Karen Harbaugh (14 page)

How very odd it was, this kissing, and how new! I was not sure if I liked it or not, for it made me feel very strange. It had been cold in the carriage, and now I felt quite warm, but Lucas’s fingers, like delicate feathers moving along the line of my jawbone to my ear, made me shiver. A faint scent of spice came to me—bay rum?—and I wished I could catch that intriguing scent again. I was curious. Perhaps . . . perhaps I would feel less shivery if I moved toward him.... I tentatively put my hand up to his cheek.

It was as if he read my thoughts, for I felt his hand move to my waist and pull me closer. His lips lifted slightly from mine, and he sighed, “Lovely...” before he descended again, this time missing my mouth altogether and moving toward my ear—and down. The change did not matter in the least, I noted hazily. I felt just as tingly, just as warm and shivery as before.

It was not until a soft and delicate caress disturbed the chain that held my pendant and caused the pearl to roll that my senses returned. I sat up in shock, pushing Lord Ashcombe forcibly away.

I pressed myself against the side of the carriage away from him, staring at him and breathing in gasps. He, too, was staring at me and with an odd, puzzled expression in his eyes, as if he were wondering how I had come to sit across from him in a carriage. I looked down, and to my alarm I found my cloak had come undone.

I did not know what to think. I had thought of Lucas as Mama’s erstwhile and too youthful admirer, then a friend, and Samantha’s brother. Indeed, he had always acted as brotherly toward me as he had toward Samantha. But one does not kiss one’s sister the way he kissed me, I felt sure, and this abrupt change of behavior—or was it so very abrupt?—frightened me a little. This evening had changed him—or perhaps it had changed me?

Now I saw how really foolish my ambitions to become a governess were. Indeed, Lucas was right. After all, if he, the brother of my friend, could not keep from kissing me, how would it be in a stranger’s household with no friends or relations to watch over me? I remembered suddenly what Mama had once said about being alone with a man—that society would think wrongly of me because of it. Surely that was true, for some had thought it of Mama! Shame made my face warm—I should not have done this kissing, and curiosity was no excuse.

I glanced at Lucas. He still seemed bewildered, but a look of concern came over his face. He held out his hand to me. “Georgia—I am sorry. I did not mean—I should not have, well—Not that it wasn’t—” He cleared his throat. “I mean to say—”

I still felt strange and breathless and trembling all at once. I tried to sit up straight, but my legs felt shaky, and it was awkward to push up with them. I fumbled against the side of the carriage for some purchase so as to straighten myself. My hand touched metal, and glad of some support, I leaned against it.

Alarm flashed across Lucas’s face. “Georgia, don’t—!”

Suddenly the carriage door flew open, rain slashed at my face, and thunder pounded through my head. I knew no more.

Chapter Seven

I awoke amidst a raging headache, my body was racked with pain, and I was hot and cold by turns. The doctor came, and I remembered hearing the words
concussion
and
influenza.
Soon the aches and dizziness faded; and Mama wept in relief to see that my illness was mild. However, I spent more time gazing out the window from my bed than making the effort to be up and doing. There was something so very comfortable about my bed with its white ruffles and blue-and-rose canopy, and my room felt especially warm and sheltering when I gazed out at London’s offering of waterlogged clouds and dank fog. At times my room seemed to be a world unto itself, calm and peaceful, with Mama and Grimley its only other inhabitants, acting like slightly worried bees in an encompassing hive.

I did not remember entirely how I came home, but it apparently caused quite an uproar when Lord Ashcombe carried me in. I wondered briefly how he explained my state, then left the thought. Whatever it was, I would make clear that it was really my own foolishness. I tried to tell Mama so, but she only hushed me and said I could talk later. I was tired, and I ached, so I let it alone.

At first, with my initial listlessness, I acknowledged them as much as a queen bee would her helpers. As I healed, however, my youthful constitution demanded more activity—or perhaps Mama’s anxious buzzing eventually wore through the thick coating I seemed to have on my nerves. But all at once it seemed she tucked the bedclothes about me and shifted my pillows once too often. “Mother, I am quite comfortable enough, if you please!” I snapped one afternoon.

