by Lara Blunte
I must hear from you, John! Tell me that everything will be well, and that we shall overcome this, and you and I can be together.
Forgive the sploches and the bad handwriting, I cannot stop crying, though I should be offering you confort as you suffer in War, instead of demanding your help.
I love you so, John.
G.
Georgiana's heartfelt letter in her bad handwriting, her shocking spelling, and full of her tears, never made it to John, for the ship that carried it abroad sank during a bad tempest off the coast of Africa, taking her desperate plea to the bottom of the sea with it.
Six. Winter
One hardly needed to be in society to know that the Countess of Halford was one of the most beautiful and elegant women in London. She was beautiful by nature, in the glory of her twenty years, and she was elegant by discernment. She always remained fashionable and poised, as was expected of her.
A contract had been signed between her and her husband, Hugh Stowe, upon their marriage. It did not specify what her duties should be, but it did not have to. A Countess of Halford should always be exquisite.
It was a part she played, as she had played many parts in the nine months since her marriage. She walked in the park enveloped in her furs, and sat at the theatre in her diamonds, and entertained at home in splendid gowns. The winter of 1761 was no different than the other seasons of her marriage except in this: that by February, the war in India was over.
"Jack is coming home!"
She had expected to hear this, sooner or later, but when Ned entered during luncheon to announce it, she couldn't help the clatter her fork and knife made against the fine china dish.
"Is anything the matter, Georgiana?" her husband asked coldly, turning toward her, though she could see that his face was pale.
"Other than the news Ned has just brought, I don't see what the matter could be," she replied with as much coldness. It seemed to be the way that noble people spoke to each other, most of the time.
Hugh sought to stare her down, but did not manage. "I don't see that there is any interest in that John Crawford should return."
"Oh, but steady on, Hugh!" Ned protested. "He is our --"
It was Hugh who now set his cutlery down almost with violence, "I forbid you from calling him that! How much of a fool are you?"
"Steady on!" Ned repeated. Unfortunately, though he was an affectionate boy, he did not have very strong opinions, and ran from any confrontation with Hugh.
"Your brother asks if you are a fool," said Georgiana to Ned, "because his solicitors disinherited the man who can no longer be called your brother, and threw his mother out of her house when she was ill and about to die..."
"I did not know that she was dying, or you will agree that I would hardly have gone to the trouble of procuring an eviction notice," Hugh said between gritted teeth, as it was something he had said many times before.
"And now," Georgiana continued, playing with her wine glass. "The man who is not your brother is returning, and the man who is your brother thinks that John Crawford might actually appeal to the law."
"What exactly do you mean by that?" Hugh asked.
Georgiana smiled. "That you think that John Crawford, as you call him, might hire a solicitor and try to get his inheritance back..."
"He had no inheritance."
"...when in fact I believe that he will come straight here and take your head off with a blow of his fist."
"And do you so desire to be a widow, madam, that you smile as you say this?"
Georgiana shrugged, but there was defiance in her expression.
Hugh's jaw worked from side to side, though his tone remained even. "Let me remind you, then, that should my head be taken off by John Crawford, you will be left quite bereft, and so will your sisters, now that your father is gone. And furthermore, my dear, ought you not to remember that you broke your word to the same man who might come after me? That you forsook him to marry me and be a countess?"
Georgiana shot Hugh a furious look, her earrings dangling, but it was his turn to smile as he continued smoothly, "What will he believe, when he sees you more beautiful than ever, the toast of fashionable London, while he has been all grimy and muddy in his Indian war? What will he think when he knows you married the man who, as you say, threw his dying mother out of her house?"
Ned, who had been looking at the ceiling and wondering whether he could sneak out of the room without saying anything, now contributed, "Well, if he is to be taking anyone's heads off, I should say it'd be better to double the footmen at the entrance and lock the windows, for I hear he will be here in less than ten days!"
Unable to digest the news for different reasons, the Earl and Countess went their separate ways without finishing their luncheon. Once Georgiana arrived in her room, she locked the door feeling as though she couldn't breathe. Reaching for a pair of scissors lying on her vanity table, she cut the lace on her stays and then collapsed on the bed, hiding her face in the pillow.
Would John hate her because she had married a man he despised?
But why had he not written to her to stop her? Had he been so angry at the very notion that he had decided never to speak to her again? He was so impetuous and his rages were so terrible! Had he not even given her a chance, or cared to help her find another solution?
Or had he simply forgotten her, ceased loving her through the two years of separation?
And then there could have been no other solution, because her father, too, had died. He was supposed to have caught pneumonia, but she knew it was worry that had destroyed his health, and she knew that it was her fault. If she had accepted Hugh immediately, Mr. Blake would not have needed to fret about the fate of his daughters. But she had made everyone wait, because she had been waiting for John.
