Georgette was accosted by Julia White after breakfast, just as she had observed Paxton slipping Jocasta a note. No doubt for a summerhouse tryst. In case it brought forward the proposal, she was clearly instructed by Papa not to interfere, and in truth she thought this all just Paxton’s love of intrigue and harmless in itself. She trusted to his gentlemanliness. Nevertheless, when Julia found her, she was instructing Portia and Katerina to walk near the summerhouse to keep an eye on proprieties. The twins were there too, hoping to eat some guest treats that were not dispensed to the nursery.
‘Georgette, my dear. Might I have a word?’ Miss White said prettily.
‘We can go if Portia doesn’t like to,’ Leonora was saying to her elder sister, suspiciously helpfully. Marguerite, eating a sweet roll, looked surprised.
‘I’m sure Miss Fisk is awaiting you for lessons, girls.’ Groaning, the twins trailed off with rolls stuffed into the pockets beneath their dresses, and Portia and Katerina went to fetch their pelisses with little enthusiasm.
Papa had agreed to take the Alderlys on a tour of the estate, and to his disgust, Georgette had already packed off the Bucknells, Viscountess Swanson and Mrs Hardy to join them, leaving the rest of the more pleasant guests to a leisurely morning. Feeling invincible at this coup (even if Papa would make her pay later), Georgette now smiled at Julia and led her into the little sitting room.
‘Did Lord Onslow speak of me?’ Julia asked her directly.
Georgette’s sense of mastery deflated instantly. She said nothing, for there was nothing she could fairly say.
Julia’s shoulders sunk. ‘You think I have no chance of reanimating his affection?’
Georgette shrugged a little. ‘I cannot say.’ She felt trapped, and tried, ‘but you have so many other suitors, even at this small house party.’
‘But not with his wealth and position!’ She must have seen a look of distaste cross Georgette’s face. ‘You think me shallow, but my mama talks so, privately, and I have picked up the habit. And I feel no reserve with you, my dear Georgette, so I know you will forgive me.’ Georgette gave a weak smile. ‘I assure you, I like the marquis above all others.’
‘Of course.’
‘I believe his friend Sir Justin plots against me,’ uttered Julia White, bosom heaving.
Georgette was shocked. ‘Sir Justin would do no such thing.’
‘You are blinded by his handsomeness,’ said Julia determinedly. ‘I know he likes you, but he does not like me, and he will poison his friend against me.’
‘No he will not. He is not that kind of a man.’
Julia White ran from the room, crying, ‘You do not know.’
‘Isn’t it romantic?’ whispered Portia, peeping through the bushes to the rather dilapidated summerhouse, with its open latticed walls leaning rather precariously to the left. On a bench within, her fair sister Jocasta sat, listening to the words that Lord Paxton read to her.
Katerina was picking at the bush wrathfully, her auburn brows pulled down. ‘This is too boring!’ she hissed. She regarded the scene before her. ‘By the looks of things, Jocasta agrees.’ She frowned. ‘I thought she wanted to marry him?’
‘She does!’ objected Portia. ‘How could she not? He is so handsome!’
‘No he isn’t!’ scoffed Katerina. ‘Lord Onslow and Sir Justin are much more handsome. Even George is!’
‘Lord Paxton is not as tall as His Lordship or Sir Justin,’ breathed Portia, ‘but his face has more … soul!’
‘You like him!’ Katerina jeered.
‘Don’t be—’ said Portia, her fifteen-year-old eyes still fixated on the summerhouse. ‘Look!’
Katerina did, without evident interest. Lord Paxton was seated rather closer to Jocasta and now he suddenly possessed himself of her hand. She saw Jocasta shudder, then pull her hand and run from the summerhouse as quickly as she could. They looked on as Paxton stood, shaken, and looked after her, bereft. Katerina said to her sister with glee, ‘Oh, how I shall tease Jocasta! Are you coming, Portia?’
‘No. You catch her up. I’ll be along.’
‘As you wish,’ whispered Katerina, gleefully turning and tripping away after Jocasta’s disappearing form.
Paxton stood still, and gazed out into the trees. He looked so shattered and Portia’s sensitive heart went out to him. His hot eyes dropped down at the hand that had held Jocasta’s, and he used it to slap his own forehead, once, twice, three times. Does he blame himself? thought Portia. He must not!