She started and stepped back. “I am sorry, my dear! I was only looking to your comfort.” To my surprise, she cast an anxious look at Sir Jeremy, who was the only visitor allowed me for the first two weeks of my convalescence. He only seemed to sit more firmly on the armchair by the window and cast me an amused look. It occurred to me that Mama of late had tried to keep Sir Jeremy and myself from meeting for any length of time— probably to keep us from verbal wrestling. I smiled as sweetly as I could at him and saw that Mama looked rather resigned.

“Dear Mama,” I complained gently, “I do feel so thirsty. Perhaps some lemonade ... ? And please don’t let Grimley make it; she makes it too weak.” I smiled winningly at her. “I like the way
you
make it best.” She eyed me warily for a moment, then sighed and left to get the lemonade.

I gazed at Sir Jeremy for a bit before saying in a conversational tone, “So, why haven’t you married Mama yet?” I was not sure what made me take the direct route, for I delighted in Tactics and Strategy. I think it was because of the overwhelming tiredness and lethargy that had come over me during my convalescence and the frustration brought on by my own tortuous methods.

I finally admitted that to myself. It was a childish thing to have done; all this planning and scheming and imagining I could make all perfect by waving the wand of sheer will. And I was not a child anymore after all. I had gone to a dinner party with my hair up high and neckline low, and ... and I had been kissed.

I blushed at that last thought and shivered and wondered if I was totally wanton and if it showed. Apparently, Sir Jeremy did not perceive my changed state, for he seemed to take my blush as relating to my bluntness and merely smiled. “It is customary, I think, to receive the lady’s permission before one marries her,” he replied. “I did ask, you know.” His smile turned wry.

“So what of that?” I said testily, shifting my pillows. “You must know she loves you.”

“Does she? That seems a strange reason for refusing me, don’t you think? I am considered to be on the rakish side; a discreet friendship may be more palatable to some than a public association such as marriage. Perhaps that is the case with your mother.” He shrugged carelessly, but his expression saddened and he turned to look out the window.

I rolled my eyes at how silly some elders could be (vowing that I would never be so), and I dived into the bedcovers to stifle a chuckle—unsuccessfully. Sir Jeremy’s eyes shot to mine as I peeped out from behind the comforter. I unveiled my grin and said, “If you must know, she refused you because she thinks
she
is unworthy of you!”

A gleam sparked in his eye, but only briefly. “Celia always did say you had a fine imagination,” he replied.

“Not at all,” I said promptly. “Mama told me so before I came back from school.”

“And why would she reveal anything of the sort to you?”

A spark of anger flared within me, but I damped it down. “I am not telling a falsehood,” I said as calmly as I could. “It’s because I asked her. She’s been very lonely.” I blushed.

I think my blush convinced him, for he nodded and said: “She is a difficult woman to convince, you know.” He looked out at the fog again.

I sighed. “Yes, I know. She believes people think she is not entirely respectable and that she would ruin you by marrying you.”

“Ha! The rich and rakish Sir Jeremy Swift? Hardly.” His hand gripped the arm of the chair, then relaxed. “The invitations would flood my house once I married. A married man”—he smiled ironically—”being eminently more respectable than a bachelor.”

“Exactly!” I exclaimed. “Only she does not see it that way. A tradesman’s daughter, she says, shouldn’t look as high as Sir Jeremy Swift, and if you don’t know what is good for you, she does!”

He started and looked back at me from the window, brought back from his thoughts. “I shouldn’t mention such disreputable things to you, my girl—you should have stopped me.” He looked stern, but his eyes smiled.

“Oh, I don’t mind,” I said comfortably. “You are going to be my papa, after all.”

He grinned in spite of himself. “And how am I going to do that, seeing that your dear mama refuses to marry me, stubborn woman that she is?”

“You shall abduct her, of course!” I said, hugging the comforter to me and bouncing gleefully in the bed.

I overheard once that a rake makes the most exacting of husbands and fathers; Sir Jeremy’s eyes grew quite steely cold, and he told me to quit bouncing about like a hoyden, and that Mama had let me read too many novels. “Abduct her. Indeed.
Quite
a respectable way to become married,” he said with a cool irony that made me quit bouncing and in fact made me shrink under the covers. I was also a little disappointed. I had always thought rakes would be quite innovative about getting reluctant ladies to do as they wished, but Sir Jeremy seemed sadly lacking in this skill.

“Well . . . well, Mama has a great deal of sensibility, you know; she might have taken your acceptance of her refusal in the wrong way,” I said tentatively.

