“Yes, yes,” Georgiana said with an impatient wave toward the tray. She glanced up to see the butler backing toward the door.
“Chambers!”
“My lady?” He stopped at the door and stared at the wall behind Georgiana’s left shoulder.
“I wish to show you something. You had schooling, didn’t you? You have some Greek?”
“Greek, my lady?” he said through tight lips. “Of very little use in my current position, I fear, but yes. I studied as a schoolboy.”
Local vicar no doubt. Even a boy destined for service got that much—more than any girl, even a Duke’s daughter, she thought bitterly.
“Very well,” she said holding up a piece of parchment. “Take a look.”
He hesitated, eyes fixed on the wall.
“Come, come, man. It won’t bite.”
Chambers took the paper between two fingers and held it as if it would indeed bite him.
“Well?”
“It appears to be a poem, my lady. By a person named Moh-rho.”
“Moero. Correct.”
“I’m not acquainted with that writer. We didn’t, that is, I have not had the privilege.”
“I’m not surprised. She isn’t much read.”
“She?” His face remained impassive, but distaste was palpable in his voice.
“She,” repeated Georgiana. “Now look at the Greek and listen to this: “Nymphs of Anigrus, river maidens, who, who, always? Forever? Still? walk with, with rose colored feet on the deep, greet and hail and save Cleonymus who set these fair pictures—statues probably—to you, goddesses, beneath, beneath something, some sort of tree?”
Chambers stared at the paper still pinched between his fingers.
“Well?”
“What is it you wish, my lady?”
“Your opinion, man. Is it adequate? Nymphs are goddesses, are they not?” That much at least she knew; though, how they looked was beyond her. “Do they walk? Glide? Tread? That’s more formal. What do you think?”
“If this is your translation, I’m sure it must be correct just as it is,” the old man said through lips so tight she feared for his tongue. She ought to let him be.
“Do you care for it Chambers? In Greek or in English, either one?”
“Care for it, my lady? It is not my place.” He raised his eyes from the poem only to look back at the wall, avoiding eye contact. “I have no opinion.”
An unholy urge to goad him came and went. Infantile gestures never satisfied.
“Will that be all, my lady?” The voice betrayed no emotion.
Georgiana set down her quill. “You my go, Chambers.”
She sank back in her seat and lifted her cooling tea. Her butler was a gray cipher of a man with no more interest in her poems than Eunice had.
There were twenty people on Georgiana’s staff, and not one of them so much as looked her in the eye, much less engaged in conversation. To expect more was ludicrous. Differences of class aside, not one person had taken any interest in her study of Greek in the eleven long years since Andrew left.
Andrew cared, at least he did once. She squeezed her eyes shut. Andrew again. The man’s horridly scarred face—and the untouched face of the long-gone schoolboy—haunted her, had done so since she saw him at Groghan’s store. Thoughts of that face left her unable to get any work done.
She replaced her cup in its saucer with a slap. The clang of crockery made Eunice jump. Everything made Eunice jump.
“Stay put, Eunice. I’m just gathering my references.”
Georgiana rose on a swish of silk skirts, tossed the cup and saucer onto the tray, and pulled Liddell’s Lexicon and a handful of others off the shelf. She spread them on the desk and began to flip absently through them, checking various words. “Nymph” was clear and consistent. “Anigrus” didn’t appear and was likely a proper noun in any case, but she wondered what or who it was. Any man with a half-decent education probably knew.
She resented her own ignorance. She didn’t know how the nymphs moved. Walk was the simplest translation, she suspected, but she wanted to know how they walked, what sort of movement the poetess was trying to depict. Lack of knowledge frustrated her.
She picked up a shabby little book from the scattered pile and ran a finger over it affectionately. Stewart’s Advanced Greek for Young Scholars, her oldest and dearest friend. She smiled at the odd conceit. Her oldest Greek reference perhaps, though she had few enough friends. She opened the cover. A neatly copied inscription covered the frontispiece.
