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Georgiana longed to still its maniacal movement, but she waited with restrained patience.
Eventually her stepfather turned from the window to face her. ‘No man, or woman for that matter, makes a fool of me.’ His voice was slow and measured.
The breath escaped her in a small sigh of relief. The deed was done, the truth told. Mr Praxton would be banished from her life.
‘How could you even think it?’ He surveyed her with a closed look. ‘Whether you did, or did not, indulge in unladylike behaviour no longer matters. Your marriage to Mr Praxton has been arranged and in time you’ll come to see that it’s a good thing for both our families. Mr Praxton thinks very highly of you and I trust you will endeavour to become a good wife.’
A strangled laugh escaped Georgiana’s lips as she stared at her stepfather with growing disbelief. ‘He lied to you, tried to destroy my reputation. Does that mean nothing? You would still have me wed him?’
Edward Raithwaite’s manner was carefully impassive. ‘There was never any threat to your reputation until you started your foolish twittering in front of Lady Farleigh. Any damage to your reputation was effected by your own hand, my dear. But your forthcoming marriage will rectify any harm that has been done.’
‘You cannot seriously expect me to marry him!’ Georgiana’s voice increased in volume and she placed her hands against the desk’s cool wooden surface, leaning forward towards her stepfather.
‘Sit down, Georgiana,’ he snapped, ‘and do not raise your voice to me.’
Georgiana took a tentative step backwards, but remained standing.
Mr Raithwaite’s face darkened. ‘I said, sit down,’ and his enunciation was meticulous.
Her legs retreated further and she stumbled into the closely positioned chair.
Gone was the bumbling genteel man. Mr Raithwaite’s eyes focused with a shrewd clarity. ‘A woman must marry as her father directs, to consolidate power and wealth, to open up new opportunities for the family. It’s the way of the world. If you’re labouring under some childish notion of love or romance, then I’m here to tell you that it’s nonsense. I didn’t send you to that expensive ladies’ academy to learn such foolishness. No, Georgiana. Walter Praxton is as best a match as can be expected. You will marry him and behave as behoves a decent young lady. And that, my dear, will be an end to the matter. Forget all else.’
Georgiana stared at Edward Raithwaite as if seeing him for the first time. A tightening nausea was growing within her stomach and she could feel the sweat bead upon her upper lip. The terrible sinking sensation arose not so much from what her stepfather had just said, but rather from that which he had not. Her scalp prickled with unease as she struggled to comprehend the enormity of what she had just learned. All his talk of childish notions and nonsense was a distraction, an attempt to divert her from the real issue. But Georgiana would not be distracted so easily. Her mind had grasped the problem in full. ‘You knew,’ she said in a quiet voice, and never once did her eyes leave Edward Raithwaite’s face. ‘You knew all along.’
Mr Raithwaite sent her a look that held nothing of affection. ‘The water has sent a fever to your brain.’
The harsh chill of the truth seeped through to scrape at her bones. Now that she had started she could not stop. ‘It was an agreement between the two of you. That’s why you were so content to allow me to walk alone with him in Hurstborne Park, even when you knew that I didn’t want to go. The seduction was planned.’ She stared at him, the full extent of the horror uncoiling. ‘And Mama…surely she could not have known too?’
‘Your ranting renders you fit for nowhere but Bedlam, an amusing spectacle for the aristocracy, nothing more. Be careful what you say, Georgiana. I would not have your mother any further upset than she already is. I must warn her to watch for any signs of a brain fever in you.’ He sighed and, removing his spectacles, pinched at the bridge of his nose. ‘Both Mr Praxton and I only want what is best for you.’
Her mouth cracked to form a cynical smile that did not touch her eyes, eyes that faded to a bleak grey-blue. ‘How my leap into the River Borne must have dismayed you both.’
‘You jumped?’ Raithwaite’s brow lowered.
Georgiana’s smile intensified. ‘Oh, yes, dear Papa, I’d rather face death in a swollen river than submit to Walter Praxton’s cruel lips.’
‘You’re mistaken about him. It’s a measure of your youthful ignorance, and I won’t let you throw away the chance of a good marriage because of it. You’re one and twenty, and in danger of being left on the shelf. This is the best opportunity you’ll get.’
