Chapter Twenty-Three
The next morning, Georgie slept late. This was unlike her—she was an early riser, despite how often she stayed up late; it was a joke in the family that she needed less sleep than the average person.
But this morning, she was in bed until half nine—hours later than usual—and did not, in fact, awaken until she became dimly aware of a pounding at her bedroom door.
“What?” she called, not bothering to attempt to sound anything other than peevish, and a moment later Abigail poked her head through the door.
“Are you dead?” her sister asked bluntly. “Dying? Ill? Having some sort of personal crisis?” Her expression turned canny. “I expect it’s the latter.”
“Go away.”
From her spot on the floor, Egg whined fretfully, and Georgie cast her an apologetic look. Wonderful. Now she was even worrying the dog.
Abigail rolled her eyes. “I need to be off. I’m taking Papa to purchase a new hat—he got sunburned on his head yesterday when we were on a walk—and then I’m going to the Scrumptious Scone to help Mrs. Chester for a few hours.”
Georgie blinked at her sister—wide awake and fully dressed before ten in the morning—and wondered, in a wild moment, where the sister she’d spent her entire life with had gone. When had Abigail grown up and how had Georgie failed to notice?
Something of her thoughts must have shown on her face, because Abigail’s smile turned a bit smug.
“It’s rather enjoyable, seeing you at a loss for words, you know.
By the way,” she added, as she turned to leave, “Sebastian’s downstairs waiting for you.
He’s been lurking around the breakfast room ever since he came downstairs, more than an hour ago.
He seems rather… agitated.” She lowered her voice to a stage whisper. “He’s refusing to eat.”
And then, after imparting that astonishing bit of information, she was gone.
Georgie was downstairs five minutes later, Egg at her heels; she’d pulled on her pair of gardening dungarees, thinking that she might work in the garden for much of the day—and thinking, too, that she wanted to look as shabby and horrible as possible, if Sebastian thought that they were going to have some sort of romantic farewell before he caught his train. Men!
When she reached the base of the stairs, she found Sebastian deep in conversation with Papa; he said something that made Papa laugh, and something within Georgie softened at the sound. She cleared her throat, and Sebastian and Papa turned to watch as she descended the last couple of steps.
“Hello,” she said warily.
Papa frowned. “Georgie, love, are you unwell? It’s not like you to sleep this late.”
Georgie matched his frown. “No. I’m merely tired, Papa.
” She paused, and wondered, startled, when had been the last time she’d admitted even the slightest bit of weakness to her father.
She spent so much of her time ensuring that her family was well, that the wheels of Radcliffe Hall turned smoothly.
For once, it was rather nice to not pretend to be all right, when she was feeling anything but.
Papa opened his mouth, but Abigail was there all of a sudden, seizing him by the elbow and practically pulling him out the door.
“We’ll see you later, Georgie,” she called over her shoulder.
With considerably more warmth she added, “Sebastian,” and dimpled at him.
He grinned at her in return. Georgie watched all this with exceedingly bad humor.
“Don’t you have a train to catch?” she asked, the second the door shut behind her family.
“That depends,” he said casually.
“Depends,” Georgie repeated. “Depends on what, exactly?”
“Depends on whether you’ll come with me.”
Everything around Georgie seemed to go still and silent. Her focus was solely fixed on Sebastian, wearing…
She blinked. His trousers weren’t perfectly pressed. His hair was a bit disheveled. She leaned closer. His jumper was on inside out.
“What is happening?” she said aloud, wondering if she was having a stroke.
“Not permanently,” he said, taking a step closer to her. “Just for a visit, for a couple of nights. I thought you might… well—” Here he broke off, looking a bit sheepish. “I thought you might need the reminder that London isn’t so far from Buncombe-upon-Woolly, after all.”
She’d never thought of his gaze as piercing before. It wasn’t normally, surely? Perhaps a piercing gaze was a weapon he kept tucked up his sleeve, like a murderer with a knife. (Oh dear. Perhaps she did need to get out of Buncombe-upon-Woolly for a bit.)
“You don’t have to come with me—with me, with me, I mean,” he continued.
“You can stay with your aunt, and I thought we could—or you could—I just thought, you could visit a few of the gardens in town and see if they’re hiring apprentices.
