Diamonds and Deceit (At Somerton)

by Rasheed, Leila

  He scampered off. Georgiana and Michael looked at each other and then at the lumberyard. It was deserted and dank. Old planks and salvaged bricks were piled together in heaps. The gate was locked and chained, but Georgiana walked closer and saw that the chain was rusted through.

  “You think she could be in there?” She looked into the forbidding place. There was a shack, certainly, but it was so tumbledown looking that it hardly provided shelter. “But why would she go there?”

  Michael shook his head and pulled the gate open. It opened with a squeal of hinges. They went through, and Georgiana followed Michael, fearfully, to the shack.

  Michael pulled open the door. Georgiana’s eyes grew used to the darkness. There were old planks lying about, puddles of dank water, some old barrels and sacks in the corner.

  “Oh, she can’t be in here,” she exclaimed, horrified. “Michael, come away.” She tugged at his sleeve, and then froze as something on the sacks moved and moaned faintly.

  “Michael.” Priya’s weak voice floated toward them. Then she began to cough, great racking coughs that shook her whole body.

  “Priya!” Michael gasped, and ran forward to take her in his arms.

  Georgiana followed.

  “Don’t—don’t let him in—no, no!” Priya gasped as Michael lifted her up.

  “There isn’t anyone here, just us,” Michael soothed her. But Priya pulled away, and Georgiana was shocked by the terror in her eyes.

  “I must hide!” She lapsed into Hindi, her eyes glinting white in the dim light.

  “What’s happening to her? Is she mad?” Michael sounded terrified.

  “Delirious.” Georgiana put a hand on her forehead. “Oh, she has a fever. Quick, we must get her out of here.”

  Together they struggled to get Priya out of the shack. Rain had begun to fall. Michael swept Priya into his arms and Georgiana followed them out of the lumberyard. Her dark hair hung down, soaked in the rain.

  “But where shall we take her? What shall we do?” Michael was half sobbing as they reached the road. Georgiana could not cry. She was too frightened for tears. Priya’s face was white and she seemed barely conscious, her head lolling on Michael’s shoulder. Now and then she coughed, a racking cough that seemed to rattle her bones like a sack of scrap metal.

  “We must get a cab.” Georgiana waved to a boy who was kicking a stone in the gutter. “Get me a cab, be quick.” She pressed a shilling into his hand and the boy took off at speed. “Oh, I hope he comes back!” She turned to see Michael leaning against the wall, holding Priya’s head between his hands.

  “She can’t hear me. She’s hardly breathing,” Michael said. “Georgie, what are we going to do?”

  Georgiana looked round at the sound of hooves. A cab was coming toward her, the driver looking half inclined to drive on at the sight of them. She had to be firm. She had to forget how afraid she was, forget that she knew no one in London, and act like the chatelaine of Somerton Court. She summoned up all her strength and stepped boldly out to claim the cab. And then she knew where to go.

  “Take us to Lordswell Street, number twenty-three,” she told the driver as he jumped down. “And quickly—the lady is unwell.”

  They scrambled into the cab and she helped Michael steady Priya as they jolted along. She was cold and her pulse was so weak that for one terrifying second Georgiana thought she was dead.

  “Priya, listen to me. Can you hear me? It’s over, you’re safe. You’ll be safe now,” Michael kept repeating. Georgiana did not interrupt, but she wondered to herself how safe Priya could ever be now. Her gaze kept returning to Priya’s stomach. How could she not have known? She pressed Priya’s hand, rubbing it, trying to drive the warmth back into it. She did not think she would ever forgive herself for letting this happen.

  The cab drew up outside a large, respectable house with railings all around it. Georgiana, looking out of the window, was glad that Mrs. Cliffe had found employment in what seemed to be a good family.

  “Are you sure this is a good idea? What if her employers object? Or send us away?” Michael asked as he got down from the cab, still holding Priya in his arms.

  Georgiana paid the fare and followed him down. “They mustn’t,” she said firmly.

  She went down the steps into the dim yard in front of the house. Through the smudged window she could see a woman in a black-and-white uniform moving about in the kitchen. She tapped on the glass.

