The older she grew, the more she’d realized the fears were childish.
Until the fears began to come true.
At seven years old, she’d wandered into her nursery and found her beloved nanny absent. “Mrs. Jennings has simply found other employment, dear. Do not carry on so. I assure you, we shall find another,” Mamma had explained, with a quaint pat to Georgina’s head.
Another nanny had come and gone.
Then a governess.
Georgina had prayed on her knees every night that the kind-faced Miss Hasswell would stay forever, but one day, even she bid goodbye with the news that a marriage had been proposed to her.
But then Agnes had come. She had arrived in a rattling hackney, nothing with her but a frayed dress, a worn cloak, and a small valise.
Mamma said her parents had died of consumption, that she was entirely alone, and Georgina had determined to make the sullen child into a happy playmate. Together, they had slipped into Mamma’s wardrobe when she was away—which was more often than not—and pretended balls in the oversized dresses. They had drawn pictures on the foggy morning window panes. They had studied together, eaten meals together, taken walks together—and for the first time in her life, Georgina had felt confident she had found someone who would never leave.
After all, Agnes had no one to leave to.
With an involuntary tremor, Georgina stood back to her feet, her wet clothes deepening her chill. She should not have comforted herself so quickly at fourteen years old, for only one year later, the boy she was promised to marry did the same thing.
He left without imparting a word.
Then you.She glanced from the ceiling to the rug, bitterness choking her, wishing Papa’s smiling face were not so mingled with his dead one.Why, Papa? How could you do this to me?
Was it because she had fussed at him the day before for refusing her the new dress she’d spotted inLa Belle Assemblée? Was it because, more and more, Mamma found reasons to depart London? Or was it nothing either of them had done? Was it something within himself, a secret hurt she’d been far too busy to detect?
Georgina moved to the rosewood stand, where the old yellow roses were still heaped in a disconcerting pile. Whoever this stranger was, he knew something about Papa. Perhaps he had the answers she needed.
With vividness, his eyes flashed back to her. Their dark, cold depths. The sinister gape to his lips. The haunting expressions. Dear heavens, what if Georgina had been wrong from the beginning? Mamma too?
A prickling sensation worked through her. What if Papa had not killed himself at all?
Of everywhere on Sowerby grounds, the stables smelled the most like home.
Simon leaned against the cast-iron top of a stall, reaching out to stroke the muscled gray horse he’d just finished riding. The smooth hide scraped against his fading calluses, a reminder that he had not worked a plow or swung an axe in too long.
He was about ready to start chopping down garden boxwoods just for the sport.
“Ah, Mr. Fancourt.”
Simon turned to the approaching figure.
Sunlight filtered in from the open stable doors, the beams revealing dust and flying midges, as Sir Walter removed his beaver hat. His stance seemed uncertain. “Your father never had any qualms in expressing displeasure, in the event my visits were untimely. I hope you will do the same.”
Simon managed a smile. “I think I understand why the two of you were such friends.”
“He was obstinate, and I was single-minded. In any event, we found common ground.” Sir Walter crunched over the straw-littered brick floor. “I just finished dinner with your mother and children. They are as singular as you always were as a child.”
“They are good children.”
“All children are good when they are young. It is the grown creatures who become corrupt and devious. As one who deals with one criminal after another, I should know better than anyone.” He released a heavy breath. “But that is not why I have come. I wished to tell you that I have spoken with Lord Gilchrist about the ordeal at the picnic.”
“Who?”
“The baron you quite lifted off his toes. Or have you done so to more than one gentleman since your return?” At Simon’s glower, Sir Walter cleared his throat, as if to keep back evidence of his amusement.
“Forgive the ill humor. It is not a jesting matter, certainly not to your mother’s account, nor to the rest of society, I assure you.”
“What’s done is done.”