She shook her head sadly. ‘He is not a kind man, Papa. How can you justify what you’ve done?’
Edward Raithwaite slowly sat himself down in the comfortable chair behind his desk. ‘I said that my actions are for the best, and so they are. The end justifies the means, my dear. You’ll thank me in the years to come. Now, our discussion is at a close. It would be well if you did not mention that of which we have spoken to your mother. I will not have you run bleating to her. Do not seek to flout my judgement, Georgiana, for, if you refuse to marry Walter Praxton, then I’ll have you deemed of unsound mind, and I don’t need to explain what the consequences of that would be.’ His mouth shut in a tight grim line.
Indeed, he did not need to offer any explanation at all. It was with a very heavy heart that Georgiana made her way out of the study.
Nathaniel propped himself against the sturdy wooden gate and was content to enjoy the view before him. Collingborne was set amidst the soft rolling splendour of the Hampshire countryside, close to Harting Down. The green velvet of fields stretched ahead, dotted periodically with prehistoric mounds. Above yawned a rich russet canopy, its seasonal castings rustling gently around his feet. The air was damp and still, the sky grey with cloud. Within the hour the light would fade to darkness and the gentle patter of winter rain begin…and he would be back within the great house to suffer the hatred of his father. A robin flitted between the branches overhead, singing its distinctive call, alone in a field of crows and starlings and magpies. It was a feeling that Nathaniel knew well, and not one on which he wished to dwell. This was his respite, his time of peace, and from it he gathered the strength to face the sombre house once more. He would be gone tomorrow, and he could endure all that his father would throw at him until then. The leaves crunched beneath the soles of his riding boots as he strolled with purposeful resignation towards the place he could not call home.
‘Mirabelle?’ Nathaniel halted in surprise upon the gravel drive.
‘Nathaniel!’ His sister by marriage clambered down from the travelling coach. ‘You’ll think that I’m following you! But I couldn’t wait four more weeks for that dratted brother of yours to return. He sent me a letter saying that he couldn’t leave until then. So I decided right then and there to come. And here I am. Won’t Henry be surprised?’
Nathaniel thought that perhaps surprise might not be Henry’s primary sentiment when he viewed the arrival of his wife and children. Not that his brother did not care for them, it was just that Mirabelle’s presence was not entirely conducive to performing matters of business. Quite how the relationship between his straight-faced sibling and Henry’s vivacious wife worked was something that Nathaniel was often given to speculate upon. Mirabelle certainly brought happiness to his brother. Perhaps there was more to the lady than her chatterbox ways would suggest.
Behind Lady Farleigh a stout woman had just emerged from the carriage carrying one small child wrapped within a blanket, and holding another by the hand. ‘Unc Nath!’ The child loosed Nurse’s hand and threw himself towards Nathaniel. On reaching the now mud-splattered high boots, the small boy stopped, looked solemnly up with his big pansy-brown eyes, and raised his chubby arms towards Nathaniel. ‘Up, please, sir,’ he said in a polite voice, and waited patiently for Nathaniel to respond.
Nurse tutted and stepped forward to reclaim her errant charge.
But without a further thought Nathaniel lifted the child against him, unmindful of the buckled shoes scraping against his smart country coat, and the small sticky fingers pressing against his cheeks. ‘Have you missed your uncle Nathaniel?’
The curly head nodded seriously.
‘And have you been a good boy, Charlie?’
Again the head nodded and the arms tightened around his neck, rendering his carefully arranged neckcloth a mass of crushed linen.
‘Then I think we’ll have to play a game of horses.’
A broad grin spread across Charlie’s face and he uttered with reverence, ‘Horses, yes, play horses.’
To which Nathaniel set the boy upon the ground, turned around and crouched down as low as he could. Charlie clambered upon Nathaniel’s back, gaining a firm hold around his uncle’s neck. He was secured in place by Nathaniel’s arms and then the pair were off and running, galloping up the broad stone stairs in front of Collingborne House, accompanied by Mirabelle’s laughter and Nurse’s snorts of disapproval.
