Chapter Thirteen
My dearest brother,
There is truth in what you say, for I fear that Caroline’s stubbornness stretches far and wide across the plains and valleys
of her character, taking on entirely new colours and angles. On certain subjects she does indeed resemble a dog with a bone,
though I think that tenacity something to admire; too many people are weathercocks, their every opinion blown about by a prevailing
wind. To encounter someone who insists on pursuing her own path and thoughts regardless of others, who knows her own mind
firmly, is refreshing indeed. Our lessons so far have been exhausting deeply alarming somewhat productive, and I feel confident that I can help her become a better version of herself, even if that is not precisely
the version she currently imagines.
Oh, and you know very well that I do not care for the sex of my horse—whichever is the brightest and boldest will suit me
fine. If you bring me some prancing pony who loses its head over every little fence and stile, I shall adorn it in ribbons
and confess to all our visitors that it belongs to you.
Yours affectionately,
Georgiana
Dinner was indeed delicious—flaky fish cooked in a white sauce, preceded by a light salad—but Caroline was too distracted to really enjoy it properly.
How had she never before noticed the way candlelight played upon Georgiana’s features, picking out the beautiful curve of her lips?
How had she failed to see that, while her friend had always been beautiful, she was also entrancing?
A door had been opened inside Caroline, though it was a problem entirely of her own making.
If she simply hadn’t allowed herself to recall Georgiana’s soaked body, then she wouldn’t be sitting here now, squirming awkwardly with only half an appetite.
Or rather, an appetite for something that was not salad-based.
No, it is not my fault at all, actually, she decided, forcing her discomfort down until it was little more than a whisper. I was not the one who decided to start emerging out of lakes and encroaching upon innocent passersby who were minding their
own business. It is, in fact, not remotely my fault. If anything, I am a victim here. She gave a little nod. Yes. A victim of . . . watery allure.
She looked up to find Georgiana watching her over the rim of her wine glass. “You look like you are arguing with yourself.
And I am certain that you haven’t listened to anything I’ve said for the last five minutes.”
“I apologise. Pray, repeat whatever it was you said.”
“I am delighted to inform you that my correspondence this morning has proven extremely fruitful. We have received several
invitations already, and may go through them if you wish, although I have ascertained which are most likely to be attended
by eligible bachelors. There is to be a picnic at a lake nearby in two days’ time, which I believe would suit your Great Endeavour
perfectly.”
Caroline stared down at her plate, a muscle under her eye twitching. Good God, was she to be tormented by lakes for the rest of her life?
“I am sure there will be at least a dozen prospective suitors there,” Georgiana added, “if not more, for I believe they intend
to hold a boat race. That ought to draw a good range of gentlemen. Lady Lennox takes dinner with illustrious company, since
her husband is a baron and her sister-in-law married an earl, so I would be surprised if she did not have at least a few lords
in their company.”
“Indeed?” Caroline perked up. Being surrounded by available men would surely chase away whatever strange notions had entered
her mind of late. “Even better. I shall double my efforts to improve myself, so that I can present an excellent first impression.”
Perhaps she could obtain an orphan child or a wounded puppy to bring along, so that the men could see her feeding the little
creature and praise her for being saintly and good. Had not both Miss Bennets once cooed over a darling lamb that had become
briefly separated from its flock? And had not the men exchanged amused yet reverent glances about the maternal instincts shown
by their beloveds? Georgiana would probably never let me do such a thing, though, Caroline sulked, as Mrs Reynolds took away their plates.
And hiding a lamb, however small, under my skirts would be difficult indeed.
I don’t believe they fold well. Mentally, she pictured all the ways in which a lamb might be neatly compacted to, say, the size of a reticule, and then repressed
a sigh. No. Too much leg.
Really, sometimes it was as if the entire world conspired against her.
“Shall we retire to the drawing room now?” Georgiana suggested, rising to her feet. The candles were perfectly positioned to throw pools of light onto her ample bosom, making it beam brightly.
Caroline swallowed hard, averting her gaze. “You go on ahead. I shall meet you there in a moment.”
She retreated to her room upstairs, filled the basin to the brim with cool water from the pitcher, then stuck her face in
it and screamed. This produced suitably dramatic bubbles but did not actually make her feel much better. “Calm down,” she
told her dripping reflection. “You did not actually do anything earlier.”