‘Sir!’ Portia’s voice jerked Paxton’s head towards her hiding place, but Portia drew herself further behind the bush. ‘Do not look!’
‘Have you been spying—?’ Paxton said. ‘Who are you?’
‘You must not blame yourself,’ whispered Portia soulfully.
‘Who are you?’ Paxton repeated, and took a step forward.
‘Stop!’ said her voice in a whisper. Paxton did, almost despite himself. ‘Can I not just be your friend, from a distance?’
‘But why are you here?’
His humiliation was evident, and Portia hesitated in her passionate impulse to comfort. But she found the courage to say, as she looked at his wounded eyes, ‘Do not be angry with me, I pray you. It is just that I saw J— Miss Jocasta Fortune run from here.’
‘Are you one of the Miss Baileys?’ She said nothing and he continued. ‘It was not right to meet her secretly.’ He was somehow whispering himself, but then added to the bush, ‘But I did her no harm, I assure—’
‘Oh, I know you never could,’ the bush replied fervently.
‘I frightened her,’ admitted Paxton sadly.
‘Perhaps.’ Portia’s voice was dubious, knowing Jocasta’s general lack of sensibility.
‘You do not think so?’ he said, hopefully.
‘I do not know. But I do know you to be too honourable, too noble, ever to intend to do so.’
‘How can you know that, little voice?’ asked Paxton, wonderingly. ‘I do not think I know you. I would have remembered such a sweet voice…’ It was true that Portia had talked to him very little since the start of this party. ‘…like the sound of angel music. How can you know who I am, beyond only my name?’
‘By the poems you read,’ said Portia, simply. ‘I have found some volumes that you left on a side table in the Great Hall, and I have read them too. They are words that have salved my heart at times.’ She whispered lower, ‘Even your own poetry…’ she gasped. ‘I know I should not have picked up your written lines, but…’
‘Ah! Then you know my soul! Madame, let me see you.’ Paxton took another step towards her hiding place, but Portia anticipated him. She moved through the bushes and was now in the little wood, from whence she could re-enter the castle by a circuitous route.
She went to her room, having first retrieved a quill pen, ink and paper from Papa’s study. On the paper she tried for some lines of her own.
In woods I walk beneath the dappled sky,
And see again your face shadowed by self-doubt
Your upright figure, wracked by love and its lie,
Would that I could take your fears and drive them out
Though the trials of love have taken their toll,
If even poor I can know your strength of soul,
Like the mighty oaks I wander through,
I pray you sir, why cannot you?
They did not scan, did not rise to describe all that was in her heart. Why would Jocasta run from him? Was she playing a game, or was she as repulsed by Lord Paxton as Portia’s young heart was drawn to him? To want something of your sister’s was very wicked, and Portia knew it. But was Lord Paxton like the spangled shawl that Jocasta said did not become her, and that lay discarded under her bed until Portia rescued it, treasuring the only piece of finery she had ever known or would know until her come-out? With this thought, Portia leapt up and folded the paper, running through the corridors to find Lord Paxton’s room, and after she slipped it beneath the door, she ran off, full of guilt a
nd trepidation.
Chapter 12
Lord Paxton did not see these lines until he had to dress for dinner. Even though a few logs had been lit in his chamber, it was, like most parts of Castle Fortune, still riven by draughts. His hope was to change his raiment as quickly as possible, so as to achieve the huge fire in the Great Hall before dinner time. He thought again of his resolve never to visit here in winter, if humanly possible. A closer relationship with Miss Jocasta Fortune’s family might make this resolve difficult, of course, but nothing between them seemed settled. He had thought that as the poet Dante had worshipped his Beatrice from afar for many years, so could his own poetic soul love another. But he found he had less patience than the great poet, and he was becoming confused and frustrated.
He had received, from Lord Fortune, a flattering amount of encouragement since his arrival. His parents were, however, lukewarm. He had always found their love of their own rank out of accord with his poet’s soul, and gave their opinions, in theory, little weight. However, in practice he had been held back from speaking. Perhaps, if the lovely sprite had given him more encouragement herself, he may have been moved to unleash his passionate demands. But Miss Jocasta Fortune, while seeming quite happy to spend time with him, had been sadly lack-lustre in her expressions of affectionate understanding.
