Chapter 21 #2
Georgiana patted her hand. “I’ll have you for a good long time. I have other friends.” The old woman looked at her skeptically. “There is Peabody. And Molly.” Mrs. Potter’s lips twitched. “I will make more friends. I can do it. I know I can, now that I’m out of my gilded cage.”
“Of course you can, dear. If any woman could do it, you can.”
“Will you come with me to see the house?”
Mrs. Potter nodded and took another sip of hot tea against the chill. A moment of silence passed companionably before she said, “Have you heard from that scoundrel, Andrew Mallet?”
“My messages to his house came back undelivered. I have no idea where he is.” She fumed inwardly.
She returned to find her notes in good order but incomplete.
He had taken more in her absence and returned nothing.
No notes. No translations. No Andrew. With luck, she would move in a few weeks.
Without the work, she had no idea how she would fill her days once she did.
Georgiana jumped when a wrinkled hand reached over to pat hers. The naked sympathy in Mrs. Potter’s knowing eyes shattered her. Her voice, thick with tears, protested. “Don’t weave fairy stories, Edwina. I am angry about my work, only the work.”
* * *
“A woman you say?”
“Yes,” Andrew replied. “It’s important for you to understand that the primary author of the work is a woman. She did the preliminary research and the final translations.”
Bailey’s print shop, Andrew’s last chance, lay tucked in a small alley, the public mews really, just off Fleet Street.
The place proved to be a happy surprise.
Windows displayed a number of lovingly printed works.
Most of them were poetry and history; there were no gossip rags or caricatures. It gave Andrew hope.
“Y’don’t say! Poems by women. Greek. Translated by a woman?”
John Bailey, a small, balding man with perpetually rolled sleeves and an ink-stained nose, looked amused. He grinned infectiously. “Always did believe their minds work as well as ours. Better in some ways. Might make it a novelty to some folks, generate some interest that way.”
The little man rubbed his chin doubtfully. Finding him had been a stroke of luck. He asked to see the work and left Andrew to cool his heels while he read it through. He handled the manuscript with care—and the respect it deserved—as he spoke.
“Marvelous work. What’s the lady’s name?”
“The lady prefers to remain anonymous.”
“Pity that. Most of them do. Not that I’ve seen this work from a woman before. More than a pastime, this.”
“The lady is a scholar.”
“I can see that. Can’t go to those fancy university presses, though, can she?”
“No. She can’t.”
“Still, if we’re to do business, Mr. Mallet, perhaps you best tell me what you’re struggling so hard to hide.”
Bailey’s was a small establishment with two to three books in wide distribution. He relied on small print runs from the aristocracy to stay in business. He might not want to risk the wrath of the Haydens. Andrew owed him honesty.
“The lady is the Duke of Sudbury’s daughter.”
Bailey’s whistle was low and slow. “That bunch won’t like the uproar, if there is one, now would they? Might add interest.”
“No. The lady will remain anonymous.”
“Pity that. And you act as her agent?”
“Yes.” Andrew didn’t hesitate. They had shaken hands. He was her partner.
“Fair enough. Too fine a work to go by the wayside, Mr. Mallet. Shall we talk business?”
* * *
“Do you plan to marry, Lady Georgiana?” Peabody beamed at her.
Georgiana regretted the impulse that led her to ask him if he had changed his opinion about her ability to bear children.
He had been so sure in her first visits, but that was months ago.
She felt much better now. Strength and energy filled her.
Her monthly problems had disappeared. It seemed pointless now, however. She felt like a fool for asking.
“No, Mr. Peabody, of course not. It is just that my courses have become normal.” If anything, they had slowed and were late this month for the first time. “I feel infinitely healthier due to your regime. I wondered, that is all.”
The little man’s brown eyes warmed with sympathy. “I am delighted to hear that you feel so much better. You are remembering the dark green vegetables, I hope?”
“I had difficulty with some details of your regime while at Mountview, but now that I am home, I am following them to the letter.” She wondered briefly how she would manage the Yorkshire spring with few funds, but she put the thought away.
The other parts of her instructions would be easier without a high-strung chef to contend with.
Henri paled at the thought of brewing tea from nettles, alfalfa, and seaweed.
She had learned to do it herself very quickly.
It had been easier to brew the tea than to gain access to Henri’s kitchen, but she had managed.
