by Amelia Smith
Thomas ignored the gesture. He found it distasteful, for some reason. It was as if she’d been deliberately needling Hyacinth.
"Goodbye, Miss Grey," he said composedly.
"Goodbye… Sir Pently," she said, turning away as quickly as she could.
"Will we see you at the soirée?" Lady Talbot called back to him.
"I don’t know," Thomas said. "I haven’t been invited yet, have I, Georgiana?”
Lady Talbot rolled her eyes. "How old-fashioned of you!" She did look better than most women her age. He had heard of her sort when he was young, widows angling for affairs with young men, but it was the first time he'd encountered one of these mythic creatures in the flesh, as a man. He preferred gaming hells – at least no one there pretended to be respectable.
He wished, for Hyacinth's sake, that her aunt were kinder, but he could hardly recommend his own family as better. Nathan had no hold over him, but that was his only redeeming quality. Still, he had always liked Georgiana when they were children. He hoped that she had not fallen so miserably into the old family vices as Nathan had.
“Thomas?” Georgiana said. Her voice reminded him that he would have to talk to all of them soon. “You seem quite taken with Countess Talbot. Or is it Miss Grey?”
Thomas shook his head. “Neither, actually, but they must have a very good dressmaker.”
“Oh, they do!” Georgiana gasped. “And Lady Talbot won’t give me the name. It’s infuriating. If you could ferret out that information I would be most appreciative.”
Thomas watched them walk down the steps of the cathedral. Hyacinth cast one last, frowning glance back at him, and then they were swallowed by the crowds. She was no more pleased with his family connections than her father had been, or maybe it was something else. Thomas turned his attention back to his cousin.
“I don’t know that I could do that,” he said, “if it’s such a close secret that even you can’t reach it.”
“Nonsense, of course you can find it out. I remember that you were always quite persuasive.”
Thomas laughed. He had gotten into a fair few places he wasn’t allowed when he was younger. “That was when I was a boy,” he said. “I save my energies for other things these days.”
“Such as lingering around the library?” Georgiana said. “Or walking to Nathan’s club and back, and only staying for one round of cards?”
“I usually win that round, though,” Thomas said. “I see you’ve been gossiping the servants.”
“Well of course I have!” Georgiana said. “It’s been a very long time since we’ve seen you, and I’ve heard only the vaguest of rumors. You never wrote to anyone!”
“No one ever wrote to me,” Thomas said.
“Nonsense. Nathan told me that he wrote you at least twice, and that your replies were most unsatisfactory.”
“He was a prying pest of a younger brother when I left,” Thomas said, taking Georgiana’s arm and leading her towards the line of coaches. Men and women wandered out with them in groups and pairs, forming a slow-moving tide on the square in front of the cathedral.
“But is he not much improved now?” Georgiana said.
She was joking, of course. He’d forgotten that about her, always with a sharp word about those who left themselves open to her barbs.
“Well, I don’t think he’d go telling tales of me to Father any more, but that’s the best I can say for him.”
Georgiana sighed. “I’m afraid that Uncle Algernon was never pleased with any of you boys.”
“Except Richard,” Thomas added. Everyone had loved Richard. “I should have been here,” he said.
“For what?” Georgiana said.
“Richard’s funeral, or before that. I am sorry I never saw him again.”
“Have you met Elizabeth?” she asked.
“His wife? No.”
“But of course you wouldn’t have. You haven’t deigned to come up to the country.”
“I hardly think it necessary. Everyone would be here by the time I reached Windcastle.”
“But you might inherit the duchy!” Georgiana said.
“Mr. Jones says that my father is in fine fettle, so I won't even be a Sir Pently anytime soon. I don't even like being Sir Pently. I might yet disappear back into the depths of Asia and leave it all to Nate to ruin at his leisure.”
“You couldn’t!” Georgiana said.
“I could,” he said, as if he were joking, although he wasn’t.
Georgiana laughed. “Has the east curdled your mind, 'Mr. Smithson'? You used to have such a good one. I don’t believe you could live with yourself.”
