by Anne Gracie
“Have you finished your breakfast?”
“Yes.”
“Then say good-bye to Martha.”
“Oh, my precious girl!” Martha burst into tears and hugged her.
“What’s going on? Why are you upset?” Georgiana hugged her back, glaring at Cal over Martha’s shoulder. “Are you sending Martha away? Because if you are—”
“No, no, my darling girl,” Martha sobbed, smoothing Georgiana’s hair back from her face. “Don’t worry about me, his lordship’s been everything that’s kind and generous. He’s even sent for my sister and her boys to come and live here. It’s just . . . I’ll miss you.”
“Miss me? But why? If you’re staying here—” She broke off, whirled around and faced Cal with a belligerent expression. “What are you up to? I’m not going anywh—”
“You’re going to Bath with me.” Cal bent and tossed her over his shoulder. “Good-bye, Martha,” he said, quite as if he didn’t have an infuriated niece kicking and wriggling and spitting fury like a wildcat. “I’ll keep you up to date with arrangements. Thank you for your assistance.”
The struggling stopped for a moment. “Martha, did you know about this?” The betrayal in her voice was heartbreaking. Cal hardened his heart against it. If he’d simply told her, there would be more drama and argument and no doubt she’d gallop away on her black stallion for another three days or more. He didn’t have that much time to waste.
Martha sobbed, “I’m that sorry, lovie, truly I am, but it’s for the best. I can’t be living in the city, you know that. You’re upset now, but in the long run, you’ll know it was the right thing.”
“I won’t! I’ll never forgive you—no, not you, Martha—him!” She pummeled his back with hard little fists. “I know who’s to blame for this, this kidnapping! He’s even worse than my pig of a father!”
Cal strode toward the front door. His ribs were regretting the riding boots now. He should have made her change into the soft little slippers ladies usually wore.
Hawkins waited outside with the carriage door open. “All secure?” Cal asked him.
“Yes, m’lord.”
Cal deposited his niece in the carriage and climbed in after her. Hawkins shut the door after him and climbed swiftly up to take up the reins.
Inside the carriage, Georgiana made a dive for the opposite door. She struggled with the handle for a moment, then turned to glare at Cal.
“It’s locked,” he told her. “There’s no point in fighting. You’re outnumbered.” He rapped on the roof of the carriage and, with a lurch, it moved off.
She stuck two fingers in her mouth and let out a long shrill whistle.
He sighed and continued, “If you’ve quite finished deafening me—”
“I’m taking Finn.” She let out another earsplitting whistle.
“No, the dog stays here,” he said, firmly shutting his mind against the memory of his own desolation at having to leave his own dog behind when he was sent off to school. “He’s far too big and ungainly for my aunt’s town house. And he would be miserable shut up in her small backyard.” More to the point, Cal had no intention of traveling in a closed carriage with a damp, muddy, smelly beast the size of a pony.
“So I am to have nobody and nothing of my own, then?” She’d tried for toughness, but there was an underlying pathos to her words.
“I know it’s all very strange and unsettling, Georgiana, but bear with me. I cannot descend on Aunt Dottie with a collection of large animals and an old retainer, as well as a great-niece she knew nothing about. Her house isn’t big enough, for a start.”
“Then leave me here!”
“At times, we all have to do things we don’t want to do. Your grandfather was the Earl of Ashendon. His life was laid out for him because of who he was. Your late father was, for the last year of his life, also the Earl of Ashendon, as I am now. None of us had any choice in it—we were simply born to that position, and fate did the rest. And the same goes for you.”
She gave him a startled look. “Me?”
He nodded. “Your father was an earl, so you are now Lady Georgiana Rutherford—has nobody ever told you that?”
She shook her head.
“Well, you are, and it is not fitting for Lady Georgiana Rutherford to continue living the life you’ve been living here.”
“But I’m happy here.”
“You can be happy anywhere if you put your mind to it. Now don’t worry—Martha is perfectly content with the arrangement. As soon as it’s convenient I’ll send for the dog—and yes, the horse as well. It’s obvious you love to ride and he’s a fine animal.”