To Lady Georgiana, with wishes for success.
Respectfully,
A. Mallet
She was seventeen when he found her lurking behind the palms in her father’s conservatory, contending with an abbreviated passage from Plato. Andrew acted as though it was perfectly normal for a girl two years his senior to struggle alone over material he had mastered many years before. Fear of discovery and her mother’s bile had made her very careful. Only Andrew knew, and he never revealed her secret to her parents. Two weeks after the encounter, an anonymous parcel arrived. It contained Stewart’s.
Andrew didn’t think like the others. She savored his suggestions. He helped her through Pindar. He helped her through Paul. He told her she did “amazing work.” She refused to believe that life had changed him, no matter what passed between them in the end. A glimmer of hope sparked back to life in her. She rose abruptly.
“Call for the carriage, Eunice. We’re going into Cambridge.”
The placid face didn’t alter. Eunice seemed quite used to her mistress’s sudden odd starts. “Yes, my lady. Shall I bring a basket for goods? Are we going to the bookstore?”
“Yes, bring it, but we probably won’t need it. Fetch my parasol. Once we get there, we’re going for a walk.”
Andrew Holden may not want to further our acquaintance, but he will. Oh yes, he most certainly will.
Chapter 3
“I don’t care if it is the Duchess of Devonshire or Prinny’s latest flirt. I said I am not in!” the voice roared. “And stop pushing that posset in my face. It doesn’t help, and it tastes like hell.”
Georgiana felt heat rise in her face. She sat ramrod straight. Her rigid shoulders didn’t touch the back of the narrow wooden chair in Andrew Mallet’s front parlor. Her mood, dark and growing blacker, contended with the sunny little room; its whitewashed walls hung with seascapes, its windows with blue chintz.
Her mother’s voice echoed in her head, “Who would receive you, Georgiana, you great awkward oaf, you with your freakish starts?” She heard that voice often enough. Indeed, she heard it still whenever custom or her parents’ dictates forced her to endure her mother’s presence.
She heard the manservant—Harley, she remembered—muttering to himself while he descended the enclosed stairs. “I’m not your bloody go-between.” It was obvious that she didn’t need a go-between. She heard it all for herself.
Harley rounded the last step and looked her over with an impertinent glare. She thought she knew what he saw. At thirty-five, she was no longer young, and she believed she would never have been described as pretty. She hoped she at least projected dignity and culture. Her attempt to freeze him with a look failed. The man didn’t freeze.
“I inquired like you said. He ain’t in.”
He knew her story about a walk along the River Cam and coming upon Little Saint Mary’s Lane for the foolish tale that it was. He tried to warn her. “Mr. Mallet ain’t in,” he said, but she insisted he “inquire.”
She lifted her chin another notch and rose from her seat in the single graceful movement her mother so ruthlessly taught her. “I regret that Mr. Mallet is not at home. I will take my leave.”
An imperious gesture to Eunice produced a calling card. She extended her graceful, fawn-gloved fingers and offered it with the proper gesture. “In case he should wish to contact me,” she said.
Harley stared at the card with a grimace of distaste, but he took it with two fingers and
tossed it onto a silver tray with the rest of the mail and correspondence. She distinctly heard him mutter, “No chance o’ that,” under his breath.
She needed to escape before this fiasco spun further out of control. She reached the doorway at the foot of the narrow stairs when movement caught the corner of her eye. She looked up at a dark shadow, the shape of a strong and imposing body leaning heavily on the doorframe. The shadow did not speak. She imagined his eyes, cold and distant.
She swallowed the urge to leave quickly and raised her voice, pitching it so that it could be heard upstairs while she looked directly at Harley. “You have my card, Mr. Harley. Should he wish to reach me, you know my direction.”