Charlie’s giggles reverberated around the ornate hallway, up the splendid sweep of the staircase and along the full length of the picture gallery, through the green drawing room and back down the servants’ stairwell. The boy squealed with delight as his uncle attempted some neighing noises and stamped his boots against the marble floor to simulate the clatter of hooves. Just as they rounded the corner to head back to the blue drawing room and Mirabelle, Nathaniel stopped dead in his tracks. For there, not two feet in front of them, in imminent danger of being mown down by Nathaniel and his small passenger, stood the Earl of Porchester and Viscount Farleigh. Both heads swivelled round to view the intruders, the old man’s face haughty with censure, the younger’s gaping with shock.
‘Charles?’ Henry managed to utter, as he regained a grip on himself. His countenance resumed its normal staid facade and he raised his eyebrows in enquiry to his brother.
The earl said nothing, only looked briefly at Nathaniel with sharp brown eyes. His cool, unwelcoming expression altered as his gaze shifted to his grandson, and although it could hardly be described as a smile, there was a definite thawing in its glacial manner.
‘Papa!’ Charlie’s sticky hands reached out towards his father.
Nathaniel shifted the child round and handed the small squat body to his brother. ‘Mirabelle and the children have just arrived. She wanted it to be something of a surprise for you. I left her in the blue drawing room.’
‘Quite.’ There was no disputing the disapproving tone in the earl’s voice. He did not look at Nathaniel.
‘We had better take you to find your mother, young man.’ Henry tried unsuccessfully to disengage his son’s arms from around his neck. ‘Be careful of Papa’s neckcloth, Charles.’
Charlie completely ignored the caution and pressed a slobbery kiss to his father’s cheek.
Henry sighed, but Nathaniel could see the pride and affection in his brother’s eyes as he turned and headed off to meet his wife.
The two men stood facing one another, an uneasy silence between them. Up until this point they had managed to avoid any close meeting.
‘You’ll be leaving tomorrow?’ the earl said sourly.
Nathaniel inclined his head. ‘Yes, sir. My ship sails in one week and there’s much to be prepared.’ He looked into the old man’s face, so very like his own, knowing as he did before every voyage that this might be the last time he looked upon it. ‘I’d like to speak to you, sir, before I leave Collingborne, if that’s agreeable to you.’
‘Agreeable is hardly a word I’d use to describe how I feel, but—’ he waved his gaunt hand in a nonchalant gesture ‘—I’m prepared to listen. Get on and say what you must, boy.’
‘Perhaps the library would be a more suitable surrounding?’ Nathaniel indicated the door close by.
The earl grunted noncommittally, but walked towards the door anyway.
Once within the library, Porchester lowered himself into one of the large winged chairs and lounged comfortably back. He eyed his son with disdain. ‘Well? What is it that you want to say?’
Nathaniel still stood, not having been invited to sit. He knew his father was cantankerous with him at the best of times. He moved towards the fireplace and eyed the blackened grate before facing his father once more. ‘Will you take a drink?’
The old face broke into a cynical smile. ‘Is what you have to say really that bad?’ When Nathaniel did not reply, he continued, ‘Why not? A port might help make your words a trifle more palatable.’
Nathaniel reached for the decanter, poured two glasses and handed one to his father. ‘Your good health, sir.’ He raised his glass.
The earl pointedly ignored him and proceeded to sip his port.
Despite his father’s blatantly hostile manner, Nathaniel knew he had to try. The ill feeling between them had festered unchecked for too long, and was spilling over to affect the rest of the family. He knew that it had hurt his mother and that was something he bitterly regretted. But with her death it was too late for recriminations on that score. Her going had taken its toll on the earl. Porchester had aged in the last years. For the first time Nathaniel saw in him a frailty, a weak old man where before there was only strength and vitality. And it shocked him. They had always argued, his mother blaming it on the similarity in their temperaments. Nathaniel thought otherwise. The matter with Kitty Wakefield had only brought things to a head. He could not go away to sea without at least one more attempt at a reconciliation.
‘Is it money you’re after or do you find that you need my influence with the Admiralty after all?’ Porchester’s insult was cutting in the extreme.
The corner of Nathaniel’s mouth twitched and the colour drained from beneath his tanned cheeks. He controlled his response with commendable restraint. ‘Neither. I wish to have an end to this disagreement. The…incident…with Kitty Wakefield happened a long time ago and she’s since married. I’m sorry that it has led us to where we’re at now.’