She did not know how much of Hugh's obsession with her had been due to desire, and how much to the need to inflict pain on his half brother. Perhaps it was both in equal parts. Had he not screamed at her once, when she reminded him of his abominable treatment of John's mother, "What about what his mother did to mine?"
Whether or not Hugh had cause to hate his father for loving John's mother and not his own, for loving John better than him, Georgiana could never empathize with him. She had never given her husband the satisfaction of wanting him, not even a little, not even when, at the beginning, he had been patient. She had always loathed his touch, his kisses and his bed, and he had known it.
At some point after the third month of marriage, it had dawned on him that she would not ever return his caresses, but by that time she was expecting a child. He had left her alone then, to ensure that his heir was carried to term. Heaven knew where he had gone to fulfill his needs during this time; she had only felt relief.
But she had miscarried two months later. It happened often, she was told, but the misery she felt remained, and she had not been able to conceive a child since then.
All the sorrow had been hard for her to bear: it had changed her, and she was more melancholy now. Any affection she had had for her older sisters had waned when Virginia had selfishly eloped with a man she did not even love for long, and when Bess had shaken her by the hair at the announcement that she was to marry Halford.
"You have stolen him away with your tricks!" Bess had shrieked.
Georgiana had screamed back. "I don't want him! Have him, if he will have you!"
She had lost almost everything that mattered, and now John, who still mattered so much, was returning.
But he was not returning to her.
Seven. Hester
Georgiana was as full of expectation as dread at John’s return. She had yearned to see him for two long years before she married Hugh, a yearning that had been felt minute by minute, and which had never dulled or spent itself until she had become the Countess of Halford.
Then it had still been there, but like the horrible phantom pain of a missing limb, with the memory of its amputation always fresh in her mind. She could no longer
sit like a girl, reading John’s letters again and again, Kissing the lock of his hair, weeping over the circle he had drawn to ask her to marry him, to wait for him. She could no longer smile and tingle all over remembering his kisses, how his lips had felt, his hair in her hands, how his eyes had looked at her and promised all sorts of passionate delights. She could not run to her father to be comforted when a letter said that he was in the middle of war, or wait by the gate for another letter to come.
She had given her life away, and now she belonged to another man, and would do so until one of them died.
What would John say and do, when he saw her? She could only imagine his fury at what Hugh had done to Mrs. Crawford. John’s mother had been taken in by Mr. Blake and nursed by Georgiana herself, with all the love in the world, but then she had gone on to marry the man who had done this terrible thing.
John must be pacing the deck of a ship and summoning the winds so that he could make it to England faster and kill Hugh.
And yet, the most important thing of all was that he was alive. He was alive, and would be in the same soil as she.
There was something to distract her from these thoughts: the arrival of a second cousin of Hugh’s, Hester Stowe, who had recently lost her father and her home. A rich widowed aunt of the Earl’s, who had considerable sway over him, vowed she could not take care of anyone young, did not need company, and directed Hugh to take Hester in.
Hugh had consulted Georgiana, hoping that she would refuse. He had underestimated the sympathy that his wife could feel for a single girl in need of a family and of connections.
The woman, for she was twenty-four years old, had arrived that day. She was dark-haired, with a high forehead and eyes that were hooded but had a penetrating look, a long lose and a secretive mouth. Hester dressed quite simply, and spoke little. Georgiana could well imagine her as a sorceress in some ancient tale.
“I hope you will be happy with us,” she told Hester, with her usual generosity and open heart.
“Thank you,” Hester had replied quietly.
“Do you enjoy the city at all?” Georgiana had continued, attempting to draw her out.
Hester had sat with her hands on her lap, the steaming cup of tea next to her untouched. “I don’t know it,” she had replied.
“Oh, had you never come to London?”
“No.”
Georgiana might have asked her what sorts of things she liked to do, whether she enjoyed riding or taking any other form of exercise, or whether she liked dancing, or reading, or anything; but Hester gave her little encouragement. She did not seem to mind sitting there and saying little. She did not seem to think she needed to ingratiate herself in any way.
Perhaps it was just as well, Georgiana thought, sighing. Perhaps she needed to stop thinking that she would find joy and a measure of salvation in the companionship of others. She could not help, however, thanking God for her younger sisters, the only creatures who loved her and showed it, the girls for whom she did all that she did.
Eight. Mad Jack
John returned a little before Ned announced that he would. In this, as in all things, he was impatient.
Halford House in London was as prepared for the eventuality that John Crawford might come to have words with his half brother as it could be. Servants had been briefed, and a greater number of them stood by the doors, some of them even armed with cudgels. They had been told that they could strike blows, should it be necessary, and that the bastard should be thrown out in the street on his arse.
That night a soirée was being given: it was relatively common for the Earl and Countess to have guests over for dinner, music and dancing, as it afforded Hugh an occasion to participate in politics or talk of some other manly pursuit with friends and acquaintances, and it gave his wife the opportunity to parade the sisters who needed to be married. Bess and Cecily looked pretty and shiny, as expensive wares ought to look in window shops, and men took a renewed and more serious interest in them because of whose sisters-in-law they were. Dorothea was upstairs since, at fourteen, she was far too young to be courted.
