The Proposal (24 page)

A thinner, younger version of Edward came over and shook her hand.

‘He’s my plus one, for my sins.’

‘Your brother is your plus one?’ she asked, her pulse racing.

‘This is a seriously good party, Georgia,’ said Christopher, smiling. ‘I’ve met a famous pastry chef, an artist and an Italian count from Perugia, and I’ve only been here ten minutes.’

‘A famous pastry chef?’ laughed Georgia, feeling giddy. ‘Is that how André is describing himself now?’

‘Pardon the interruption, but could I have a word?’ Estella looked serious as she led Georgia to one side.

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Georgia, out of earshot of her guests.

‘Don Daly has just arrived. They haven’t seen Sally since last night. They called us at the house this morning to see if she was with you, but we must have left for the boathouse. They know that your party is this evening and wondered if she’d turned up.’

‘You know, I don’t think she has,’ said Georgia, looking around. ‘I thought it was strange I hadn’t heard from her all day, considering it’s my birthday and she promised to help us decorate this afternoon.’

‘Do you have any idea where she might be? Mr and Mrs Daly are pretty frantic.’

‘Wait. Wait a moment,’ she said, remembering the bundle of letters she had received earlier that day. At the time she had been on the lookout for Edward’s handwriting, but thinking about it, there had been one unfranked envelope covered in Sally’s girlish scrawl.

She went over to the canvas sack she had brought with her that morning. She fished out the purple envelope and ripped it open. There was a single sheet of paper inside.

Happy birthday, darling Georgia.

Wishing you the merriest of days. I’d love to be celebrating with you tonight but something strange and wonderful and exciting has happened and I’m afraid I won’t be able to make it. I am moving to Italy with Gianni, you see, and we are leaving today. I know some people won’t understand this decision. Some people might even try to stop us. That’s why I haven’t told my parents yet, but I hope you will show them this note after you have read it.

Rest assured that I am happy. I always said that my life would begin when I found the person I wanted to spend it with. And here I am – ready to start my adventure.

Don’t spend your special night worrying about me. Gianni is capable and strong. I will contact you all when we have settled in Italy, which I expect will be in just a few short days.

Your friend Sally

‘I don’t believe it.’

Estella grabbed the letter out of her hand and scanned it.

‘Who on earth is Gianni?’

‘An Italian count.’

Estella looked momentarily impressed.

‘My goodness, Don is going to be furious,’ she muttered. ‘I’m going to have to tell him.’

Georgia watched her mother speak to Don, who was turning more and more purple. After a few minutes he stormed over and demanded that Georgia tell him everything she knew about Gianni.

‘Honestly, Mr Daly, I don’t know a thing. I met him once for just a few seconds.’

‘You don’t even know his surname? How can the police help us if we haven’t got his surname? A port alert. That’s what we need. A port alert,’ and he was gone, flying out of the boathouse into his waiting Rolls-Royce.

Georgia stood on the path in a glow of a thousand fairy lights and felt a wave of concern for her friend.

She supposed Sally would be all right, but really, they didn’t know Gianni from Adam, and just because he had the right breeding didn’t mean to say he was the right sort. After all, Sally’s previous track record with men proved she was not a particularly decent judge of character.

She frowned, thinking about something Christopher Carlyle had said when they had first met, and went back into the boathouse.

She tapped Edward on the shoulder, and he spun round, looking pleased to see her.

‘Where’s your brother?’

‘Talking to whichever pretty girl will listen to him,’ he smiled, his grey eyes twinkling.

They found him at the makeshift bar, chatting to Clarissa.

‘Christopher. You said you’d met an Italian count here tonight. Which one is he?’

Christopher rubbed his chin and looked around.

‘Dark hair. Dinner jacket.’

‘That could describe anyone here,’ said Edward.

‘He had a red carnation in his buttonhole. There can’t be many of those,’ Christopher said weakly.

‘Help me look,’ said Georgia, quickly explaining about Sally’s letter.

‘She’s run off with her boyfriend?’ said Edward, incredulous.

‘It looks like it.’

‘Okay. You go that way, I’ll take the other side.’

There was no sign of the count inside the boathouse, so she went outside, praying that he had not yet left. A few couples were holding hands and watching the Thames shimmer like Indian ink, but none of the men had a red carnation in his lapel. She moved to the side of the building – a tangle of trees and bushes. She knew from the party in Oxfordshire that this was the perfect clandestine spot for young lovers. If he was not here, then her only lead to Sally’s Gianni was gone.

She heard a rustle, and then a soft sound like a moan.

She pushed back the undergrowth and saw two people ahead of her, close together, almost touching. Her eyes searched for a red carnation, and then a beam of moonlight caught them and she realised that it was André and Frederick.

They both turned and saw Georgia, but she sprang back and ran towards the boathouse.

Edward was standing on the balcony with a dark-haired man with the identifying flower.

‘You’d better explain yourself,’ he said gruffly as Georgia approached.

The dark-haired boy looked sheepish.

‘What’s going on?’ said Georgia, still shocked from what she had seen in the bushes.

‘Georgia, this is Pietro. He is a count from Perugia. Or so he’s been telling all the debs and their mothers when he gatecrashes their parties.’

‘You’re not a count?’ said Georgia, her mouth dropping open.

‘Tell her what you just told me,’ ordered Edward. Georgia felt quite excited by the way he had taken charge of the situation.

‘I work in the Rubens Hotel,’ he said, not looking at her.

‘Doing what?’

‘I am a bus boy in the restaurant,’ he said awkwardly. ‘It started out as a joke. A mistake. One day we were walking home from work in our dinner suits. We saw a party, people, beautiful ladies spilling out on to the street. We went to the door, and we walked straight inside. Someone asked who we were and we couldn’t say we were two Italian bus boys from the Rubens, so we pretended to be Perugian aristocracy. It seemed a good way to meet girls.’

