by Jo Beverley
“I have a wig. Isn’t it unwise to be with me without a chaperone?”
“No.”
“Then why are you pulling down your veil again?”
“Against dirt and dust. Are you saying that you are dangerous, my lord?
“In ways you can’t imagine,” he said.
He was trying to put her off balance, and she’d have no part of it. “In a naval sort of way, you mean. But we’re safely on land, aren’t we?”
On the street, with people around. Ridiculous to need the comfort of that. She dragged the conversation back into safer matters. “Your wig. Is it suitable?”
“I believe so. Should I have it powdered?”
“Most of the gentlemen will be white, and many of the ladies.”
“Including you?”
“I only powder when it’s essential. For court and such.”
“Wise, when your hair is such a glorious color.”
“Why, thank you, my lord.”
He smiled back, but said, “It can hardly be news to you. I’m not being courtly, am I? I apologize, though I do like plain speech. I wonder why white hair is so valued. After all, it’s a sign of age.”
Georgia was happy to switch to a triviality. “A question I’ve never asked! Now I think on it, I don’t know when the fashion started. I don’t believe they powdered back in the Restoration.”
“They wore those long, curly wigs. Too much hair to powder, perhaps?”
“Where fashion commands, nothing is impossible,” she stated. “The periwig did make men look romantic, though, even the most unlikely ones. There’s a portrait at Herne of my grandfather in jowly middle age, and he was a hard, harsh man by all accounts, but with that mass of curls, he could almost seduce me.”
“Until the wig came off,” he said.
“I think I’d decline the honor even before then.”
“Wise lady. We men are all hard and harsh beneath the lace and curls.”
“My husband wasn’t.”
He halted. “My apologies…”
“No, no,” Georgia protested. “I didn’t mean it as a reproach. But Dickon was very sweet natured, very generous, gentle. That’s why it was so awful.…” She hurried on, taken unawares by a spurt of grief. “My apologies again,” she said, grateful that the veil hid tears.
“When did you last walk these streets?” he asked.
“Oh.” Georgia stopped again. “The day before. When my husband was still alive…” She swallowed and forced a brighter tone. “He would have enjoyed a visit to Pargeter’s. Simply for amusement’s sake, of course.”
“Of course. No secondhand clothing for him. He was a merry soul?”
“Yes. Yes, he was.”
But the sadness wouldn’t be suppressed, and Georgia saw why. She must have been directing their steps unconsciously, for they were not on their way to Mary Gifford’s establishment. They were at the corner of Belling Row, where her house was.
Had been.
“We’ve come the wrong way,” she said, turning.
He grasped her arm. “Memories?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Yes, it does. What lies down this street?”
She resisted, but then said, “My house. What was my house. Our house.”
“Show it to me.”
“No.”
“Please.”
She frowned at him. “Why?”
“Because you need to exorcise these ghosts. They’ll linger otherwise, eating away at your heart.”
“Eating…”
“Perhaps too strong, but you’ll be better without them.”
The clattering city seemed hushed and, yes, filled with ghosts.
“Can you avoid this street forever?” he asked.
“Perhaps…”
She couldn’t, however, and he was correct about the ghosts, so Georgia straightened her spine and walked on.
Belling Row was like many other terraces in Mayfair, lined with tall town houses, each with shiny black railings in front and neat ranks of small-paned windows. She’d never considered such details as intently as she did now.
One particular house came closer and closer, and her heart pounded.
“I’m not sure if Dickon’s uncle…the new Lord Maybury,” she corrected, “has kept the house or sold it.” Her throat felt tight, her mouth dry, but she forced herself to keep speaking. “Most people prefer to rent, you know, as they only spend a few months in Town. We lived in Town as much as possible, so we owned the house. Leased, that is, but a long lease…”
As they walked down the street, Dracy let her talk, tossing in only a word or two, wondering whether she grieved more for the loss of her homes than for the loss of her husband. That would be shallow, however, and despite Georgia Maybury’s frivolity, he didn’t think her shallow. Young, yes. Pampered, yes. But surprisingly clearheaded and strong.
Perhaps husband and homes were, for her, one great void?
She fell silent in front of a house indistinguishable from the rest.
“This is it?” he asked.
“Yes. Impossible that I can’t walk in.” But then she moved on. “I don’t want to be seen gazing at it like a lost soul.
“It’s one house among a street of them.”
