Chapter 23 #3
“Georgiana, no. I am not angry. I am…” Guilt assaulted her from all sides.
She had hardly thought of Georgiana since Julian had first come to her room.
There had been the pianoforte and Lord Staverton and the antimonial, but she could not lie to herself.
It had been Julian who had turned her into the worst friend.
Not Julian. Her all-encompassing obsession with him.
Kitty peered at Maggie hoeing to her right. “I have much to explain.”
Georgiana slumped in the saddle seat, relieved. “Then hop behind me, and you can tell me all.”
Kitty flew through the kitchen door to scrub her hands and face and, in the hall, fetched her cloak.
“Good morning, Katherine.”
Kitty whirled about to Sir Jeffrey’s agreeable voice.
He stood outside the parlor, legs wide and one large, bony hand gripping a gun.
When had he ever bid her good morning? Julian’s words suddenly roared in the silence.
What did you do? He will miss that gun. What had she done? If Julian did not arrive by noon…
“You are well, I see,” he observed. “Where are you off to?”
“Georgiana has called.”
“Humph. Go on then.”
Kitty fled, clambering up behind the saddle with the aid of Georgiana’s hand and boot.
Sir Jeffrey had five gun cases, and he hadn’t missed the rifled gun in the month it had been gone, but bartering with it had been foolish. If she hadn’t mentioned her folly to Julian in passing…
Her resourcefulness might be the end of her.
Kitty asked Georgiana the time and told her she must return by half past eleven.
They picked through the woods and galloped along a pasture.
Kitty squeezed Georgiana’s slim waist, her previous fears replaced with the pressing business of staying alive.
Was there a pace faster than a gallop? Whatever it was, they raced like Pegasus across a meadow.
Georgiana laughed as they took a small hedge, and Kitty, delirious with terror, laughed too. When they reached Kitty’s lair in Eaton Socon Wood, Kitty had lost her hair pins. Her hair was a huge tangle, but she was happy. Happy to be breathing.
Tucked in the tree trunk, Kitty scratched the flint and lit a candle.
Georgiana produced a flask. They sipped the whiskey, coughing and shuddering, as Kitty retold her story of the past eighteen days.
And because she felt terribly guilty for ignoring Georgiana and needed urgently to recapture the intimacy of their friendship, Kitty included her nights with Julian.
Georgiana listened, biting her nail a few times and taking a large gulp from the flask at Kitty bartering with Sir Jeffrey’s gun.
“We must pray,” Georgiana said, “that Julian gets back the gun.”
They prayed together. A long silence followed.
Suddenly, Georgiana clamped her hand on Kitty’s shoulder. “Did you take care not to make children?”
Kitty’s mouth went slack.
Her friend shook her. “Did you?”
“I-I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know? Did he…” She grimaced. “Gush inside you? Plant his seed in your body?”
Kitty might melt from embarrassment. “Yes. I think so.”
Georgiana gaped at Kitty’s stomach. “Oh God. I cannot speak to my cousin on this. You must.”
Kitty wrapped her arms around her middle. “But how—”
“He will know,” Georgiana spat. “Promise me you will demand he not gush within you.”
“I promise.”
“Did Julian ask for your hand?”
“In marriage?”
“What other hand is there?” Taking her silence for no, Georgiana smacked her palms to the lair’s packed dirt. “He isn’t going to marry you, is he? He spouted his rubbish on achieving his dreams. Family forcing a man to make decisions outside of his best interest. And you believed him.”
“But it is true, isn’t it? Family does change one’s priorities.” Kitty clasped her friend’s hand. “Please say nothing of this. You know Julian’s stubborn nature. Any coercion and he will sail off to an archipelago.”
“Oh, I could wring his neck.” Georgiana yanked out her timepiece. “Let’s go.”
The return to Notfelle was faster than a racing heat. After Georgiana’s lung-clearing hug, Kitty slipped inside the deserted hall and, hurrying to her room, chided herself for her fear. But it remained. In the nursery, she snatched a paper peeking beneath her pillow.
All is well, fairy. If I fail at shipbuilding, I can resort to a career in burgling. Renowned and profitable it will be. I’ll wait for you in the north wood by the stream.
Kitty ran down the front stairs. Crossing the study, she searched the cases and found the gun. To be certain, she withdrew the heavy, ornate piece and stuck her finger in the barrel. Rifled. Her eyes filled with grateful tears.
“What are you doing there?” Sir Jeffrey called from behind.
She locked the gun to its hold and turned. Sir Jeffrey stood inches from her. He pushed her aside and retrieved the gun, lofting it in his gnarled grip like a treasure most dear. He peered down the sight, checked the firing mechanism, and wiggled a finger down the barrel.
He rubbed the oil between his thumb and forefinger. “This ain’t my oil.”
“Sir?”
“I use whale oil. This is tallow.” He sniffed his finger. “They used turpentine. I don’t use anything but boiling water.”
“Sir, I know nothing about—”
He butted the gun to the floor. “What did you do?”
“Nothing.” She clutched her mother’s cross at her neck. “I was curious about rifling. Mr. Delaney had spoken of it the day I took ill.”
He snatched her hand. “Where did you get this ring?”
She had forgotten to remove Julian’s ring. She gawked as he wrestled with the gold band.
“Keeping secrets from me? It’s that St. Clair hellion, ain’t it?” The ring resisted his attempts to unseat it. He yanked her finger nearly out of its socket. “What’s he done to you?”
“Nothing. I swear.”
“Don’t lie to me. I’ll have a physician exam you.” He dropped her hand. “Take it off and let me have it.”
“Sir Jeffrey, I gave her the ring.” Father Dunlevy tread forward from the door. “On her last birthday. As a symbol of chaste womanhood. Which your daughter adheres to unswervingly.”
Father Dunlevy met her gaze. Kitty looked away. He knew. He knew he lied on her adherence to chastity. But he had saved her. Sir Jeffrey dismissed her. Kitty rushed out the house to the north wood, and where Julian inclined in casual grace against a tree, she ran into his arms.
“Julian. Oh God. Thank you. Thank you. He would have killed me. You were right. He would have killed me.”
He held her tighter as she shook. He soothed her with shushes and kind phrases she couldn’t hear over her weeping.
Terror grew inside her instead of abating.
A foreboding nearly crushed her, that one day there would be no one to rescue her.
She wasn’t stupid. Nor rash. She was resourceful.
But in the month last, she had been saved four times.
The pianoforte, the antimonial, the gun, and the ring.
“When will my life cease to plague me?” she cried into his coat. “When will I be free from worry?”
“Never,” he murmured. “But it will lessen. And remember, real courage is going forward when the outcome is uncertain.”
“Only with you I do not worry.”
He drew back and lifted her wet face. “You should worry. I’m a blackhearted scoundrel.”
“Julian.” She worked the wool of his coat in her fists. “The other night I sipped laudanum. Because I couldn’t sleep. I was afraid. I fear something bad is to happen.”
His eyes widened. He clasped her head and eased it to his shoulder. “Nothing bad will happen. Rest assured, I won’t allow it.”