Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Andrew Mallet, man of his word, appeared at exactly one o’clock at the formal entrance to Helsington Cottage in spite of his conviction that he would soon regret doing so.
Chambers took his hat and showed him into the sunny breakfast parlor at the back of the first floor with a minimum of respect and no comment. Furniture had been removed and extra tables and bookshelves brought in. From the looks of them, they were from the Helsington attics.
Andrew had eyes only for Georgiana. She sat at a worktable next to wide windows overlooking a garden and lawn that rolled downward toward the River Cam.
The light, perfect for an afternoon’s work, glowed around her like a halo.
She took his breath away. All thoughts of work fled.
He could cross the room in two steps and have her in his arms. He could kiss her senseless. He did neither.
“Good day to you, Mr. Mallet.” She tilted her head and looked past him. “I see my material has returned with you.”
Harley, his habitually inappropriate expression distorted in irritation, brought boxes into the workroom assisted by two of Helsington’s sturdier footmen.
“I reviewed our progress to date with Korinna,” she said, ignoring the bustle. “I attempted, as you encouraged, a less formal translation of the Asopos fragment. I should like your judgment of it.” She waited, chin high, all business.
Her armor was on. Good, Georgiana. Keep it there. You need it. I need it. He reached for the book containing the Korinna original and for her translation and began to review them without speaking.
Many of the poem’s images had multiple meanings, and many of those meanings were subtly erotic or, at the very least, improper.
He wondered if she had known that. Andrew groaned inwardly.
There were others in her collection likely to prove worse.
Dangerous works indeed. How did I let myself get drawn into this? I am mad to continue.
He extended his hand with a sigh of resignation. “Do you have your first version at hand?” She rose and went to a box labeled with the poet’s name. “Your first version was correct to a great extent. I want to compare your choice of words in that one with this one.”
The teacher read, compared, and reviewed in silence.
The student sat in stiff attention. She wouldn’t be amused if she knew how obvious the high cost of her restraint was to him.
Awareness of every fleeting expression, every breath she took, made reading difficult.
He read the pieces over and over, as slowly as he could, put the paper down even more slowly, removed his spectacles, and rubbed the space between his eyes.
When he looked up, he saw trepidation in her transparent eyes and color rising up her neck.
The fragment she had translated described the fruitful results of the nine daughters of Asopos who had been carried off and “taken” by various gods and heroes, often two or three to a hero.
The better she understood the implications, the less confident he expected her to be about the English translation.
He found it easier to obfuscate, glossing over the action in the poem, rather than to find words to describe what Georgiana may not be able to imagine.
“Better,” he said at last.
“Better. Is that all?” She was outraged.
“Better. ‘Better’ indicates progress since last we met. Isn’t progress the nature of education? Lay this aside for a day and move on to the second fragment, the mountain lyric. Have you reviewed your earlier work?”
“Must we?”
“We must.” He needed time to give his peace of mind an opportunity to reassert itself.
* * *
Georgiana continued long after he left, until a light scratch at the door interrupted her.
“Come in, come in. Stop that infernal scratching.”
Chambers gestured two footmen into the room. They lit candles rapidly and silently. Georgiana paid them no attention.
“Will my lady wish for dinner?”
“No, I—” she began. Several hours had passed since Andrew left.
She realized it had gotten dark when she saw the footmen waiting for her nod before closing the window covers.
“Yes, Chambers, I think I will have dinner. Apologize to Henri for the delay.” It is the people above stairs who are at the mercy of the staff, not the other way around.
Chambers expects dinner to be on time, and so it is.
“Very good, my lady. At half past the hour then.”
Her work had already claimed her attention.
The page baffled her. Her meager knowledge of mythology enabled her to recognize the story of Kronos’s attempts to kill the infant Zeus, which seemed to be the gist of the story, but the rest of the poem confused her.
It talked about “Cithaeron” and “Helicon.”
The names weren’t familiar to her in the slightest, nor were they included in any of her books of mythology.
Georgiana had no idea where to find the information.
She wondered whether her brother or any man with a decent education would know.
She couldn’t translate the fragment if she didn’t identify Cithaeron and Helicon. Frustration boiled up inside her.
