Chapter 9 Flirtation
The next morning, Georgie woke late, having lain awake for some hours pondering the problem of how to convince the world that two people who barely knew each other were deeply in love.
It was an awkward business. If only she and Jamie had not been so restrained around each other.
Apart from their businesslike exchanges in the study, which revolved entirely around the duke’s diaries, they had barely spoken at other times.
Now she wished she had taken more notice of him.
But he had always been simply a part of the furniture, no different from Mr Godley or Mr Pyott, although better looking.
Even the Merrington sisters, constantly on the watch for likely husband material, had not looked at him.
He was a diffident and self-effacing man, easy to overlook.
And now he was to be her husband! What a shocking thought.
She pulled her miniature of Henry from beneath her pillow.
“Well, my love, you’re to be supplanted.
There, I’ve said it, and I suppose you must have guessed it from my silence these last few days.
I’m to be Mrs James Hammond and there’ll be a baby in the summer, so there we are.
There is nothing to be done about it.” She gently ran one finger over the outline of his face.
“Don’t imagine I shall ever forget you, my dearest one.
You’re my first and only love, and Jamie, kind as he is, can never replace you in my heart.
And this baby… it will not be your baby, with your smiling face and dark eyes and that nose!
How you hated that nose, but it was a part of you and I loved it for that reason alone.
And it has to be said, if I am being honest, it is the only part of you the miniaturist captured well.
Henry, don’t hate me for marrying again.
It’s not from affection or even a prosaic need to provide for myself, which might perhaps be understandable, but because…
well, you know why. I have confessed it all, for I would have no secrets from you, my beloved.
My life is an open book to you, just as yours was to me.
You were never perfect, for which of us is, and perhaps you, who enjoyed your drink so much, would understand better than most what happened that night with the brandy. Au revoir, my darling.”
She kissed the miniature, and set it down on the bedside table. For a few moments, she lay back against the pillows, a little smile on her face, remembering Henry, her lovely Henry. Then, with a sigh, she sat up, swung her legs over the side of the bed and began her day.
At noon, she donned her stoutest boots, a thick woollen cloak and an ancient scarf that her mother had knitted for her when she was a child, and set out to find the elder Mr Hammond‘s cottage.
The air was dank and chilly, and when she reached the woods, the detritus underfoot was sodden.
Gone were the crisp leaves of autumn, for the darkest part of the year was fast approaching. Perhaps there would soon be snow.
As she crossed the main path that ran lengthwise down the narrow strip of woodland that fringed the river, she saw Ben Lovell, the gamekeeper, approaching.
“Good day to you, Mr Lovell! Have you had a good haul today?”
He whipped off his woollen hat, revealing a sprinkle of grey hairs amongst the black. “Aye, pheasant, partridge, hare… rabbit for the servants’ hall. A few fish, but there’s not much in the river just now.”
“Excellent. You keep us well supplied. There’s quite a nip in the air today. Shall we have snow before Christmas, d’you think?”
He shook his head. “No, ma’am. Not likely. Rain, for sure, but not much chance of snow. Nothing serious, anyhow.”
“Still, it’s cold work being outside all day.”
“I get a hot dinner in the kitchen, ma’am.”
“Oh, good! Better get yourself inside, then. Good day to you.”
“G’day, ma’am.” He touched his forelock and turned away to cross the bridge.
Georgie passed over the main path, taking the narrower track that led through the woods.
In no time, she had reached a stile, and there beyond it, its chimney smoking gently in the still air, was the cottage, welcoming light spilling from the nearest unshuttered window.
Inside, the front door opened directly into a small parlour, the fire burning steadily..
Jamie, as neat as ever despite the rustic setting, smiled at her. “Come through to the kitchen and warm up. It is bitter out there.”
“It’s certainly bracing,” she said, unwinding her scarf. “The country always seems colder than the town, somehow.”
“Do you like living in the country?” he said, leading her through a narrow passage to a large kitchen, where pans bubbled on a modern range and the air was filled with the scent of fresh bread.
“My cottage in Oxford is practically in the country. From the bottom of my garden, there’s nothing but fields and distant woodland, but I can walk into town whenever I want.”