“I could drown myself in blissful ignorance,” Thomas said. “Or start meditating under banyan trees.”
Georgiana laughed. They had reached the line of coaches, and Thomas spotted one with the Windcastle coat of arms.
“You brought the coach?” he said to his cousin.
“Of course,” Georgiana replied. “Why didn’t you summon it yourself?”
“I was rather in the mood to walk, and besides, I didn't even know you were in London.”
Georgiana sighed. “I think you will reach the house before me, if you walk back now.”
Thomas agreed. “Shall I walk back, then? Would you rather not have the black sheep of the family in your coach?”
Georgina threw up her hands. “You are not the black sheep at all these days! I tell you, Nathan has that role firmly in hand.”
“Then what am I?” Thomas asked.
“We don’t know what to make of you,” Georgiana said. “You’ve been away a long time. We hardly know you anymore.”
“Can I be the black sheep again?” Thomas asked.
“Really!” Georgiana let Thomas hand her up into the carriage. “I won’t answer that. Will you ride back with me?” she asked.
The carriage in front of them had started to move forward, but it stopped again, started, stopped, creeping away from the steps.
“No, I’ll walk back,” Thomas said. “You could, too. It's only a mile.”
“I think not,” she said. “I have your dubious status to mull over, and I have a special affection for this dress. It’s muddy today, as it always is. Do be a gentleman, though, and run along home to tell them I’ll be back soon, and that I’m famished!”
Thomas bowed, a teasing glint in his eye. “Always pleased to fulfill an unladylike request,” he said.
Georgiana swatted him with her fan. “Go on then! I’ll see you there, and they’d better have the tea ready.”
She closed the carriage door in his face and tapped on the ceiling. The driver nodded to Thomas, and they rolled off at a snail’s pace into the London traffic.
Walking through the ebbing crowds, Thomas supposed that his family weren’t all bad, but most of them were, most of the time. He’d almost forgotten about Georgiana in his years in India. She’d been a hellion in their youth, and from what he could see so far, she hadn’t changed. In her case, that was just as well. Most of his family were high-handed wastrels or bitter, miserly old men and had remained so if Nathan were any indication. Thomas only hoped that his father and uncle would stay away from London for a while longer.
#
Chapter 9: Grandmother Miller's Story
The carriage moved so slowly that Hyacinth wished she'd gotten out and walked. Better to get lost in the city and be robbed blind by footpads than to stare across at her scowling aunt for another hour. Her toes went numb. The air in the carriage was stale. When her aunt's house finally came into view, she blurted out one of the many questions she'd been pondering.
“Why does Father dislike the Pentlys?”
Aunt Celia bared her teeth like a cornered cat. “I don't think that dislike is a strong enough word for how we feel about the Pentlys,” she said. “I am shocked, but not entirely surprised, that you took up with that one.”
“I did not 'take up' with him!” Hyacinth said. “Mr. Smithson, or Sir Pently, or whoever he is. He and I wer
e shipmates on a long and tedious voyage. That is all.”
Her aunt frowned more deeply, skepticism etching lines around her eyes.
“Besides,” Hyacinth noted, “you seemed quite friendly with Lady Georgiana.”
“That's different,” said Aunt Celia. “She's a Lady. The men in that family are to be avoided at all costs.” The carriage halted, and the coachman opened the door.
“We're here,” Aunt Celia said. She lunged to the carriage door, but hesitated there.
“You will not mention them again,” she said.
“Very well,” Hyacinth said.
“But of course we will go to Lady Georgiana's soirée.”
“But of course,” Hyacinth echoed, as if that made any sense at all.
Her aunt stepped briskly up to the door, shutting out any further possibility of conversation. Hyacinth followed slowly, slowly enough that Maria appeared at the door, looking worried.
“Come inside, Miss! It is raining,” Maria said.