‘I hope,’ he had said when she had arrived at the summerhouse to meet him, ‘that you feel no family pressure during this house party?’ Either a declaration of oppression, or of too much encouragement, would have moved him to compassion at this point. He might then have said words of comfort, such that their intimacy would have increased. But all Miss Fortune said was ‘Oh, no!’ and he had felt a little at a loss.
‘Then have you had the time to read the poems I marked for you, Miss Fortune?’
‘Oh,’ she had said, quite pleasantly, but not enthusiastically, ‘I’m afraid no more than a glance,’ she had looked at him, obviously divining his disappointment. ‘The house-party is so busy, you know. I expect I will get around to it shortly.’ She had taken a seat on the bench that ran around the inside of the summerhouse, and he had been moved to join her there. ‘And how do you enjoy the party, sir?’ she said. ‘I know that you asked me here to discuss the poems, as your note said, but I hoped that you would not mind me coming in any case.’
‘It would be the dream of many to spend time with you, Miss Fortune. For any reason.’
‘Well, thank you, sir. What shall we do now? Walk perhaps?’
‘May I read you some lines?’ Paxton had asked passionately, searching his coat for the sheets he had there. He brought them half out of his pocket…
‘Must we read? It is such a fine day, and reading is so dull is it not?’
Paxton changed tack. ‘Why of course, but might I not sit and admire your beauty, Miss Fortune, before we leave this place.’
‘Why, if you wish…’ Jocasta seemed less than flattered by the compliment and not much bothered by the plan, so Paxton had at this point been moved to grasp at her hand. It lay on her lap unresponsively, and it seemed to him as though he had just caught hold of a flaccid fish, before she had pulled it away and left quickly. Had she shuddered? Surely not.
But, all in all the meeting had been a disappointment, as all their meetings had been thus far. He blamed his own nature and wrote of it as sweet torture in his journal. However, his own ineptitude tasted sour. He tried to concentrate on her beauty, not her response to him, sure that his worship of her must yield some result. He was disappointed in himself. Was his heart so fickle?
The aftermath with the sweet, mysterious voice had been something entirely different, and he had spent the time until now reviewing the younger female guests in order to discover the little voice that had sought to comfort. Excluding his sister, there was only the Bailey girls and four Misses Fortune, or Miss White — but since he had not been much interested in anyone but his fairy princess Miss Jocasta, he could not discern whose voice it was.
Now, as he hurriedly dressed for dinner, he noticed the paper beneath the door, and picked it, lest it be a message from one of his friends here — or even (he thought more thrillingly) from Jocasta herself.
It was a female hand, but as he read the lines he was almost sure it would not have been Miss Jocasta Fortune who had written it. He breathed heavily. The musical voice he had heard in the shrubbery. Might it be she? He sat and read again. Perhaps naive, sometimes inelegant, still he found the words clung to him. A soul offering comfort and wisdom. He clutched the paper, kissed it impulsively, folded it, and put it in a pocket nearest his heart.
He went down to dinner, his feelings disturbed. The purity of emotion he had felt towards Miss Jocasta Fortune was disturbed. The folded paper in his pocket was a burning token, scorching him. Should he put it away? He stopped on the stairs on his way to dinner, and took out the paper. He found he could not discard such an innocent attempt to heal his distress. But he would smile at no other but Jocasta Fortune. He could not respond to this as his soul wished to do. He feared the young lady to be innocently reaching for him, and he was too kind to give any encouragement. He could not be so fickle. He would not seek out his comforter, but only silently hold her words to his heart.
What Georgette had heard from Miss White had given her pause. Fostering the romance between Onslow and her was much more questionable now. Julia’s “I like him better than my other suitors” and “he is by far the wealthiest” had made her question leading Onslow to a life with this woman. But then, Julia was spoilt by the attention that she had been used to, and had obviously been encouraged by her mama in her love of rank and wealth. Georgette, too, had gone to London in the hope of attracting a man of consequence to be her husband, did not all young ladies do so? And if she was rather nicer in expressing such desires, that was only because Georgette’s own mama had inculcated her with a superior set of manners. And then, Georgette’s meagre portion and lesser beauty had not encouraged her to dream of such as Onslow — she had been stunned when his wealthy friend Sir Justin Faulkes had indeed offered for her. But Miss White — or Julia, as she must become accustomed to call her — was used to the line of suitors which her position and beauty had demanded. So perhaps, with Onslow’s help and support, Julia could blossom into a deeper character, more worthy of his love. Still, Georgette found herself searching her memory for any other beauty from her London days who might offer him more true affection than Georgette had begun to suspect Miss White capable of.