She sniffed. “How do I know you’ll keep your promise?”
“I am not in the habit of breaking my word,” he said stiffly.
She rolled her eyes. “Heard that before. Apparently my father was fond of saying, ‘My word is my bond,’ and we all knew what that meant.”
“I am nothing like your father.”
She shrugged. “Who will take care of Sultan? He can be difficult. He hates strangers—”
“Chiswick said he thought Jem Stubbins, your former stableboy, would be willing. He is currently working for a butcher, a job that is not to his taste. I trust you approve?”
She scrunched herself into the corner seat farthest away from Cal. “Thought of everything, haven’t you?” It wasn’t a compliment.
After about ten minutes on the main road, the carriage slowed. Hawkins opened the communication hatch.
“What is it, Hawkins?”
“It’s Miss George’s dawg, m’lord. It’s following us.”
Georgiana’s face lit up. “See, Finn goes everywhere with me. He always has. Let him in, oh, please let him in.”
“Keep going, Hawkins. The dog will give up soon and return home.”
“I hate you!” Georgiana curled up in her corner, a hostile ball of misery.
The carriage picked up speed again. Fifteen minutes later, Hawkins slowed again. “It’s still following, m’lord.”
Georgiana leaned forward and put a hand on Cal’s knee. Tears glimmered on her long lashes. “Please. Finn won’t give up. He’ll follow us until he drops. His paws will be bleeding . . .”
Cal sighed. “Let the blasted animal in.” The carriage came to a halt and he opened the door. Georgiana whistled again, and a moment later the dog clambered awkwardly into the carriage, his ribs heaving with exhaustion, a panting red tongue lolling halfway down his chest.
Georgiana gave the great beast a rapturous welcome, cooing over him as if he were a lapdog. “Finn, oh, Finn darling. What a good, clever dog you are! Yes, you are!”
Cal watched gloomily. The dog was huge. He was wet, he was muddy, he had probably never been bathed in his life. Now that he was reunited with his mistress, his long scraggy tail lashed ecstatically back and forth, sending joyous splatters of mud and filth in all directions—mainly over Cal’s pristine coat and breeches.
And the smell—dear God!
Georgiana gave him an apologetic glance. “He must have found a dead bird to roll in. He’s very fond of rolling in dead things.”
Of course he was. Cal tried not to breathe.
The roads were clear, the weather good, the ostlers at the coach houses fast and efficient, and they made good time to Bath. Hawkins secured the horses and let down the carriage steps. Cal, his hand gripping the dog’s collar, waited to let his niece descend first.
“Bring our luggage in, then see to the horses,” he told Hawkins.
“Our luggage? I don’t have any luggage,” Georgiana said.
“Martha packed you a bag.”
“Et tu, Martha,” she muttered. So, she’d had some sort of education after all.
Cal eased himself past the enormous hound, descended the steps and, before the dog could push past him and jump do
wn, he quickly closed the door, shutting the dog inside the carriage.
“But, Finn—” Georgiana began.
“Will go with Hawkins, who will have him thoroughly washed and dried before springing the beast on Aunt Dottie.”
“You’re the beast,” she muttered.
“How am I goin’ to wash a dawg that size?” Hawkins grumbled. “More to the point, where am I goin’ to do it?”
Cal flipped him a guinea piece. “How you manage it is your business. This is Bath—there will be somewhere. I want him back clean and fresh and free of fleas. And then you will clean the carriage from top to bottom—and particularly the inside, which now has a distinct stench of eau de dog.”
Hawkins peered in at the dog, who immediately woofed at him, a big deep sound. “He won’t bite me, will he, Miss George?”
“Not if he likes you.” Then she laughed. “No, he doesn’t usually bite people. Although . . . he’s never had a bath before. Perhaps I’d better go with—”
Cal caught her by the sleeve. “You’re coming inside with me. Hawkins will manage. You need to meet Great-Aunt Dottie and your aunts.”
