by Jane Ashford
The entire group seemed to hold its breath, waiting for her judgment. She was reveling in her new, self-manufactured importance, Sebastian thought.
“No,” she said finally, with a touch of regret. “As I said, it is the Stanes welcoming a new member.”
A number of her listeners relaxed.
“Though it goes the other way as well, doesn’t it?” she added, galvanizing them again. “If Lord Sebastian’s parents are interested, I daresay I could organize…”
“No!” exclaimed Georgina, almost as loudly as before.
“We’ll keep it amongst ourselves,” said the marquess under the combined glares of his wife and two elder daughters. “Get it done before they come. What about tomorrow, eh? I daresay we can cobble together some suitable garments by then.”
“Alfred,” said the marchioness.
“Come, come, my dear, you look so very fetching in red.” He gave his wife a tender glance.
To Sebastian’s surprise and sharp disappointment, she flushed and smiled. “Oh, very well, but I’m far too busy to be rooting about in the attics.”
“And you shan’t be bothered. Joanna and I will find something.”
“I’ll help, Papa,” said Hilda. “I know just the trunks to look in.”
“Splendid. We’ll organize some lanterns and go up after dinner.”
Sebastian stood. The meal had become like a doomed rearguard action, where your unit was forced into a more and more untenable position, until there was no way out but slashing sabers. “No,” he said, his voice choked. “Can’t do it.”
“Sebastian?” said his brother, rising as well.
Sebastian hurried from the room before anyone could question him. He heard Randolph calling his name again, but he ignored him. He had to get away, get outside, and try to think of some way out of this ridiculous snare.
Georgina sat frozen in her chair, her half-eaten dinner growing cold before her. She’d been so happy just a few minutes ago. She’d dared to think that she’d handled every difficulty, that all was well. Why had she tempted fate in such a foolish way? Was it her fault that the tranquil scene had collapsed like a riverbank undercut by spring floods?
Her jaw tightened. No, it was not. She looked at Joanna, still presiding over the table like a petty despot, visibly enjoying the powers that she’d made real by concocting this silly plan. Her old governess looked so…happy and…fulfilled was the word that occurred to Georgina. And gave her pause. There was certainly no malice in Joanna’s expression. She wasn’t trying to complicate Georgina’s life. Perhaps she only wanted the years of research she’d done, as Papa lurched from one arcane subject to another, to mean something. Georgina could imagine wishing for that.
“We could tie red bows on the dogs,” said Hilda. “And line them up like a little honor guard.” She’d scarcely stopped grinning since this farce began.
Seeing the irritated look Joanna gave her, Georgina wondered if her youngest sister had been the last straw. Surely teaching Hilda must have been vastly frustrating. Hilda was more than uninterested in her studies; she actively subverted any effort to make her attend. Recalling the recent prank that had stranded her in a muddy ravine, Georgina sympathized.
“They dislike regimentation,” said her mother, a vast understatement.
However understandable Joanna’s feelings might be, Georgina couldn’t let this go on. Not after seeing Sebastian’s disgust at the plan. “Mama, really, we can’t do this,” she said.
Her mother was bent over Drustan, patting his head and saying, “No, you don’t, do you?”
“We have too much else to manage,” Georgina added, appealing to her mother’s perpetual claims of busyness. “With so many guests arriving.”
But her mother waved this aside. “Your father says he will make all the arrangements.”
“Indeed I will,” he chimed in.
So Mama wasn’t going to help. In desperation, Georgina turned to Emma. “You must agree with me. It’s just too much.”
Emma shrank back with a shrug, unwilling to state an opinion.
“Don’t be a wet goose, Georgina,” said Hilda. “It will be great fun. Like the tableaus we did that one Christmas, when Emma tripped over the candlestick and nearly set the draperies on fire.”
This lighthearted comparison earned her another sour glance from Joanna.
“You pushed me,” said Emma.
“Didn’t.”
“Yes, you did.”
