Chapter 13
THE DIARY OF MISS GEORGIA INGLEWOOD
At breakfast the next morning, James brought with him the diary of Georgia Inglewood. He’d dropped it into his pocket when they left the gamekeeper’s cottage the day before. He laid it on the table between himself and Cecilia.
“Have you peeked into it yet?” Cecilia asked.
“No. Truthfully, I find myself loath to do so after all we have learned of this young woman.”
“Not a pleasant person,” Cecilia suggested. “And yet she had a circle of friends that deferred to her.”
“More than deferred, idolized,” James said.
“Hmmm, yes. But she must have had some redeeming traits or these young people wouldn’t have liked her so. Let’s finish breakfast before we delve into it. Best to relax with coffee in the library while we go through the book. I don’t know what I wish to find, or where it might lead us.”
“Were you happy how events turned out last evening?”
“Yes! You and Lord Aldrich played your roles admirably.”
“For all the quick whispered instructions we received before we walked into dinner, telling us to ask the woman we were seated next to about their early life at the vicarage before they went away to school. They were forced to speak of the vicar and all the good memories they had of him as a father. And with him in the middle between them he could chime in on the memories. He certainly got them smiling and laughing.”
Cecilia chewed thoughtfully on the last of her toast. “And though Lady Mortlake disapproved of what I did, she was not too upset with me in the end.”
“The test will be to see if she invites you to any future dinner parties,” James drawled.
Cecilia laughed as she agreed.
They settled in the library, at a round table set before the windows, looking out the south side of the house toward the stables.
Outside, Romley was directing a new stable lad on how to cool down James’ favorite horse after Romley had exercised him.
Romley might be a tough old army campaigner; however, Cecilia always marveled at how patient he could be when teaching others.
She took a sip of her coffee, then pulled the diary toward her, at first flipping through the early pages, full of gossip and sly remarks about her conquests, and the clandestine rendezvous in the cottage. Her quick reading slowed when dates moved closer to Miss Inglewood’s death.
“Ah, James. Here is an entry with the same story young Summer told me about Georgia and the Cathcart twins. Listen:
April 23rd
I met the Cathcart twins outside the cottage this afternoon.
Summer had been telling me something—I don’t remember what—when I saw the boys arguing.
They were going on about who I smiled at first last Sunday.
I don’t remember. They look identical to me.
Within moments, they were at it, fists flying, shirts flung aside like boys at a fair.
I snorted. Highly unladylike, I know, but heavens, what a sight.
Their arms glistened with sweat and dirt, and the sun caught every muscle when they swung.
Gloriously well-defined blacksmith’s muscles.
Summer gasped like a child at a puppet show and begged them to stop.
I told her to hush—one doesn’t interrupt a performance. I—
“Gracious,” Cecilia paused. “The young woman was wanton!” She raised a hand to her fichu and continued reading, her voice higher.
I’ll own I felt a tingling in my nether region that neither one of them had ever given me before—alone or together.
James barked a laugh.
“You see what I mean?” Cecilia asked, her eyes wide. She breathed in deeply, then returned to the book.
It was glorious while it lasted: two great oafs battering each other for a smile. La! They are as stupid as posts, both of them, but handsome in the rough way of horses.
“Horses! James, she characterized those nice young gentlemen we met like they are horses. Absolutely disgusting.” Cecilia shook her head and continued reading.
When they’d finished, panting and bleeding, they turned to me as if awaiting a prize. I gave each a handkerchief and told them they were both my champions—my blacksmith knights. They went red to the ears and swore eternal devotion.
Summer, from her ripe wisdom of 13 years, said I was wicked. Perhaps I am. But I cannot help it if men choose to fight over me; it isn’t my fault they make such fine entertainment.
“She’d have made a successful courtesan in London,” James drawled.
Cecilia nodded and read on. “Oh, here is another good passage from a day or so later:”
It is delicious to be adored.
“That speaks quite pointedly to her character,” James said.
“I agree, and it gets worse.”
I think half the parish is in love with me. If not, they should be.
It amuses me how everyone scurries at my bidding. Such fuss over a few leaves of pennyroyal! Gussie and Martha whispered like conspirators when they gave me their little parcel, as if they were playing at wickedness. Sweet, silly girls.
Haydon stared at me from the brewery’s door this morning, all self-importance and scorn.