And the new arrival, Hester, stood away from others in her simple dress, yet she seemed feral rather than shy. She observed everyone restlessly, eyes darting to and fro, flitting among faces, as if she were looking for something that was not there.
Very often Georgiana would find those black eyes on her, scanning her, a frown distorting Hester’s brow and closing over her long nose.
The Countess was a great contrast to the poor cousin, as she looked magnificent tonight with her powdered hair piled high, and an ostrich plume of midnight blue perched on it. Her pewter dress with its wide skirt and fur trimmings made her look like the moonlight. Diamonds shone on her ears, in points of her coiffure and over the lovely breasts that rose from her fashionable low décolletage. She did her best to smile and turn around the room greeting everyone who mattered to her husband. Few people mattered to her.
Until, of course, John arrived.
No one had expected him to, least of all Hugh, who stood in a circle of his friends, drawling sentences that passed for epigrams, and holding a glass of wine which was constantly filled.
London knew, of course, who John Crawford was, and the information that his half brother Halford had paid lawyers to punch holes through his father's will so that the bastard was left with nothing was not only known, but had even been exaggerated. Various accounts circulated, ranging from the belief that the previous Earl had married John's mother, and made the bastard his true born son, to the affirmation that John was Mr. Crawford's son, and his widow had tried to convince the Earl that the child was his, to get him to marry her.
The majority of society sided with Halford, for a bastard, especially one who was left a great deal of money, was a risk to the all important issues of inheritance, family line and pedigree. Bastards were undesirable, troublesome and even dangerous, as everyone present that night was about to see.
As music played and guests chatted and laughed, there was a slight upheaval at the door; it was only slight, for John Crawford had entered the house at the pace of a military man, a man used to charging against an enemy much more formidable than a group of servants, even if they were armed with cudgels.
The footmen at the door and the added security didn't know what to do when this officer in his imposing red coat and boots marched in, his face as black as a storm.
He walked through the servants and they hardly dared go forward to try to stop him; when they did, they were pushed away unceremoniously. John was holding a saber, too, though it was sheathed, and he had the look of knowing how to wield it.
When he irrupted into the large drawing room where all the company was assembled, there were gasps from the people nearest the door. Hugh and Georgiana had no idea what was happening until the crowd started to part and John stood before them, his face bronzed by the Indian sun and his eyes the piercing grey of a blade. He looked like Satan loosened out of hell.
Georgiana stared at the love of her life with so much longing and terror that she thought she might run into his arms. He was here! But he never looked at her. His eyes bore into his brother's. Hugh was frozen on the spot, as if he were about to be torn apart by a beast.
A terrible silence had fallen and no one moved, as if the room had become part of the scenery at a theater, a tableau that might be called Revenge. Only the men nearest Hugh started to scuttle away from him, afraid of being caught in the fracas that would certainly ensue.
John said nothing, he just kept staring at his prey. Georgiana thought that she must beg for her husband's life, but only because she didn't want John to be arrested, or hung.
She looked around and saw that no one was about to make a move against him; no one was about to help Hugh. All were fascinated by the scene, and all were frightened of the bastard, who might unsheathe the saber, start cutting through the crowd and cause a massacre if he were crossed, such was his cold rage.
Georgiana noticed th
at Hester was the only person who had come forward instead of moving backwards, and that she was staring at John as if she had finally found what she had been looking for.
John suddenly stepped up and delivered a great slap to Hugh's face. It was not a blow of a man against another, but an open handed slap as if Halford were a boy. The force of John's blow made the Earl’s wig turn on his head, and the glass in his hand was sent flying.
There were loud gasps, but still no one came forward or moved.
"Name the day!" was all that John said, and everyone knew what he meant.
Hugh was quiet and there were tears of anger going down his red face. Again John said, "Name the day!"
The Earl had no choice but to say, in a strangled voice, "The day after tomorrow!"
"Send me your seconds," John said.
He turned around then, and finally his eyes rested on Georgiana's face, but there was nothing like love in them. He swept his gaze over her beautiful dress, her powdered hair, her jewels, and there was an entire world of disgust in his expression. "Your ladyship," he spat out, and there had never been more disdain in two words.
Georgiana's lips parted to say something, but what could she say? She was used to playing a role, but she hadn't expected to be the villainess, the woman who had forsworn a passionate love and sided with injustice for money and position.
John had already turned his back on her as if she mattered no more to him than her husband, and he was walking away. He even ignored Ned, who stood staring at him, open-mouthed. The crowd of observers parted for him again, as if he could command their movement, and he left.
It was after this night that he became known as Mad Jack.
Nine. Force
In normal circumstances, the Earl of Halford would not have been described as a coward.