Georgina’s sisters made faces at each other. Her mother cooed over the pugs. Her father conferred with Joanna. Sebastian had deserted her, and Randolph… Well, she didn’t really feel comfortable asking him for help. She was defeated. It seemed they’d just have to go through with this “ritual”—before any more Greshams joined their party. “I’ll go and ask Fergus for lanterns,” she said.
“Good girl,” replied her father.
The lanterns were found. Her father, Joanna, and Hilda headed off to rifle the attics for red garments. Georgina went to find Sebastian and tell him that it seemed they must go through the motions of Joanna’s scheme. He’d looked quite revolted by the idea when he stalked out of the dining room. And she freely admitted that it was ridiculous. But he’d had time to adjust by now, and she was confident she could persuade him. He loved her. She felt a glow as she remembered the way he’d said it. A bit of playacting was a small thing to do for love.
Sebastian strode down the road along the outer wall of the castle. The rain was back, and darkness had fallen, but he’d been wet and cold before. He wouldn’t take Whitefoot out into this weather; the poor horse had no anxiety to relieve and didn’t deserve it. But he was almost glad to have a hardship he could easily endure. And so he walked, ignoring the rapid destruction of his evening shoes.
Sebastian had often imagined scenes in which his stupidity was exposed in excruciating detail. An important document had to be read out in order to save a member of his family—mother, father, brother—from…any number of dire fates. Only he could do it, and he…couldn’t. An innocent would be saved an unjust accusation, if only he could make out the written evidence. A gang of his best friends dragged him into a game where the hated written word couldn’t be avoided.
Being forced to take part in a fabricated ritual for no critical purpose had not figured in these imaginings. This seemed pure mockery by the fates. It wouldn’t save anybody. It wasn’t necessary. The person behind it wasn’t even a friend. And there was the problem. Because the ritual was a silly nothing, a momentary role that another man might even enjoy enacting, he couldn’t think of one good reason to evade it.
Sebastian took shelter in a thick clump of evergreens, finding a place near the trunks where the carpet of needles was nearly dry. Finding some solace in this bit of outdoor expertise, he pulled his coat closer around his chest and settled down to wait. He would stay out here until the denizens of the castle were abed. He knew this repeated ploy of his was childish, but he couldn’t resist putting off the wreck of his hopes for a few more hours.
The rain eased to a slow drip. Now and then, a drop slithered through the branches and found its way to Sebastian, adding to his dampness. Still he waited until he judged enough time had passed. Then he pushed his way out of the soaking needles and started back. Under a cloudy sky, the way was dark. He placed his feet carefully, and yet was still surprised by a deep puddle that went right across the road. He slipped and fell, cursing, landing on his back in cold water. And mud. Mud seemed to be his fate in Herefordshire. He rose covered in it. “Devil take it,” he muttered.
His trudge grew easier when the castle wall loomed up at his side. The slope kept the surface drier. He passed through the great gates, which he’d never seen closed, and under the stone arch into the stable yard. Here, he was startled to find two men with lanterns standing beside a horse.
“She came up lame mil
es from here,” said one, sounding younger than his inches suggested. “I had to walk her. That’s why I’m so damned late.”
The other leaned down, shining his light on the horse’s near foreleg. He was one of the castle grooms, Sebastian saw. “I can’t see nothing, my lord. We’ll get her in a stall and take a closer look.”
“Right, thanks.”
No one had mentioned visitors, but it was none of Sebastian’s affair. He edged along the wall toward the house as the groom led the animal away.
“Who’s there?” asked the newcomer. He held up his lantern and peered across the yard.
Sebastian was revealed in all his muddy glory. He sighed and started to respond.
“Here, fellow, you can’t just walk in off the road,” said the other man. “I know it’s a filthy night, but this isn’t an inn. Everyone’s abed.”
