Page 24

Georgina shrugged and bent to pull on her stockings, the motions frank and shameless.

“Knowing yourself doesn’t exclude knowing other things.” She sounded nonchalant. “But if you don’t know yourself, the other things you know aren’t likely to do you or anyone else any good.”

This seemed pointed, aimed at her, or maybe Papa, and rather than begin a fresh argument, Elfreda took a deep breath.

“Will you let me onto your land or not?”

“You’re already here.” Georgina unbent. “And yes, I will.”

Well, that was easy. Shockingly easy.

Georgina continued. “On one condition.”

Of course. Elfreda tried to look calm.

“You must fritter.” Georgina said it with relish. “That’s your term. I prefer live. You must live, live like it’s 1818. Ideally, this would involve a velocipede, or a hot-air balloon, but given the scarcity of velocipedes and hot-air balloons in this godforsaken parish, I will have to come up with something else.”

“Anything,” she said at once, incautious, caught up in the excitement of winning her objective.

“A theatrical.”

“Anything but a theatrical.”

Georgina smirked. “About this truce. Am I permitted onto your land? May I indulge freely in your mummified apples?”

“My land is Papa’s land. So the answer is no.” She flushed to the tops of her ears. “And the Major’s appearance would be particularly unwelcome.”

“I’m sure I can win your father over as Miss Georgina Redmayne.” Georgina raised her arms and twirled. She was still barefoot and stumbled on the moss, bumping into Elfreda, then catching her by the elbow to keep herself steady.

“Because I can’t marry you,” murmured Georgina. The pressure of her hand was firm, and Elfreda’s elbow was tender, and the sweet pain of it nearly pressed a moan from her lips. She was unsteady enough herself to curl her fingers in the muslin at Georgina’s waist.

They stood like that, holding on to each other, long after the danger of falling had passed. So long that the danger returned.

Elfreda detached herself.

“We have an agreement, then,” she said, studiously avoiding Georgina’s eyes, afraid to see in them acknowledgment that something significant had just occurred. Or maybe afraid of the opposite. No acknowledgment at all.

Because she wasn’t sure what else to do, she gave a nod, then an awkward wave, and started walking through the trees.

Georgina caught up, her shoes in her hands. “I should go too. Mrs. Herridge isn’t my chaperone, but if I misstep, she’ll pack Anne straight off to Halifax. She’d almost recovered from her dyspepsia when she got a glimpse of me in breeches and suffered a fit of apoplexy. Hence my return to muslin.”

Elfreda glanced over. Georgina walked with a supple stride, the very picture of grace, even gripping dirty shoes.

Her brain revolved the conversation in the pergola and snagged on a tiny bit of language.

“Miss Poskitt used they when referring to you. It’s a small thing, but…”

“You can’t ignore bad grammar.” Georgina’s brows had a rueful slant. “I know.”

“It wasn’t bad grammar.” Elfreda frowned in concentration. “It was deliberate. Do your close friends say they instead of she when they talk about you?”

“Mostly.” Georgina was looking at Elfreda sidelong. “Not in front of Mrs. Herridge. I can’t remember who used it first. But I encouraged it. I like the fit.”

“The fit?”

“Sometimes I feel like she is a too-tight corset. He is nice for a change but chokes after a while, like a cinched cravat. They is less constricting. Comfortable even.”

“Pronouns aren’t comfortable, or uncomfortable.” Elfreda halted in her tracks. “Pronouns don’t feel like anything.”