He pretends indifference, but I swear he watches every step I take.
He scowls at me as if my mere presence would burn his beer, yet he fetched some pennyroyal for me all the same.
–In secret, of course. He passed a small canvas bag of pennyroyal to Summer for me.
The Cathcart twins still limp about like wounded heroes, glaring at one another whenever I pass. They, too, passed pennyroyal to Summer for me.
I smiled at one of them today, just to see the other’s jaw tighten. One little glance, and they’ll be ready to swing again. Men are absurd creatures—built for my amusement.
“And here is where she talks about Viscount Kendell,” Cecilia said. She took another sip of coffee, then wrinkled her nose. “James, can you send for a fresh pot of coffee? This one has gone quite cold.”
With her coffee refreshed, Cecilia continued.
As for the Viscount—ah, he plays the grand gentleman, but I see how his eyes linger. He calls me reckless; I call him dull. When I am mistress of his fine house, he will thank me for rescuing him from boredom.
Even my dear brother, George, hovers like a puppy, eager to please. He fetched me ribbons from town today; said they were the shade of my eyes. I kissed his cheek, which made him blush and stammer. My brother is the easiest of all.
If I were to disappear, they’d likely pine themselves to death.
Cecilia skimmed ahead. “Oh, James, Miss Georgia is beginning to be frightened. It has been a couple of days since the previous entry. I wonder what has happened. I detect bravado in this next entry. Tell me what you think.”
I am done being frightened. The stupid talk of “herbs” and “remedies” has gone on long enough.
The thing is gone—nature took care of it days ago, though no one but I know that.
I hid the evidence and then got rid of it before my maid could discover and tell Mother.
She would have told Father and saved him the trouble of pretending concern, but I prefer that he scheme and fret.
“She lost the babe naturally?” James asked.
“That is how I read that,” Cecilia said.
“And she didn’t want anyone to know. Most interesting.”
“The babe was a useful ploy.”
He sent Mrs. Hester fussing about her jar containing the pennyroyal again.
He said that I must “drink the tea.” Well, Mrs. Hester may brew whatever she chooses—I’ve taken every bit of the pennyroyal from her jar and replaced it with spearmint.
They smell near enough alike. If he means to poison me in a mistaken means to regain respectability, he’ll only make me feel refreshed.
The Cathcart twins say the apothecary in Maidstone has no more pennyroyal to sell, which pleases me mightily. Let Father rage; he can do nothing now. There is no more pennyroyal to be had. I am safe.
As for the Viscount, he still plays the virtuous man, talking of duty and scandal as though either could bind me—but he said he did try to procure pennyroyal; however, the apothecary in Maidstone was sold out.
I shrugged at him and told him no matter, that I will not take it anyway.
He says he will not marry me, no matter what.
Not yet, I told him, and smiled. He will yield in time—they always do. Once the vows are said, I shall turn him as easily as I turned the rest into doting devotees.
I am finished being afraid of men. They will all learn it soon enough.
I wonder how much pennyroyal is now in my hiding place. Likely enough to poison the entire village!
Cecilia paused. “Didn’t George say he bought pennyroyal in Folkestone, not Maidstone?”
James nodded. “I begin to understand how she came to take the pennyroyal.”
“Thinking she was drinking mint tea.”
He nodded. “Remember how George said he gave the pennyroyal he’d purchased into his father’s care? And not Georgia’s or Mrs. Hester’s?”
“The magistrate most likely added it to Mrs. Hester’s jar.”
Kendell is a fool. I told him plainly—if he marries me, all is well, the child will be his, and no one need whisper.
It would raise him, not lower me. He had the insolence to laugh and say he will not be “caught” as his father once was.
He called me reckless. Reckless! I am giving him the chance of his life.
He dares refuse me, saying he won’t be “trapped.” Trapped!
As though any man could do better than me.
He thinks my Father will not compel him. But Father has always had his way, and he will again. I will see the Viscount kneel before me yet, whether by altar or by scandal—child or no child.
Kendell avoids me, but he cannot avoid me forever.
Father says it will be arranged, he will see it settled, and I believe him.
When he speaks so, I know he means to force the issue.
He knows I will not be cast aside. I will be mistress of a fine house, and all these petty folk will curtsy when I pass.
“She is losing confidence,” James observed. “What is the date on that entry?”