by Sophia Nash
It seemed someone visited the place often, given the neatly made pallet without a trace of dust. There was little else, save for a stack of blankets he well remembered from his youth. He lowered himself onto the hard cot. Before giving in to his desire to lie down, he noticed the glimmer of a small bauble on the cool slate floor. He picked it up and turned the brooch over. It was a piece of ladies’ jewelry, one of those unusual mourning brooches featuring the eye of a lost loved one, a Lover’s Eye.
In the faint, flickering candlelight, he realized it was very familiar. Why, it was obviously a miniature of Anthony’s eye, with the distinctive Fortesque slant. He remembered seeing Georgiana wearing it on occasion, half hidden by shawls or fichus.
He dropped it on the cot’s pillow suddenly, as if it had burned his hand. Was he to be always surrounded with memories of his deceitful cousin? Yet he told himself resolutely again that he would never dare blacken Anthony’s image in Georgiana’s eyes. Why deprive her of illusions that gave her comfort? She should be allowed every tiny portion of happiness she could find in her harsh life.
She had given herself to him, and he would do the best he could by her—only interfering in her life if fate decided to intrude in the form of a tiny infant. It was simply unfortunate that fate had a way of being extraordinarily fickle in its attentions when one was adrift in the pickling air of Cornwall.
Chapter 11
August 15—to do
- arrange corner for Father at the festivities
- sacks for sack races
- archery targets
- corn dollies
- check cider and food, roasting spit
- begin anew after today
Georgiana awoke in her tiny bedchamber at her parents’ cottage full of newfound resolve and energy despite having slept in the most patchy fashion. She had tiptoed into Little Roses since it was the only place she knew she wouldn’t encounter Quinn. As she sipped the tea the maid had brought to her chamber and reviewed her list, she wished for the day she could go to bed each night in a room she could call her own.
As the blackness of night had given way to the smallest glimmers of a new day, Georgiana had felt a peace she had never known wash over her. Something had changed. The heavy weight of her obsession had finally lifted, leaving her strangely calm. She had spent three quarters of her life thinking about Quinn Fortesque and it was a relief to put her dreams on the shelf.
He did not love her.
He never had and he never would.
She was his great friend and that was all. If she had but known how immense her relief would be with the absolute knowledge, she would have forced herself to reveal her feelings long ago. But wasn’t hindsight always annoyingly insightful?
Well, she was leaving Penrose—and she would do it with her parents—even if it meant dragging her mother away, kicking and screaming. It shouldn’t be that hard, really. Her mother might be mollified by the promise of a beautiful dwelling overlooking the sea—her long-held dream. And her father’s health appeared to have taken a slight turn for the better.
It was hard to admit, but Quinn had been right. With the strain of Penrose’s stewardship removed from his frail shoulders, her father had improved, his face taking on better color, and he had appeared to regain a little of the weight he had lost.
She would talk to the Duke of Helston today about finding a cottage, and she would put the word out elsewhere.
But before everything else, she must get through today, the day of the festival. And she would enjoy every moment of it. It had been so long since the people in this corner of Cornwall had celebrated the ancient tradition.
She squirmed in her hard wooden chair against the sting of her loss of innocence. It had been a great shock. She had thought when Anthony had entered her body on their wedding night that the discomfort had meant they had well and fully consummated the union. Oh, but how wrong she had been. Last night…She hadn’t known a man could penetrate a woman so profoundly. Well, she had suffered far, far greater pain in her life. This was nothing. She would heal and get on with her life, as it were. And fate would not be so cruel as to punish her further with a child.
What had happened with Quinn in the hidden dell was pure possession, the most intimate experience of her life. It was as if he had touched her soul, known the very essence of her. And now she felt horribly exposed, for she had revealed all, only to find not a single corner of his heart engaged.
She could never hate him. He had shown too much compassion for her, for her deformities, and she in return had proved to him he was loved. She tried to feel altruistic about her unrequited love, but she had never possessed a martyr’s bone in her body. She abruptly forced herself to stop these thoughts, the thoughts that had been sweeping ’round and ’round her head all night.
