by Nina Mason
“From gambling, no doubt,” his father said disgustedly.
“Some, yes … but not all.”
Lord Wingfield pressed his fingers to his temples and shook his head in dismay. “Good God, man. What were you thinking? Have I not warned you repeatedly about living beyond your means?”
“You have indeed, sir,” Christian said contritely. “But, headstrong ignoramus that I am, I failed to listen.”
To this, his father somberly replied, “And now must reap what you have sown, I’m sorry to say.”
As the rust of desperation ate away his restraint, Christian burst forth with, “Will you not take pity upon me? Will you not help me? Please, father, I’m begging you.”
To his great dismay, his father remained perfectly composed. “I am helping you, Christian, by finally forcing you to face the consequences of your choices.”
Fear bordering on panic fluttered behind Christian’s sternum. “But father … I will go to prison!”
Lord Wingfield got up, walked to the fireplace, and stared at the flames for several moments before saying, “You no doubt think me heartless, but, as a naval officer, you must see how untenable it would be to stay the course when engaged in a losing battle.”
Christian hung his head and looked up at his father from under his brooding brow. “I can see your point … and do not blame you for withdrawing your support. For I am well aware—painfully so, at this moment—that I have made a hash of my life. I am, if it helps, heartily ashamed of myself. Most of all, because my contemptible behavior has hurt more than me.”
“It pleases me to hear you have seen at last the error of your ways,” Lord Wingfield said, fixing his son with a reproachful glare. “And let us hope you do not relapse the moment I take my leave of you.”
“I shan’t father. For I am determined to change my ways.”
“Good.” Lord Wingfield took a sip of tea. “Now go and see if you can round up Miss Stubbs, so I can break the sad news of your sudden reversal of fortune. And, when I have concluded my business with her, kindly send Miss Bennet to me.”
Feeling the weight of the world pressing down on his shoulders, Christian rose from his chair to do as his father bade. Then, having second thoughts, he said, “Would it not be more honorable for me to break the news to Miss Bennet myself?”
“Perhaps. But leave it to me all the same, for there are things I must explain to her.”
“What things?” Christian asked, alarmed. “You do not mean to take her to task, I hope.”
“Tempted as I am to reproach her, I will leave the sermons to her mother. Now be off and bring me your betrothed, before I change my mind and make you marry her.”
Twenty-Two
Georgie was halfway through breakfast when Christian came into the dining room, looking the very picture of misery. To her consternation, he did not meet her gaze or even acknowledge her presence. Instead, he addressed himself to Miss Stubbs: “My father has asked me to send you to him, when you have finished breaking your fast, of course. You will find him in the library.”
Miss Stubbs blinked in confusion. “Should we not see him together?”
Christian looked abashed. “He has asked me to send you on your own.”
“For what purpose?”
“I will leave that to him to explain.”
To this exchange Georgie listened with the interest of a juror. That Lord Wingfield had arrived came as no surprise to her, as the Captain had informed them all of the Earl’s arrival when they sat down to breakfast together. That the whole company was still assembled made inquiries of a personal nature impossible. She must, therefore, eager as she was for answers, wait for an opportune moment to ask what passed between Christian and his father. In the meantime, she could deduce from his downcast manner that whatever transpired troubled him gravely.
To her mind, that could mean only one of two things: either his father had indeed disowned him or, heaven forbid, he’d insisted his son keep his promise and marry Miss Stubbs.
As he hovered near the doorway, she willed him to look at her, sure she could read in his eyes which it was. That he avoided her gaze only magnified her worries. For surely, she reasoned, he would make eye contact if he still planned to marry her.
Unable to bear his rebuff, she said, “Will you not join us, Lieutenant?”
“No, Miss Bennet,” he said, still evading her gaze. “I have no appetite this morning.”