If you wanted, I mean.” He fell silent, looking suddenly uncertain, but then, seemingly unable to stop himself, added in a rush, “But if none of that sounds appealing—if you truly don’t want to ever move to London, if you want to stay here forever, I understand.
It’s not my job to tell you what to do. And I’ll be back. ”
“You’ll be back?” she asked, trying to make sense of his words.
“I’ve bought a return ticket,” he said, as though that explained things.
“A return ticket,” she said slowly. Stupidly.
“Yes.”
“To come back… here,” she added, her mind still not processing.
“Indeed.” He gave an encouraging nod.
“To… see me?” she ventured, feeling her way in the dark.
“I wanted to explain this to you last night,” he said, raising an eyebrow at her.
“But you were rather intent on picking a fight with me, so I wasn’t able to get around to it.
You see,” he continued, ignoring Georgie’s indignant huff, “I intend to give my notice to Fitzgibbons—that’s why it’s so urgent that I return to London today—and I’d like to strike out on my own, set up my own agency.
The past week has taught me that I rather like detective work—when it’s actually being conducted properly.
When we’re actually helping people. And, well, it’s the sort of work that doesn’t require that I live any particular place.
So I could set up shop in Buncombe-upon-Woolly,” he said airily.
“Even if your crime spree has come to an end, there are bound to be other rural murders—I even considered the fact that a notorious Murder Village on the business cards might add to my appeal with a prospective clientele. And I can’t help but wonder if your friend Lexington might be interested in private detective work—though,” he added, eyes twinkling, “I do think that in his case, the offer might actually be more appealing if the job were in London, near a certain reporter.”
Georgie felt as though her brain were no longer functioning properly. “You would move to the Cotswolds… to be with me?”
“Georgie.” His smile was gone now, his legendary charm suddenly entirely absent, his expression serious and his gaze on her direct. “I would move to Timbuktu if that were required to be with you.”
“I don’t think I’m the adventurous travel sort,” she said, fighting a losing battle against the smile tugging at her mouth.
“All the better for me—I’d never keep my trousers properly pressed in that sort of environment.”
“They’re not pressed now,” she pointed out, and he grinned at her.
“I know. I slept horribly last night—your fault—and I’ve been awake for hours.
I was so rattled I seized the first pair of trousers at hand.
The whole experience has been deeply shocking, as you can imagine, and I expect I’ll need weeks to recover from this blow to my sleep regimen.
Can’t imagine what impact it will have on my stamina. ”
“Stamina, is it?” She smiled at him.
It was his turn to raise an eyebrow. “My dear Georgie. Are you flirting with me?”
“You see flirtation everywhere,” she said, affecting coolness but not quite managing it with the smile that kept wanting to spread over her face.
“That,” he said, pulling her toward him, “is not an answer to my question.”
She reached out to rest her free hand on his chest and tilted her head back so that their eyes could meet. “Isn’t it?”
She stood on her tiptoes to kiss him, and his arm snaked around her waist, pulling her flush with his chest. He tasted of sugar from his tea, and he smelled like whatever horribly expensive soap it was he used to shave. She wanted to sniff his skin. She wanted to bite him.
She pulled back, pressing her face to his neck. His breath was in her ears and was the slightest bit unsteady.
“I’ll come with you,” she said, and then her teeth grazed his throat.
“You will?” he asked, breathless. “Did you just bite me?”
“Of course not,” she said, tilting her head back slightly so that she could look at him. “What sort of woman do you take me for?”
“My very favorite sort,” he said, and the hint of color in his cheeks and the hungry look in his eyes as he regarded her meant that she did not doubt the truth of that response. “Do you mean it? You’ll come to London?”
“I do,” she said. “I think…” Here, she hesitated, feeling somehow frightened to voice the thought that had crossed her mind more than once in the past week.
It felt so vulnerable to admit—and yet, she realized in a flash, there was no one she’d rather be vulnerable with than Sebastian.
When had that happened? “I think that the reason I got sucked into solving murders—”
“Is because you’re a genius?”
“Hush.” She couldn’t prevent the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
“Is because I’m… bored. And I didn’t know how to admit it.