  The woman looked up, startled. It wasn’t Mrs. Cliffe. Georgiana steeled herself for another round of persuasion. The woman came to the door, pushing back stray wisps of hair under her cap with red fingers. She unlocked the door and looked out.

  “Yes, what is it…miss?” She looked from Georgiana to Michael and Priya with growing uncertainty.

  “We must see Mrs. Cliffe,” said Georgiana. She summoned all her dignity, all her breeding, and drew herself up straight and ladylike as she had seen Ada do. “It is a matter of the utmost urgency.”

  The woman looked at Priya again.

  Georgiana took her hesitation for disapproval, and jumped in. “I don’t have time for quibbling. The young lady is extremely unwell. If Mrs. Cliffe is at home, we will see her now. If not, we will wait in her parlor.”

  With a level of daring that astonished her, she pushed the door open. The woman backed away, and Michael put his foot in the door before she or the footman, who looked up from his newspaper in astonishment, could leap to close it. Georgiana saw her way straight before her, past the kitchen table—the place was much smaller than Somerton—to the opposite door and the tiled servants’ corridor. She marched straight ahead as if she owned the house, holding the doors open for Michael and Priya to follow her. The woman followed them.

  “But—” she began.

  Georgiana interrupted her—never let a servant sidetrack you, impose your authority at once. “Is that the housekeeper’s room?” She pointed to the most imposing-looking door on the corridor. There were few to choose from.

  “Yes, but—”

  Georgiana strode forward, rapped on the door, and pushed it open. A cozy, warm room greeted her, twinkling with polished brass, an arrangement of flowers on the windowsill, the china locked away in a majestic glass-fronted cabinet. Two chairs faced each other before the fire, and there was a couch below the window. Michael strode forward without invitation and laid Priya upon it.

  But the woman who rose, startled, from behind the desk, was not Mrs. Cliffe.

  “Yes?” she said. “May I help you?”

  Georgiana found herself speechless. Could she have got the address wrong? But plain as day, it had said number twenty-three. Mrs. Cliffe, then, had made a mistake.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” she began.

  “This lady and gentleman were desirous of seeing Mrs. Cliffe,” the woman behind them piped up.

  “Oh?” The woman’s eyebrows lifted. She spoke to Georgiana in a quite respectful voice. “I am Mrs. Drayton, the housekeeper here. I shall see if Mrs. Cliffe is at home, miss. Who shall I say…?”

  Georgiana gazed at her open mouthed.

  Michael answered for her. “Mr. M-Michael Templeton and Lady Georgiana Averley,” he managed.

  “Of course. Please do sit down, my lady, sir—the young lady looks very unwell.” With a glance of concern at Priya, Mrs. Drayton went quickly from the room.

  Michael slumped into one of the chairs by the fire. Georgiana dropped into the chair opposite. They stared at each other wordlessly.

  The cook hovered. “I’ll bring you some tea…and should I not fetch the doctor, my lady, for the Indian lady?”

  Georgiana finally found her tongue. “Yes—yes, please do!” She twisted round in her seat as the cook was leaving and called after her. “Excuse me—am I to understand this is Mrs. Cliffe’s own house? That she is mistress here?”

  The cook gave her a look as if she had just escaped from Bedlam.

  “Yes, my lady,” she said. “If I may be so bold, I don’t quite unders
tand why you didn’t call at the front door. The butler, Mr. Heath, would have been most willing to assist you.”

  She bobbed a curtsy and fled, leaving Georgiana not sure whether to laugh or cry.

  “My lady!”

  Georgiana jumped to her feet as she heard Mrs. Cliffe’s voice and the rustle of taffeta. She took in the fashionably dressed woman before her, a piece of paper and a pen clutched in her fingers, as if she had just come from her bureau. For a mad second Georgiana thought this could not be Mrs. Cliffe—and then she saw Rose’s features reflected in her eyes and her welcoming smile.

  “Please, please, sit down—I insist that you not rise,” Mrs. Cliffe exclaimed. She knelt down beside Priya. “Oh my poor girl.” Her shocked tone showed that she had understood the situation. “I am so sorry. How could this have happened? I suspected before I left that the staff were hiding something from me, but I had no idea it was this—I could never have suspected it.” She sounded as if she were holding back tears. “Has someone sent for the doctor?”