As he swiftly took his leave, she thought back on the morning she’d first arrived at Greystone Hall, when he’d avoided her gaze in much the same manner. A lump formed in the pit of her stomach when she remembered how he’d explained his behavior. He couldn’t bear to look at her, he’d said, because he loved her and couldn’t have her.
She knew then that he meant to forsake her, the same way Mr. Willoughby forsook Marianne Dashwood. Only Christian’s betrayal was far more grievous … because, unlike Willoughby, he had declared his love and taken liberties with her. Yes, she gave herself to him knowing the risks, but an honorable man would not have compromised her virtue—or even made romantic overtures until he was at liberty to do so!
Oh, what a fool she was not to see what he was. Yes, she had inklings. Certainly, she saw the cracks in his armor all along. But she naively ignored the warning signs. Now she knew that the poets were right: Love was indeed as blind as a mole. And now that her eyes had been opened, she could see no light, no hope, no pleasure, and no purpose in her future life.
From across the table, Miss Stubbs gave her a withering glance as she deposited her napkin in the center of her plate. “If you will all excuse me,” she said, rising from her chair, “I do not wish to keep Lord Wingfield waiting.”
“Of course, my dear,” Louisa said with forced civility. “Do not let your duty to us detain you.”
As she took her leave, Georgie thought: Oh, what I would not give to be a fly on the wall in the library at this moment! And then, she remembered that she could indeed eavesdrop on their conversation unseen.
“I, too, must take my leave as well,” she told her sister. “For I have a sudden headache.”
“Dear me,” Louisa replied, touching her neck. “It will not keep you from helping me with the party preparations, I hope—or, heaven forbid, from attending the party itself.”
“No, no. I am sure it will pass once I’ve rested my eyes for an hour or so.”
“Then go, by all means. Have your lie-down and come find me when you are feeling better.”
“I shall,” Georgie told her, eager to be away. “And do not worry, sister dear. For I am confident it will not indispose me for long.”
Upon taking her leave, Georgie headed straight for the door underneath the back staircase. Pleased to find it unlocked, she cautiously pulled it open, praying the groaning hinges would not give her away. Once inside, with the door shut behind her, she felt her way along the dark passageway, berating herself for not having the foresight to bring along a candlestick. By the time she reached the end, her heart was pounding in her ears. She felt around for the release. Finding a lever, she depressed it, keeping her hand on the back of the bookcase to prevent it from opening farther than was necessary.
There was a soft click before the bookcase pushed against her hold. She allowed it to open the merest of cracks before pressing her ear to the gap.
Lord Wingfield was the first to speak: “You can be at no loss, Miss Stubbs, to understand the reason for my journey hither. Your own heart, your own conscience, must tell you why I’ve come.”
“Indeed, you are mistaken, sir,” Miss Stubbs replied. “I am not at all able to account for the honor of seeing you here.”
“Then allow me to enlighten you, Miss Stubbs,” said his lordship, in a tone of condescension. “I have been told you secured an understanding with my eldest son under false pretenses, and have threatened him—and all his relations—with scandal if he attempts to extract himself from your snare. Have I been rightly informed?”
“
That there exists an understanding between us is true, your lordship,” Miss Stubbs replied, “but the rest, I assure you, is a scandalous falsehood.”
“If you speak the truth, then my son is a liar. For he has only just confirmed the report.”
“Only because he was put up to it by Miss Bennet, who wants him for herself,” the infuriating minx blurted. “You should know that the pair of them has been carrying on behind my back since the moment I arrived.”
“Uninvited, as I understand it,” the Earl drolly remarked.
“Does a lady not have the right to see her intended at Christmas?”
“I do not know what her rights might be, Miss Stubbs,” said Lord Wingfield, in a heated tone. “But I can say with some authority that no proper lady would impose herself upon any person, even her betrothed, without a formal invitation.”
“Even if her future bridegroom told her, before they last parted, that he’d fallen in love with a woman who lived in the environs he was visiting?”