* * *
“Welcome, dear girl, welcome to the family! I’m your aunt—oh, that would be great-aunt, but just call me Aunt Dottie like the others do.” She embraced Georgiana with all the affection and enthusiasm in her soul, as if the girl were a child she’d loved all her life and had dearly missed.
And in a way, she was, Cal thought. Aunt Dottie was such a dear.
Georgiana stood awkwardly in her embrace, uncertain of how to respond. Rose and Lily—whom he was pleased to find at home—stood quietly by, watching curiously.
“Oh, my, but you’re a Rutherford through and through, aren’t you?” Aunt Dottie exclaimed. “It was wicked of Henry not to tell us about you, positively wicked! Not that you look a lot like your father—Henry took after his mother more—but Cal, now!”
All eyes turned to Cal.
“You’re the living image of Cal before he was sent away to be a soldier. Oh, now, now, don’t pull that face, my dear, I don’t mean you’re not pretty—of course you are, very pretty indeed—just as Cal was at sixteen. He was such a pretty boy back then, quite ravishing, I do assure you.”
Cal rolled his eyes.
“Oh, heavens, where are my manners? You haven’t even met your aunts yet, have you, Georgiana, and here am I babbling on like the veriest brook! This is your aunt Rose and her younger sister, Lily. Rose and Lily, come and greet your new niece, Georgiana.”
“George.”
Aunt Dottie blinked. Her gaze dropped to the girl’s neckline, where there was faint but undeniable evidence of femininity. “I beg your pardon.”
“My name. I prefer to be called George.”
“Really?”
“I’ve been called George for as long as I remember.” She shot a defiant glance at Cal. “He’s the only one who calls me Georgiana. I don’t answer to it.”
“You’ll learn to,” Cal growled.
“Of course, my dear, if you wish to be called George—” Aunt Dottie began.
“No,” Cal said. “It’s not appropriate.” Especially given her predilection for wearing boots and breeches. He didn’t want his niece getting a name for eccentricity—deserved or not. Not before he had her off his hands, at any rate.
“Nonsense,” said Aunt Dottie briskly. “If that’s what the child prefers—”
“It’s not fitting.”
“Why not?” Rose interjected. “You prefer being called Cal instead of Calbourne.”
Her new niece gave her a cautious smile.
“Yes, but Cal is not a girl’s name. George is—”
Rose slipped her arm through Georgiana’s. “What about Calpurnia, the wife of Julius Caesar? I bet Caesar called her Cal for short.”
Cal gritted his teeth. “Her proper name is Georgiana.”
“You call her that then, dear,” Aunt Dottie said happily. “We’ll stick to George—a perfect compromise. I think George, especially for such a pretty girl, is rather charming. It would be different if she were plain and mannish, of course, but she’s not. In fact, I think the name will underline her femininity delightfully. Besides, she’ll be called Lady George by most people, which has a certain cachet, don’t you think? Now, shall we all go in to supper? Cal dear, your arm.”
Cal gave up. He took his aunt in to supper.
The girls seemed to be getting on well, he observed gloomily. Of course they were. Divide and conquer? No such luck.
At the end of supper, Lily said, “Let us take George up to our bedchamber—she’ll be sharing with Rose and me—Logan moved another bed in yesterday. We’ll help her unpack.”
“I don’t have much to unpack,” Georgiana said, looking at Cal. “But what about my d—”
Cal cut her off. “When Hawkins has completed the task I set him, then we shall see. Go along upstairs; I will prepare Aunt Dottie for what is to come.” He narrowed his eyes at her in a silent order.
She eyed him doubtfully, gave a halfhearted shrug and allowed herself to be led away.
“That sounds exciting,” Aunt Dottie said. “What is ‘to come’?”
Cal sighed. “Let us go into the sitting room and I’ll explain.”