The earl looked at him, a hard gleam in his eyes. ‘You weren’t sorry then, as I recall, seducing a young innocent girl and then refusing to marry her!’
‘Kitty Wakefield was no innocent, whatever her father led you to believe. She engineered the situation to her own ends, thinking to force a marriage.’
The earl gave a cynical snort and took a large gulp of port. ‘So you claim. Where’s your sense of honour? If you didn’t want to wed the girl, you should have controlled your appetite.’
The glass stem slowly rotated within his fingers and he let out a gentle expulsion of breath. ‘If you won’t forgive me on my own account, won’t you at least agree to some kind of reconciliation for my mother’s sake?’
The Earl of Porchester became suddenly animated. His previously slouched body straightened and he leaned forward in his chair. ‘Don’t dare to utter her name. It was the scandal associated with your debauchery and gambling that drove her to the grave!’ He shouted the words, then collapsed back against the chair. His voice became barely more than a whisper. ‘You broke her heart, lad, and that is something for which I’ll never forgive you.’
The muscle twitched again in Nathaniel’s jaw and his eyes hardened. ‘That’s unworthy of you, sir.’
‘Unworthy!’ the old man roared. He struggled upright, leaning heavily upon the ebony stick beneath his white-knuckled fingers. ‘That’s a word descriptive of yourself, boy! How dare you? Get out and don’t come back here until you’ve changed your ways. You’d do well to take a leaf out of Henry’s book. He’s not out chasing women, drinking and gambling. Thank God that at least one of my sons can face up to responsibility. He knows his duty, has settled down and is filling his nursery. It’s about time you grew up enough to do the same.’
The accusation was unfair. The earl’s estimation of his character was sadly misinformed, but Nathaniel knew that any protestations would fall on deaf ears. The discussion was at an end and he had succeeded only in making the matter worse. He should have let the words go unanswered, but he could not. Such was the hurt that he stuffed it away and hid it beneath a veneer of irony. ‘There’s hardly a proliferation of suitable ladies available to court upon the high seas, and, as that’s where I’ll be spending most of my time, it’s unlikely that I’ll be able to meet with your suggestion. I’m sorry to disappoint you yet again.’
‘It’s nothing other than I’ve come to expect,’ came the reply.
They finished their drinks in silence before Nathaniel took his leave.
Chapter Three
Georgiana urged the mare to a canter and looked around for her groom. The news that Lady Farleigh had gone to Collingborne and was not due to return for at least two months had come as a severe disappointment. It felt as if yet another door had slammed firmly shut in Georgiana’s face, for if there was anyone who could help her out of her present predicament it was Mirabelle Farleigh.
The interview with her stepfather the previous day had left her shocked and disillusioned. The faint nausea of betrayal lingered with her still. Never could she have entertained the notion that he would have used her so, even if he was labouring under the misapprehension that he was doing what was best. She’d been so sure of his understanding, so confident of his support. All of those beliefs had shattered like the fragile illusions that they were. Her stepfather had clearly misread Walter Praxton’s character to have agreed to such a devious plan. She swallowed down the pain as she recalled his zealous principles in which he had instructed them all. His actions made a mockery of them. She did not doubt for one minute that he would make good on his threat. He had made it clear what would happen if she made any appeal to Mama. And, if she refused Mr Praxton, her life was effectively over—her papa’s influence would see to that. She would be an example to Prudence so that he would never have to deal with such insurgent behaviour from her little stepsister, or from Francis or Theo for that matter. The dapple-grey mare shied away from the street hawkers’ carts, forcing Georgiana to leave her troubled thoughts and concentrate on Main Street and its normal chaos. It was not long before they reached Tythecock Crescent and home.
Immediately that she entered the house Harry, the youngest footman, directed her to her father’s study.
‘Where have you been?’ Her stepfather was standing by the window and had obviously witnessed her return.
She smoothed the midnight-blue riding habit beneath her fingers and tried to appear calm. ‘I called on Lady Farleigh. She asked if I would visit and I wanted to thank her for her kind hospitality.’ Georgiana was just about to explain that the lady had not been present when Mr Raithwaite interrupted.