“I suppose there are a great many similar ships,” she snapped, “but don’t you pine for the one you left?”
He weighed his answer but gave her the truth. “Not at all. For some of the people on it a little, but there were others I was glad to be shot of.”
“Then you don’t know what it’s like to lose a home. Homes.”
“No,” he admitted, “I don’t. What other homes?”
“Maybury Castle,” she said, “but I never cared much for that. And Sansouci.”
“Without care?”
“My house…Our house. In Chelsea, by the river. We’d be there now.…I mean, when London became intolerably hot. The gardens…The new Lord Maybury has kept Sansouci. He’s probably there now.”
He could offer her no comfort except for the illusion of country and garden. “We could walk in the park. Would it take us much out of our way?”
She shivered as if she’d been lost in thought. “No,” she said, and turned toward the grass and trees.
Dracy went with her, struck by the situation of a childless widow. Overnight, Georgia Maybury had lost not only her husband, but her homes. She’d been evicted as thoroughly as a dismissed tenant from a tied cottage and allowed to take hardly anything with her.
The new Lord Maybury would have taken possession of everything she’d considered hers. Not just three houses, but the furniture, china, paintings, carpets, jewelry—everything except her clothing and such, and items specifically given to her.
No wonder she was obsessed with regaining all she had lost.
“It’s a cruel system,” he said, “but how else could matters be arranged?”
She didn’t pretend not to understand. “No other way. I know that.”
She walked as briskly as before, but now as if fleeing something. He wanted to take her into his arms and comfort her.
She did pause in the end, in the shade of a tree. “So unchanged,” she said.
“The park?”
“Everything. The house, the park, Pall Mall…” She turned to him. “If you returned to the navy, nothing would have changed there either.”
“I’d doubtless be on a different vessel, if I was lucky enough to get a posting at all. Peacetime’s the very devil.”
She cocked her head. “What was the name of your last ship?”
“The Pickle,” he said, and got the result he wanted—a real smile.
“Are you teasing me?”
“No, on my honor. The grand names are preserved for the grand ships. There’s a Ferret and a Haddock.”
“And you don’t pine for the Pickle?”
“Not at all.”
“What of your childhood home? Did you pine for that when you went to sea?”
/> “Not that I remember. My parents died when I was ten and I went to live with my aunt and uncle at Dracy Manor. I’d visited it before and I liked it, especially the stables, but I never felt it was my home. After all, it never was.”
“So no loss, no wrench.”
“A small one. For a pony.”
“What was its name?” she asked.
“Conquistador. Its real name was Homer, but that was too sober for a ten-year-old.”
“I like horses, but I’ve never been fond of riding.”
“Perhaps you should try riding astride,” he suggested.
She smiled. “Perhaps I should.”
“Dracy is mine now,” he said, needing to try to convey it to her. “It is my home now, and also my responsibility, my duty.”
“That I do understand,” she said. “I hope it brings you joy.”
Only with you in it, he thought.
“I assume Green Park isn’t summoning painful memories,” he said.
“Ah, that’s interesting.” She didn’t seem upset by the subject. “Of course—this isn’t lost to me. I can walk here exactly as I did before, enjoy it as I did before. Thank you for that, for reminding me that so much is still mine to enjoy. The parks, the theaters, the shops, court. How foolish to dwell on the few small losses when Town remains and all will soon be just as it was. I need only remarry.”
As he’d thought, she was intent on restoring things to the way they had been. He was sure she’d repossess that Belling Row house and Sansouci if she could. But it could never be, any more than he could restore his handsome face.
When would she realize that?
It was early days yet for her, he reminded himself.
“I’m considering a duke,” she said lightly, walking out of the shade to cross the park. “I would like to be a duchess. I wouldn’t confess as much, but we’re friends, aren’t we?”
Ah, a direct challenge, “only friends” implied. Georgia Maybury was no fool, and she recognized that their intimate conversation had broken down barriers, so she was deftly rebuilding them.
“I will be honored to be your friend, Lady Maybury,” Dracy said, adding, “always.”
No lie in that. Friendship in marriage was his ideal.
“How delightful. You remind me of my brother Perry, you see. The Honorable Peregrine Perriam.” She was building a stronger barrier, moving him from friend to brother. “I can talk to him about anything,” she went on, “and he understands me as few do. He shares my love of Town, court, fashion, theater.…”
She prattled on, brick upon brick. The damnable Peregrine Perriam sounded as much a fribble as Cousin Ceddie. Doubtless he too squandered his all on fashion.
