An Elegant Façade (Hawthorne House Book #2) (17 page)

Sunday morning dawned bright with sunshine and brilliant with bird song.

Georgina awakened, angry at the world and despairing of ever finding what she needed. Miranda wouldn’t be at the breakfast table that morning or in the family pew at Grosvenor Chapel. She had gotten married yesterday, evading the pending gloom of spinsterhood with remarkable flair, dropping the
Lady
and gaining
Her Grace
.

A styling that Georgina would never be able to claim, for there wasn’t another duke showing interest in marriage this Season. The reminder that Georgina’s plans were crumbling left a sour taste in her mouth.

It didn’t help that an unfamiliar face was delivering her breakfast tray. The scent of chocolate set Georgina’s nerves on edge. Harriette wasn’t there. And she’d sent chocolate.

“Who are you?” Georgina bit out the question, not caring that she should probably know who the maid was. The girl was employed at the house, after all, and was likely even an upstairs maid.

“Margery, milady.” Wisps of brunette curls trailed out from beneath one side of Margery’s cap. They trembled as the shaky maid attempted an awkward curtsy while still holding the tray.

Georgina’s frown deepened. “Where’s Harriette?”

The maid brought the tray over to the bed. Usually Georgina
placed it on the dressing table so she could partake of the breakfast while she dressed her hair. Not this morning, though. Tales of the spoiled daughter of the house pinning her own hair up would make the maid queen of the servants’ quarters. Georgina tucked the covers around her legs as she sat up in the bed. Until she found out what was going on, she’d have to lower herself to Margery’s expectations.

Now unencumbered, Margery bobbed a considerably more graceful though no less fearful curtsy. “I’m afraid Harriette is unwell this morning.”

Georgina’s steaming chocolate turned into dread as it slid down her throat. “She is unwell?”

“Yes, milady. I’m afraid she had a fall coming down the stairs this morning. She had to be carried back up to her bed.”

A second sip of chocolate did little to ease Georgina’s trepidation, but she did her best to make the maid believe it had. Based on the look of relief that crossed Margery’s face, the efforts were successful. She turned and walked to the dressing room, loose curls bopping under her cap in a way that irritated Georgina because Harriette would never allow herself to look so disheveled.

Ripples appeared in the chocolate as Georgina’s hand began to tremble without the maid in the room. Georgina carefully set the cup aside and folded her hands into the coverlet. She forced deep breaths through her nose, imagining all the panic sinking into her toes, leaving her in complete control of her emotions, at least on the outside. “Has anyone sent for a physician?”

It was not the first time Harriette had been unwell in the past ten years, but it was the first time she’d been injured badly enough to be put to bed. How badly was she hurt? Harriette knew how much Georgina needed her, so she always did whatever she could to be available. If she was staying in bed, it must be bad indeed.

Margery looked confused as she emerged to lay out Georgina’s clothing for the day. “No, my lady. She insisted that she wasn’t hurt. It wasn’t until she nearly fell down the stairs a second time
that Mrs. Brantley threatened to tie her to the bed if she didn’t stay there.”

A deep flush worked its way across Margery’s cheeks as she shared the information. It was probably the longest conversation the maid had ever had with one of the family.

What should she do? Georgina wanted, needed, to see to the care and comfort of her friend, but she had a reputation to maintain, even among the household staff. She couldn’t give anyone a reason to look at her relationship with Harriette too closely.

“Have the physician called for immediately. I don’t trust you or anyone else to do my hair correctly. I want Harriette back on her feet as soon as possible.” Georgina turned her head and devoted her attention to the toast so Margery wouldn’t see Georgina wince over the callousness of her declaration. The near silent swish of the maid’s skirts leaving the room was her only answer.

There was some truth to the statement. It would annoy Georgina to have to sit patiently while Margery did her hair, knowing Georgina could have done it herself in half the time. She’d been doing everything but the most elaborate of coiffures since she was fourteen. She would also have to start her day completely uninformed, without Harriette to read the papers and correspondence.

Fortunately it was Sunday. The family would be gathering for church, so there wouldn’t be time to linger with her temporary maid. The actual attending church part of the morning she could do without, though. After yesterday’s wedding she felt like praising God even less than normal.

As if the marriage itself weren’t torturous enough, the wedding had been utter misery. Georgina had stood by her sister, across from Mr. McCrae. She’d known the two men were close but had no idea how they had gotten close enough that the duke would choose a mere gentleman to stand with him at his wedding.