‘I hardly think such a trip is in order. If you remember correctly, my dear, you left Lady Farleigh with rather a tawdry view of your reputation and it wouldn’t do to remind her of that until we’ve remedied the affair. Once you’re married then I’ve no objection to your seeing her, and I don’t suppose that Mr Praxton will have either.’ He touched his hands together as if he were about to pray, moving them until the tips of his fingers rested against his grizzled grey beard.
What would he say if he knew the extent of that which she had confided in Mirabelle? Georgiana looked directly at her stepfather, unaware that distaste and pity were displayed so clearly on her face.
Edward Raithwaite saw the emotions and they stirred nothing but contempt and frustration. ‘In fact, it would be better if you remained within this house until the day of the wedding. We don’t want to encourage any idle chatter, now, do we?’
‘I’m to be a prisoner in my own home?’ Georgiana could not prevent the words’ escape.
‘Let’s just say confined for your protection, and in my home, Georgiana.’
She glowered at him, but said nothing.
‘The wedding will take place in two weeks’ time at All Hallows Church. Your mother has arranged for a mantua-maker to attend you here tomorrow to prepare your trousseau.’ He looked away and picked distractedly at the nail on his left thumb. ‘That will be all, at present.’
And with that summary dismissal Georgiana made her way to her room.
The moon was high in the night sky and still Georgiana lay rigid upon the bed. Thoughts of her stepfather’s and Walter Praxton’s treachery whirled in her brain, ceaseless in their battery, until her head felt as if it would burst. Such a tirade would not help her situation. She must stop. Think. Not the same angry thoughts of injustice and self-pity, but those of the options that lay before her. What options? Marry Mr Praxton and ally herself with the very devil, or have her sanity questioned and be sent to the Bethlehem Royal Hospital in London? Neither choice was to Georgiana’s liking. She calmed herself and set to more productive thinking. Why had Papa confined her to the house? What was it that he was so afraid of? And quite suddenly she knew the answer to the question—a runaway stepdaughter. With the realisation came the seed of an idea that might just prove her salvation.
Within five minutes she was standing alone inside the laundry room, her bare feet cold against the stone-flagged floor, the candle in her hand sending ghostly shadows to dance upon the whitewashed walls. It did not take long to locate what she was looking for and, stuffing her prize inside the wrapper of her dressing gown, she crept back up to her bedroom. After her booty had been carefully stowed under the bed, she climbed once more beneath the covers, blew out the candle and fell straight to sleep. A smile curved upon her lips and her dreams were filled with her plan to foil Papa’s curfew and his arrangement for marriage.
During the subsequent days, it appeared that Georgiana was content to pass her time in harmless activity, and all within the confines of the house in Tythecock Crescent. She amused her youngest siblings Prudence and Theo and spent some considerable time conversing with her stepbrother Francis who, at fourteen, had been summoned home from school to attend the wedding. Surprisingly Francis’s bored manner, while still managing to insult his sister at any given opportunity, did not seem to annoy Georgiana, who was the very model of a well-bred young lady.
Mrs Raithwaite was much impressed by this novel behaviour, attributing it to Mr Raithwaite’s firm stance. It seemed that her daughter had at last overcome her initial reservations to an alliance with Mr Praxton. Not that Clara Raithwaite had an inkling of comprehension as to just why Georgiana had taken such an apparently unprovoked dislike for that perfectly respectable gentleman. He seemed to Clara a most handsome fellow with commendable prospects. And he had so far managed to ignore Georgiana’s stubborn tendencies.
Mrs Raithwaite’s delight abounded when her daughter entered a conversation regarding Madame Chantel and her wedding dress. Quite clearly Georgiana had resigned herself to the marriage and the Raithwaite household could at last breathe easy. They, therefore, were most understanding when two days later Georgiana complained of the headache and was forced to retire early to bed. Mrs Raithwaite ascribed it to a combination of excitement and nerves, which she proclaimed were perfectly normal in any young lady about to be married. And when Georgiana hugged her mother and told her that she loved her and hoped she would be forgiven for being such a troublesome daughter, Mrs Raithwaite knew she was right. For once, Clara Raithwaite’s diagnosis of her eldest daughter’s emotional state was accurate.