She cleared her throat and brought the delicate teacup to her lips, glad no one was in her bedchamber to see her trembling hand.
She would live through this. She would.
She turned in her chair at the sound of a light tapping at the door. Well, at least she wouldn’t have to face him today without a festive crowd to hide behind.
“Grace,” she said with surprise. “I thought you were my mother. You’re up early.”
The Countess of Sheffield smiled her warm, sunny smile and arched a brow. “I was awakened by a little girl unwilling to wait a moment longer for the big day to begin. Your mother, bless her heart, is occupying Fairleigh below stairs with an amazing assortment of cakes. But be warned, Fairleigh was quite determined to find you to get permission to clang the bell to start the events.” Grace’s face turned serious. “Ata and the others were very worried about you last night. And then we couldn’t find you this morning.”
Georgiana looked at her hands. “I won’t hide anything from you. Quinn and I had a row last night because I took Fairleigh swimming without his permission. And then, well, I came here after I…” She didn’t know how to go on so she stopped.
Grace grasped Georgiana’s calloused fingers in her petite, gloved hands and squeezed. “Rosamunde and I spoke last night. You’re in love with him, aren’t you, Georgiana?” Her voice was very soft.
“No,” she said firmly. “Grace, whatever else you believe, please know that I am not. Perhaps,” she said swallowing, “I was in love with him at one time. But now I find I can only care for him very deeply as my husband’s cousin.” She squeezed Grace’s fingers. “And I can assure you he does not love me. It might have appeared that way because my late husband and Quinn and I knew one another in childhood. But we grew up, and we each of us went our separate ways. And I have found that now we are adults and would not suit each other at all.”
“I can see you’re telling me the truth, Georgiana, even if it pains you. Rosamunde must have been mistaken. Dearest, since you’ve been so kind as to take me into your confidence I will tell you my thoughts too. And then we will never speak of this again.” Grace’s radiant blue eyes searched hers and she continued in her dulcet, cultured voice. “You see, I think I could be happy with him. He told me recently he misses town—the varied amusements—just as I do. He enjoys traveling, too, which I adore. And I could help him with his daughter. Help her to become a refined young lady.” She smoothed her dress with wide-stretched fingers. “I’m not looking for a love match, you know, just companionship.”
“Grace, I wish you every happiness. You, above everyone else, deserve happiness.” A curlew in the fragrant honeysuckle beyond Georgiana’s bedchamber window sent up its song.
Grace touched her cheek, and her eyes darkened with sadness. “We shan’t have any secrets from one another, shall we?” She appeared greatly embarrassed by her frankness. “I’ve never spoken of last year, or of Luc.” She examined her hands. “There is nothing quite as painful as unrequited love, I think. But I do know that time and distance has effected healing. And mutual admiration and companionship—a marriage of convenience—will allow me to be content. But my happiness will only be complete whe
n you and the other ladies find it too.”
“I should tell you my family will remove from Little Roses in near future, Grace. I’m looking into possible cottages.” She glanced at the clock on the mantel, carved from green-veined serpentine rock from the Lizard Peninsula nearby. She forced a smile. “I do believe it’s time to start the festival. Let’s collect Fairleigh before my mother allows her more cakes than she ought. I predict Fairleigh will regret her visit to my mother’s kitchen after several rounds of judging pies, honey, and jam.”
The entire grounds of Penrose were awash with activity. Every class of Englishman was well represented—be it peasant, servant, merchant, gentry, or aristocrat. Penrose had opened its famed golden doors once again to revel in the cornucopia of the season.
It was a chance to give over to a pagan ritual that begged for a bountiful harvest. And the Cornish knew how to celebrate and offer up thanks properly.
Sir Rawleigh, the handsome blond vicar who had sailed and fought bravely alongside the Duke of Helston, and who had parted with one of his arms in the process, presided over the commencement of the event by giving one of his popular, brief benedictions before the throngs of people. His wife, Rosamunde’s sister, obviously with child, was at his side, gazing at him adoringly.