Harley looked directly back. She watched the expression in the old rascal’s deeply wrinkled face change. Where there had been impudence, she saw calculation—and something else. Georgiana’s heart skipped a beat. The man’s expression registered compassion.
“He ain’t well.” Harley turned his shoulder, lowered his voice, and leaned toward the open door so the sound wouldn’t carry up the stairs. “Irascible he is when the pain is on him.”
Her posture relaxed, and she darted another glance up the stairs. A question formed on the tip of her tongue, but she thought better of it. The door closed behind her. Just before it swung shut, she heard a gravelly old voice mumble, “Now what made you say that, you damned old fool?”
“It is getting worse not better.” Lady Georgiana’s voice faded away. Two days after her humiliation in Andrew Mallet’s parlor, she endured a worse one.
Dr. Wetherby disregarded everything she said. The foppish physician sent down from London by the Duke and Duchess could never quite conceal his distaste, no matter how much her father paid him. She considered voicing her outrage, but that would require more energy than she possessed.
“My dear Lady Georgiana,” Wetherby intoned, tenting his tiny fingers in front of his corpulent frame. “A delicate woman such as yourself must expect certain, um, complaints from time to time.”
Georgiana narrowly avoided an unladylike snort at his description of her as “delicate.” Whatever her weakness, no one but he would describe her as delicate. Her great height ensured that.
Wetherby continued without a break, absorbed in his own words. “When a lady hasn’t been blessed with offspring, one’s, that is to say, the womanly, ah, equipment, builds ill humors. If you would just let me bleed you again?”
She rolled her eyes in disgust. “I bleed almost to death as it is!”
“Yes, but in between, to prevent the buildup of—”
“In between?” Her weak voice made it less than a shout. “I bleed for a week, as though to death, and I’m exhausted for another. I have only two productive weeks before it starts again. Do be serious! You can’t expect me to let you drain me in between.”
“Perhaps, if I might suggest, your efforts to be ‘productive’ are at the root of the problem. Such labors draw of humors needed elsewhere. If you could but accept a woman’s nature—”
“Out.”
“I beg your pardon, my lady?”
“Out. We’re finished. This is foolishness. It gives me no relief.”
The man stiffened. “Are you dismissing me? You cannot. His Grace–”
“I know what my father ordered.” She held up the crumpled piece of paper and waved it in his face. “I am aware that I am ordered to cooperate. I will not. You may be assured my intransigence won’t be held against you. My father will assuredly pay you. You can continue to report my failings to my mother, but I wish to hear from you no more. Out.”
He summoned his dignity, stalked to the door, and departed with a baleful glare for his patient.
Georgiana squeezed her eyes shut, husbanded her strength, and breathed in the sweet sound of silence. Gone at last.
She unfolded the crumpled paper in her hand and reread the message that the physician brought with him. It commanded her to cease burdening the estate with her health problems. He sends no fatherly affection, I see. She tossed the paper aside and picked up another.
Her mother’s missive reeked with rose scent and depressed her even more.
Georgiana,
His Grace insists that you see Dr. Wetherby and orders you to cooperate with his recommendations. If you will not abandon your odd starts and fits on your own, do attempt to seek a cure for your ills. Marianna comes out this spring, and given your circumstances, it is better for you to remain in Cambridgeshire under his care. The family demands that you rest in seclusion in your little house and not parade yourself about in the region.
Lady Wilhelmina Hayden,
Duchess of Sudbury,
Your mother
Georgiana grimaced. The Duchess wrote “your mother” as though Georgiana might forget that fact. Don’t worry, Mother. I won’t embarrass you or ruin your golden child’s chances.
Georgiana agreed with the Duchess on one thing: She preferred to stay in Cambridgeshire, far from interference and abuse. The house belonged to Georgiana, a divinely inspired gift from an eccentric great aunt, but she depended on her father’s largesse for everything else from food to the salaries of her servants. Buried here, at least she could work. Work gave her life meaning; nothing else did.
