Forever and a Day

by Delilah Marvelle

  Heat flooded his face. “What?”

  “I’ll be visitin’ you in London, Lord Yardley. And I’m announcin’ here and now that I’m goin’ to make you crawl in a way you never crawled for any woman before. I hope you’re ready for it.”

  He glanced toward her, capturing her gaze. “I’m trying to protect you and love you in the best way I know how. Why won’t you let me?”

  Her features twisted as she rounded him, tugging her sack tighter against her chest. “Because I love you and myself too much to settle for anythin’ less than a life together. I’ll see you next year, Brit. And mind you, look both ways before crossin’ any street. I need you in one piece.” She hurried past and headed toward the door, pulling it open.

  He turned to follow her, his chest tightening. “Georgia, I don’t want you doing this. Not for me.”

  “This isn’t just for you. It’s also for me. See you in April, Robinson. And don’t worry. I’ll make sure I make you look good.” With that, she tugged her sack of clothes up toward herself and hurried out and into the corridor, disappearing from sight.

  Winded, Roderick trailed over to the bed she hadn’t even had the chance to sleep in and sat heavily on its edge, staring at the floor. Dearest God. How he prayed she didn’t come to London. How he prayed. For her sake. Not his.

  Part Three

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Nobility has its own obligations.

  —Duc de Lévis,

  Maximes et réflexions (1808)

  Evening on a long, dark road

  just off Manhattan Square

  “LADY BURTON AWAITS.” Mischievous, hook-nosed and beady-eyed Mr. Astor grinned cheekily within the waving shadows of the carriage lanterns that barely sliced through the darkness. With a gloved hand, he reached out and enthusiastically patted Georgia’s cheek through her black veil, as if she were a horse he was about to race with his last dollar. “You will find my friend to be most dedicated. Most.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Astor. I appreciate all that you’ve already done for me.”

  Holding up a hand, Mr. Astor marched back toward the carriage and climbed into it with a dignified grunt. He disappeared inside without looking back as his footman refolded the stairs and shut the door before hurrying up onto his own seat in the back of the carriage.

  And so she was merrily tossed toward an imposing house whose large, narrow windows were illuminated by the glow of light. Rain drizzled down upon her veil in a mist as Georgia gathered her satin skirts from around her slippered feet. She strategically avoided puddles on the narrow stretch of pavement, heading toward the lone farmhouse that sat ominously upon a night-cloaked field, surrounded by a vast, starless sky above. She hurriedly bounded up the wide, shadowed stairs leading to the main entrance and paused.

  Letting out a shaky breath, she glanced back at Mr. Astor’s unmarked carriage one last time. The driver rounded all four horses through the thick mud, the lit glass lanterns attached to his box swaying against the shadows. Picking up its pace, the carriage eventually disappeared down the long stretch of road, trudging back toward the main city that was two miles out east.

  Georgia scanned the glaring darkness beyond the porch she lingered on. There didn’t appear to be a single house in sight and she didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing. She swiveled back to the door and tugged on the bellpull beside it, chiming the calling bell within.

  The farmhouse itself belonged to a certain Lady Burton, who had endured some sort of scandal in London that Mr. Astor and the duke had refused to go into. It appeared the path of becoming a gilded lady was to commence on a very dark night in the middle of God knows where with a woman who had done God knows what.

  The soft breeze of the cool summer night rolling in from the surrounding fields rustled her skirts as the entrance door was dragged open by an old man in livery. He blinked out at her, tufts of his bushy gray brows rising as he graciously gestured for her to enter with a white-gloved hand.

  She hurried in out of the night.

  The moment the door closed and she was no longer in public view, she stripped her bonnet and veil, releasing the breath she’d been holding. She had made it without anyone seeing her. She paused within a large foyer decorated with potted orange blossoms. An oak staircase swept up to the floor above, giving an air of simple but impressive grandeur. Sea-green and white-flowered wallpaper covered all of the walls in sight, lending to a soft, cozy elegance.