“What are you saying to me?” Korinna, dead these thousands of years, didn’t answer. No one did. She suspected Andrew didn’t recognize the names either. He left her to struggle in silence most of the afternoon.
Drat the man, he acts like a teacher. Andrew had shed the forced intimacy of his illness and put on a manner even more formal than before.
He refused further discussion about their past. Their confrontation over it had, at least, overshadowed his pitiable proposal.
He made no attempt to repeat that bit of nonsense. She didn’t need his pity.
Since then, he had firmly enforced a tutor-pupil relationship.
He set a new, very strict schedule for their studies.
They would meet every other day for two hours at Helsington Cottage.
On the off days, Georgiana would read material related to the particular elegies, fragments, or verses they were studying in order to further expand her knowledge and the depth of her translations and interpretations.
All his conversation centered on the work. She reminded herself that the work alone mattered, nothing else. She quashed all other thoughts.
Today he had explained that the fragment in her hand was most likely a choral work between two competing voices, a device used for public performances.
Georgiana hadn’t known about public choral recitals, and that knowledge expanded her understanding considerably.
But she wanted to know who Cithaeron and Helicon were and why they were competing.
She dropped the paper in irritation. Chambers wouldn’t be happy if she failed to dress for dinner.
Like most of her dinners, it would be eaten in splendid solitude.
Chambers never forgot what was due a Duke’s household, however remote from the seat of power it might be. His mistress cared less every year.
A footman approached her on her way to the stairs, bowed, and handed her a parcel wrapped in brown paper secured with twine. It resembled a book.
“This came to the tradesman’s door, my lady.”
“Thank you, William.” She opened it to find a note.
Lady Georgiana,
Please review this work before our next session two days hence.
Yours respectfully,
A. Mallet
She turned the book over in her hands to discover a contemporary travel book. That seemed odd to her. Puzzled, she read and reread the title, The Geography of Greece and Its Islands for Those Who Explore by Foot. A slow smile came over her face; at least she wouldn’t be bored tonight.
* * *
“Mountains? The voices belong to mountains?” Laughter bubbled up in Georgiana’s incredulous face, spilled over, and engulfed Andrew. Laughter of his own drummed in his chest.
“Mountains don’t have voices!” Incredulity contended with her laughter.
“Are you sure?”
Rising eyebrows gave her the expression of a very wise owl. She didn’t speak.
“Yes. Mountains,” he said. “I recognized the choral form Monday, but the identity of the competing voices eluded me as much as it did you. It took me two hours in the Wren Library to find the information after I left you.”
“Only two?”
He ignored her sarcasm. “I thought I recognized Helicon, but the other was new to me. Look here.” He unrolled a map of Greece and the Eastern Mediterranean onto the table.
“See here, above the Gulf of Corinth? Helicon is in the center and Cithaeron to the East below Thebes.”
“Personification of mountains isn’t a device I would have expected, but yes, it makes some sense.” She didn’t sound convinced.
“Remember this is choral poetry, meant for public performances. Let’s try reading it that way.”
Georgiana looked dubious. He tried for his best commanding officer voice. It worked with soldiers. “Read it. I will read the competing voice.”
She picked up her copy. They spent a few moments expounding in Greek. Andrew tried for dramatic effect. Georgiana didn’t.
“Lines are missing in this fragment. It doesn’t all scan,” she suggested after she read a particularly bland sounding passage.
He suggested they try it in English. “This first part would be a narrator’s voice, perhaps the main chorus.
It tells us that the baby is in danger. Remember, Kronos wishes to kill his own son, the infant Zeus.
” He cleared his throat and read, “‘The Korybantes hid the infant.’ Do you remember who they were?”
“Dancers. Male. In armor.”
Most likely naked. Their “armor” would be a shield. Damn but there were traps on every side. He would fall into one yet. He didn’t think she needed to know about the armor.
He recited again, “‘The Korybantes hid the infant.’” He strode across the room while he recited and spread his arm toward Georgiana at the end of the line.
“Took? Is that the best we can do? She seized, grabbed, snatched, or wrenched him.”