A third letter lay unopened on the table. It arrived separately, just before Wetherby came smirking and preening to disturb her peace. She fingered the seal. Her brother Richard, the Marquess Glenaire in his own right, franked it himself. It wouldn’t have been subject to parental scrutiny. She opened it carefully.
“My Dear Georgiana,” it began. Once he might have written “Dearest Georgie.” At thirty-three he became more like their father every time she heard from him. She frowned and read on. She hoped she’d at least find some affection here.
My Dear Georgiana,
I trust this missive finds you in enjoyment of good health. Our lady mother reports some concerns. Since she is vague and hushed, I am unclear as to the nature and extent of your complaints. I know Simon Wetherby by reputation, and so I took the liberty of making some discreet inquiries. Should you find yourself in need of the most modern medical assistance, you might pursue one of the references you will find enclosed. Should you need funds for this endeavor, you need only ask me.
She glanced at the extra page. Two of the gentlemen were located in Edinburgh. The third lived and worked in Cambridge. He was both physician and surgeon. This was highly unusual. She didn’t doubt that the names on the list constituted the very best. Perhaps her friend Mrs. Potter knew something about this physician-surgeon, Dr. Peabody. If he lived in Cambridge, Mrs. Potter would know of him.
She picked up her brother’s letter and continued.
As to your inquiries, I do remember Andrew Mallet, but I admit to some surprise that you would recall him. Mr. Mallet, I believe, is returned from several years’ military service. His service left him considerably richer, and I don’t believe he has the need to take up his father’s profession or take on students. Though he hasn’t ascended to the peerage, he could, I believe, conduct himself as a country gentleman should he choose. In regard to your description of the gentleman’s physical state, I must say such observations are somewhat indelicate in a lady. Be that as it may, I believe, given his reputed performance at the late events at Waterloo and other circumstances, it is likely that the gentleman you describe is he. I am given to believe that he wishes no contact with former acquaintances, and you would be well advised against pursuing the connection.
Again, I send wishes for your health.
Your dutiful brother,
Richard, Marquess of Glenaire
What other circumstances, damn it? What left Andrew so scarred and dimmed the lights in his eyes? Richard knew more than he said. He always did. He certainly knew exactly where Andrew lived.
Andrew didn’t need money, and he didn’t need to seek employment as a tutor. Her initial plan to hire him now seemed unlikely to meet with success.
Georgiana didn’t know
any more now than she did when she wrote to her brother except that Richard wanted to warn her off. She would need to keep her actions out of Richard’s notice in the future—if she could.
Chapter 4
Edwina Potter—the vicar’s widow, grandmother of a University fellow, and Georgiana’s one true friend in Cambridge—lived in a whitewashed home with a sturdy slate roof and deep blue shutters lying cheek by jowl with similar houses on Peas Hill. It shared a wall with its neighbor to the south. Window boxes sprouted with the promise of flowers to come, and curtained windows welcomed visitors from all ranks and circumstances.
Georgiana approached Mrs. Potter’s door slowly, impeded by the sharp gray winds of March. She pulled her pelisse around her, lowered her head, and held her bonnet firmly in place. Near her destination, two pairs of gentlemen’s boots, festooned in the first stare of fashion, came to a halt at her feet. Two faces, one hard and cruel, the other slack-jawed and dandified, looked at her with derision. Both wore the robes of Cambridge students.
“I beg your pardon.” She tried to pass.
“Well, you should beg our pardon.” The hard-faced one said. Neither moved. “Cambridge streets aren’t a place for a woman alone.”
Insolent puppies! Georgiana regretted her decision to leave Eunice at home. She left her coach at the end of the street so she wouldn’t inconvenience the residents or her coachman. He could maneuver down such a narrow lane only with great difficulty. She believed she could walk the four or five doors to Mrs. Potter’s house with ease. She had been wrong.
Dangerous 01 - Dangerous Works Page 2