Georgiana had forced herself to lie still beneath the bedcovers, feigning sleep when her mother came in to check on her. Only once the door had closed and her mother’s footsteps receded along the passageway did she throw back the covers and set about her activity. With all the precision of the best-planned ventures, Georgiana moved without sound, aided only by the occasional shaft of moonlight stealing through her window. Her actions held a certain deliberation, a calm efficiency rather than a frenzied rushing.
From beneath the bed she retrieved her looted goods and set about stripping off her night attire, never pausing even for one minute. Time was of the essence and there was none to spare. With one fell snip of the scissors, purloined from Mrs Andrew’s kitchen, her long braid of hair had been removed. Georgiana suppressed a sigh. This was not the time for sentimentality. At last she had finished and raised the hand mirror from the dressing table to survey the final result. An approving smile beamed back at her, and deepened to become a most unladylike grin. The effect was really rather good, better even than she had anticipated. Now all she had to do was hope that the coachman and postboys would not see through the disguise.
She loosed the few paltry coins that she could call her own upon the bed and, gathering them up, tucked them carefully into her pocket. The rest of her meagre provisions were stowed within a rather shabby bag that she’d managed to acquire from one of the footmen. Everything was in place. It was time to go.
She could only hope that Mama would forgive her. It wasn’t as if she was just running away. No. She’d never been a coward and didn’t mean to start now. It was advice and help that she needed, and Lady Farleigh had offered both. The trouble was that Mirabelle Farleigh had gone to Collingborne. And so it was to precisely that same destination that Georgiana intended to travel. Fleetingly she remembered Nathaniel Hawke’s concern. Who are you afraid of? If Mr Praxton has done aught that he should not have … Would it have come to this if she’d told him the truth? Too late for such thoughts. One last look around her bedroom, then she turned, and slowly walked towards the window.
If a casual observer had happened to glance in the direction of Number 42 Tythecock Crescent at that particular time, a most peculiar sight would have greeted his eyes. A young lad climbed out of the ground-floor window, a small bag of goods clutched within his hands. From the boy’s fast and furtive manner it could be surmised that he was clearly up to no good, and was acting without the knowledge of the good family Raithwaite, who occupied that fine house. Alas and alack that the moral fibre of society was so sadly lacking.
Georgiana sped out along the back yard, down Chancery Lane, meeting back up with Tythecock Crescent some hundred yards down the road. Even at this time of night the street was not quiet, and she was careful to keep her head lowered in case any one of the bodies meandering past might recognise Mr Raithwaite’s daughter beneath the guise of the skinny boy. It was not far to her stepfather’s coaching house, the Star and Garter, and she reached its gates within a matter of minutes. Fortunately for Georgiana, there was still room upon the mail to Gosport, and she soon found herself squashed between a burly man of indiscernible age, and a well-endowed elderly lady. Ironically, no member of the Raithwaite family had ever travelled by mail, and it was not far into the journey when Georgiana came to realise the reason. The burly man was travelling with two other men seated opposite; all three smelled as if they had not washed in some time and insisted on making loud and bawdy comments. As if that were not bad enough, the straggle-haired one opposite Georgiana spotted the young woman positioned further along and proceeded to eye her in a manner that made Georgiana feel distinctly uncomfortable, and profoundly glad that she had had the foresight to disguise herself in Francis’s clothes.
‘Come on, darlin’, give us a smile.’ The man flashed his blackened teeth at the woman who, seemingly completely unaffected, did not deign to reply.
The burly chap beside Georgiana sniggered. ‘Won’t even smile at some fellows that are bound for sea to keep out that tyrant Boney! It’s us seamen that saves the likes of you, missy, our bravery that lets you sleep easy in your bed at night.’
‘Yeh!’ his companion grunted in agreement. His beady eyes narrowed and his expression became sly. ‘If you won’t give us a smile, darlin', maybe you’ll give us one of your sweet kisses instead?’
Georgiana felt a rough elbow dig into her ribs, and a boom of laughter. ‘What do you ‘ave to say about it, young master, eh?’
Georgiana’s heart leapt to her chest and she didn’t dare to look round.
The man persisted. ‘Oi, with all that fancy clobber, he thinks he’s too good to talk to the likes of us. Is that it?’
