Georgette and the Unrequited Love: Sisters of Castle Fortune Book 1

by Alicia Cameron

  ‘Amethyst swears to keep your secrets,’ said James with feeling, ‘and then gives you away in a second.’

  ‘Remember when she was eight? James did not steal your horse Papa!’ Frederick said in imitation of a child’s voice, ‘when she wasn’t even asked. But she never means to.’

  ‘No, but we can tell the girls nothing.’ James looked at his mother. ‘What are we to do Mama? You have a scheme, I feel.’

  ‘I have spoken to Georgette, who will place you on either side of Jocasta at dinner this evening. I trust that you will flatter or tease her into good spirits.

  ‘Jocasta won’t show bad spirits! She’s too strong!’ said Frederick.

  ‘Well, you two will make it easier for her.’ Their intelligent mother looked from one to the other while touching her hair with a perfumed wand. ‘You may both pay court to Miss White another evening.’

  ‘Mama!’ protested James, a trifle embarrassed.

  She smiled. ‘Miss White has interests enough. We have been friends with the Fortunes forever, and I have been able to do little enough for the girls as it is. I don’t scruple to tell you that if I could depend on Jocasta’s father or brother to even notice how embarrassing this must be for her, I would not need—’ She sighed. ‘I shall not speak on that head, you both know how it is. For the next few days if Jocasta is ever alone, I shall know who to blame, my sons.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mama,’ said Frederick, kissing her powdered cheek, ‘though she might hate it, James or I shall stick to her side.’

  ‘Oh lord,’ said James ruefully, ‘If Jocasta gets a hint that we’re playing knight-errant, she will skin the hide from us!’

  It was quite impossible, thought Georgette, for Portia Fortune to keep the smile from her face for more than half a minute over dinner. Papa had disordered Georgette’s careful table arrangements by calling Portia to sit at one side of him (at the head of the table), and Paxton at the other side. As if this was not indiscreet enough, he announced, ‘No need for formality, my friends, we should speak freely across the table this evening.’ Portia and Paxton did not avail themselves of this permission to address each other, however, and only the smile that broke on Portia’s face, or the frequent, if fleeting, glances across at her from Paxton betrayed the situation. Georgette saw some guests look and wonder perhaps, but nothing was said. At the other end of the table, Jocasta was laughing with Frederick Bailey, and Lady Bucknell was moved by this frivolity to lean over to her son and say, ‘Forward!’ This was heard by several people at that end of the table, and for a second, Jocasta’s smile froze.

  Maria Bailey, between Bucknell and Onslow on the other side of the table said, in a rather louder voice than was normal for her, ‘Jocasta, will you help me tie my shawl after dinner? You know I always do it ill, and you have such style.’ How kind, thought Georgette, how like Maria!

  A second later, Georgette was surprised by a swift glance from Onslow, sitting to one side of little Maria, and watched as Maria’s head turned swiftly to the companion on the other side. What was amiss? What had Onslow tried to tell her?

  Lord Bucknell watched as little hands beneath the table top began to unfurl her perfectly tied sash. He raised his eyes over her head and met Onslow’s, who gave him a smile of understanding. Bucknell’s face did not change, but his eyes moved to Maria Bailey’s profile.

  A series of images from the days of this party came to him in quick succession, some of which he hadn’t connected before.

  Maria Bailey exchanging his dropped napkin for her own at dinner that early evening.

  Passing behind a chair, he had seen her dispose a shawl on her mother’s shoulders against the chill.

  When he had seen the older ladies at their sewing one day, he had watched as she silently retrieved their threads and scissors.

  He had given her his arm for a few steps over rough ground on a walk to the village, and the little hand grasping at his raised arm had seemed tight, but he had not minded.

  Once, when Marguerite Fortune had tripped, Miss Bailey had given up a seat in the coach and had refused his horse. He had been embarrassed when she had returned a full hour later, looking tired, and with a muddy gown that she concealed from her elegant mama. He should, he’d thought, have insisted on her taking the horse. Had she been afraid of the beast? Had Bucknell had better manners, better address, he could have offered to have led the horse for her. As she had slipped up the stairs to change, though, he’d realised that Miss Bailey wished her little services to go unnoticed. He’d admired, like every man here, the beauty and grace of Miss White, but her kindness was always explicit, always complimented by others, while Maria Bailey’s were hidden, frequently even to the recipient.