Her reflection stared back accusatorially. No, it seemed to say, but you were about to, had Miss Darcy not knocked when she did. And what then? Might you have imagined her peeling that petticoat
off? Touching her bare flesh underneath? How dreadfully sinful. You would have finished thinking of her, and that surely cannot
be the behaviour of a perfect woman.
The truth was difficult to argue with. Still, Caroline had only been trying to get rid of the urge, not to savour it. She
couldn’t possibly be held responsible for the strange, unknowable things one’s body did. Reassured by the solidity of such
reasoning, Caroline patted her face dry, smoothed down her hair, then headed for the stairs, determined to have a perfectly
normal evening.
The music already drifting from the drawing room was soft and tender, entirely unlike the performances Georgiana usually gave
at parties. The melody itself was delicate, overlaid on a bed of earthen notes, deep and dark. Georgiana halted, her fingers
stuttering to a halt on the keys, when Caroline edged over the threshold.
“Pray do not stop on my account,” said she. “It sounds rather lovely. What is it?”
“Gluck,” Georgiana said, smiling, though she looked a little hesitant. “It’s from his opera Orfeo ed Euridice.”
Caroline knew very little about opera, though she had enjoyed the few performances she’d seen in London. She crossed to the
nearest couch and sat, pleased to note that Mrs Reynolds had provided a bowl of grapes and neatly-cut cubes of cheese. “Oh?
What is it about?”
“In short, a woman dies, and her lover journeys to the underworld to fetch her back.”
“Fashionably morose,” Caroline declared, leaning back and crossing her legs at the ankle. The couches in the drawing room
were not nearly as comfortable as the ones in the library, though they were far more stylish, with ornately carved legs. The
price of beauty was one Caroline would gladly pay, though after an hour or three, her posterior would disagree vehemently
with that sentiment. “Is there anything more delicious to hear about than someone else’s tragedy? One may experience all the
thorny pleasure of the anguish while experiencing none of the real consequences.” She selected a grape from the bowl and popped
it into her mouth, where it burst with sweetness. “And does he succeed?”
“Well, he—Orfeo—is told that he can bring her back to life with the power of music, but he only has one opportunity to lead
her from the underworld of the dead out into the land of the living, and he must not look back at her at any point. If he
does, she will be lost to him.”
Caroline scoffed. “Rather easy. One would think they would make it more difficult to test his love.”
“Indeed. Yet Orfeo fails the test.”
“What?” She blinked. “Do they deceive him?”
“Well, it’s . . .” Georgiana hesitated, her fingers picking up the melody again. “Euridice faints, you see. And so Orfeo feels compelled to look back.”
“Even after being told not to? Seems like rather an obvious trick.” Caroline picked up another grape. “I myself would never
be so fooled.”
“Indeed.” Georgiana smiled, watching her own fingers glide over the keys. “I suspect you would end up staying and ruling the
underworld by sheer force of will.”
“It sounds as if it needs a little more ruling, if demons are running amok setting ridiculous traps for people. Do not they
have proper work to do? Tending to hellfire and, er . . .” She wasn’t quite sure what tasks demons might be reasonably entrusted
with, now that she thought about it, but hazarded a guess anyway. “Boiling cauldrons and poking people with hot irons and
so on?”
“The thing is,” Georgiana said, as her right hand played a series of notes that sounded like twinkling stars, “it’s not about
the look. It is what is behind the look. The emotion, you see. Does Orfeo trust her to follow him even if he is not leading
her? Is that not what love is?”
Caroline opened her mouth to reply, then closed it again. She honestly had no idea if that was love, though what Georgiana
said did make rather a lot of sense. Curiosity pricked her. “Is that what you think love is?”
Georgiana didn’t seem to hear the question, her eyes lost and focusing on some distant point in the room as her hands roved
over the keys, the melody fading away. After the final notes, her hands dropped into her lap, and she sat quite still. “He
receives a reward anyway.”
“Orfeo? But you said he failed the test,” Caroline protested, annoyance flaring. Composers simply could not be trusted to write a straightforward tale; really, they were almost as bad as novelists. “This is rather a confusing story.”
“I promise it all makes sense once you see it. Cupid—the god of Love—sees Orfeo’s fidelity and restores Euridice to life,