Chapter Six #2
“Of course,” he said again, nodding amiably.
This was extremely vexing, because Georgie wanted desperately to quarrel with him, and he was making it impossible to do so when he insisted on agreeing with everything she said.
If there was one thing she hated more than men disagreeing with her, it was men agreeing with her when she was trying to pick a fight.
“But, my dear Georgie, better safe than sorry! That’s what I always say.
” He paused, considering, his handsome face looking a bit troubled.
“Well, that’s what my nanny always used to say, actually, and I usually ignored her, but I like to think I’ve gained some wisdom with age, eh? ”
“If this is you with wisdom, then the thought of what you were like when you were younger is absolutely chilling,” Georgie retorted, crossing her arms.
“Do you like Gothic novels, Georgie?”
“Do I—what?” she asked, so puzzled by this non sequitur that she could barely formulate a full sentence.
“Just trying to work out whether I should take ‘chilling’ as a compliment, coming from you,” he explained with wide-eyed earnestness. “In any case, since your father appears to have his own motorcar, and sounded positively delighted when I phoned him to come collect us—ah, that must be him!”
It was, of course; the sound of the Radcliffes’ aging Morris Minor could generally be heard well in advance of its appearance, and it rounded a curve in the lane a moment later, coming to a halt before the Shorn Sheep. The driver’s-side door opened, and Papa emerged, looking somewhat frazzled.
Fletcher-Ford’s face brightened. “You must be Radcliffe! I’m Fletcher-Ford, we spoke on the telephone.”
“If you would please try not to shout an introduction on the street to a man you’re allegedly already acquainted with, that would be brilliant,” Georgie hissed, then turned to face her concerned-looking father.
“Georgie, love, are you all right?” Papa asked, his brow creasing. He must have left the house in a hurry, she thought, since he appeared to be wearing one loafer and one house slipper. “What’s this about a head injury?”
“I’m fine, Papa, please don’t worry,” she said, smiling at her father as she approached the motorcar and opened the door for Egg, who—sensing the opportunity to be spared the long(ish) walk home—sprang into the vehicle with a degree of spryness that was astonishing for a dog her age.
Papa, however, was not listening, as he was now wringing Fletcher-Ford’s hand and offering him his profuse thanks.
“He merely helped me to my feet, Papa, it’s not as though he rescued me from drowning!” she called churlishly, and Fletcher-Ford flashed her that maddening smile once again.
“That can be tomorrow’s entertainment,” he said, his smile widening as her scowl deepened. “Think how thrilling—all those wet garments!”
Georgie’s jaw dropped, and yet somehow her father—too busy babbling his thanks—did not appear to have taken in a single word Fletcher-Ford had just said.
“Papa!” she called again, loud enough this time that her father at last broke off and looked back at her with some concern. “My head is aching. I’d like to go home and rest.”
This, predictably, did the trick—her father was very worried by any physical ailment either of his daughters ever mentioned, which was why Georgie harbored such concerns about Abigail’s newfound affection for Dr. Severin.
If Papa had his way, the doctor would be summoned the moment his younger daughter so much as sneezed.
In no time at all, Georgie and Fletcher-Ford—“You must call me Sebastian, sir, if I’m to stay in your home!
”—were settled in the Morris (Fletcher-Ford having, with a great show of chivalry, offered Georgie the front seat and made a production of folding his long legs practically to his chest to fit in the cramped back seat, Egg panting happily beside him), and then they were rattling back down the high street toward Radcliffe Hall, having made a brief detour to the train station to collect Fletcher-Ford’s luggage.
“Papa,” Georgie said, “you should know that Mr. Fletcher-Ford—”
“I thought you were going to call me Sebastian,” the man in question put in from the back seat, leaning forward to be heard, his chin scant inches away from Georgie’s shoulder. This close, she could smell whatever soap he used when shaving—sandalwood, she thought. It was not unpleasant.
“Sebastian,” she said through gritted teeth, “is going to be an old family friend of ours, if anyone asks.”
Papa frowned. “Why are we lying?”
