by Martha Keyes
So far from sounding hopeful as it had that morning, the chirping of birds outside felt discordant to Georgiana—as though the creatures were purposely ignoring the tempest raging in Rushbury and in Georgiana’s heart.
The effects of the windstorm were apparent on the grounds of Granchurch—a few fallen branches, flowers absent their new petals.
She tossed the reins, signaling Aunt Sara’s horse to move down the hill at a quicker pace, as if she could escape the chirping by putting more distance between her and Granchurch. But the chirping followed her.
At the crossroads at the bottom of the hill, Georgiana tugged on the reins for a moment, then turned the horse to the right. She couldn’t face the village. She couldn’t pass through it right now. Indeed, how would she ever face anyone there after today? They hardly knew Archie—to them, he was merely an extension of her. His choice to inform on John would be taken as a betrayal by Georgiana herself—just as Samuel had taken it to be.
She would not be welcome in the village anymore—that had been quite clear from her interaction with Samuel, Mr. Burke, and Mrs. Reed. Her presence would be painful to the people of Rushbury—a reminder of what had happened to John Reed. She didn’t think she could bear seeing that in everyone’s eyes. Certainly not in Samuel’s eyes.
She gave the horse a kick, and they were off in the direction of the main road at a much higher speed than Georgiana would have felt comfortable adopting prior to the work the village had just done. Yielding to a desire to be alone, she followed a small trail that led through the trees just short of the main road and found it looping her around the back side of the village, coming out onto one of the small roads she had surveyed with Samuel just a few weeks prior. It took her five minutes of riding to discover just where she was, and when she did, she winced.
Just a hundred feet in front of her, another trail led off the road, nearly invisible. It was the path that led to the meadow.
It was a self-torturing decision, and yet Georgiana couldn’t prevent herself. She slid down from the horse and led it into the tree. She could only imagine how the path would look when the leaves were fully grown, how intimate and protected it would be. She had meant to see it in every season. To see it with Samuel in every season.
The path seemed longer without someone to pass the time conversing with, and when she reached the end, where the trees opened up and the sky reappeared, she stopped and shut her eyes.
Gone was the field full of colorful blooms she had seen so recently. Ravaged by the windstorm overnight, there was no color to punctuate the green of the grass.
It was nothing to provoke tears—it was the natural order of things, after all—and yet Georgiana found herself staving off a desire to weep.
She stooped down, picking up two stray petals that had not been swept into the woods by the gusts. She gazed at them and rubbed them between her fingers: evidence of what used to be and of what she had come to the meadow hoping for again. But it was gone, and she could not summon it back.
Like the meadow, Rushbury had been an unexpected haven for Georgiana. She had not come there expecting to love the people. It had merely been a means of escaping the life she had come to loathe—of embracing spinsterhood on her own terms.
But she had come to know and love the people there. She had even fallen in love, opening herself up to the possibility of marriage for the first time in years.
But all that was gone—swept away as quickly as the flowers in the field had been by the windstorm. The bliss was never meant to last, and now Rushbury would forever hold painful memories of what might have been—a taste of the life she hadn’t dared admit—even to herself—that she wanted.
Nothing would be more painful or unbearable than to stay in Rushbury, amongst people she cared for who now viewed her with hostility; to be forever seeing Samuel and knowing that he wished her elsewhere.
She turned away from the meadow and rested her head against the horse’s neck, closing her eyes and then cringing. She could hardly stand to think of returning to London. But London would be more bearable than Rushbury now—perhaps her parents would permit her to return to the family estate rather than staying in Town or following them to Brighton.
She didn’t know if she could bear waiting to leave Rushbury until Archie was ready.
Chapter 19
“Georgie?”
Georgiana blinked and raised her eyes from the spot they had been trained on for the past ten minutes.
Archie stood just inside the doorway of the drawing room, looking at her with a furrowed brow. “I’ve just told you that I am for London at the end of the week, and you don’t so much as blink?”
“London?” she said, sitting up and looking at him with sudden alertness.
He nodded, still watching her with a slightly wary expression. “Well, not to London precisely. I swore to Father that I wouldn’t set foot there until quarter day, you know. But a friend is hosting a party at his estate near Richmond.” His smile widened. “Barlow has promised to be in attendance, and he is by far the worst whist player I know, yet he always insists on playing for the highest of stakes. I hadn’t thought to attend, my pockets being to let as they have been, but now….” He put a hand to his coat with a smile.
Georgiana felt a wave of nausea rush over her. He meant to gamble with the money he’d had in exchange for informing on John Reed. She suspected that it was that same money which would allow Archie to make the journey at all. She debated confronting him—part of her wanted to tell him just how terribly he had ruined everything with his thoughtless, selfish actions. But she feared if she attempted it right now, she would lose hold on her emotions, and nothing would send Archie running faster than a bout of crying.
“I was thinking of going to London myself,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. She was so very angry with him, yet sorrow was what threatened to overcome her.
He reared back slightly. “London? For how long?”
