by Jane Ashford
“Yes, dear. Do you think you would like knots of pink ribbon on your gown? There’s still time to send to Hereford.”
Georgina sighed, wondering if her mother could be doing this on purpose. It seemed perverse to express an interest in dress trimmings—a subject that notoriously bored her—when they had much more serious problems. But Mama was not so sly. “What are we to do about Papa?” Georgina said. “I want him to walk me down the aisle. I want us all to be happy together.”
“Oh, Alfred will get over it,” her mother replied with a wave of her hand. “You know he has these fancies. He throws himself into a subject, and then he abandons it for some new thing.”
It was true. Yet his current obsession had lasted for months and showed no signs of fading. “None of the others involved forbidding my engagement,” Georgina pointed out.
“I set him straight on that,” her mother answered, as if she thought that Papa had listened to her. Then she stood suddenly, seeming to remember something truly important. She strode over to a pile of cushions and picked up one of the pugs lolling there. “Sebastian, what do you think?” she asked, displaying a small female. “I have gone into the matter very carefully, and I believe Fiona here might do for your mother.”
Sebastian started as if he’d been pinched. “What?”
“As a gift, of course. No question of payment.” The marchioness looked fondly down into the small dog’s face. “Even though I could ask quite a sum for you, couldn’t I, my lovely?”
Fiona yipped and licked her mistress’s face.
“Oh, er, well.”
Sebastian’s polished manners seemed to have deserted him. Georgina examined her betrothed. He looked tired and not quite as…capable as usual.
“I’m not sure,” he tried.
With a fleeting sense of what it must feel like to be the captain of a sinking ship, Georgina intervened. “You must ask the duchess first if she wants a lapdog, Mama. Not everyone cares to have one.”
“Oh, but Fiona is a special…”
“And as she doesn’t have one,” Georgina interrupted, “she probably doesn’t want one.” You had to be blunt with Mama. She didn’t bother with subtleties. And she preferred it.
Nor did plain talk offend her. The marchioness shrugged and set Fiona down, turning back to the documents on her desk.
“What are you going to do about Papa?” Georgina asked again. “It is all very well to talk of ribbons, but I want him to be part of my wedding. Gladly.” Her voice quavered on the last word, which was annoying. But it caught both her companions’ attention.
“I’ve told him he’s being a fool,” responded her mother. “I’ll tell him again.”
Which would do no good at all, Georgina thought. Her father thrived on opposition. A current of resentment ran through her. What should have been a happy time in her life was now tense and anxious. And Sebastian was giving her no help at all, standing stiffly at her side as if on parade. Though she supposed she couldn’t expect him to argue with her parents. She certainly wouldn’t have with his. She needed to talk to him alone.
She took his arm and urged him from the room. The corridor outside was fortunately empty, and she stepped quickly into a vacant parlor further along, shutting the door behind them. “Shouting at Papa will only make him more obstinate. Mama can never seem to realize that. We must think of something else.” She looked up at her fiancé and waited.
Sebastian was feeling quite unlike himself. He hadn’t slept well, and he always slept well. Despite performing his usual morning ablutions, he couldn’t shake the idea that he looked rumpled and untidy. But most of all, he was burdened by the notion that not only was he not being honest with Georgina, he didn’t wish to be. It was a dilemma he’d never faced before in his unexamined, openhearted life. And he didn’t want to think about it—or think so much at all, for that matter. He was tired of thinking. Couldn’t people see that he was no good at it? He wanted everything back as it had been, before these unwelcome scruples had risen to plague him.
Georgina was waiting for him to speak, gazing at him with such hope and trust. He stared at her lips, full and warm and his for the taking. He wanted her so much. Desire and concern squared off inside him like two armies on the battlefield. It wanted only the crash of cannon to complete his misery.
She smiled and put a hand on his arm, raising her chin, obviously inviting a kiss. He desperately wanted to kiss her. “When I’m with you, I know all will be well,” she said.
It was how she should feel, how he wanted her to feel, Sebastian thought. He longed to take care of her. But he hadn’t the first idea how to mend matters. Last night’s scene in the drawing room came rushing back. If her father had pushed harder and he’d been exposed, would she be so confident now? Unlikely. Achingly close to her, dizzied by the sweet scent of her perfume, he was struck by a dreadful realization. There would be no way to sustain his deception once they were living together. He had a sudden vision of her bringing him a letter or a document—his wife come to consult him on a matter of importance to them both. Was he to fob her off? Summon Sykes? Unthinkable! Sebastian was washed by a flood of shame. Why hadn’t this occurred to him before?
He felt his cheeks reddening. He couldn’t face her. He groped for an escape and managed only the inane. “I should go and, er, check on Whitefoot,” he said.
Georgina looked astonished. “What? Why?”
“I went out riding last night.” Naturally, he’d groomed his horse and put him away properly, but he was stuck with this damnably silly excuse now.
“In the dark?”
Sebastian nodded miserably.
She gripped his arm more tightly. “Sebastian, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Just…won’t take but a few minutes.” Like a coward funking it before a battle, he stepped away and fled.