‘Who’s we?’ asked Georgia.

‘Myself and Gianni.’

‘Sally’s Gianni?’

‘Where are they?’ asked Edward firmly.

Pietro hesitated.

‘If you don’t tell us, I am going to call the police and they will have you deported back to Italy quicker than you can say con artist,’ growled Edward.

‘They are going to Italy.’

‘We know that from Sally’s letter. Where? When?’

‘First they are going to Scotland. They are going to get married.’

‘Married!’ gasped Georgia.

‘He loves her!’ insisted Pietro.

‘He loves her? He’s a fortune-hunter who wants to get his hands on her money.’

‘When did they leave?’ asked Edward more calmly.

‘They were catching the afternoon train to Carlisle.’

‘Do you know where they are staying?’

Pietro shook his head.

‘How old is Sally?’ asked Edward quickly.

‘Seventeen.’

‘They’ll be in Gretna Green,’ said Edward bleakly.

‘Gretna Green?’

‘You have to be eighteen or over to marry without your parents’ consent. In Scotland you only have to be sixteen. Gretna is the first Scottish town over the border – maybe ten miles from Carlisle. It’s geared up for runaway weddings.’

‘We should tell Sally’s parents, and then the police.’

‘The poor family,’ Edward said drily. ‘If the police know, it will leak out to the press. A deb eloping to Gretna . . . That’s going to be one hell of a scandal.’

Georgia imagined the shame of her friend in the newspapers. She knew how brutal high society could be, and she thought of all Mr and Mrs Daly’s good intentions being thrown away thanks to the charm and cunning of a hotel waiter.

‘Then let’s stop them.’

‘Stop them?’

‘Stop them getting married. Edward, I have to.’

‘We’d better get going, then,’ said Edward decisively.

‘You’ll come with me? To Gretna Green?’

‘If you can think of a way to leave your party and get in the car before I change my mind.’

They waited another hour, until the crowds drifted off and Peter, Sybil, Clarissa and Estella were ready to go home. Georgia told her mother she was going on to Soho with some friends, which was not a particularly unusual occurrence. Many debs floated from dance to nightclub to house party, and parents turned a blind eye to their daughters returning home at dawn.

It was not possible to catch the train to Scotland. Edward’s family had a shooting lodge north of the border and he knew the timetables up there off pat. There was the Royal Scot morning train, an afternoon departure and the evening Caledonian, but if they left it until the next day, they ran the risk of Sally already being married. There was nothing for it but to drive. The road map of Great Britain was changing – motorways were being built which would apparently cut the travel time north by hours. But for now they had to take the A1 up to Birmingham and then Manchester. Edward’s Aston Martin was fast, but the journey was long and tedious. Georgia chatted as much as she could to keep him awake, although she found herself nodding off at intervals.

She wound down the window to let some fresh air into the car.

‘I think it’s a bit sad that Sally wants to get married alone,’ she sighed, sucking on one of the sherbert lemons they had bought from a tobacco shop.

‘I do believe she’ll have Gianni at her side,’ smiled Edward, his eyes fixed on the road.

‘She’s always been in love with the idea of love and was almost certainly seduced by the idea of
la dolce vita
and being a countess in Italy. It’s just so sad that she’s been duped. It’s going to turn her hard and cynical . . .’

‘A bit like you?’

‘How am I hard and cynical?’ she said, sitting up in her seat.

‘“Marriage is just a contract” . . . Does your boyfriend know that?’

‘Boyfriend?’ she said.

‘At the party. You were dancing with him. Head on shoulder. You looked quite in love with the idea of love yourself.’

‘Ah, Frederick,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m not entirely sure I’m his type,’ she said diplomatically. ‘The truth is – we’re just friends.’

They sat in silence for a few more minutes. Edward looked thoughtful, concentrating hard at the wheel. Watching him, she felt a wave of emotion so strong it almost took her breath away. She told herself she was just tired, and prayed that all the Season’s silliness hadn’t turned her into the sort of girl who loved the idea of being in love. But sitting inside the close confines of the car, she wanted to stay like this for ever. She liked the way she could tell him everything about her day. She liked the anticipation of what he would reveal about himself next. She liked the way her tummy felt – all fluttery and light – when she glanced over at him and saw his profile: straight nose, long dark lashes and those eyes that seemed to look right inside her and know what she was about to say before she had even said it. She liked the way everything just felt right when she was with him. Even if she had lost her handbag or been unwelcomely groped by a Welsh Guard or thrown her broken shoes into the river. Just being with him mended it all.

It was dawn now, and the soft sun rising over the rolling hills of the Lake District was quite beautiful. Another ninety minutes and they had passed the Welcome to Scotland sign and followed the road into Gretna, past the marriage rooms, which apparently had seen more than a thousand marriages performed since 1830. She hoped Sally and Gianni’s hadn’t been one of them.

The village was still quiet and Edward switched off the ignition of the car.

‘They could be anywhere,’ said Georgia, listening to the engine slowly die down.

‘That’s if they are even in Gretna.’

‘Now you tell me,’ she said, realising that their long, long drive could have been a total waste of time.

‘It’s a small place. There can’t be too many guest houses and hotels.’

‘And Sally definitely likes her luxury. She’s not going to put up with some poky cottage even if she is deliriously happy at the prospect of being a countess.’

‘Good thinking,’ said Edward.

He got out of the car and started walking, his eyes scanning the street. Finally they saw a black and white manor house, approached by a long drive.

‘What about here?’ he asked as Georgia read the sign – Gretna Hall.

‘I bet this is the grandest place in the village,’ she agreed.