She tugged at her glove seam. “I’m not certain that I shall return to Rushbury.” The words settled deep inside her, weighing her down in her chair. She couldn’t stand to stay, but the thought of never setting foot in the village again made her eyes burn.
A knowing smile appeared on his face. “Devilish dull place, isn’t it?”
She couldn’t manage any words in response, her throat sticking so that she could hardly swallow. Rushbury was the place where she had hoped to spend the rest of her life. He didn’t understand how her heart ached at the thought of leaving. It was only just more bearable than the thought of staying.
“What of Aunt Sara?” he asked.
Georgiana took in a large breath. “I am sure it hasn’t escaped your attention that Father has a warped idea of her fragility. She likes her solitude. And besides, Rachel will be here at the beginning of next week. She hardly needs me.” She had no reason at all to stay.
He nodded. “Well, you’re welcome to come with me, of course, though we shall have to part ways at Richmond, you know.”
She nodded with an attempt at a smile. “That is quite all right. And I insist upon paying for the journey.” She would pay twice as much for it if only it meant they wouldn’t be using that hundred pounds.
His eyebrows shot up. “But why?”
She shrugged, not caring to tell him the real reason. “I couldn’t make the journey without you, so it is only reasonable. Consider it my way of thanking you for your trouble.” She was feeling more sick by the moment as she thought on the prospect of departing in just two days.
Archie frowned and narrowed his eyes. “You look blue-devilled.” He walked toward her. “What’s the matter?”
She hardly knew what to say. He couldn’t possibly know what he had done, what pain he had caused for the village, for Samuel, for the Reeds. For her.
He had acted thoughtlessly, with no concept of the lives his actions were affecting. But that was the problem. It was precisely what the villagers thought of people like Archie and Georgiana�
�thoughtless, selfish creatures who couldn’t be bothered to concern themselves with anyone they thought below them.
And he had lied to her about it. That, more than anything, brought the bile into her throat.
“I know you informed on John Reed, Archie,” she said, turning her head to gaze through one of the windows. It was easier than looking at him, and if her anger took the form of tears, at least he wouldn’t see them.
There was a long pause, and she heard the floorboards creak beneath him as he shifted his weight. “I was under the impression that my identity would be kept confidential. I suppose I should have known better in a place like this where one cannot so much as step out-of-doors without the entire village becoming aware.”
Georgiana turned toward him, regret sweeping over her at the utter lack of understanding he was displaying—just as she had anticipated he would. “You assured me that you wouldn’t interfere!”
He raised up his shoulders in a gesture meant to convey innocence. “What would you have had me do? I hadn’t any notion that you were aiding and abetting law-breakers, Georgie! And it was too late by then.”
“At the very least you might have told me. But you didn’t.” She bit at the inside of her lip. “You lied—and you did it to save your own skin.”
“I did,” he said waspishly, not mincing matters. “And I take full responsibility for doing so. Maybe it was a cowardly thing to do, but dash it! The man looked fit for Bedlam with how bosky he was, and swinging his ax about, no less! If I’d suspected you kept company with the likes of him, perhaps I would’ve given a second thought to laying the information, but I had no idea.” He tossed his hat onto the nearest chair and put his hands on the back of it, gripping it harshly and letting out another sound of displeasure.
Georgiana clenched her hands into fists. “Why must you always be gambling away your money? Always so focused on what the next entertainment is? Have you no thought at all for anyone but yourself?” She let out a frustrated breath. “The man you informed on,” she said, turning toward him, “he is a friend, Archie.”
Archie looked up and stared at her. “But…he’s a drunkard. A violent drunkard.”
Georgiana shook her head, pressing her lips together. “He isn’t, though. He is a man who has fallen on hard times through no fault of his own. And because you wanted a bit more money in your pockets—to fritter away—he will likely hang.”
Archie paced, putting a finger up and shaking it. “I know what I saw. An innocent man doesn’t do what that man did.”
How could she possibly explain it to him? He hadn’t been raised to concern himself with people like John Reed. “You know what it is like to be at your wit’s and pocket’s end—to need money desperately.”
He nodded, frowning.
“Well, imagine that there is no quarter day to look forward to. Imagine that, if you cannot find a way to raise money, Aunt Sara and I should starve; and that someone more powerful than you has taken your only hope of making that money.”
His brow was still knit together in displeasure, but his throat bobbed.
“That is but a peek into the life of John Reed and what led him to the desperation you witnessed. Those machines will forever change his life and the lives of his wife and children.”
He grimaced and let out a breath. “I had no idea.” He looked at her, apology written in his eyes. “And I am sorry.”
She felt a desire to relieve some of her frustration on him, to tell him that his being sorry did nothing. But she clamped her jaw shut to prevent any words from escaping. What good would it do, after all? What was done was done.
“I must do something,” she said softly, chewing on the tip of her thumb.
She glanced at the ticking clock, and her eyes widened when she realized that it was nearly two. She could make a visit to the Gilmours now—and pray that they were home this time.
But what would she say to them? Even less than Archie would they understand the plight of John Reed. He had cost them a significant amount of money, and she suspected that such a concern would outweigh all others.