Georgina stood quite still, feeling very much alone. She didn’t think Sebastian had ever lied to her before. In fact, she was practically certain he hadn’t. He had a certain…transparent quality. It was one of the traits that had drawn her to him. But just now, he had. She’d seen it in his face. Something was wrong, seriously wrong, and he didn’t wish to tell her what it was.
Aware of a painful hollowness in the region of her heart, she sank down on a nearby sofa and took a deep breath. Had her family’s eccentricities finally put him off? He hadn’t seemed to mind them at all. But Papa had risen to new heights of…of nonsense with his railing about Welsh savages. Perhaps, also, Randolph’s arrival and opinions had influenced her betrothed? Georgina nearly leaped up when she remembered that Hilda was all too likely to nag Randolph about a special license. Then she recalled that Randolph had planned to go and see their local church this morning. He was safe for the moment.
She leaned back and was assailed by anxiety once more. Was Sebastian sorry he’d become engaged to her? Did he wish he could draw back? And if so, was she obliged, in honor, to offer him an escape? She clasped her hands to keep them from trembling. The idea roused a wave of regret so intense it nearly overwhelmed her. It was answered by an equally strong impulse of denial. Georgina set her jaw. She was not going to do any such thing. She was going to marry Sebastian as planned. Nothing on Earth was going to stop her.
With this resolve burning in her, Georgina realized that she loved her noble cavalry major with all her heart. The feeling had taken root in London and grown rapidly in the months since, until it was twined through every part of her like an exquisitely blossoming vine. The progress had been so constant, so pleasant, that she hadn’t fully taken it in till now. She loved him. Oh, how she loved him! Papa must be made to see.
Georgina rose and strode out of the parlor. She felt as if determination must be hissing off her like steam from a boiling kettle. She had no qualms, no doubts. This contest was life or death to her, and she meant to win.
But she couldn’t find her father.
He wasn’t in his study or the library or the stables. She climbed the tower to see if he might have discovered Mr. Mitra’s retreat, but he wasn’t there either. And their Indian guest disavowed all knowledge of his whereabouts. Finally, Georgina tried the schoolroom, thinking he might be conferring with Joanna over some bit of research. He was not. Joanna was there alone, bent over a long table littered with bits of gilt paper, scissors, and a pot of glue. “I’m trying to reproduce the headdress I wore as a temple priestess,” she said when Georgina looked in. She spoke as if they were continuing a commonplace conversation.
“The materials are far inferior, of course.” She gestured at the gilt paper. “Even laughable. But I believe I may be able to catch the spirit of the regalia.”
With no idea how to answer this, Georgina said, “Where’s Hilda?” Teaching her sister was, after all, Joanna’s job. Not that anyone seemed to care about that, despite Hilda’s dire need of supervision.
“Still serving out her sentence” was the rather blithe reply.
Georgina didn’t think her sister’s punishment was meant to excuse her from lessons, but she couldn’t think about that now. She hurried downstairs to check her father’s study again. Still empty. She was about to burst with impatience when she heard male voices in the great hall. She practically ran toward the sound.
“It’s a fine example of a Saxon font,” her father was saying. “Supposedly blessed by Saint Ethelbert himself.”
He’d gone with Randolph to show off the church, Georgina realized. It was just like him. She reached the landing as the two men came to the foot of the stairs. “Papa!”
They looked up at her, startled. “What’s wrong?” asked her father.
“I need to speak to you.”
“Well, there’s no need to shout. Great gods, I thought the house must be on fire.”
The front door opened just then, and Sebastian entered, blinking at the sudden shift from sunlight to dimness. He’d taken two steps before he noticed the scene before him. Stiffening, he started to retreat. It was like a tableau representing the current lamentable state of her life, Georgina thought. “I must speak to you now, Papa!” she snapped.
All three men flinched at her tone. If she hadn’t been so focused on her mission, she might have enjoyed their expressions. They looked like small boys called to account for some piece of mischief.
“I’m entertaining our guest,” her father replied. “Can’t it wait?”
“No.” Georgina marched down the stairs and practically dragged her father into the library, ignoring curious glances from the Gresham brothers.
“What the deuce is the matter with you?” he said when the door had clicked shut behind them.
Georgina stood quite close to him, her hands on her hips, her eyes fixed on his. What was she to say to persuade him? Words came in response to the thought. “So, Papa, it seems that my happiness means nothing to you.”
“What? What are you talking about? Of course it does.”
“And yet you are bent on ruining my wedding.”
“Is that what this is…? My dear, you simply don’t understand the ramifications of…”
“Stop it!” She hadn’t meant to shout. It had just come out that way.
Her father stared at her, astonished.
“Stay right here,” Georgina commanded. “Don’t move. I mean it.” Putting every ounce of will she could muster into her gaze, she waited until he gave her a sulky nod. Then she rushed out, scarcely pausing to notice that Sebastian and Randolph were gone, and hurried down corridors and up stairs. At the top of the stone tower, thoroughly out of breath, she collected Mr. Mitra by the simple expedient of grasping his forearm and hauling him to his feet. Ignoring his questions and protests, she hustled him back to the library. She was quite relieved to find her father still there. He’d moved over to the shelves and was examining a book.