And so solving the mysteries, it gave me—a sense of purpose, I suppose.
I didn’t realize how much I’d needed that.
And it’s not—it’s not an insult to this place to admit it.
It doesn’t mean I love the village, or the people, any less, to want to go away for a while.
Not forever—this is home; I know it’s where I’m meant to be. ”
“That botanic garden won’t create itself,” he agreed with a smile against her hair, and something in her chest tightened at the knowledge that he considered her dreams no less important than his own.
“It won’t,” she agreed. “But… it won’t hurt to go with you for a couple of days, just… to see.” She laughed a bit uncertainly. “But Sebastian, I don’t—I don’t want you to throw your career away and move to the middle of nowhere, just for me, if I get to London and decide I don’t like it after all.”
“But it’s not throwing my career away,” he said, and she frowned up at him. “It’s doing something I should have done long ago; it’s just that you’ve helped me see it.”
“But still,” she pressed; it would be so easy to relent here, so tempting to yield to the rosy view of the future he painted.
But just as he wanted more for her, so she, too, wanted more for him.
“Everyone underestimates you,” she continued now, more quietly.
“You underestimate yourself, but I think you’re actually rather smart, despite your best attempts to convince me otherwise, and I want you to make a proper go at this.
You deserve to have a job you love—one that will show everyone in your family how wrong they’ve been about you all these years.
And if I return to the Cotswolds, and it would be better for you to remain in London—”
“No.” He gave a quick, decisive shake of his head.
“It’s as I said—I can do this work anywhere.
If I’m good enough at it—and I think I might be,” he added, his voice uncharacteristically uncertain, nearly shy, “then the clients will follow. I just want…” He looked at her with an expression of naked yearning.
“I just want to be with you.” He searched her face, then added, “But there’s no rush, Georgie.
With you and me, I mean. I’ll—” Here, he broke off, seeming to weigh his words carefully.
“You’ll?” she asked, her heart kicking up an irregular rhythm in her chest.
“I’ll be waiting,” he said, “for as long as it takes for you to realize that we belong together. I love you, Georgie.”
She blinked rapidly, staring at him, so handsome and rumpled and golden and perfect and, improbably, hers . If she wanted.
“I love you too,” she said, stumbling over the words in her rush to get them out. She glanced down ruefully at her worn, stained dungarees. “If you don’t mind…”
“Mind what?” he asked, his brow wrinkling.
“Mind the fact that I’m nothing like the women you must have known in London,” she burst out, waving a hand before her face. “I’m not—not polished.”
“No,” he agreed, pulling her close. “You’re perfect.”
And before she could object, he kissed her again.
“How long will your father and sister be gone?” he asked, drawing back some indeterminate amount of time later. His hair was now looking even more tousled. She thought she rather liked it that way.
“A couple of hours, I should think,” she said, a bit breathless.
“Well,” he said, a sudden gleam in his eye, “if you need help packing, here in this large, empty house—”
“Mrs. Fawcett is in the kitchen,” she informed him, before adding thoughtfully, “Which is ideal, really, as I’m sure you’ll work up an appetite.”
“Doing what, precisely?” he asked, the gleam in his eye even more pronounced.
“Helping me change my clothing,” she said innocently. “I can hardly travel to London in my gardening dungarees.”
“You can travel to London in an old sack, as far as I’m concerned,” he said, looking as happy as she’d ever seen him.
She reached a hand up to feel his forehead. “If you no longer care about clothing, then we’d better go upstairs in a hurry—this might be our last chance, as you’re surely feverish and will undoubtedly be dead soon. Besides,” she added, “your jumper is inside out.”
He glanced down, startled. “Good God almighty, perhaps I am dying.”
“Well, at least you’ll die a happy man,” she said cheerfully, pulling at his hand and leading him back toward the stairs. He tugged her to a halt and kissed her, fierce and hard.
“The very, very happiest.”
Later, there would be time to sort the details—of their journey to London, of whatever Georgie was going to do once she got there, and of what a future with Sebastian might look like—but for now, the house was quiet, Egg’s tail was wagging, there was a handsome, posh man with hair to be rumpled and clothing to be removed, and, most importantly of all, no one at all was being murdered.