  Also, there was the occasion on an early day in the castle grounds when, taking a stone from his horse’s hoof, he had thus been hidden when the two Bailey girls plus Portia and Katerina Fortune had passed by on foot:

  ‘Lady Bucknell frowned at my dress at breakfast and considered it too frivolous for a house party!’ said Amethyst Bailey in a complaining tone.

  ‘Oh, you must not mind such a cross-patch. She delights in misery. And her son is just such another,’ said Katerina Fortune’s disinterested voice.

  Bucknell, stuck behind the horse, nevertheless raised his head at the sound of his mother’s name enough to see them, and was surprised to see a frown and downcast eyes from Miss – Maria was it? – Bailey. It had arrested him. Since all her emotions showed on her face, he realised that Katerina Fortune’s remark had annoyed her.

  ‘Do not say so to Maria,’ chattered Amethyst, as they’d moved past him.

  This remark had stayed with him. Why should they not say so to Maria Bailey? It was the second part of Katerina Fortune’s remark she had objected to, he was sure, the remark made about himself.

  During dinner the first night at Castle Fortune, his mother, as was her wont, had let the company know, ‘My son cannot abide wine. Bring water to his place!’ This order had not been repeated, however, for he found water at his place each evening, which he had taken for granted. Once coming early to the dinner table, though, he had overheard Maria Bailey ask Georgette Fortune where Lord Bucknell was to be seated that evening, and saw her bring the water herself. Had she done this when she knew he could see, he might attribute it to designs. He was not, as a man of moderate fortune, a stranger to such designs from marriageable females or their mamas. But she did not know that he saw, and each evening at dinner or at breakfast in the morning, he drank — and was ridiculously touched since such trifling kindnesses were absent from his life. This attention was not for him in particular, he supposed, but just something of who she was. But still, the water tasted sweet.

  He’d seen Maria Bailey place Viscountess Swanson’s vial from the apothecary nearer her hand. The woman who checked Maria’s posture, who adjured her to speak up and stop shrinking, who told her a particular colour was unbecoming on her, and much more of the same. Unlike the Fortune girls, the Bailey sisters (who obviously grew up with affectionate parents) seemed to take these strictures to heart. And yet … Such was her nature that she aided a woman whose malice surpassed his own mama’s.

  Miss Bailey, like her mother (but with less facility, since her timidity limited her), attempted to distract Lord Fortune when he commenced another embarrassing monologue of his thoughts, insulting many.

  Once he’d caught a worried glance from Maria Bailey, across the room at him. It was on the day of the race, when he had fallen so ingloriously from his horse. Lord Bailey afterwards asked him if he was injured, and he’d said no. Later, he had observed Lord Bailey whisper in his daughter’s ear, and thought she looked relieved.

  Bucknell was thirty-five and since his brief interest in Miss Cassandra Fortune, six years since, he had not sought a wife. He did not trust women. After living with his capricious and sometimes malicious mother, it was hard to see how he could. He was comfortably off and had sometimes thought that it would be better to have any wife at al
l than live in his present condition, but he did not have the interest or impulse to change it.

  The silent, perfect kindness of Maria Bailey had made the dead thing in him come alive. But he knew himself to be a distant, difficult man. So much older, and of indifferent looks. It may be impossible for her to… One thing gave him hope. There had been another significant incident at the musical evening. It might be slight, and unknown to any other but him, but this next moment would be decided by it. When Maria Bailey had been collecting her music at the piano after accompanying his song, he had turned from the audience to bow to her his thanks. George Fortune was announcing the next guest to play, and stood between them and the audience, and she had looked up at Bucknell shyly. He almost couldn’t hear her whisper, but he thought she said, possibly about the song he’d sung, ‘… sad. Don’t be sad.’ Her eyes shone with tears, and then she was gone.

