Chester standing beside his bride accepting the well-wishes of his wedding guests, all the while darting nervous looks over his shoulder.
She really ought to send around a note to assure him all was forgiven.
Perhaps such selfless acts of kindness would become second nature to her with a bit of practice.
“A letter?” Tag repeated. “Yes, of course. A letter arrived from Scotland.”
“Mmm, that’s nice. I hope all is well.”
“To my way of thinking, things can’t get any worse.”
“Is something amiss at The Mount?” Georgie asked, turning to her maid in surprise.
“What could be amiss?” Tag asked, her gaze flicking up and down the street bustling with carriages and wagons and the occasional pedestrian rushing to complete whatever errands forced them out of doors in the unseasonably cold weather.
“I’ve no idea, but truly you are acting most peculiar,” Georgie replied.
“Yes, well, I haven’t your skills, have I?” Tag demanded, color blooming in her cheeks.
“Which skills would those be? And why are you looking about all wild-eyed?”
“Where is the bloody carriage? I will skin him alive if he mucks this up after asking, no begging for my help,” Tag muttered.
“Who? Brain?”
“Ah, there it is!” Tag waved like a maniac when the carriage appeared at the corner of the street, stopping to allow a beer wagon to pass.
“Tatiana Alogne, what on earth is the matter with you?” Georgie demanded.
In answer, Tag took hold of her hand and gave her a look that was both pleading and fierce. “I love you.”
“Oh, dearest, you know—” Georgie began, blinking against the tears gathering in her eyes.
“Yes, I know you love me,” Tag interrupted with a wave of her free hand. “The thing is, I know you love Lord Hastings best of all. Don’t try to deny it. We both know you were but the breath of a rabbit from marrying his lordship.”
“A what?” Georgie asked with a laugh, swiping at the moisture hovering on her lashes.
“A rabbit…no a hare’s breath.” Tag produced a fresh handkerchief from her pocket and offered it to her mistress.
“I think you mean a hair’s breadth,” Georgie dabbed at her eyes.
“Isn’t that what I just said?”
Georgie tugged on a curl that had fallen from her bun to dangle along her neck. “The breadth of a single hair.”
“Oh.” Tag’s eyes widened. “I always wondered how one might measure a hare’s breath.”
“I’ve no idea but I imagine the smell isn’t too pleasant.” Just imagining it caused her stomach to heave a bit. “Although I may be wrong, hares do nibble on grass and flowers so perhaps their breath is quite sweet.”
“Do hares not eat mice and other small rodents?” Tag asked, a frown screwing up her face.
“Hush, don’t mention meat, not even small meat,” Georgie begged.
Tag’s features smoothed out and she smiled. “Oh, no you don’t, Georgie Buchanan. You’ll not be turning my attention.”
“You were the one who started in on rabbit’s breath,” Georgie protested with an answering smile.
“You picked up my blunder and ran with it just to change the topic,” the dark-haired girl accused.
“I don’t even remember what the topic was,” Georgie replied in exasperation as her carriage rolled to a stop in the street. Brain hopped down from the boot while Silas hunched over the reins, his hat pulled low.
“Never mind.” Tag squeezed Georgie’s hand b
efore releasing it and turning to the footman. “What took you so long?”
“We were after Georgie’s peaches.” Brain opened the door and let down the steps. “Your carriage and six fat, juicy peaches await.”
“Thank you, dear heart,” Georgie put her hand in his but instead of helping her in the carriage, Brain pulled her into a tight embrace.
“Good gracious, what’s come over you?” she asked in surprise.
“Do you remember the advice you gave me?” Brain whispered. “About dragging Tatiana away from that pimply faced groom? You had the right of it, Georgie. Sometimes a man must drag a woman about, by the hair if needs be, so she knows he desires her above all else.”
“Did it work then? Is that why you and Tag are behaving so queer?”
“I haven’t done it yet. But I will.”
“I don’t understand.” Try as she might she could not make sense of the past three minutes.
“You will.” Brain released her to all but shove her into the carriage.
“Honestly, the pair of you have gone stark raving mad,” she grumbled as settled into the forward facing seat. “To be sure, that’s what comes from thwarted desire.”
“That explains it, then.” The gravelly snarl was Georgie’s first clue that the world as she knew it was tilting on its axis, much like the carriage as the Earl of Hastings lumbered through the open door, causing the conveyance to list to the side and blocking the meager light.
He cursed when his head collided with the door frame, his hat falling away to reveal tangled curls in want of a trim and a sorry excuse for a beard covering his handsome face.
Wearing a black greatcoat open over a shirt that might have once been white, dusty buff trousers and tall, mud-spattered boots, he pulled the door closed behind him and dropped to his knees before her as the carriage lurched into motion.
Before Georgie could form a coherent thought, let alone words, Henry wedged her legs apart, wrapped his arms around her and yanked her flush against him, from chest to loins. His mouth covered hers, tongue driving deep, curling, stroking. His scent, earth and sweat and horse surrounded her. He tasted of mint and desire and desperation, the combination delicious, decadent and devastating.