The mist was, in fact, starting to turn to rain, but she'd hardly noticed. Maria looked at something behind Hyacinth, and her expression brightened. Hyacinth turned to see what it was. Harold the coachman ducked his head and wiped his mouth, an embarrassed gesture. When she turned back to the door, Maria was blushing.
She might have asked Maria about it, just a little, but when she got inside, something else commanded her attention.
“Hyacinth,” Aunt Celia said, “you must send this back. At once.” She held out a small package, at arm's length. It was wrapped in brown paper, and bore the handwriting of Mr. Butler, her grandmother's solicitor.
“You may say that this Mr. Butler is not a suitor, like that... other man you spoke with at the funeral, but this appears to be a gift, and men only send gifts to women they are courting.”
Hyacinth took the package from her aunt. “I've never even met him,” she fumed. “The notion that he's courting me is preposterous.”
“Nonsense. You are quite innocent of the ways of men,” she said. “Your father may have meant well, I don't know, but his unconventional views will not help you in courtship. You must send this package back.”
Hyacinth glimpsed a small motion, a bit of pink ruffle through the gap at the bottom of the parlor door.
“That is my final word. We will have tea now.” Aunt Celia swept into the parlor. The bit of pink ruffle jumped away – Hyacinth hoped that Sophie had managed to compose herself before her mother noticed that she'd been eavesdropping.
“It must be only papers,” Hyacinth said, handing the package reluctantly to Maria.
“What will I do with them?” Maria asked. “Will I send them back?”
Aunt Celia re-appeared at the parlor door.
“Send them back immediately,” she said.
Hyacinth mouthed, “No.” She hoped that Maria saw her, as she curtsied to Aunt Celia.
“How?” Maria asked Aunt Celia.
“Harold will take care of it,” Aunt Celia said. “Take it to the stables. And send word with that package that I will not have any more such letters delivered to my niece.” She waved Maria away and pulled Hyacinth into the parlor.
“Now,” Aunt Celia said, sitting down on her favorite settee and smoothing her skirts, “we must get to work.”
“To work, Mama?” Sophie said. She had positioned herself near the window, and had a far-away look, as if she were listening for a very faint sound in the distance.
Aunt Celia cast her a pitying smile. “Sophie dear, your cousin Hyacinth seems to have attracted two suitors without my help.”
“Two suitors!” Sophie exclaimed.
“They are not suitors,” Hyacinth protested.
“Of course, they are both entirely inappropriate,” Aunt Celia said, ignoring both of them. “We must find her some more suitable young gentlemen.” She turned to her daughter. “Sophie, bring me my writing things. I believe I will be able to arrange a few fortuitous meetings.”
Hyacinth fumed, but held her peace. The tea came, and as they sipped it, Aunt Celia prattled about one young gentleman and another whose mamas she knew, and whose families were well-connected. She had not even met most of the young gentlemen themselves.
#
When Hyacinth at last retreated to her room, she had a headache. A small one. She wanted to climb into bed and stay there until morning. The thought of facing her aunt over dinner nearly turned her stomach, and the revelation that Mr. Smithson was not who he'd pretended to be twisted her mind into knots. He'd hinted that he didn't relish the thought of returning to his family, but he hadn't said that they were aristocrats. She'd thought that they might have been tradesmen, or even landed gentry. If his family were so powerful, as well as somehow vile to both Mr. Smithson... no, Sir Pently, and her own relations, then perhaps he'd needed to go to the far side of the world to escape them, but he'd lied to her, by omission, at least. He wasn't honest.
She flopped on the bed for a moment and let it all whirl around her. She must not sulk, she reminded herself. She would not allow her aunt's schemes to drive her into a full retreat. Besides, there was Sophie to consider. Sophie had seemed quite delighted with the parade of young men to be presented in the coming days, and it was so rare to see her brighten up.
Hyacinth sat up and began to compose herself. She looked around for something to read, but the upstairs maid had taken the book she'd borrowed back to the house's library, enforcing her aunt's absurd idea that reading could ruin a girl's looks, as if her looks were any good to her now. She glanced at the reflection of her tear-stained face, then threw a shawl over the mirror. Retrieving the book would mean going back downstairs. Perhaps she would write a letter to George. It would be good to see him again, perhaps before his school's new term began.