As Georgia Maybury was accustomed to do.
As she couldn’t wait to do again.
Every word from her lips raised the barrier between them.
Georgia had been so intent on making sure that Lord Dracy harbored no foolish hopes that she’d lost track of her surroundings. “Ah, the Queen’s House. You know it, I assume.”
“I’ve not yet entered it,” Dracy said.
“You’ve been presented, though? At St. James’s?”
“Yes.”
“Of course you have. Do forgive me. I don’t know why I’m fussing over you like a duck with one duckling.”
That made him laugh. “Hard to see myself as small and downy, but you may fuss over me all you wish.”
“A dangerous invitation, Dracy. I might feed you worms.”
“From your mouth, Lady Maybury, I might even eat them.”
Georgia laughed, but matters were sliding in the wrong direction again.
“I’m too good a friend,” she said, emphasizing the word, “to torment you so.”
“Then I’ll be too good a friend to tease.”
“What do your friends call you, my lord?”
“Dracy,” he said.
“I mean, what were you christened? Not Dracy Dracy, I assume?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“We’ll have to be much better friends for me to tell you that.”
“You exasperating man! Now, of course, I’m eaten with curiosity. I shall guess. Tom, Dick, or Harry?”
“Too commonplace.”
“Methuselah.”
“My parents tried to ensure longevity?”
“Lazarus.”
“An attempt to enable me to rise from the dead?”
“Gog.”
He laughed. “With a brother, had I one, called Magog?”
“Tell me,” she demanded.
“No.”
She considered him. “If you tell me, I shall permit you to call me Georgia.”
“Not a large enough bribe.”
“Then that wasn’t permission.” Georgia tossed her head and walked on, but she was smiling from the exchange. As a friend, he was delightful. She remembered what he’d said.
“You have no brothers?” she asked.
“Nor sisters either.”
“That must have been odd. Did your parents not mind their only child going to sea?”
“They were dead by then, but I was always intended to follow in my father’s footsteps.”
“Did you say you joined the navy at twelve? That must have been horrible.”
“Not at all. I wasn’t cast onto the waves without care. I started out as cabin boy on a ship captained by an old friend of my father’s, and I wasn’t at all reluctant to go. Is that honest answer enough to reward me with permission to use your name?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Because in some way it would be intimate instead of friendly.
“Because it would be inappropriate,” she said, “and I need to be appropriate at all times.”
“Poor Georgia.” She glared at him, but he wasn’t driven off. “You said that I’m like a brother to you.”
“Then on those terms, sir, you may.” She saw it score and smiled. “In private only.”
“So you plan private moments. I’m all expectation.”
Lud! She was seeking something quelling when clocks began to chime.
“My stars! Is that two o’clock? I only have another hour before returning to the boat!”
“Then we must make haste.” He grabbed her hand and set off at a run.
Georgia shrieked, but then she hauled up her skirts and ran with him, laughing at the childish absurdity of it.
Abruptly she hauled back. “Stop, stop. I insist!”
He obeyed. “What’s amiss?”
Georgia fussed with her skirt. “One does not run in the park.”
“Not even when in a hurry? Ah, I see. We’re observed and disapproved of. But you are veiled.”
“So I am.” She looked at Bella Tresham and stuck out her tongue. “Come. We still must make haste. I wish to have time to look over the dolls.”
“Dolls?” he said. “You are quite young, but…”
“Fashion dolls,” she said, hurrying out of the park. “Do you know nothing?”
“About such things, less than nothing.” Dracy tossed a coin to the lad who’d swept dung off the road for them. As they crossed, he said, “Explain fashion dolls.”
“A mantua maker can’t make up gowns to show to her customers—that would be too costly—so she dresses dolls. There are illustrations, but nothing shows a style so well as a doll. They can be sent into the country too, so that distant ladies can see the latest styles.”
“You played with these dolls at Herne?”
“Cease your provocation, sir. I didn’t request any. It would have cast me into the Slough of Despond to think of fashion when I had no need of it. But now I must catch up. Here we are.”
She’d stopped at a two-story, double-fronted house where one window displayed a gown and some trailing bolts of cloth.
“A mantua maker,” he said. “My naval friends would never believe it.”