  “I have, ma’am,” said the cook, who hovered at the door.

  “We can do nothing now but keep her comfortable until he arrives,” Mrs. Cliffe murmured.

  “Thank you so much,” Georgiana managed to say. “I was so anxious that we would be turned away…but Mrs. Cliffe, this is your house? How—I don’t mean to be rude, but—how…?”

  Mrs. Cliffe’s handsome face was touched with color. Georgiana followed her gaze to the paper she held. It was half blotted. In the other hand she was still holding a fountain pen.

  “You write,” she began, slowly. “You write and…have had great success.” She looked around at the housekeeper’s room. On the desk lay a book, open. The title was well known to her: A Duke for Daisy. The flowing inscription below read: To Mrs. Drayton, from a grateful employer. It was in Mrs. Cliffe’s familiar handwriting.

  Light broke over Georgiana as if dawning over the hills around Somerton. “Why—you’re R. J. Peak!” she exclaimed.

  Mrs. Cliffe’s expression, half embarrassed, half proud, confirmed it completely.

  “Why doesn’t she wake up?” Georgiana whispered.

  They had been sitting by Priya’s bedside for what felt like hours. The light had died from the sky and night had fallen. Priya seemed to have disappeared into the pillows and blankets; in the dim light she almost seemed to be no longer there. Only her thick black hair flooding across the pillow was the same as before. A hush hung over the close room.

  Michael shook his head. His fingers were wound into Priya’s; he had not taken his eyes from her. “I’ll marry her,” he said, “I’ll adopt the child as my own.”

  Georgiana glanced at him sharply. Her first thought was to ask if he had taken leave of his senses. His mother would never allow it, and he was not yet of majority. But the expression on his face made her think twice about speaking her mind.

  “Of course,” she said gently instead.

  “I’ll get a job, in a factory or something. We can live cheaply. It won’t matter, none of it—not the money, or anything. I’m sick of it all anyway.”

  Georgiana wondered what exactly he meant by “it all.” Money, his mother’s nagging, Somerton? Her? She tried not to feel hurt. Priya was more important now. She glanced toward the door for the thousandth time—and this time, as if in response to her prayers, it opened and Mrs. Cliffe entered with a small, balding man carrying a doctor’s black bag.

  Michael half rose, still gripping Priya’s hand. The doctor motioned them to be seated, and hurried to Priya’s bedside. He took her hand and felt her pulse. Georgiana watched his face anxiously, but not a smile or a frown escaped him.

  “Has anyone given her something to eat or drink?” he asked briskly. He opened his bag and Georgiana winced at the sight of it, remembering her own weary illness.

  “She’s had a few sips of hot, sweet tea, with brandy,” Michael answered.

  “Very good.” He reached out his stethoscope. “And not conscious? Not waking?”

  They shook their heads.

  “She is…in the family way,” Mrs. Cliffe murmured. “She can’t be too far along.”

  “I see.” He hesitated. “Perhaps you should leave, sir. I am going to do an examination.”

  “I’m not leaving her,” said Michael. “You can do what you have to with me here.”

  The doctor glanced at Mrs. Cliffe, who nodded slightly.

  Georgiana could bear it no longer. She should have known. She should have seen. It was her duty to care for the staff. She turned and went from the room, and stood shaking with silent sobs on the landing. The maids slipped away as she approached, but Mrs. Cliffe followed after her. Georgiana felt comforted to feel Mrs. Cliffe gently clasp her shoulder.

  Somerton

  “My lady.”

  Rose had been sitting in the dying light that came through the window of her dressing room. Her eyes were fixed on the dark shadows of the trees swaying against the horizon.

  Céline’s gentle voice repeating “My lady” finally reached her.

  Rose sighed and sat up. “Yes, Céline.”

  “It is time to dress for dinner.” Céline’s voice was soft with sympathy, and Rose knew that she knew what had happened, or at least, guessed. What did it matter? she thought. Nothing seemed to matter at all, now.

