Chapter 10 #2
“They are the same,” she considered, “but the second one provides more of a picture.”
“What else?”
“Emotion. The Countess is furious,” she grinned, “and afraid she has ruined her court dress in front of the upper ten thousand.”
“It doesn’t say that,” he pointed out.
“It does when you word it right.”
“Exactly.”
“But I know that because I know the Countess–or ladies very like her–and I know court dress and the world in which she moves. How can I possibly know those things for Korinna?” Georgiana wrinkled up her brow.
“You can’t, at least not as precisely anyway. You can, however, read about her world, compare her words to the words of other authors, and make a shrewd guess at what nuance and emotion lay beneath the words. You are able to be shrewd, are you not?” The quirk to his crooked lips belied seriousness.
“Not today. I confess I am weary.”
Her pallor worried him. He wanted to know how much of her desperation about her translations—and he saw the desperation daily—came from fear about her health. She wouldn’t talk about it, and he wouldn’t make the mistake of asking again.
Andrew leaned back, and they passed a long moment in comfortable silence, black eyes on blue, each one lost in thought. She reached up at last and brushed back the coarse black hair from the rim of his spectacles.
“Andrew, how did you get this terrible scar?” Her graceful fingers traced the puckered line across his face. An electric shock trailed behind her finger. He took her wrist firmly and replaced her hand gently on the table. “A French saber,” he said without breaking eye contact.
Questions formed and reformed on her expressive face. “Waterloo? That is to say, I know there were other battles, but it is fully healed. Was it long ago?”
She would flay him alive yet. “Yes.”
“Which?”
“Yes, long ago. No, not Waterloo.” No amount of pushing would get her more. He wouldn’t describe the horrors of a French prison to this lady, and by God, he didn’t plan to relive it himself.
He rose and gestured toward the door. She held her seat, with avid interest on her face.
“Give it up, my lady.” He emphasized those last two words. He fought to keep formality between them. “Some things are not fit for polite company.”
He regretted that approach immediately when she pounced on his words. “Nonsense! I am no frail flower.”
“That may be true, but my face isn’t a topic for discussion.”
Outrage exploded across her face. He suspected that she thought he accused her of attempting to criticize his looks. He let her believe it.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Mallet. It is of course your private business.” She sputtered and began to pack her work slowly.
“The other scars—” she began, coloring deeply. He remembered her face when she saw him in his dressing gown, her eyes on the long red line that snaked up his leg and around his knee.
“—are none of your business, my lady, but yes, some are from Waterloo and some from the good Mr. Peabody’s attentions.” He took her firmly but gently by the elbow and guided her to the stairs.
“I think we can dispense with tomorrow. One day’s rest will clear your mind.” He put a finger to her mouth to silence her when she would have protested. “No,” he whispered, fascinated by the sensual spot where his finger lingered. “Enough Georgiana.”
He felt a slow smile curl under his finger when she heard the sound of her name.
“Very well, Andrew” she whispered back.
His boundaries had already slipped. He had agreed that she could come to him just for the pleasure of seeing her seated at his writing table, surrounded by his books, warmed by the sun through his diamond-paned windows.
Now she called him Andrew. He would regret it. This road led to nothing but trouble.
* * *
Georgiana skipped lightly toward her waiting conveyance. Even Eunice, silent as always, couldn’t lower her mood. Joy bubbled up. Not tomorrow, but soon they would talk about the past.
Abigail Clarke stepped from her door directly across from Andrew’s and cast a shadow like a great black bird across Georgiana’s path. Georgiana met her once or twice when Mrs. Potter or Molly Harding had invited her to tea with Cambridge wives. She didn’t care for her.
“Good day, Lady Georgiana. Visiting our Mr. Mallet, I see.” The woman’s eyes were avid but not kind. Unmarried women didn’t visit men’s homes. They both knew it, no matter how Mrs. Potter tried to wrap it up in fine linen.
“Certainly, Mrs. Clarke. We study together. He is one of the best tutors in Cambridge, aside from the Fellows themselves, of course.”
“Study. Of course. I heard something of your interest in his scholarship.” She dragged out the last word suggestively while she looked Eunice over as if to evaluate her worth as a chaperone. Poor Eunice shrunk even more.
Georgiana lost patience with her. She drew herself up, chin high, for a set down. You don’t question a Duke’s daughter, Madame. “Good day, Mrs. Clarke. I must be on my way.” She left, but she would be back. The neighbors could make of it what they would.
Andrew’s “one day’s rest” turned to four, however, when Georgiana’s own weakness overcame her on schedule.
She sent a message round and told Andrew she would be delayed until Monday.
To her delight, she felt much like her own self by Sunday.
Mr. Peabody’s regime of beef broth, large helpings of dark green vegetables, and water from a particular iron-rich spring ordered down from Yorkshire appeared to be working.
A missive delivered on Sunday afternoon crushed her buoyant mood.
Lady Georgiana,
I regret I will be unable to keep our appointment tomorrow or for some days to come. I am indisposed.
I understand we have an agreement and will keep the bargain when circumstances permit.
Yours respectfully,
A. Mallet
Shaky writing snaked across the paper in uneven lines. She reread them. The fear that he might relapse, which had lapped over her the entire previous week, struck her like a tidal wave. Immediate disappointment turned quickly to alarm.
She wrote two messages in rapid fire succession.
The first, to Mr. Peabody, described his patient’s failure to heal.
It offered him three times his normal fee to attend Mr. Mallet at his own house as quickly as may be possible.
She hesitated over the signature. Finally, she scribbled, “Lady Georgiana Hayden, Mr. Mallet’s neighbor. ” Close enough.
The second message, to Harley, proved to be more difficult. She stopped mid-sentence, reread her words, and crumpled it. With the message to Mr. Peabody in her reticule, she called for her carriage and set out for Little Saint Mary’s Lane.