In the lull of the prayer, the calls of summer songbirds came from every direction. It was as if the flocks had come to look down their beaks at man’s foolishness; the reed-thin voice of the wren from the yellow gorse, the trumpet of the linnet in the apple grove heavy with fruit, the sweet cooing of the mourning doves pecking for forgotten grain. The prayer ended and, as if on cue, hundreds of starlings swooped above, their maneuverings a study in perfect mass symmetry in the crisp, azure sky.
Georgiana looked down at the touch of fingers on her own. Fairleigh’s shining cornflower-blue eyes stared up at her in excitement.
“Oh, Georgiana,” she said breathlessly, “I have the list you approved yesterday. May I begin the announcements?”
She touched her shoulder. “Of course. Here, let me help you onto the mounting block and you shall open the festival.”
Georgiana reached for the little girl but a pair of strong arms beat her to the job. Quinn lifted his daughter to the platform.
“Fairleigh,” he said quietly, “you may stand beside Georgiana and help judge, but it is the Marchioness of Ellesmere who makes the announcements.” He looked directly into Georgiana’s eyes. “That has always been the way.”
Oh, he was insisting she was still the marchioness. She felt very shy suddenly, facing him, remembering vividly what had happened last night.
“Come,” he said, grasping her hand.
She hated speaking before a crowd. It unnerved her, almost as much as Quinn’s hand helping her up the steps. She clamped down on her feelings. He clapped his hands to gather everyone’s attention.
She felt the weight of hundreds of eyes staring at her, but then she noticed everyone was smiling at her, accepting her, and she smiled back, her nervousness in check.
Fairleigh handed her the list the girl had carefully written in her childish hand. “All right, then. Sack races and more on the south lawn in five minutes—I shall judge. Awards for best of stock—sheep, chicken, pigs, cows, bulls, mares, and stallions at the stable block in one hour. The judges shall be Mr. Wilde and Mr. Brown. Household arts, embroidery, and corn dollies at the same time, near the folly—judged by the Dowager Duchess of Helston”—Georgiana heard Ata’s exclamations of delight—“and then preserves, honey, and pie judging by Lady Fairleigh Fortesque and the Countess of Sheffield under the old oak tree. There will be archery after, on the north lawn, judged by His Grace, the Duke of Helston. And a special demonstration will be held during the picnic supper to follow. After, the lighting of the bonfire by the Marquis of Ellesmere.”
In the silence that greeted her announcements, a boisterous voice called out, “Let’s hear it for the marchioness and the marquis. Welcome home, sir, and thank you for arranging all of this.” Thunderous applause and whistles pierced the air, and Georgiana turned to see tenants and gentry alike vigorously shaking Quinn’s hands and gripping his shoulder in a heartwarming display. Quinn appeared overwhelmed until Grace appeared at his side and he took her arm within his and walked toward the south lawn. Georgiana turned in the other direction and carefully descended the mounting block, Fairleigh tugging her arm in impatience.
Thirty-odd children and good-humored adults lined up for the sack race, which was handily won by the limber youth of the nearest tenant family. Georgiana spied disappointment on Fairleigh’s face.
“Come, dearest, there’s the entire day before you. Perhaps you’ll do better in the three-legged race next.”
“No, I won’t. Everyone already has a partner. I don’t know any of the other children.”
“Is it Saturday?”
“Saturday? What does it matter if it’s Saturday?”
“That’s the only day I accept invitations to race.”
“Oh, Georgiana!” Fairleigh’s eyes shone. “It is indeed Saturday.”
“Well, then. Are you asking?”
As the little girl chattered with excitement, Georgiana glanced behind her and encountered Grace and Quinn. He looked at her steadily.
Thank God, he said not a word at her unladylike behavior, nor did he try to stop her as he had when he tried to limit her dancing at the ball last night. But then, last night’s ball seemed a very long time ago.