  The elderly butler took her veil and bonnet, placing them upon a side table. Setting a hand to the brass buttons on the waistcoat of his livery, as if he were a general about to march with orders, he guided her toward the right. His gloved hand eventually stretched toward a candlelit room beyond, indicating where she was to enter.

  Georgia hurried into the room and paused to find it empty. Where was Lady Burton? She turned back. “Isn’t Lady Burton—?”

  She blinked.

  The butler had already disappeared.

  Georgia awkwardly turned back to the room and lingered in the pale malachite drawing room, noting all of the paintings on the walls depicting lush, exotic landscapes of places she knew nothing of. Marble statuettes and a variety of gilded clocks scattered the mantelpiece of a most impressive marble hearth that dominated the large room.

  So this was where she’d be locked away from the world until she was ready to be presented into New York society. It was purgatory at its finest.

  Wandering across the wooden inlaid floors, Georgia carefully angled past several upholstered chairs and gleaming marble-topped pedestal tables, ensuring her verdant gown didn’t brush up against anything it shouldn’t.

  She glanced around, rather liking the place. Vibrant white lace curtains shrouded the night-blackened windows beyond, whilst pretty etched glass lamps alongside the expanse of the walls had all been lit, giving the room a warm glow that made her feel welcome and at home.

  The clicking of heels echoed from down the corridor, drifting toward her through the open doors. Turning, Georgia set both hands behind her back and stared at the shadowed entryway, waiting for whatever was about to walk into her life.

  A voluptuous, petite woman appeared in the doorway, her embroidered powder-blue evening gown rustling to a halt. Pinned sable curls streaked with silver swayed against the arresting movement, settling around sharp but pleasant features that whispered of a refined age of at least thirty. She wasn’t particularly pretty but something about her was stunning. Velvet azure ribbons were intricately woven and braided into her hair, holding all of her gathered curls into place with a single visible knot that had been fashioned into a flower. The woman’s full lips parted, as black, hauntingly sad eyes met Georgia’s expectantly.

  Georgia curtsied, sensing the woman was waiting for her to say something. “Thank you for havin’ me, Lady Burton. I’m ever so grateful knowin’ that you’re willin’ to—”

  “Having, knowing and willing,” Lady Burton said in a smooth British accent, drawing out each word. “You must learn to pronounce your g’s.”

  Georgia blinked, sensing she had just been reprimanded.

  Those haunting eyes met hers again as the woman stepped forward and into the room, allowing the butler to wordlessly slide the doors closed behind her and leave them in private.

  The woman quietly observed her. “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Milton. I look forward to educating you about London society and ask that you refrain from blurting words. Instead, allow them to leave your lips slowly to ensure control. Now say the following. ‘I am ever so grateful knowing that you are here.’”

  Oh, this woman was good. Georgia wet her lips and focused. Drawing out her words in a slow and steady manner, she repeated, “I’m ever so grateful…knowing that you’re here.”

  “That was passable but passable will not see you wed. Elongate each word. Say ‘I am,’ instead of shortening who and what you are with a mere ‘I’m,’ and say ‘you are’ instead of insulting me with ‘you’re.’ Now say it again and
remember to pronounce your g’s.”

  “Yes, my lady.” Georgia drew out her words slowly, controlling every sound as best she could. “I…am…ever so grateful…knowing…that you…are…here.”

  Lady Burton sighed, her dark brows coming together. “We will focus on procuring a more natural, sophisticated tone.” She paused, scanning her length. “Given your ambitious plan to launch yourself into London society by April, our schedule will entail a grueling eight hours a day, allowing you rest only on Sundays, which will be spent in silent prayer. During daily hours of lecture, I hope never to hear the words ‘I am exhausted’ or ‘I cannot.’ Do you understand?”

  It was like being in the military. “Yes, my lady.”

  “Lovely. Now before I introduce you to your nightly routine, which you will carry to the grave, I would like to briefly test your basic understanding of protocol so I may better coordinate tomorrow’s lesson plan. Is that acceptable to you?”