“Sit there,” she commanded, directing Mr. Mitra to a chair at a large table in the center of the room. He dropped into it with patent relief.
“Georgina,” said her father.
She gave him a burning look. He fell silent. “You can sit there, Papa.” She pointed to a chair opposite Mitra. After a moment’s hesitation, he obeyed.
“What in blazes is wrong with you?” he asked. “This sort of behavior is—”
“Just what I learned from observing my parents,” she finished for him.
Her father blinked, his mouth hanging a little open.
Georgina stood at the head of the table and gazed at the two men, her elders and superiors in intellect and knowledge. And she didn’t care about that. Not a whit. “I’m out of patience,” she said. “You are always talking, Papa, but this time you’re going to listen to me.”
“You are still quite a young woman,” her father began. “You must defer to wiser heads in serious matters such as these.”
“Wiser I will not concede,” she replied fiercely. “How many times have I heard you say that years of study may not yield wisdom?”
“Yes, but I didn’t mean… I wasn’t talking about myself,” he sputtered.
She wasn’t enjoying this, Georgina thought. She didn’t wish to argue with her father, only to redeem her future. She turned to their silent companion. “Mr. Mitra, I have heard you say, on more than one occasion, that the exploration of one’s past lives is a delicate and complex endeavor. And that it is difficult to draw absolute conclusions.”
“Very true,” their guest replied.
Georgina knew that Mr. Mitra was pained by Joanna’s recent excesses, particularly the “ancient sayings” the governess had begun to offer. Their supremely polite guest had even suggested that one or two made no sense. When Joanna had loftily informed him that they were far beyond any current level of understanding, Mr. Mitra had actually scowled at her. Georgina wondered in passing if Joanna would appear in her regalia tonight. And was she thinking of these irrelevancies to avoid the conflict in front of her?
She made herself continue. “You have also said that a being’s growth and change determines the progress of their lives over the, er, centuries.” As she spoke, Georgina realized that she’d picked up quite a bit from the interminable dinner table discussions. “If, for example, someone had actually lived a previous life as a Welsh…”
“Savage!” interrupted her father. He was recovering from her initial rush and was by no means cowed.
She looked at him. “Tribesman,” she said. “Chieftain, perhaps. Prince, even.”
“Grand labels make no difference,” he replied. “They were all savages.”
“And yet you have always told us, Papa, that we should not judge people by their external trappings, but rather by evidence of their inner nature.”
“There are exceptions,” he growled. But he looked away.
Georgina waited a moment, then turned to Mitra again. “Had that…history occurred. If we believed it wholeheartedly.” She paused for Mitra’s nod. “What are we to think if we find that this individual is…is now a fine, young English nobleman?”
“Not so fine, perhaps,” muttered her father, like an unruly schoolboy rebelling against the teacher.
“From a highly respected family,” said Georgina, louder. “With a sterling personal reputation.”
“But who knows what we might not have heard?”
“Papa!”
He sat back in his chair at the snap in her tone.
“Would we not be forced to conclude that this…person has made great progress in his…” She groped for the right words. “His moral character.”
“That would indeed be a plausible argument,” Mitra replied. He smiled up at her.
“That he had improved? Grown, uh, more admirable?”
Mitra nodded.
Georgina’s father made a skeptical sound. “Once a savage, always a savage is what I say.”
Georgina hit the table with her fist, astonishing them all. “Are you listening at all, Papa? I am asking the opinion of your honored guest, the expert you invited here to teach you about these matters. Perhaps you could explain it again, Mr. Mitra?”
“As I have often said,” replied Mitra obligingly, “it is most unwise to draw conclusions from one or two fleeting experiences. We are dealing here with a vast accumulation of circumstances.”
Georgina’s father frowned. “You mean if he’d really been a benighted savage, he’d have been reborn as a beetle or something?” he asked.
Mitra winced. Georgina held his dark gaze, willing him to help her. She watched him struggle with his scholarly need for precision, or perhaps his deeply held beliefs. “Something like that,” he said finally.
“So you’re saying Gresham’s redeemed himself?”
“I don’t care for that way of putting it,” Mr. Mitra began. Georgina frowned. She didn’t want to bully him, but he had promised to help them. The Indian gentleman sighed, bowing his head. “I…grant you could see it in that light. In a way.” He gazed at the tabletop. His lips moved soundlessly. Georgina couldn’t tell what words they formed, or even if they were English. A complaint? A caveat? A prayer?
“Hmmm.” Her father tapped his chin with his fingertips. “Well. I suppose…it’s possible Gresham’s all right then.”
Georgina needed more than that. “I think there can be no doubt,” she said.
“Perhaps.” Her father never liked letting go of a point of dispute.
“Absolutely. And so everything is back as it was. My wedding will go on as planned. Yes, Papa?”
He gestured airily. “Yes, all right. There’s no need to breathe fire over me, my dear. What a great fuss you’ve made over nothing.”
As she could not box her father’s ears, Georgina spoke through clenched teeth. “You will happily escort me to the altar.”
He straightened as if she’d insulted him. “Of course I will. Who else but me?”