  Now, he stopped the little hand unfurling the sash with his own, causing Maria’s large eyes to fly to his serious ones. He was vaguely aware of Onslow’s stillness at the other side of Miss Bailey — he may have seen, but Bucknell did not care. He lent towards Miss Bailey’s ear to say, so as only she could hear, ‘I wish to speak to your father, Miss Maria. Will you permit it?’ He pulled back to look for her answer. The eyes widened, as though in fright. He kept his expression neutral, hoping to give her no more pressure, no more embarrassment than she could stand. Her eyelids fell, and so did the heart in his chest. Too old, he thought, too old. But he believed he saw her give the slightest nod. Had she? He paused, but she did not look at him.

  He had forgotten that he still had her hand until she squeezed his.

  As the ladies left after dinner, Bucknell stood for their departure as the other gentlemen did. He felt impelled, as she passed him to say, very softly, ‘We shall not live with my mother.’ She blushed and stood still a second before moving off. After dinner, he moved to her and sat, his demeanour unchanged to the world, looking straight ahead. ‘Your face is like a flower,’ he said.

  They sat in silence for a while, and he felt himself in a bubble with just her, until he moved off to speak to her father.

  Lord Bailey, obviously surprised at Bucknell’s request for a private word, looked to his two daughters in something like fright. Bucknell could see his thoughts, it seemed. This man is respectable, a titled man of fortune, but only ten years younger than Lord Bailey himself, and serious and forbidding: not a happy match for either of his precious girls. But Bucknell then watched as Lord Bailey caught Maria’s eye. Bailey’s dearest dear daughter, who thought only of others, looked suddenly full of hope for herself. Her eyes shone at her father’s, her little hands flew together in a gesture of pleading.

  Lord Bailey and Bucknell sought an antechamber.

  Later that night, when Bucknell had stood next to Maria Bailey by accident, it seemed, he was jostled by her sister Amethyst’s arriving to join them bringing Foggy Carswell, who looked miserably unable to reply to her chatter, and miserably unable to escape. It meant Bucknell was necessarily closer to Maria, his arm at his side in his usual stiff posture. One pinkie touched hers in an ecstasy of longing, hidden by the fold of her dress. They did not look at one another. He stood as he always did, while Maria exchanged words he did not hear with her sister, looking past him. The contact shook him. He wondered at this dead happiness coming to life in his chest, wondered that the warmth coursing through his body was like some reanimation of a corpse. He thought, as a surprisingly bold tiny digit deliberately entwined with his, that if he did not die of this happiness, he would make her days as full of as much kindness and care as she showed to others.

  ‘Good God,’ whispered Justin Faulkes to Onslow at the other side of the room, ‘Did Bucknell just smile?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Onslow, regarding him with a sly smile of his own, ‘I think Lord Bucknell will smile a great deal more from now on.’ His gaze went to another corner of the room where Bellamy, just a moment ago in the circle around Miss White, had managed to steal some words with Miss Fortune over the tea cups. She smiled easily, unafraid it seemed, and he moved off. Watching this, Onslow wondered at his own ability to smile. His facial muscles were turning to stone as he saw Bellamy deliver a cup and saucer into Julia White’s pale hand with an attentive demeanour. What in all of this made him so uneasy?

  Lady Bucknell was surprised at her ablutions by another visit to her chamber from her son that evening.

  He bowed formally. ‘Mama, I am here to inform you that I am to be married, and as quickly as possible. Certainly before spring.’

  Her Ladyship’s breast swelled and she spat out her words, grasping at the bottle in her hand. ‘Married? Impossible! And to whom, pray?’

  ‘Miss Maria Bailey.’

  His mama tittered in that way that was so much more brittle than the laugh it pretended to be. ‘That little dab?’ she said, oozing contempt. ‘Pray, what does she have to recommend her? What wiles did she employ to lure you?’ Finally, she met her son’s eye. ‘I shall not permit it.’

  ‘Mama.’ Bucknell’s tone was dark and ominous, and he paused before he continued in the same measured tone, ‘If I hear, or hear of, an impolite word said about my wife-to-be I shall never speak to you again.’

  Her Ladyship almost choked. ‘What? Why you…’

  ‘Moreover,’ he continued, ‘though I wish that you will gain acceptance of my marriage, I shall not change my decision. We shall not live with you. You may have the house in London for your use, we will hire our own. You will move to the Dower House in the country. You may see to its decoration now, if you will.’