“Oh?” he replied skeptically.

“She may think your lack of persistence in the matter means you agree with her conception of her place in society.”

“Nonsense,” replied Sir Jeremy. “She must know it is because I respect her wish not to marry me.”

“You must admit that though Mama is very beautiful, she is not at all vain,” I said. “She may not think it respect, but contempt for her social background.”

Sir Jeremy’s brows drew together in thought.

“Besides,” I said earnestly, “you needn’t really
abduct
her. I can imagine a nice day, fit for driving out to the country, a light luncheon packed away; and if a special license was
accidentally
packed in it, and if you just
happened
to view a quaint church with interesting architecture as well, I would think that one would be naturally
inclined
to go along with fate and have it done.” I smiled hopefully at him. “Wouldn’t you think so?”

“No,” he said baldly, but he glanced once more at me before gazing out the window again, looking almost as if he were about to laugh. I began to argue with him, but Mama came in then with the lemonade. I settled into a depressed fog between sips, mentally cursing the stubborn, outright imperviousness of the older generation.

Mama’s and Sir Jeremy’s visit was over soon enough, which was just as well, for I wanted to be alone. I let my eyes droop a few times, and Mama, ever vigilant, stood up decisively to ring for a maid to clear away the refreshment. Sir Jeremy made his excuses to leave. They went to the door at the same time, and he held it open for Mama. “I do not want to see your mother run ragged any more than she is now, so rest well, young lady,” he admonished.

“Now, Jeremy!” said Mama as she stepped past him. He unceremoniously pushed her through, and before the door closed, he turned to me once more. “And I shall take care of the rest!” he said. A slim hand appeared around the door, pulling him out of sight and closing the door.

I could hear Mama’s voice, scolding. “I must say, Jeremy, you act no differently from a little boy sometimes!”

I sank back into my pillows with a sigh and closed my eyes. Somehow, I fell asleep much faster than I had before.

* * * *

The next few days saw the clouds drifting northward, for a fine south wind had sprung up and swept clean all the corners of London’s cobwebby ceiling. Then flowers bloomed in my bedroom, for I was able to receive get-well gifts and then, finally, visitors.

I woke one morning to find Mama arranging flowers in a vase next to the bed. “Roses!” I exclaimed. The blooms were not large, but they were well formed and a deep pink color, fading to a lighter pink white at the petal edges. I knew they must have been hothouse roses, but they had a gentle, sweet scent nevertheless.

“From an admirer, love,” replied Mama, her voice teasing. I looked carefully at her but said nothing, unwilling to guess who it was. She laid a card on my lap.

Opening it, I let out a breath I did not know I had been holding. “Oh, it’s Sir Daniel Bassett,” I said, and relaxed against the pillows. “He is related to the Ashcombes; I met him at Samantha’s party.”

Mama lifted an eyebrow. “He must have been quite taken with you to send roses.”

I shrugged. “He was no more attentive to me than he was to Samantha. He is rather amusing, and flirts, but that is all.” I looked around the room. “Did anything else come while I was asleep?”

“Greedy!” Mama reproved, but laughed. “Yes, two things. Samantha and Lord Ashcombe stopped by not three quarters of an hour ago. Here’s the first.” She handed me a brown package.

I opened the note attached to it. “It’s from Samantha.” I read the note. “‘I hope you are getting well; Lucas and I shall visit again to make sure you are! As you might guess, the package contains a book. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.’“ I tore the brown wrapping in my haste to see the title, then lifted it reverently from the shreds. “Oh, Mama! It’s
Pride and Prejudice^.
Samantha must have remembered that I haven’t read this yet.” I eagerly but gently opened the front cover and started to read.

Her slim hand closed the book again. “Really, my dear! You
do
have one more present, you know. You can read later.”

“Is this from Samantha, too?” I asked, taking the slim package. Mama merely smiled. The brown wrapping covered a black box, and inside was a note atop a swath of tissue. I opened the note. “I deeply regret I distressed you so the night of Samantha’s party,” said the dark, angular writing. “It must have been the lemonade. I hope you will forgive me and allow me to pay my respects in person. Yr Obed. Serv’t, Lucas Ashcombe.” Lemonade! I thought to myself, and almost laughed, but a lump in my throat turned it into a wobbly smile instead. My hand was almost steady as I laid aside the tissue in the box and lifted out a delicate fan.