Of course, until yesterday she’d also been the only member of the family unaware of the duke’s clandestine activities while he’d been missing. Perhaps it was a good thing she hadn’t married
him. Keeping her secrets from an experienced spy would have been impossible.

She nibbled on her toast, trying to work up some enthusiasm for becoming Lady Ashcombe.

The maid returned to the room and laid out a pair of slippers.

Georgina raised her eyebrows at the woman. Had she honestly returned to the dressing room instead of seeing to Georgina’s request? “Margery? The physician?”

Margery blushed again. “Now, my lady?”

“Yes. Now.” Georgina frowned, sending the maid scurrying from the room, considerably less silent than a few moments before.

It wouldn’t take long for her to dispatch a footman for the doctor, so Georgina scrambled to exchange the selected dress and shoes with ones she actually felt like wearing. It was going to be difficult to allow someone else to dress her when she normally did much of it on her own. Except for the tying. Even Georgina wasn’t nimble enough to do up her own fastenings.

When Margery returned, Georgina was sitting in same position she’d been when the maid left. She sipped the chocolate to hide her giggles as the maid looked over the new outfit in confusion. She ran a finger over the lace, probably trying to convince herself that she wasn’t crazy for thinking she’d laid out a dress trimmed in ribbon a few moments earlier.

Let her wonder. It would keep her from looking too closely at Georgina. Getting through a Sunday without Harriette wouldn’t be unbearable, though the constant watchfulness was sure to exhaust her. She could only hope her lady’s maid wasn’t too badly injured and was feeling better by Monday.

She wasn’t.

By the time Margery delivered a breakfast tray Monday morning, Georgina was ready to eat her art pastels. Her stomach had been grumbling at her for two hours and she’d even considered risking taking a drink from the water pitcher next to the wash
basin. The rest of the house was convinced that Georgina regularly slept well past ten on any morning, not requiring her attendance elsewhere.

That she was normally up and halfway dressed by eight was her and Harriette’s secret.

Margery had gained a bit of confidence overnight. Her hands didn’t tremble as she prepared a dress. She didn’t cast furtive glances toward Georgina every few seconds, as if seeking approval for the very act of breathing.

She even smiled as she assured Georgina the doctor had come by. “He assured us the leg wasn’t broken, though the pain kept Harriette up all night and left her in a sweat this morning. He put her on laudanum until the swelling goes down. She should be up and about in a few days.”

Georgina waited until Margery turned her back before stuffing her mouth as full of toast as possible. A few days. What was she going to do?

Colin turned the page of the book and settled deeper into the leather club chair. He should have returned home a half hour ago to dress for the evening, but for once he didn’t feel like playing along with the socially elite. He didn’t feel like talking business, which was why he’d ensconced himself at the club, where he’d hear nothing but gossip and banter about horses, hounds, and the occasional family squabble.

That was part of the reason why Colin paid the enormous annual fee. It was a haven for a man like him. A place where he wasn’t allowed to do business.

Maybe he’d stay here all night. It was a halfway decent book. He could always practice his billiard game if he got bored.

He grinned as he turned another page.

“Pardon me, Mr. McCrae, a message has arrived for you.”

Colin looked up at the porter who was extending a silver tray with a square of folded parchment on it. There was no question about accepting the note, but he still hesitated before reaching out and plucking it from the tray. “Thank you.”

He broke the seal with no small amount of trepidation. The number of times he’d been summoned from the club wouldn’t
even require a whole hand to count, and each and every one of those dire emergencies had been from someone in the War Office.

The note was from Trent, asking Colin to stop by Hawthorne House this evening. His stomach untwisted as he realized King and country had no immediate need of his services, but a fair amount of apprehension remained. The note was more vague than cryptic, but after five years of War Office associations, Colin braced himself for the worst. Was someone sick? Was Lady Georgina hurt? Ryland and Miranda should have reached Marshington Abbey yesterday, but what if something had gone awry?

Hawthorne House wasn’t all that close to the club, but the distance was short enough that Colin would probably have walked there on a normal day. Given that he had no idea what he would be called upon to do when he got there, though, he hired a hack.

The butler opened the door as Colin jogged up the steps. He still didn’t look too pleased to see Colin, though the slight frown that usually marred his face when Colin called on the women was gone. There must not be too much of an emergency then, or the butler would be welcoming his assistance.

“Good evening, sir. Lord Trent said you might be joining them. May I take your hat and coat?”

Colin handed over the items, worry turning to curiosity.
Them?
Who was he joining?