“Not lying,” Georgie said soothingly. “Merely… stretching the truth. We don’t want the police to know what we’re up to, you see.”
“I thought you said Constable Lexington is part of this scheme?”
“He is,” she said hastily. “But we don’t want Chief Constable Humphreys or Detective Inspector Harriday to catch word of it—you know they’ve never particularly approved of my sleuthing.”
“Hmph!” Papa said, sounding gratifyingly disgruntled. “They should be thanking you for doing their jobs for them, without pay.”
“Exactly what I thought, sir,” Sebastian agreed from the back seat.
“My point is,” Georgie said, “we don’t want them to know we’re investigating, so Sebastian is going to be an old family friend staying with us for a week or so. Enjoying a countryside idyll, if you will.”
“And in such lovely company,” he said, winking at her. Georgie scowled.
Soon, they were pulling up before Radcliffe Hall, in all its ramshackle glory; a family of ducks was crossing the driveway as they arrived, which eventually necessitated Georgie hopping out of the Morris to usher the final duckling to safety before they could continue, so by the time they came to a halt outside the front door, Abigail and Mrs. Fawcett had emerged and were watching them with undisguised curiosity.
Abigail, Georgie was relieved to see, had at least changed out of the dressing gown she’d been wearing earlier, and was now wearing a blue pin-striped shirtdress, her blond hair pinned back.
Much as Georgie was dreading everything about this meeting, there was something undeniably amusing about watching Abigail’s jaw literally drop as Sebastian unfolded himself from the Morris and proceeded to tug his enormous, heavy suitcases from the boot with great ease.
“Abigail… Mrs. Fawcett… this is Sebastian Fletcher-Ford,” Georgie said, suppressing a weary sigh as Sebastian deposited his luggage on the front steps and reached up to offer a kiss on the hand to her sister and housekeeper, both of whom turned pink.
Georgie did not think she had even known Mrs. Fawcett was capable of blushing, prior to this moment.
“Delighted,” Sebastian said, smiling at them. “A household full of lovely ladies—my favorite sort!”
Abigail giggled.
Georgie glowered.
“I’ll show you to your room,” she said, brushing past him to lift his relatively light hand-case, leaving him to trail behind her lugging the suitcases.
She led him through the front doors, across the entry hall, and up a flight of stairs to the nicest of the guest bedrooms. Mrs. Fawcett must have been in to clean that afternoon, she thought, detecting the faintest scent of lemon oil and beeswax.
A chipped willow vase of fresh wildflowers sat on the nightstand, and the bedding looked freshly washed.
The room itself was of a decent size, filled—like all of the guest rooms at Radcliffe Hall—with mismatched bits of furniture that had been inherited over the years: Bookshelves of differing heights flanked the secretary against one wall, and there was an enormous dresser that had once been in Georgie’s parents’ room shoved against an opposite wall.
The wallpaper was a slightly faded green-and-white print, and a couple of mismatched rugs covered the floor.
To Georgie’s eye, it looked cozy and inviting.
Behind her, Sebastian set down his suitcases, uttered a cheerful “Ah!,” and then crossed to the large window that offered a view of the kitchen garden below and the fields beyond.
“I say, is that a chicken, Georgie?” he asked, hands on his hips as he took in the scene.
“Probably,” Georgie said. “We’ve several—eggs don’t grow on trees, you know.” It could have been Wilhelmina, or Gladys, or Ethel, though probably not Mary Magdalene, who preferred to stick close to the henhouse after a near miss with a fox the month before.
“What a delightful place this is,” he said, turning to beam at her. “I see there’s a pond, even.”
“Yes. Let me guess: You brought your swimming costume, in addition to the tennis racquet?” she said wearily.
His grin widened. “I didn’t, actually—but, my dear Georgie, a swimming costume is not really necessary, is it?”
Was he… flirting with her?
Surely, surely not. She was not at all the sort of woman whom men like this flirted with.
Just to be certain to put a damper on it, however, she said blandly, as she turned to leave, “You might wish to rethink that—the water in the pond is horrendously cold, so I don’t think it would do your naked form any favors.”
His laughter followed her out the door.