But she had to try. Before leaving, she had to do whatever she could to untangle the mess she had made.
Samuel clenched the brim of his hat in his hand, feeling every muscle in his body tighten as he watched Lady Gilmour sip her tea unconcernedly. One would have thought they were discussing something as banal as the weather rather than the life of a man hanging in the balance.
“He sincerely regrets what he did in a moment of passion and despair, Lady Gilmour.”
She set down her tea gently, then looked at him as though he were the most pathetic figure she had ever encountered. “I am afraid my hands are quite tied, Mr. Derrick. You must understand, surely, that Sir Clyde and I cannot allow such a crime to go unpunished. We would merely be setting ourselves up for future occasions of violence.”
Samuel’s fingers tightened even more around his hat. Violence? She spoke of John’s choice as though it had put her personal safety at risk. “I am not asking you to turn a blind eye to what he did—merely that you seek lesser charges against him. A fine perhaps?”
She smiled at him so that wrinkles appeared at the edges of her eyes. There was no kindness in the smile, only more pity and condescension. “I do not pretend to any expertise in matters of the law. I feel confident that justice will be carried out much better without my interference. I understand that we are to consider ourselves fortunate that it was the work of only one man rather than one of the bands of criminals who have committed such crimes in other parts of the North.”
Samuel had never been one to condone the means used by the Luddites, but he found himself in sympathy with them more than ever. After all, what could one do to combat the utter indifference people like Lady Gilmour displayed toward the difficulties of those who enriched them with their labor and skill?
He inclined his head. “Thank you very much for your time, my lady.”
“Not at all, vicar,” she said, rising from her seat to go ring the bell. “It was my pleasure.”
“I shall see myself out,” he said with a bow, unable to summon a smile, despite his best efforts.
He hadn’t expected much from his visit to Amblethorne, but there was always that stubborn shred of hope inside him, and as he strode purposefully down the corridor toward the entry hall, he felt a little wave of panic begin to wash over him.
There was nothing he could do to stop the wheels that had been set into motion by Archie Paige—set in motion due to his need to pay off whatever ridiculous debts he had accrued. More than likely, he would take his reward prize to some greasy-haired moneylender in London, only to be in the same position in a few months’ time.
Lady Gilmour’s refusal to do anything at all to show mercy to John was entirely in line with what Samuel knew of people like her. If something did not add directly to their comfort, it was not worth the energy or effort to pursue. The Gilmours obviously did not view Samuel as someone whose opinion bore serious consideration—he was merely one of the lowly villagers they were obliged to tolerate.
If there was anyone they would listen to, it would not be him. It would be Georgiana.
“Thank you,” he said as the door was opened for him by a servant. He took long strides down the wide path that led away from Amblethorne.
The thought of requesting help from Georgiana made him shut his eyes in consternation. He shook his head. Rushbury didn’t need more interference from outsiders. He should know by now that it only led to more trouble in the end. More hurt. Besides, what could she possibly say to Lady Gilmour that he hadn’t already said?
The Gilmours were set on doing things their way—they had made that abundantly clear when they had purchased the machines, despite having given their word not to move forward with their plans.
When he reached the parsonage property, he glanced at the garden, grimacing and then striding toward it. He had been neglecting it.
He squeezed through the creaking g
ate and bent down by the vegetables, squinting at them. Fresh bite marks lined many of the leaves—far more than had the last time he had come out to pull weeds—and he took off his hat and threw it at the ground with a gush of frustration through his clenched teeth.
So much for Burke’s beetles. They were nowhere to be seen. Whatever Burke said, the critters didn’t belong there. It looked like they had made things worse, if anything.
He stood and picked up his hat, dusting it off more harshly than was warranted. A few short days ago, everything had been going his way. But now? Fate seemed to have turned against him and the village.
An image of Georgiana’s smile swept across his mind, making his heart feel sore inside him, as if thoughts of her pressed directly on a fresh bruise.
But it didn’t matter how he felt for Georgiana Paige. No matter how much they had managed to pretend it, they were not of the same world. John’s arrest had acted as a cold glass of water over Samuel, awakening him from the illusion and fantasy he had been entertaining for the last few weeks.
He wouldn’t let his heart—and a woman well outside of his world—put Rushbury at risk again. She might sincerely wish the best for the village—indeed, Samuel believed that she did—but at the end of the day, she didn’t know what the best looked like. And how could she? She hadn’t lived her life amongst people and problems like those in Rushbury. She would never truly understand it—not like Samuel did.
It had taken all of Georgiana’s resolution, reaching into the most courageous and kindest parts of her will and heart, to knock on the door of the Reed’s house before going to Amblethorne. All she could see in her mind was how her feet stood in the precise spot as had John Reed’s earlier that day when he had embraced his family for perhaps the last time.
The thought made her sick, but it strengthened her resolve. Woolen items sat just inside the window, as they had done on Georgiana’s first visit, and she glanced down at the coat she wore. It was too warm for the coat, but it was a necessary discomfort.