  ‘Not live with you in London? People will talk. What do you mean by this? The Dower House…? ‘

  ‘I realise this is a shock. I do not care what people in London say, I do not believe it an unusual arrangement.’ He looked at her directly. ‘Maria shall not live in a house of misery and complaint as I have these thirty-five years.’ His mother blanched. ‘You may keep the increased allowance that I give you only if you make no noise about my decisions.’ He paused. ‘You have taught me to be cold, Mama. Do not doubt that if you let your mouth or your demeanour be disrespectful of my wife you shall receive no allowance beyond what Papa has left you, and you will have to rent your own rooms in London, for you shall not be welcomed at Bucknell House.’ He could see the machinations behind the shock and he added, ‘The servants will be instructed to deny you admittance.’

  ‘I —’ his mother’s fury fell in her fear of future humiliation. Looking at him, there was no doubt he was capable of it. And all this time she had considered that she had the upper hand of a compliant son. She changed tack. ‘My son, I shall no doubt be glad of your marriage if you give me time. But in London, let us share Bucknell House. Let us not give rise to speculation.’

  ‘No. Keep it for yourself, Mama. Maria has a kind and trusting disposition. Living with you would crush her in a month. We shall live a different kind of life together.’

  He bowed once more and left his shaken parent alone.

  Chapter 25

  It was not until the ride the next day that Georgette and Faulkes found out any hint of the news. As they achieved the stables, a tilbury was being led out, and Lord Bucknell handed Maria Bailey into it. Bucknell drove off with the merest nod in their direction, and Maria shared a blushing look with Georgette as they passed by.

  ‘Lord Bucknell at this hour! And with Maria?’ she said, almost to herself.

  ‘Bucknell smiled!’ muttered Faulkes, also to himself, remembering.

  ‘No he did not,’ said Georgette, confused.

  ‘He means last night,’ explained Onslow. ‘I expect they are engaged.’

  ‘Maria and Bucknell? Surely not!’ Georgette was shocked. ‘I did not think her papa would…’ she stopped her tongue running off with her, but added, ‘Lord Bucknell is so very forbidding. I am afraid for her, though it be an advantageous match.’ She bethought herself of the look the marquis had shot at her last evening. �
�Is that what you wished to convey at dinner?’ she asked him directly. ‘I usually understand you, but I could not…’

  A look crossed Onslow’s face at her last remark. But then he assuaged her fear. ‘It is a love match, I think.’

  ‘A love match?’ said Georgette, finally mounted on Falcon. She was still incredulous.

  ‘Bucknell did smile!’ reprised Faulkes.

  ‘Oh!’ said Georgette, turning her horse so that she could chat more comfortably. ‘I feel like the worst kind of gossip — but what was it you saw that made you shoot me that look last night Onslow?’

  Sir Justin, no doubt because his horse was fussing, looked down at this. He was beginning to have a strange thought.

  Onslow, however, was grinning. ‘I cannot, as a gentleman, reveal what I was not supposed to see.’

  ‘But you already revealed something with your eyes,’ Georgette said, persuasively, ‘you would simply be continuing the tale.’

  Sir Justin raised his eye. ‘Can you really tell so much from Onslow’s look, Miss Fortune?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said it easily, anxious to continue her investigation of Onslow’s information. The marquis was looking smug. ‘He’s so easy to understand. I have always thought so.’

  Sir Justin nodded. ‘Always,’ he muttered to himself. His voice was a little hearty when he said to his friend, ‘Well, reveal all since you began it, Lucian.’

  Onslow’s pious look went from one to another and he shook his head. ‘I should not!’ he said with dramatic emphasis.

  ‘Please!’ Georgette pleaded. ‘How can it be a love match? What can make you think so?’

  ‘Are we going to ride?’ the marquis enquired brightly, since they had all been keeping the horses at a walking pace.

  ‘Onslow!’ Georgette turned her horse, then leant forward with difficulty and grasped Thunder’s bridle.

  ‘You dare?’ he laughed down at her. Her face laughed back up at him, and as he removed her gloved hand from the leather, he said, as though defeated, ‘Very well.’