He must look even worse than he’d feared, Sebastian thought. “I didn’t…”
“I suppose you can sleep in the hayloft,” the man interrupted in a more sympathetic tone. “I’ll tell them. Mind you wash at the pump first. In the morning, go around that way.” He pointed to a low entrance on the other side of the stable yard. Sebastian hadn’t noticed it before. “They’ll feed you in the kitchen before you go on your way.”
The last was said firmly, rather the way Sebastian would have spoken to a homeless rambler who showed up at Langford. Who was this? He appeared to be only a few years beyond boyhood, but he spoke with easy authority. There was something familiar about him, but Sebastian couldn’t put a finger on what it was. How he wished he could simply slip by him and escape to his bedchamber. “I’m Gresham,” he said instead.
“What?” The man raised his lantern higher and stared.
“Sebastian Gresham.”
There was a pause. “The fellow who’s engaged to Georgina?” the other said incredulously then. “The duke’s son?”
“That’s the one.”
“What are you doing out here at this time of night? Covered in mud?”
“I went for a walk.” Sebastian was well aware that this sounded idiotic.
“A walk?” He stared. Sebastian waited for more questions. Instead the younger man said, “Has my father overwhelmed you?”
“Uh, er.” Who was his father? What the deuce was going on?
“I’m Georgina’s brother, you know.” The newcomer came over and held out a hand. “Edgar Stane. Came up from university for the wedding.”
Now Sebastian got it. The young man resembled his mother. He had the same round face, glossy brown hair, and slightly prominent blue eyes. He was above middle height, however, and burly like his father. Sebastian showed him his mud-caked palm.
“Ah.” Stane’s hand dropped. “Come, let’s go in. I’m soaked, and you’re… Whatever have you been doing?”
“Slipped and fell,” said Sebastian. They walked in side by side. Sebastian tried to keep the bits of mud falling from his coattails to a minimum.
“So, ah, is all well here?” asked his companion. He sounded like a man who wasn’t sure he wanted to know, but felt duty bound to inquire.
“It was,” answered Sebastian bitterly. “Until Miss Byngham convinced them to hold this blasted ritual.” He was too tired to dissemble. Or to explain very clearly, he realized.
Edgar Stane stopped just inside the castle entry. “Ritual? What sort of…? Does this have something to do with my father’s latest studies?”
“It’s not Hindu. Mitra says definitely not.”
“Mitra is the scholar from India? Papa wrote me about him. But what does Joanna Byngham have to do with it?”
“You may well ask,” replied Sebastian gloomily. He was suddenly tired and very cold. He just wanted to get upstairs and out of his muddy evening clothes.
The younger man eyed him. “It seems a good deal has been happening.”
“You have no idea.”
“Right. Well, best I get one, eh?” He seemed remarkably unworried.
Sebastian headed for the stairs.
“I’m going to raid the kitchen larder,” Edgar Stane added. “Strictly forbidden. But it’s always easier to ask forgiveness than permission, isn’t it? Care to come along?” His grin was engaging.
Sebastian liked his attitude. He wondered if he had found a possible ally. “There might be some hot water in the kitchen,” he ventured.
“Reservoir beside the stove, if I remember correctly.”
It would keep the mud out of his bedroom. Sebastian gave a nod and followed the heir of Stane into the back premises. He’d let Sykes explain his master’s filthy garments in a pile on the kitchen hearth, he decided. His valet was endlessly inventive.
Seventeen
When he came downstairs to breakfast the following morning, Sebastian discovered that no one was going to ask him if he intended to play his part in the ritual. Everyone simply assumed that he was. Indeed, all questions and objections had apparently been overborne by the manic energy of the event’s proponents. Or forgotten in the excitement surrounding the arrival of Edgar Stane.
Unusually, the whole family lingered around the breakfast table. Emma hovered over her brother, plying him with food. Hilda pelted him with questions about his recent walking tour and his university activities, interspersed with more practical inquiries from their mother. Georgina listened to the answers with a fond smile. It was almost as if the king, or some equally august personage, had arrived, Sebastian thought. It seemed it was a grand thing to be the single son with several sisters, rather than just one of a crowd of boys.