“The best of both worlds,” he said, smiling. “Now, I have a pot of soup ready, and bread just out of the oven, or—”
“Perfect!” she said. “There’s nothing quite like bread still warm, is there?”
He laughed and agreed to it, and they settled down at the big table, its surface scarred from innumerable vegetables chopped there over the years. The soup was thick broth and the bread solid and chewy.
“Just like my mother used to make,” Georgie said, savouring the strong flavour. “Do you know, I prefer this to all the duke’s fancy dishes.”
“Do you? I confess to being partial to green goose, and there is nothing to beat venison, to my mind.”
“Trout,” she said thoughtfully. “I love trout… salmon… any fish of that type.”
“A bit insubstantial for me,” he said. “I like my meat, I confess. Beef, mutton, pork… any sort of meat.”
“And venison.”
“True. But we must not fritter away the time by talking only about food. I think… I hope… I have devised a story which will account for a speedy marriage without raising too much suspicion. Will you hear it?”
“Very willingly.”
“Well, it works like this.”
He laid his spoon down, folded his arms to rest on the edge of the table and leaned forward eagerly. She was struck by how boyish he looked in such an attitude. He was a self-effacing man who normally hid behind a bland facade, but she rather liked this enthusiastic Jamie.
“I have to go to Oxford next week,” he began, “and you have reason to go there, too. Your cottage to be let, the bank… I think you said something about the bank?”
“To arrange for my income to be paid to Brinchester. I need to pack up the rest of my belongings, too.”
“Exactly so. Then it will not be thought odd if we travel there together. We will need to stop one night on the road and there, fuelled perhaps by too much claret, I reveal that I have long nurtured a secret passion for you. To my astonishment, you admit to similar feelings for me. Thrilled by our new-found love, when we arrive in Oxford we impulsively obtain a bishop’s licence and marry immediately. There! What do you think?”
She had to smile at his eagerness. “It’s ingenious, certainly. The secrecy part… yes, that will work very well, for we are both private people who don’t show our feelings readily.”
“Precisely!” he cried happily. “Then you like the idea? We can polish it up a little on the way to Oxford.”
“I’m not sure about the impulsive marriage, however.”
“Oh.” His face dropped immediately. “You do not think it believable?”
“We’re neither of us impulsive by nature, or at least, we’ve given the rest of the world no reason to think us so.
In such a situation, suddenly discovering that a regard is entirely reciprocated, an entirely unforeseen circumstance, one might indeed act impulsively.
After all, we’re both of age, so there’s no need to wait.
But it would raise questions, I believe, and that’s what I fear the most.”
“Ah. Then I must think again,” he said, his expression downcast.
“I think the story only needs to be modified a very little to make it entirely credible. We can say that we decided, upon reflection, that we didn’t want the fuss that would inevitably arise, and so we decided to marry at once to forestall it.
Which has the virtue of being true,” she added.
“At least this way, if there is a fuss about wedding clothes and so forth, it will be after the wedding.”
“Yes… yes… no fuss. I like that. And it is certainly the case that we should both hate it. Do you think there will indeed be a great to-do about it?”
“I’m afraid so,” she said. “The Merrington ladies love a wedding.”
He rubbed his face with his hands. “We must bear it as best we can, I suppose.”
***
Lance was amused to find Charlotte Merrington becoming increasingly responsive to his flirtation.
Whether it was the competition from the squire’s daughters or simply her own inclination, she now hovered around him like a persistent wasp.
She was deeply involved in the running of the household, but it was surprising how often her duties brought her to the precise room where Lance was.
If he was at his easel, she would be tidying the flower arrangements in the library.
When he went to the still room to clean his brushes, she materialised out of nowhere to help him and within a few days had taken on the task entirely.
If he sat in a quiet parlour to write letters, she would be flicking a duster about.
In the evenings, she openly recruited him to sit beside her at dinner, and hung about him afterwards.
One day, when he had borrowed a carriage to go into Brinchester, she found an excuse to accompany him there.
Most worryingly, she no longer reminded him that he was engaged, and he felt obliged to do the reminding himself, by mentioning Patience at every opportunity.