  “By all means. Have at it.”

  Lady Burton’s brows lifted. “Women do not ever ‘have at it,’ my dear. Men ‘have at it.’ And we most certainly do not care what men do, let alone what they think. We women will not be mentioning men at all unless it involves a lesson on how to make them better service us. Do you understand?”

  Damn. Who had dirked this woman? “Yes, my lady. I’ll not mention men again.”

  “I will not mention men again.”

  “I…will not mention men again.”

  “Very good. Now pay attention.” The woman gracefully held up a small ivory card between slim fingers, as if she’d been holding it all along between the folds of her gown. Presenting it at eye level, Lady Burton breezed closer, her full skirts rustling against poised, elegant movements. “Do you know what this is, Mrs. Milton?”

  Georgia blinked. “A…card?”

  Lady Burton paused before her and held the card tauntingly closer. “Yes, but what sort of card? Do you know?”

  Georgia blinked again, not understanding her point. She glanced nervously toward the card, observing its characteristics. “’Tis a very expensive, crisp white one? With gold embossed letterin’?” Georgia paused and added, “And as pretty as it is, it’s probably also perfumed or powdered.”

  Lady Burton pursed her lips. Still holding Georgia’s gaze, she daintily ripped the card in half and, with the flick of her wrists, sent both halves fluttering to the floor. “It was a calling card, my dear. Until I ripped it in half in an effort to contain my disappointment in how hard you are going to make us both work. A lady never perfumes or powders her calling card. Why? Because it insinuates that she needs more than a name to carry her through respectable society.” She sighed. “’Tis obvious we will be working ten hours a day, not eight.”

  Georgia cringed, sensing the woman was already agitated with her. “You mean a lady goes about handin’ out cards to everyone? What for?”

  “Handing,” Lady Burton chided, rounding her and scanning her again as if she were a smashed yam on a cart. “And no, a lady does not go about handing her card to just anyone. Would you flip up your skirts and place your leg into everyone’s hand as a means of introducing yourself?”

  Georgia pressed her lips together and shook her head.

  “No. Of course not. Because that would be as crass as handing out your card to everyone. So as to better explain this, Mrs. Milton, a calling card is an incredibly important extension of your identity. It announces who you are, it announces where you live and, above all, it announces whether you are worth anyone’s time.” She lowered her chin. “And as of right now, my dear, you are not even worth mine.”

  Georgia’s lips parted. And she thought she had a tongue on her. “Is it necessary for you to toss off to me in such a condescendin’ tone?”

  “The tone I am using is the same condescending tone you will hear from the lips of every waxed apple who dares call herself an aristocrat. Seeing you willfully intend to marry into my circle, I suggest you learn to not only cradle everything known as condescending, but that you kiss its little forehead until those lips of yours bleed.”

  Satan clearly had a wife. “Might I ask, why are you helpin’ me, aside from being Mr. Astor’s friend? With you bein’ a rich aristo and all, you certainly don’t need money. Or do you?”

  Lady Burton lifted an arched dark brow. “There are some things in life, Mrs. Milton, that cannot be bought. A woman’s way of life is difficult as it is without society weighing in on it. And in truth, the idea of twisting an invisible blade into the gut of London society is the only reason I am doing this. Those self-righteous bastards, who dare act like gods thinking their blood is pure, deserve to have their blood tainted.”

  Georgia swallowed, wondering what happened to this woman to turn her into this. London had to be a hell and a half to be breeding women like her.

  Settling primly before Georgia, Lady Burton gestured casually toward her attire. “Where did you get this atrocity?”

  Georgia awkwardly brushed the sides of her satin skirts, which she actually thought pretty. “I rather like this gown. Mr. Astor’s wife gave it to me during my stay with them and her lady’s maid was kind enough to cinch it to better fit me.”