Georgiana repaired to the starting line and tied a length of heavy string around one of Fairleigh’s slim ankles and her own. She appealed to Miles, who had just arrived, a pretty bouquet of flowers in hand, to start the race. His sister, Rosamunde, had escorted him to watch.
Miles looked at her helplessly and chuckled. “But I have something to give you.” He winked and darted a glance at the flowers.
She felt very flustered. No one had ever given her posies. But there wasn’t time to think, for Quinn suddenly signaled to Miles that he would do the honors himself.
Quinn shouted, “Take your mark, and go!”
Georgiana gripped Fairleigh tightly to her hip and urged her to march with a “left, right, left, right.” Ah, they almost made it, despite the horrid jarring and ache in her knee. But as the finish line loomed, Fairleigh became too heavy to hold back, and they both tumbled awkwardly a few lengths from the end.
Georgiana came up laughing, only to find Fairleigh’s horrified face, staring at her exposed limbs. Before she could move to cover herself, everyone pressed closer and whispers snaked through the crowd.
She quickly pulled her gown into place and looked up again to see Miles’s shocked expression and Rosamunde’s pale visage beside him. Someone lifted her to her feet abruptly.
“Well, madam, it appears you and my daughter have been soundly beaten by Tom Paine and his partner,” Quinn said. “Master Paine, if you keep winning each race I wager you’ll be the richest boy in Cornwall. Grace, will you award the prizes?” He chuckled and the tension of the moment dissipated. The gathering’s attention was soon swayed to preparing for the next event.
“Are you all right?” He asked softly when the crowd had turned away.
“Yes.” She’d die before admitting to any pain. “Perfectly fine.”
Miles eased forward, a stricken look of pity in his brown eyes. “Georgiana…shall I carry you back to Penrose?”
“Lord, no. Thank you, though.”
“I didn’t know your injuries were quite so…What I mean to say is that, are you certain I can’t…No, I can see—” He stopped abruptly, mid-stutter. “These are for you.” He handed her the beautiful bouquet.
Georgiana glanced at Rosamunde, who shook her head and smiled. “I know absolutely nothing about this,” she insisted. “Well, almost nothing.”
“Why everyone seems to think my sister is the only one who knows the language of flowers, I’ll never understand,” Miles said, his head cocked knowingly.
“I’m very impresse
d,” Georgiana replied, burying her nose in the pretty arrangement.
“I shall prove it,” Miles said, chuckling again. “The white jasmine symbolizes your amiability, gloxinia is for your proud spirit, Mercury reflects your goodness, and the amethyst is a symbol of my admiration.”
“And the celandine?” Georgiana asked, delighted beyond measure.
Rosamunde sighed. “You don’t miss much, do you?”
“Why, I’m glad you asked,” Miles addressed Georgiana. “It signifies joys to come.”
“And the throatwort?” Grace Sheffey asked quietly.
Miles paused. “That I can’t tell you.”
“Why ever not?” Georgiana asked.
“My sister insisted on adding it at the last moment.”
The four of them turned expectantly to Rosamunde.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Rosamunde muttered. “This is between my brother and Georgiana. We should allow them a bit of privacy.”
Quinn answered the question with deceptive calm. “I believe throatwort refers to neglected beauty.”
Her eyes met Quinn’s and melancholy curled within her before she returned her gaze to the posies. “Thank you, Miles. And you too, Rosamunde. They’re lovely. I shall always remember this moment, and shall press some of the blooms. I’ve never received flowers before.” She wished she could withdraw the sentence. It sounded so pathetic. It was just that her sensibilities had overwhelmed her.
“It was my pleasure,” Miles replied, a grin finally making its appearance. “Perhaps I shall simply have to bring you flowers every day, since this deficiency should be corrected.”
She smiled. “Absolutely not. Everyone knows too many flowers will turn a lady into a spoiled creature who lies abed at every opportunity to order people about.”
“Perhaps”—Miles offered his arm—“you’re right. That would explain the change in my sister. Ever since she married Luc and gained access to his vast gardens, she’s become ridiculously overbearing.”
