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“Shhh.” Georgie twisted toward the carriage. Mrs. Alderwalsey, Elf, the twins, the coachman, and the horses were all staring. “One more moment! He needs directions.” They snapped back around. “Phipps. I can’t help you.”
“You have to help me.” Phipps stuffed his hat on his head. The hedge had poked various holes in his coat. Georgie had never seen him look so seedy. Typically, he put Nicholas Fluff to shame. He had the face not of a prince but an archangel. Now stubble roughed his jaw, and his eyes were bloodshot.
“It’s Lady Cecelia.” At least he was whispering. “That’s who my father picked as my bride. Cecy, who clings like a limpet. She’s been in love with me since she was a child. I can’t do it. It would feel like drowning a sack of kittens. Not to mention she’ll cry about my indifference to her mother, and her mother will complain to my mother, and I’ll never know a day’s peace in my life.”
“A horrid predicament,” acknowledged Georgie, with more sympathy. “But there’s nothing I can do. I’m sorry.”
“What is happening?” called Mrs. Alderwalsey. “I have not the patience. Introduce me to Mr. Hawthorne.”
“There’s nothing I can do,” repeated Georgie, meeting Phipps’s red-threaded eyes but briefly before looking away. The whole business felt shabby. But the last time they and Phipps had been together, three people had nearly died. Enough was enough.
“There is something,” muttered Phipps, but Georgie was already turning, hurrying back to the carriage.
That’s why Phipps had to yell.
“Marry me!”
17
Later that day, Elfreda found herself wandering between the standing stones in the garden. She’d slipped off her shoes and stockings, and the grass alternately warmed and cooled her bare feet as she crossed through the shadows cast by the stones. Around and around.
She would listen to Mrs. Alderwalsey. She would write to Aunt Susan. Tell her she knew what her husband had offered, how Papa had responded. Thank her. Swallow her pride and admit that Agnes was lonely and languishing. That Hilda and Matilda had journeyed fifty miles in a trunk. That Papa had paid the fare for a stagecoach and left them with buttons to get the rest of the way home. That her hair was straight as a pin, and the house was a shambles, and she didn’t know how to go on.
But what then? Aunt Susan couldn’t take in her sisters, not if Papa didn’t relent. And she couldn’t fix the situation with curling tongs and castor oil. It was beyond repair.
Around and around.
No, she wouldn’t write to Aunt Susan. She would write to Papa at the inn. Let him know they’d arrived home safely. She would write to William Aubin-Aubrey as well. About her work on Two Dissertations, about the bluff, the camp, all of it. He’d show Papa, though, wouldn’t he? And Papa would feel betrayed—rightly so. He supported her, and it was wrong to circumvent him. But didn’t he limit her as well? What if it wasn’t her sex, her emotions, but him allowing her to go so far, and no farther?
Around and around.
When she heard footsteps approaching, she didn’t pause, didn’t look toward the sound.
“Hwat?” she demanded, exploding the initial h, like Papa, a warning. If her sisters could refrain from disturbing her for another quarter hour, the night would go better for everyone.
“I hoped we could talk.”
She stopped short and looked. Georgie was coming toward her. They were first in shadow, then in the slanting light.
They’d donned a gown of spotted muslin, a tribute, perhaps, to Mrs. Alderwalsey, sky blue, trimmed with black ribbon to match the black dots. Their hair was burnished by the setting sun. They caught her eye and smiled. The smile caught her heart.
She was glad the shadow hid her expression. “I thought you’d be on your way to Gretna Green by now.”
Back on the lane, they’d scrambled into the carriage, exclaiming in shock at the sudden proposal, calling Mr. Hawthorne a rattle, a cad, and a libertine. As acting went, it had seemed fairly good. But then again, it had seemed like acting, which defeated the purpose. She hadn’t believed them for a second.
“That was Lord Phillip,” she said. “Your betrothed.”
“How did—” they began, then laughed, and shook their head. “Anne. Anne told you. Yes, Lord Phillip. Phipps. But he’s not my betrothed.”
“He was, though. And he wants to be again. And you want to return to London. So…” She trailed off with a vague gesture in the direction of Scotland.
“There are a few more elements weighing in the balance.” Georgie was studying her now, with an uncomposed look on their face that seemed very much not like acting. “Did you really think I’d leave without saying goodbye?”
She’d been trying not to think of it. “Is that what this is? You’re saying goodbye?”
“No.” They joined her in the shadow. “I do want to go, but not with Phipps, not like that.”
They wanted to go. They were going. It was important to keep it front of mind. And difficult when they were in front of her, smiling that Sphinx-like smile, as though they were the keeper of some marvelous secret. She used to feel excluded by that smile. Now she was inside it, or the smile was inside her. She was sharing its conspiracy.