Trent entered the hall, a wide, easy smile on his face. “Good, you made it.” He stopped and looked Colin up and down. “I should have been more specific. There was no emergency. Georgina decided to stay in this evening, so Griffith invited several men over for dinner and cards. No women around. Sounds delightful, doesn’t it?”

It did, actually. As long as they didn’t expect him to talk business all evening. The regret lacing Colin’s voice was genuine. “I’m afraid I didn’t dress for dinner.”

Trent gestured toward the stairs. “I still have some clothing here, though it’s a bit out of date. I’m afraid anything of Griffith’s would be too large.”

That was an understatement. Griffith was the size of a small
boat. Trent’s clothing might hang a bit on Colin, but it should be wearable. And if he tied the cravat in the latest style, no one would think twice about the cut of the coat. Colin’s grin matched Trent’s. “Where’s your room?”

“Up the stairs and to the left. Fourth door on the right. Need me to show you?”

Colin laughed as Trent edged his way toward the masculine laughter spilling from the drawing room. The man must truly be tired of escorting his sisters around Town. “No, I can find it.”

“Join us when you’re ready. I don’t think dinner is supposed to be served for another hour.” Trent waved and entered the drawing room.

Colin climbed the steps and started down the corridor. A door suddenly wrenched open, releasing a distraught woman into the hall like a cannonball.

He flattened himself against the wall to keep from being knocked over by the little maid with brown hair escaping her cap and fat tears streaking down angry red cheeks.

“So sorry, sir.” She wiped her cheeks with her sleeves. “Can I help you?”

A shake of his head was all the permission the maid needed to scurry down the hall. Colin looked at the open door a few steps away. Only one person in this house would ever treat a servant in such a way that they’d leave a room in tears.

Colin had nothing but respect for Riverton, and he was coming to admire Trent as well. How a woman like Lady Georgina managed to grow up around them astounded Colin. Didn’t she see what she was becoming? Didn’t her family see it?

Why had no one done anything? It was possible they thought her too set in her ways. A week ago he might have agreed, but he’d seen her determination to help rescue Miranda, seen the way she tried to offer comfort. Those were not the actions of someone too far gone to change. God could work wonders with a little willingness. Maybe a little encouragement would send her in the right direction.

At any rate, something had to be done before she terrorized the entire staff.

Three long strides brought him to the door the maid had left open. A glance inside revealed a bed swathed in pink and green ruffles and lace.

Her bedchamber.

Heat crept up Colin’s neck as he forced his gaze away from the bed. He’d been hoping for the family parlor. No matter how lofty his goal, he couldn’t enter her bedchamber. The sense of disappointment and failure surprised him. He didn’t know why it bothered him so much, but the prickly pear in the midst of the gracious Hawthorne family seemed wrong somehow.

Even though he couldn’t enter, he couldn’t bring himself to leave either. At a glance everything was normal, but he couldn’t shake the idea that something was very wrong with what he was seeing.

The room was a riot of color. Aside from the various shades of pink and green in the decor, vibrant paintings hung on every wall, with more leaning against the cabinet near the window. A large curling G graced the bottom corner of each painting. He had admired her fire screens, but these were breathtaking. Did no one know she was such an exceptional painter?

And in the middle of the color, like a bright beacon of white light, was Georgina.

She sat at a pale-wood writing desk. Her head was bent over a paper that she kept turning every few seconds. Twisting her head to look at it sideways, she ran her finger along the surface.

What was she doing?

She growled—actually growled like a dog in an alley—and shoved the paper across the desk.

A thought flitted through Colin’s mind, too incredible to even fully form into conscious words. It couldn’t be. It simply couldn’t be. Not in a family as loving and well-off as this one. No matter how indulgent they might be, they’d have made Georgina get an education.

Wouldn’t they?

She slid a piece of paper toward her and dipped the quill in the ink. After squaring her shoulders like a soldier marching to battle, she set quill to paper.

Her movements were slow. Painfully slow.

After what couldn’t have been more than two words, she threw the quill on the desk and crumpled the paper into a ball. Her toss missed the fireplace, and the balled paper scraped against the wall before skidding along the floor toward Colin, allowing him a glimpse of the messiest, most unreadable writing he’d seen since he’d asked a group of illiterate sailors to sign a contract. No, this was even worse than that had been.

Colin dropped against the doorframe, thankful for its solidity. There was no ignoring the evidence before him.

Lady Georgina Hawthorne couldn’t read. He glanced down at the paper. Or write.