“Yes, even then.” There was a pause before his lordship added, “But what you say begs a question, Miss Stubbs: if my son has confessed his love for Miss Bennet, why do you insist upon holding him to his promise?—if indeed he made you an offer of marriage.”
“I do not pretend to possess equal frankness with your lordship,” the lady snidely retorted. “You may, therefore, ask questions to which you will receive no answer.”
“I insist on being satisfied, Miss Stubbs,” he said crossly. “Has he, has my son, made you an offer of marriage?”
“He has, sir.”
“And did he have his wits about him when this purported offer was made?”
“I know not what you mean, sir.”
“Then let me make myself clear: was he sober or drunk at the time he allegedly proposed?”
“He’d been drinking … but what difference does that make?”
“It makes a great deal of difference, Miss Stubbs. To me, at any rate. Under the influence of drink, your arts and allurements may have made him forget what he owes to himself and to all his family. Sober, I am certain, he would not have been so easily taken in.”
“If I did use my wiles to secure him, I shall be the last person to confess it.”
Georgie heard the Earl exhale with force. “Let me be rightly understood. This match, to which you have the presumption to aspire, can never take place. Do I make myself clear?”
“Indeed you do. But know this, you big bag of wind: If you attempt to stand in my way, I shall drag the Churchill name through the mud.”
“This is not to be borne!” Lord Wingfield bellowed. “Have you no decency? No propriety? No sense of your station or respect for your superiors? When you spin your webs, do you consider no feelings or interests apart from your own? Do you fancy yourself untouchable? Well, let me tell you something, you impertinent little upstart. I will not yield to the threats of a guttersnipe like you. If you willfully stir up trouble for my family, I will see that you are censured, slighted, and despised by every person of consequence in England. The heights to which you aspire will be barred to you, and the doors of every household of quality slammed in your face. Furthermore, I will use my influence to see you stripped and flogged in the public square as a whore. Now what have you to say for yourself?”
“Only this,” she said, standing her ground. “When you are dead and gone, and I am the mistress of Wingfield Hall, I shall have my day in the sun.”
“You will never be the mistress of Wingfield, you shameless fortune-hunter,” Lord Wingfield roared in a temper. “Because I have this morning disowned your intended. That’s right, you vile little tart. Not only has your dupe lost his fortune, he will soon find himself in debtor’s prison. Then what will you do? Return to whoring, I should imagine, since I will see you blackballed by every theater and tavern in London.”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
“Oh, but I would,” said the Earl with vehemence. “Now get out of my sight before I strike you down like the bothersome fly you are.”
As Miss Stubbs ran from the room, Georgie stepped back from her listening post. What she’d heard certainly explained why Christian looked so morose when he came into the dining room, but not the reason he refused to look her way.
Blind and bewildered, Georgie made her way back through the passageway. When she emerged, Louisa corralled her at once. “Thank goodness you’ve come. Are you feeling better? Oh, I do hope so, because without your help, I despair of getting everything ready in time.”
Dispiritedly, Georgie followed her sister into the kitchen, put on an apron, and started rolling out the pastry for the mincemeat pies. By the time they were ready to bake, she had worked up a sweat and was covered from head to toe in sticky residue and flour. The labor gave her a whole new respect for the kitchen maids—and a whole new perspective on the realities of keeping a household without servants.
If she married Christian, she would be no better than a slave, toiling day in and day out to clean and scrub, prepare the food, and get the laundry done. And, if they added children to the equation, which they undoubtedly would sooner or later, she would have nappies to change and wash on top of the rest!
A desperate kind of panic beset her. She was not cut out for that kind of life. And yet, the thought of giving him up, of doing without him for the rest of her life, was more tormenting to her heart than the burden of housewifery could ever be.
“Georgie, may I have a word?”
The sound of Christian’s voice behind her gave Georgie a start and turned her around. “Of course,” she said, relieved to meet his gaze head-on. His eyes were still troubled. Did he not yet know that his father had run Miss Stubbs off?