It was obvious that the marquess was also delighted to see his son home again. He said little, but beamed on the scene like a benevolent blond bear. Miss Byngham, on the other hand, sat at the far end of the board and visibly brooded over her displacement from center stage. There was no sign of Mr. Mitra.
Edgar received all the attention with patent enjoyment, responding to each question with kind enthusiasm and devouring every tidbit offered. He’d already heard the ritual plan by the time Sebastian joined them, and he looked more boyish than ever as Hilda gave him more the details, seeming both amused and intrigued. Clearly, he wasn’t going to raise any objections.
Sebastian had had a good talk with him last night in the kitchens. Stripping down to your drawers before a man and washing off a coat of mud created a certain automatic intimacy, he’d found. While Edgar stuffed down stolen food like a starving schoolboy, Sebastian had dropped all the hints he could think of about the inappropriateness of this ritual idea. Without, of course, saying anything really negative about the Stane family. But here was Edgar apparently on board with it this morning. So there was going to be no help from that direction. Sebastian ate dourly, wondering what the deuce he was going to do.
After breakfast, Georgina’s father bustled about like a troop commander on the eve of a royal review. There was no question that he was enjoying himself hugely. Joanna and Hilda were his zealous junior officers, chivvying a group of servants about the place. The only good news from this unlikely trio was that they’d decided they needed more time to prepare, as well as incorporate a part for Edgar. So the thing was now set for Friday, only two days before the Gresham family was due.
Sebastian discovered that Georgina had given in on every other point, insisting only that it be over and done well before their guests arrived. Otherwise, she ignored the upheaval and worked with her mother to perfect the arrangements for the wedding party. Edgar, on the other hand, was gradually drawn into the planning. Sebastian watched him grow more interested, even as he remained amused. He soon headed off to the attics to root about for some bit of paraphernalia.
Sebastian found no opportunity to speak to Georgina until he came into the dining parlor in the afternoon and found her facing Randolph over the cold collation spread for luncheon.
“I thought they didn’t wish me to have
anything to do with it,” Randolph was saying.
“Joanna isn’t keen,” Georgina replied. “It’s just that Papa has decided you should be there as a representative of Sebastian’s family.”
“Well, I should rather like to see it.” Randolph had noticed his brother’s entry. “I’ll guard your flank, Sebastian,” he added.
He meant it as no more than a brother’s teasing; Sebastian knew that. But he couldn’t suppress a wince as Georgina turned and smiled at him. “He doesn’t need guarding,” she said. “He’ll be splendid, because he always is.”
Sebastian allowed himself a moment’s basking in her loving gaze. It made the world seem brighter. But he’d never been a coward. He was going to have to find a way to tell her.
Georgina looked past him and nodded. “Mr. Mitra.”
The Indian gentleman bowed in his customary way and went over to examine a selection of fresh fruit. “I have decided that it is best I return home,” he said as he helped himself. “I have enjoyed your family’s hospitality for quite a time.” He acknowledged Georgina with a nod and smile. “I am most grateful. But the knowledge I attempted to impart in return…has not taken root.” He made a graceful gesture with his free hand. “I am a poor teacher, it seems. I shall go back home to become a student again.”
“I’m sorry if Joanna’s…imaginative interpretation of your ideas is driving you away,” Georgina replied.
Mitra sighed. “Please do not associate these two things, my Lady Georgina. Miss Byngham’s…philosophy is wholly her own, as I have tried so often to explain. I only hope this is not the impression I leave behind in your country.”
“But you will stay for my wedding?”
Mitra looked surprised.
“You’ve been here through so much of the…prelude. It just seems as if you should be there.”
He bowed again. “I’m honored that you ask it of me, Lady Georgina. Of course I agree. As long as it is clear that I can have nothing to do with the…” Mitra appeared to search for a word to describe Miss Byngham’s ritual. And fail.