Thoughts raced through Colin’s head, each trying to capture his attention, like young boys playing a game of keep-away. Should he leave? Stay? Did this knowledge actually change anything? She was still obnoxious and mercenary.

He looked over his shoulder, as if he’d be able to see Trent and Riverton through the floors and walls. Did they know?

Too many questions existed for Colin to sweep into the room as the maid’s avenger, challenging Lady Georgina’s treatment of the rest of humanity. He backed into the passageway, choosing to leave her to her struggles and pray for the opportunity to broach the subject with Riverton. What else could he do?

His place as a friend of the family wasn’t nearly established enough to handle a secret of this magnitude.

A muffled sob sent chills down his spine and froze him midturn.

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t leave her. Not like this.

The very idea of the haughty and socially superior Lady Georgina in tears threw him off-kilter. The reality of it was enough to send his brain spinning, leaving him to rely on instinct.

Instinct said he should offer aid to a crying woman. Apparently there was a reason important enough to drive him into her chambers.

With a deep breath and a plea for God-given compassion, he crossed the threshold.

Georgina stabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. Stopping the tears would leave her face red and puffy, so she knew better than to try. When tears came it was best to give them rein, mop up the mess, and move on as if it never happened. Most of the time she even felt better afterward.

No, there was nothing wrong with crying, as long as one only allowed the perceived weakness in private. How many times had she cried into Harriette’s shoulder, despairing that she would ever learn to cope with her imperfection?

While she had dampened Harriette’s shoulder on countless occasions, she hadn’t cried in front of anyone else since she was a little girl. Not since she’d found Harriette and the two of them had made their plan, determined to fool everyone into thinking that Georgina was as bright as any other aristocratic young lady.

At such a young age neither girl was able to comprehend what they were making Harriette give up. The sacrifice had been so great, and where had it gotten them? Harriette was working as a lady’s maid, nursing a swollen ankle, mind muddled with laudanum, while Georgina sat in the midst of a possible emergency but without a way of discovering what the problem even was—much less come up with a solution.

She’d gone to Harriette, but there was no breaking through the laudanum-induced stupor. Even when Harriette managed to open her eyes, she seemed to think Georgina was twelve and they were plotting to fool the governess into thinking Georgina had written the essay on Greek history.

Georgina remembered that essay. Harriette had enjoyed writing it, gushing to Georgina about all she’d learned. When it came time to hand them in, Harriette hadn’t even blinked as she placed the paper with Georgina’s illegible writing attempts into the governess’ hand with
Harriette
scrawled across the top. She hadn’t
flinched when the governess called her stupid or when the woman lamented having to teach a wretched village girl because of Georgina’s strange insistence.

Harriette had even smiled as the governess scooped the beautifully written essay off Georgina’s desk, praising the penmanship, the opening lines, and even the choice of subject matter.

And now, it could all be for naught. All the mislaid insults, all the hiding. What would become of it now? Because it was either maintain the façade that Harriette had given everything to build, or break it down on the chance that Jane was truly in trouble.

How horrible would it be if Jane’s urgent message was merely another brilliant idea for her Friday salons? Despair brought a fresh wave of tears to Georgina’s eyes.

She felt a little guilty sending Margery from the room in tears, but what choice did Georgina have? The tears had been burning her eyes, threatening to spill over at any moment, and she couldn’t let the maid witness them. She didn’t trust Margery like she trusted Harriette.

Georgina searched for a dry spot on her handkerchief to catch the new flow of tears. What could she possibly do without Harriette?

“May I be of assistance?”

Georgina gripped the handkerchief tighter. The lightly tamed brogue traveled from her ear across her entire body. Even her toes went on alert, curling tightly in her slippers. She was not in the proper frame of mind to deal with this man.

If he was even real. The blasted man had been the voice of her conscience more often than not lately.

“Lady Georgina?”

She turned on the stool, surprised to find an expression of concern on his face and a clean handkerchief dangling from an extended arm. He wasn’t going to chide her? Make a subtle insult about her intelligence or lack of ambition? She narrowed her eyes, searching his face for a hint of his thoughts. Had he come in when he heard her crying? Or had he been there long enough to see her struggle with the letter?

Because the sodden mess in her hand was useless, she accepted the offered handkerchief. “Thank you.”

He shuffled his feet and cast a glance around the room as she dabbed at her eyes, more delicately than she had when she thought herself alone. There was no need to impress Mr. McCrae, but some habits were too deeply ingrained to ignore.

“May I be of assistance?” he repeated.