Chapter 21 #3
“You went by Andrew’s house, Georgiana?” Mrs. Potter looked bemused.
“It was on my way to Mr. Peabody’s premises, Mrs. Potter,” Georgiana’s voice sounded tight. “I merely passed through Little Saint Mary’s Lane.” And lingered a moment. “Have you had word from him, Mr. Dunning?”
“Mercy no! Mallet left without warning. His departure was quite sudden. We had spent an entertaining afternoon not long before researching Praxilla’s cucumbers and the habits of the Greeks in the library at Trinity.”
The image of the two of them pouring over Praxilla in the hallowed halls of the Wren library amused her.
“He quite turned my thinking on that subject. Turned it around completely. Pity others can’t see it. Who is to say what subject is fit for a poet? Not I. There was another, too, something about cockleshells and newly hatched chickens.”
“Hedyle. We don’t have much of hers. She didn’t leave enough for us to know her meaning.”
“Shame about Selby,” Dunning said.
“Selby?” Georgiana’s mind raced. “Andrew took the poems to Selby?”
“Gracious no. Old boy found out on his own. Must have been old Featheringham the librarian. Got wind Andrew was—” He colored abruptly.
“Helping me?”
“Translating rubbish.” His red face darkened.
“His words, not mine. He said he didn’t have time for Mallet after that.
” Dunning’s words came in a nervous rush.
“Mallet showed me some other epigrams over dinner.” He rushed on, “Anyte, was it? Quite well done, quite, I thought. Well worth scholarship. I wasn’t aware of them before. ”
“Enough! I am too old a lady to listen to you talk about literature in a cold house,” Mrs. Potter broke in.
“It is getting dark, and there are no candles. See me to my house, and I’ll feed us all a light supper.
” The old woman took Dunning’s arm and led him to the door.
Georgiana lingered. “Are you coming, my dear?”
The house was dark and cold, but it belonged to her. It would be enough. It had to be. She couldn’t go back. “I’m coming, Edwina. Supper would be lovely.”
She locked the door behind her.
* * *
For a man who made his living on the printed word, Bailey was remarkably careless about lighting—or cleanliness come to that.
The smell of ink and clouds of paper dust permeated his office.
Andrew brushed the latter from his sleeves.
Three hours of squinting over newly printed pages in the dim light of Bailey’s office left him with a headache.
Harley would lecture him again when he went back to his rooms with a sore back.
“Sooner looked at, sooner finished,” Bailey said.
For his part, Andrew was grateful for any excuse to delay his return to Cambridge and the cold, empty house in Little Saint Mary’s Lane.
He chose to stay in London to review the first run page by page and correct it as it was set up.
He found Bailey’s company congenial and Jamie’s a distraction.
The work consumed him. He wanted to finish it, give it to her, and move on with his life.
If he stayed and made corrections, he and Bailey would save weeks of shipping pages back and forth.
He told himself that printing it was the right thing, the only thing he could do. He tossed the pages down in disgust. He hated going through it without her. A book wouldn’t bring her back, but he could think of nothing else to do.
Georgiana wouldn’t marry him. She made it plain she didn’t want him as a writing partner either. He refused to think of establishing her as his mistress. The thought was insupportable. They had been lovers, but she was never his mistress.
She called their lovemaking this beautiful thing between us, this fragile, private thing.
Andrew knew such a relationship wouldn’t stand up to the realities of daily life as long as she lived at Helsington and he lived on the edges.
Eros, he thought–that yearning of one soul for another–wouldn’t survive if they weren’t together.
If she wouldn’t marry him, he could see nothing left between them except the book.
Georgie might not want me, but she cares about the work.
“You’re making yourself blind. How much more of this are you going to do?” Jamie Heyworth’s impudent grin accompanied his welcome interruption. Andrew needed a distraction.
“Not much. Bailey thinks we’ll have the first full copy in two days.”
“Sorry to hear it. Even blind you’re good company.” Heyworth ducked a ball of paper flung with expert aim. The two had become regular dinner partners in a few short weeks. Jamie reveled in a free meal every day or so, and Andrew valued the diversion. Jamie’s company was far better than his own.
“Shall we dine at Boodles? The company isn’t as illustrious as elsewhere, but the food is superb,” Andrew suggested.
“Ah, a man after my own heart. Just how long are you going to grace London and I with your company?” Jamie asked.
“In three days—four at most—there will be nothing, your delightful self excepted, to keep me here.”
“What then?” Jamie asked.
He didn’t know. Once his house had been filled with memories of his father and of family, now it felt empty without Georgiana.
He dreaded facing that empty house, the empty town, his empty life, but he wouldn’t know if she made good on her threat or if the Duchess had beaten her down again if he didn’t go back.
He couldn’t avoid Cambridge any longer, not with the book finished.
“Back to Cambridge, I presume.” Jamie nodded morosely.
Andrew continued. “If I’m to leave this charming...” He gestured helplessly at Bailey’s clutter. “Would you join me on the road to Cambridge?”
“The delights of Little Saint Mary’s Lane! How can I refuse you, my friend?” Jamie clapped an arm around his shoulder. “Let’s discuss it over dinner—and a very good Port.”