  She stood obediently and allowed Céline to begin undoing her tea gown. The maid’s deft, gentle fingers unhooked and untied. Satin whispered to the floor.

  “I hear the Duke of Huntleigh was here this morning,” Céline said. She was standing behind Rose and Rose could not see her expression.

  Rose had meant to answer with a casual, careless word or two. Something to convey that she cared as little as possible. But instead, faced with Céline’s kind discretion, she could not hold back a great sob. She covered her face with her hands, shocked at herself, but the tears escaped through her fingers. All the misery she felt came flooding out of her.

  Through it she felt Céline’s hand on her shoulder, gently guiding her to sit on the bed. She was saying something quiet, soothing—There, there, perhaps, or It will be all right, my lady. The words did not matter. Rose heard only the kindness.

  “Oh Céline,” she gasped, realizing it as she spoke: “I am so utterly miserable.”

  Céline knelt before her, gently detaching Rose’s fingers from her face to dab at it with a muslin handkerchief. “What happened, my lady?”

  Rose struggled to conquer her sobs. “Alexander was here.”

  “And did not propose?”

  “He did.”

  “But then—”

  “I refused him.” Rose began to sob again.

  “My lady—why on earth?”

  “Oh Céline, don’t ask. I am so humiliated, so confused. He does not love me, he loves the idea of hurting his father by marrying a housemaid.”

  She pressed a hand to her mouth again, stifling sobs. Céline knelt silent, thoughtful. Rose managed to explain what had happened, through her tears. She felt a hand press her own, and then Céline spoke again.

  “My lady—may I ask a personal question? Do you love him?”

  “You know I do, Céline. I can hide nothing from you.” Rose managed a smile.

  “Because…” Céline rose to her feet. “If you love him, if you know your life would not be complete without him, I do not think you should let a little petty pride stand in the way of your happiness.”

  “Pride!” Rose looked up, shocked and angry.

  “Bien sûr.” Céline began folding the tea gown, making neat pleats of the satin. “You have rejected him because he hurt your pride. But the passion of pride grows cold very quickly, while the passion of love can keep you warm for a lifetime.”

  “Céline, I don’t think you can have understood me. It is not I who am proud. He insulted me.”

  “How, exactly, did he insult you?” Céline inquired. She placed the tea gown in the drawer and settled the silk rose of the sash on top of it with a pleased
, small nod to herself.

  “He—he—” Rose floundered. “He said that his father would turn in his grave to see him marry me.”

  “I should think he would, from all I have heard of him. “

  “But he only wants to marry me to have revenge on his father.”

  “Nonsense, my lady, if you’ll pardon me.” Céline shook her head firmly. “You are more sensitive than you should be.”

  “But—” Rose looked up at her pleadingly. “I overheard him at the ball saying to Lady Emily—”

  “A woman whom I have no doubt the duke greatly esteems and to whom he only speaks his most honest feelings, especially in public and within hearing of all of society.”

  Rose surprised herself by laughing.

  “Non, eh, mademoiselle?” Céline pursed her lips against a smile. “Is it the truth that you have been thinking about these words of his since the ball? That you have convinced yourself that the self he shows to Lady Emily is more real, more true, more honest, than the one he shows to you?”

  “Oh, Céline, I have been an absolute fool, have I not?” Rose put her head in her hands.

  Céline hummed a small tune to herself, but Rose looked up and caught her eye.

  Rose laughed again, but this time the sound was more painful. “I suppose you are right. I have rejected him out of silly pride, without thinking, just because I didn’t want to seem the kind of woman who marries anyone whether there’s love or not, just for their fortune. Because I knew people would say that of me if I married him without having his love.” She got up and paced to the window. Outside, the last light was fading from the sky, the shadows were lengthening across the fields, and a skein of crows flew past overhead, trailing their harsh voices like the songs of Thames boatmen. “But what can I do to put things right?”

  “Summon him back,” Céline said immediately. “Send a message to Mont Pleasance. Say that you were wrong and you will marry him. It does not matter how things began between you. What matters is how they end—in happiness or in sorrow.”