Also, why did Julia have it that Sir Justin was her enemy? She trusted the baronet, Georgette realised (she hoped, she thought with an internal giggle, it was not because he had shown such good taste in women as to offer for her) and if he did hold a lowered opinion of Miss White, she felt there must be some sound reason for it. Perhaps she could find out discreetly? But claiming further intimacy with Sir Justin was difficult. She could not encourage him, though she had little right to suppose him to wish more than friendship at the moment, but past history must make her careful. It was pleasant, she realised, to feel herself somehow befriended by Faulkes and by Onslow, but she must keep the bounds and expect no more.
The housekeeper, Mrs Firestone, had just left, and her pettiness was wearing rather less on Georgette these days. It was better to hear out her complaints then issue orders, than engage with her ill will. She briefly wondered if there might be, in Sir Justin’s house, which might have been her own, a creature more easily dealt with.
Sir Justin had come in to the room just as she had this thought, and she asked impulsively, ‘What is your housekeeper like, sir? Is she of a warm disposition?’
Faulkes stopped just inside the sitting room, and Georgette realised that Onslow’s blond head was behind him.
‘I seldom deal with her, I’m afraid, Miss Fortune,’ he answered vaguely. ‘She seems pleasant enough.’
Onslow asked, with a smile, ‘Does your housekeeper chafe at you? If it was the dark dragon who left as we entered, she seems a trifle terri
fying.’
‘Not terrifying — enraging! She seems not to be able to address any slight difficulties without first laying it—’ she gasped. ‘I am so sorry gentlemen, I should not speak so. May I help you at all?’
‘We were wondering why we do not see you display your talents with the bow, Miss Fortune,’ said Faulkes teasingly. ‘The day is fine, and we came to draw you out.’
‘I take this badly, gentlemen,’ said Georgette with drawn brows. ‘You know that I have no skill with the bow and it is cruel to importune me in this fashion. Also, as you observed, I have been a little busy this morning.’
‘But you are now free, and may enjoy the exercise,’ said Onslow, his pale blue eyes holding hers. ‘Or we shall be uncomfortable, you know, and think that too much care is caused you by this visit.’
‘Oh no!’ said Georgette. ‘No care at all. I was just being lazy with a book when my housekeeper appeared.’
Onslow’s eyes searched the small room. ‘And where is the book, Miss Fortune?’ he asked innocently. ‘I confess to an interest in what literature appeals to you.’
His face was bland, but his blue eyes were knowing, and Georgette found that she could throw him a look of dislike for discovering her untruth. He grinned and Georgette turned to Sir Justin, who seemed unaware of the undercurrent, ‘Very well sir, since you ask, I shall try to master the bow, and hope that no person is injured in the attempt. Let me just put on my spencer and bonnet, and I shall be with you.’
Sir Justin bowed, and Georgette left, wondering why they had taken her up so, these two friends, and regretting the solitude that she had hoped for before refreshments. She feared humiliation at the targets, but she would do the best she could.
As they reached the field, the younger ladies of the party were all at their places, attended by amused gentlemen giving direction or demonstration. The twins were taking a shot at any available target when the other ladies tired, Leonora doing the jostling for position and Marguerite following. Miss White’s court was the furthest away from Georgette’s target, but it was the largest group of gentlemen, including both Bailey brothers, and George Fortune the loudest, even touching Miss White’s arms while he gave instruction. Georgette, putting on her glove and grasping her bow, could not help her eyes moving to Onslow, to see how he supported this spectacle. His eyes had bypassed Amethyst and Maria Bailey, Lady Sarah, her sisters Katerina and Portia, and were fixed for a few aching seconds on Miss White. Georgette played with an arrow as her own eyes filled, sad for him, and then heard Faulkes kindly ask if he could help. She blinked away the tear and looked up smiling and found Onslow’s attention was back on her. ‘Remember to straighten your arm fully next time,’ he repeated stoutly as she raised the bow with more hope than determination.
Georgette and the Unrequited Love: Sisters of Castle Fortune Book 1 Page 11