* * *
George’s newfound aunts led her to a large, elegant bedchamber with a wide bay window that overlooked the street. It was as large as the big sitting room at home, and even with three beds in the room, it still didn’t feel cramped. The walls were covered with pale green paper in an elegant Chinese design, and two of the bedcoverings had obviously been made to match.
A shabby valise was sitting on the third bed. “Shall we send for a maid to unpack that for you?” Rose asked.
“No!” She moderated her tone. “I mean, no, thank you. I prefer to do it myself.”
“Logan found that for you to use.” Lily pointed to a small chest of drawers beside the bed. “I hope there’s enough room for all your things. And you can share our wardrobe, of course.”
Rose and Lily sat on their own beds and waited expectantly. George swallowed. Everything here was so fancy and fine, she was embarrassed to open her case and expose the paucity of her possessions. What had Martha packed for her?
She opened it and, as expected, on the top lay her new petticoats and chemises and other female bits and pieces, separated from whatever lay beneath by a layer of paper. They were plain and the fabric was a bit coarse—Alderton village didn’t run to fancy clothing. She shoved them quickly into the drawers, feeling angry with herself. She didn’t care about clothes anyway. It was just . . . she wanted her new relatives to think well of her.
She reached for the layer of paper, dreading what she might find underneath. The hideous pink, ink-stained dress? More dresses from the village? She lifted the paper and blinked. As she quickly flipped through the neatly packed layers her grin grew. She did a little dance. “Thank you, Martha!”
“What is it?” Rose and Lily leaned forward curiously.
“I thought I’d never see these again.” She lifted up a pair of her breeches. Martha had packed all three pairs of breeches, several coats, four good shirts and two waistcoats, as well as her two best pairs of boots.
“Breeches?” Rose exclaimed. “Men’s breeches?”
“These are mine,” George said gleefully. “Until your brother started interfering in my life, that’s all I ever wore.” She plucked distastefully at her blue dress. “He forced me to wear this thing.”
“How dare he!” Rose said indignantly. “That fashion is years out of date, and the fabric is cheap and a bit garish.” She bit her lip. “Sorry, I hope I didn’t offend you.”
George laughed. “Not at all. I hate it too.”
“It’s also too loose,” Lily observed sympathetically. “Or have you lost weight recently?”<
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“No, he made Martha buy it for me in the village while my back was turned. I expect there wasn’t much choice. But I couldn’t care less about fashion. I don’t want to wear dresses at all. They’re not at all comfortable, and they’re so . . . so flimsy and fragile. I feel naked wearing them.”
The two sisters exchanged glances. “Naked? I’ve never noticed that,” Lily said.
“Well, you probably haven’t worn breeches. When I put this dress on this morning—only because he threatened to starve me—I felt so . . . exposed.”
Rose nodded. “The neckline?”
“Yes, but mainly around the legs. There are drafts,” she said darkly.
“But your legs are completely covered,” Lily said, puzzled.
George grinned. “They are now.” She pulled up her skirts and revealed the breeches and boots she wore underneath.
Rose and Lily exclaimed—they were clearly a bit shocked—but they begged George to put her boy’s clothes on so they could see how she looked.
George was happy to oblige and when she was fully dressed, they made her walk up and down in front of them. “You really do look like a boy,” Lily said in wonder.
George shrugged. “I don’t care about that—I don’t mind being a girl, but breeches are warmer and more comfortable and much better for riding. Why should we freeze in flimsy bits of nothing, while men are warm and comfortable?”
“Can I try them on?” Rose asked. “We’re about the same size.”
George handed her a pair of breeches. Rose stripped off her dress and in minutes was standing in front of the looking glass, staring at her reflection. Then she swaggered around the room in the boots.
George grinned. “More comfortable, aren’t they?”
Rose grimaced. “I’m not sure. They feel a little strange.”
“You get used to them.”
“Lily, why don’t you try them on?” her sister suggested.
“They won’t fit me,” Lily said. “I’m too fat.”
“No, you’re not,” George and Rose said at the same time. “You’re curvy and feminine,” George added, and Rose gave her a little nod of approval.