Beef tea, herbal tea, bushels of dark green vegetables, and iron-rich water—taken together they worked magic.
“Splendid! As to fertility, I can’t say for certain. I wouldn’t be unhappy to be wrong, but unless you put it to the test, we won’t know, will we? Still, I see no barrier to you taking a husband if you wish.”
His sympathetic face made Georgiana uncomfortable.
She brought their consultation quickly to an end.
She found no reason to linger. She wondered briefly if she could ask him to tea but quickly realized that that wouldn’t do.
She did not know how to go about making friends.
She thought that perhaps Mrs. Potter might invite him.
He walked her to the door, chatting about town matters and mutual acquaintances. “Did I hear that Andrew Mallet has traveled from Cambridge?”
“That is correct Mr. Peabody. He is gone. I don’t know where he went. Do you?”
“Goodness me, no. I am simply delighted that he is well enough to travel. We seem to have finally corrected his problems also.” The little surgeon beamed with pride.
Ten minutes of vigorous walking brought Georgiana to Sheep Street and what was likely to be her new home. The estate agent, a rotund gentleman with jovial manner, sharp wits, and thinning hair, chatted with Geoffrey Dunning.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Dunning. Has your grandmother dragooned you on my behalf?”
“She told me about your dilemma, and I am only too happy to be of assistance.” He smiled fondly at his grandmother. If Mrs. Potter needed a man’s assurances, Georgiana would let her have it and try not to resent it.
“Shall we be about our business then? Mr. Wilson, what do you have to show me?”
“A trim little house, my lady. You will find no dry rot, no vermin, and no damp.” He rocked on his toes briefly. “It is my obligation to warn you, however, that it isn’t at all what you are used to.”
“I understand, sir. That is as I expect.”
“To give much better news, the sale of Helsington may bring even more then we discussed. Colonel Warrington is quite, quite anxious to purchase a comfortable home such as you offer, and you could–”
“Excellent, Mr. Wilson. I will be happy to get more money from the sale, but I am determined to conserve those funds by spending as little as possible on a new residence. Shall we take a look?”
Mrs. Potter, concern in every line of her face, took her arm and entered the narrow blue door behind her. Georgiana was grateful the woman made no attempt to dissuade her from her decision.
The little house didn’t disappoint. The lower floor kitchen had stone walls and a stone floor.
A large fireplace dominated one wall and a stairway ran along the other, the one shared with the neighbor.
She would learn to cook for herself in this place.
The upper story had two rooms: a small sitting room and a tinier sleeping chamber.
She would bring her work here. She would write and be productive, if not fruitful.
The house, white with blue shutters, was situated farther back than its neighbors, leaving space for a tiny garden in front, one surrounded by a stone wall. It would have fit inside Helsington’s stables with room to spare, but it would be enough for her.
Her head almost reached the top of the front door. She watched Geoff Dunning duck his head to go out, and it struck her that this house was even smaller than Andrew’s house. It lacked his magnificent study. She suppressed all memory of the man. This house was enough.
“It is exactly as you described it, Mr. Wilson. Thank you.” She turned to Geoffrey Dunning who inspected the foundation with earnest attention. She wondered if the amiable University Fellow even knew what to look for, but she humored him. “Mr. Dunning? Do you see any problem.”
“No, my lady. If you are determined to take this step, this house is sound enough. The roof, I think, ought to be looked at, but the rest will give you no problems.”
“Very well then, Mr. Wilson, I believe we have a contract. You may tell your buyer that Helsington is his as soon as I can arrange to move. Shall we say one week?” The little gentleman beamed at her and produced the documents for signature.
He left her in the care of her friends with a key in her hand and a knot in her stomach.
She forced a smile. “Well then, Mrs. Potter. It is done. I need only lay in firewood, sweep the hearth, scrub the kitchen, sort through my belongings, and arrange an estate sale. It is good that I kept the services of at least one footman for the end!”
She looked around her tiny sitting room and fought panic. “Do you think the Colonel might want my furnishings?”
Edwina Potter said nothing. She leaned over and gave Georgiana a hug. Over her shoulder, Georgiana saw Dunning’s look of disapproval. He would have to get over it.
Dunning looked at her intently and colored slightly. “Tell me, my lady, have you heard from Andrew Mallet. He is gone over a month now.”
“No, I haven’t. The knocker is still gone from his house.”