She sat, pen in hand, blank paper in front of her, for a long time. What could she say to George? He wouldn't be allowed to visit Aunt Celia's house, and she wouldn't be allowed to travel so far alone, or even with Maria, to visit him. She missed him. His letters weren't reassurance enough. She had gotten as far as, “My dear Brother,” when she heard a light tap at the door, and Maria slipped in.
“I have it,” Maria whispered. She blushed. “Harold rode to pretend to take it back, but I convince him that you should have it.” She produced the package from the folds of her skirt.
“Oh, thank you!” Hyacinth sprang up and hugged Maria. “Thank you. I don't know how you did it.”
Maria shrugged, then put her finger to her lips.
“You're right, we should be quiet,” Hyacinth said. “I wonder what it is.”
“A book?” Maria suggested.
Hyacinth turned the package over in her hands. It certainly felt like a book. “But why?” she wondered aloud.
“Open it and see?” Maria said.
Hyacinth set it down on her writing desk. “I will,” she said, “but I have another puzzle to work out, too. I would like to see George.”
“Oh, that boy!” Maria sniffed and shook her head. “So would I. It is dull without him. Who knows what mischief he makes at that school?”
“Perhaps he could come to London for a visit before the Lent term begins, but Aunt Celia has made it clear to me that he would not be welcome in the house,” Hyacinth said. “I have no idea where to begin.”
“I...” Maria thought for a moment. “I will ask Harold.”
“Yes,” Hyacinth smiled, “if he is willing, and doesn't mind... I shouldn't encourage him to be disloyal.”
“He will still do his work,” Maria said. “It will be fine.” With that, Maria went back to the stables, fairly skipping away to the servants' stair.
Hyacinth sighed. At least Maria was happy and courting, already. She felt the package in her hands, turned it over, and cracked the seal. Inside, she found a small volume, bound in worn green leather with a fading gilt fleur de lis pattern on the spine. She ran her hands gently over it.
A letter fell to the floor. She picked it up and read it quickly.
/> Miss Grey:
Pardon my slow reply. I have only just returned from the country. I trust you are in good health. I will be at Lincoln's Inn every day but Sunday, and I look forward to meeting you there at your earliest convenience.
In the meantime, you may wish to get better acquainted with your grandmother. Enclosed is a journal she kept in her later years, in which she might have communicated some of her wishes and intentions. I have not read it myself, as she wished it to be passed on to you alone, along with her properties.
Sincerely,
John Butler, Esq.
Hyacinth looked at the book again. It fit neatly in her hand, and was small enough to tuck into a reticule. She could take it with her anywhere. Perhaps she would.
The bell rang for dinner. Hyacinth hid the book in her desk, straightened her skirts, and went downstairs to dine.
#
That night, Hyacinth lit a candle by her bedside and began to read. Her grandmother's hand was clear and decisive, but she wrote in French, which Hyacinth did not know quite as well as her Spanish, Latin, and Greek. She read slowly, puzzling out some words via their Latin cousins.
I suppose that I could write in English, now that there is no one left to pry, no one but my own servants and tenants, who would never dare broach my sanctuary, but the French language is my old friend, and I would miss it if I abandoned it after so long together. I was so young, when I first arrived in Paris, and at first, I hated it. I do not know who will read this. I do not know if I have anyone left. Violet, my dear Violet, is gone, and her daughter is little more than a child, though older than I was when I considered myself a woman.
Ach, I had hoped for a quiet hour, but a carriage has arrived, one of the neighbours come calling, with no notion of who I am, or who I have been.
Hyacinth skipped to the next entry.
The roses are coming into bloom in the garden below. Bereford gave me yellow roses on the night we met, and a rose-covered cottage five long, trying years later. I always wondered when he would abandon me. I saved every penny I could pinch. Until… well, that was all long ago, now, and it was gentler than those early years in Paris.