  Lady Burton tsked. “We will have to change what you like, my dear, because poor Mrs. Astor, along with half of New York, has no taste whatsoever. I could pay them all to go out and buy taste and they still would only disappoint me.” She paused, glancing toward Georgia’s own breasts. “Of course, you are terribly underweight. You need larger breasts if we are going to make you a success with men.”

  Georgia’s hands jumped to cover both of her small breasts buried within her satin bodice. She glanced down at them. “I didn’t realize I could make them bigger.” She jiggled what little she had and glanced up. “How do we do that?”

  Lady Burton daintily tapped her hand away from each breast. “The secret is food, my dear. Something you clearly haven’t had enough of. Once you gain a far more desirable weight, only then will we invest in an extensive wardrobe. The Duke of Wentworth insisted that I build your name here in New York whilst he builds London. Therefore, once you are able to properly fill a gown, we will do our part by bringing in the most talented French seamstresses Broadway has to offer. That way, when our hired gaggle of French seamstresses are done, they will bustle off and share their succulent little tales of servicing an unknown wealthy lady just outside of New York. People in every circle will squirm to learn more about you and, in time, we will give them more.”

  Lady Burton held up a manicured finger. “Now. Whenever in the presence of others outside myself, you will always abide by the golden rule of silence. That means whenever anyone enters this home or whenever you leave this home, you are not to speak. You have yet to learn how to articulate your words like a woman of quality and we do not want the wrong sort of oui-dire floating about New York, lest it take a boat and find itself in London. Do you understand?”

  This was like a ten-dollar circus she had stupidly paid for. “That I do.”

  “Good.” Lady Burton casually waved a hand about, a diamond ring glinting. “Over these next few weeks and throughout all the many months ahead, various men and women will be wading through these doors, tutoring you in the arts of dance, the pianoforte, riding and much more. The same rule will apply to them as to our lip-flapping seamstresses. You are never to speak, not even to say ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ You will only do as you are told. There will be no exceptions. Even if a candle should overturn and the house should catch fire, you will evacuate the premises in complete and utter silence.”

  Gorgia gawked at her. “Even durin’ a fire? What if people die?”

  Lady Burton gave her a withered look. “Let everyone and everything burn. Lesson one—never pity those who would merrily see you burn, in turn. These men and women servicing you are not your friends. They are but pawns we are using to win a game.”

  “But won’t they suspect we’re up to somethin’? Given that I’m learnin’ all of these
things and not sayin’ a word?”

  “No.” Lady Burton smirked. “They will all be informed to believe the following, which I myself so brilliantly scripted. Mr. Astor kindly brought you into his care after the death of your stern mother, who had locked you away in a monastery in Ireland, which shall forever remain nameless due to the heartache it always brings you upon its mention. Tragically, you were born frail. Illness has kept you in a bed all these years. It is merely by the grace of God Himself, who touched His hand to your blessed head, that you are finally well enough to learn all of the things that had been denied due to your poor health. This does not mean, however, that you will ever fully recover, as you are prone to fainting spells. Given Mr. Astor’s overly compassionate nature, his sole aspiration in life is to see you wed to a respectable man willing to look after your health, whilst he also tends to your impressive fortune of—” Mrs. Burton paused before announcing in an elegant, theatrical tone “—thirty thousand a year.”

  Georgia choked. “Thirty thousand a year? Isn’t that a bit much?”

  “We could have easily made it more, given Mr. Astor is a millionaire in investments alone, but the duke and I decided it was best to settle on a more respectable amount that was impressive without being vulgar.”

  Georgia slowly shook her head from side to side, realizing this was all turning into a thousand and one pawns piled onto the smallest board she’d ever seen. “I know this is all my idea, but it’s still quite a bit to lie about. It feels wrong slaughterin’ so many people with so many fibs. Can’t we ease off on some of the drama?”

  Lady Burton leaned in and pinched her cheek, teasingly cooing, “Weep not for the aristocracy. They deserve it.”

  Georgia huffed out an exasperated breath, already feeling overwhelmed. They hadn’t even started. “Do ladies of quality ever have fun?”