Forgetting her disheveled appearance, she followed him to the back staircase and waited for him to speak. He seemed to wrestle within himself for several moments before he finally said, seemingly on the verge of tears, “Oh, Georgie. My dearest girl. I cannot bring myself to say what I must … in fairness to you.”
“In fairness to me?” she repeated, unable to reconcile his words and disposition with what she already knew.
“Yes. It is like the aria we performed together. Non lo dirò col labbro. Do you remember the lyrics?”
“Yes, but … I still do not take your meaning. What could you lack the courage to say? If it’s that your father has disowned you, you needn’t be afraid. I already know, you see.” Blushing, she turned away. “Do not ask me how, for I’d rather not say, but the fact remains that I know, Christian.” Turning back to him, she hesitantly added, “I also know that he has driven away Miss Stubbs, leaving us free to marry, just as we planned.”
Taking hold of her forearms, he searched her eyes. “Yes, but what kind of marriage would it be when your husband is locked away in debtor’s prison, unable to provide you with comfort or support? Not much of one, I daresay. So no. In good conscience, I cannot, will not, condemn you to such a wretched existence.”
“And if you were still in the Navy? What then? Would I not be left alone to wait while you were at sea?”
“Yes,” he said, he blue eyes blazing, “but in a decent house, with income enough to pay the bills and the wages of a maid of all work.”
“I could live with my mother until you were out of prison,” she said. “I know she would not mind, and might even be glad of my company and help. And when you got out, you could be a proper husband to me.”
“No, Georgie. You deserve better than that. You deserve better than a cock-up like me.”
She wanted to argue, to make him see sense, but deep in her heart, she knew that he was being sensible. She wasn’t born to live in squalor … or to work her fingers to the bone … or to pine away day after day and year after year for the man she loved but must live without.
She would indeed lead a wretched existence if they married while he was bankrupted. But that did not mean she had to give him up entirely.
Taking his face between her hands, she looked him square in the eye. �
��I will wait for you, then. Until you have paid off your debts and are able to support me in style.”
He set his forehead against hers. “That could take years.”
“I will wait … and write to you … and visit if I’m allowed.”
“Oh, Georgie,” he cried, hugging her to him. “You’re the best girl in the whole world. Is it any wonder I love you so dearly?”
As they embraced, she wondered if this was how life was to be: a never-ending steeplechase that presented one increasingly difficult hurdle after another. As grim as it seemed, she would stay the course until she either dropped from exhaustion or crossed the finish line. Then again, she might get lucky and be put out to pasture before she was too old and worn down to enjoy her liberty.
“Oh!” Christian cried, pulling away. “I nearly forgot. My father asked to speak with you.”
She drew back, brow furrowed. “What about?”
“I know not,” he said with a cockeyed grin. “But he did promise not to lecture you, if that is any help.”
Leaving Christian in the kitchen, to make her excuses to Louisa, Georgie made her way through the house to the library door. Finding it ajar, she waited outside for a moment, trying to make up her mind whether to knock or simply go in. There were voices coming from within. Male voices, speaking too softly to be understood.
At first, she thought the other man might be the Captain, but the cadence was wrong. Then, when she realized it was Benedict, all the hope flew out of her heart.
Hope she hadn’t even known was there.
Hope that Lord Wingfield might yet restore Christian’s legacy if she pleaded with him to do so.
She rapped softly on the door.
“Who is it?” a man with an aristocratic accent called from within.
“Georgianna Bennet. Christian said you desired a word.”
“I do indeed, Miss Bennet,” the same man said. “Do come in, my dear. My younger son was just preparing to take his leave.”
She opened the door and went inside. The striking contrast between Lord Wingfield’s thick shock of white hair and his coal-black eyebrows was the first thing she noticed; the second was the prominent proboscis that spoiled his otherwise handsome face; and the third were the height, noble carriage, and penetrating blue eyes he’d passed down to his sons.
