Chapter Seventeen #2
Georgiana folded her hands and faced Farley.
Ducking her head a little, she admitted, “I feel rather stupid that I do not know exactly how to dress myself. I suppose I could muddle through, but, Farley, there are millions and millions of women in the world who have to dress themselves. Am I any better than they are in this regard?”
“You are, miss,” Farley argued. “A lady’s gowns are more complicated than the baker’s wife’s dresses. How’ll you reach behind yer back, miss? To close yer stays?”
“How do you do it?”
Farley tightened her lips.
“Tomorrow, shall we start with me learning to put on my undergarments on my own?” Georgiana asked. “Then, you can show me how to close the laces on my stays without needing help.”
“It’ll take you longer to dress, miss,” Farley warned.
“Kindly wake me a little before times, and I will endeavor not to embarrass myself by taking much longer than normal to dress.”
Farley sighed. “Yes, miss.”
“Thank you,” Georgiana said. “I will sit up for little while and read a sermon before I sleep.”
“Yes, miss.”
Farley turned and lifted her robe from the end of the bed. She held the deep-blue garment up and Georgiana slipped her arms through it. She closed it herself and tied the belt around her waist.
“There,” Georgiana said, smiling widely.
“You’ve done tied yer belt in a knot, miss,” Farley said, nodding at her waist. “You’d best retie it in a bow before the knot tightens.”
“Oh,” Georgiana said, losing her smile. She tugged and manipulated the knot until the belt hung open. “I shall try this again.” After another two attempts, she had a bow with one loop and one extra-long end. “That will do.”
“Practice, miss,” Farley said, backing away. “It’s like tying a bow for yer bonnet.”
“I should have thought of that,” Georgiana said, nodding emphatically, undeterred by her own mistakes. “I will next time.”
“Yes, miss.”
“You may go, now. Sleep well, Farley dear.”
Her maid turned to go, muttering beneath her breath about not being able to sleep a wink tonight worrying about all this falderal. Georgiana let her grumble pass without remark.
I will learn to be more independent.
Georgiana chose to read on the chaise longue next to the window.
She moved a branch of candles to the nearby table and settled to read a chapter from Mary Wollstonecroft’s A Vindication on the Rights of Women.
It was not precisely a sermon, but elevation of her mind was Georgiana’s objective.
After she finished her chapter, Georgiana closed the book with a quote from the essay occupying her mind. “…truth must be common to all.”
“Interesting,” she murmured. “I wonder if Mary has read this essay?”
She set the book down, rose, blew out the candles, and climbed into bed in the light of the one candle still lit where it rested on her bedside table.
Georgiana cupped her hand around the flame and leaned over to blow it out.
However, the sound of a horse on the gravel drive gave her pause.
Her room faced the front of the house, and her window had been cracked a few inches, making it easy for her to hear.
That is not a carriage, so the rider cannot be Fitz…unless…something has happened to the carriage? Who else would come here at this time of night? It must be Fitz or Mr. Bingley. Or…or…a groom? Someone sent to fetch another carriage perhaps? I must see.
Georgiana threw back the bedclothes and yanked on her robe. She thought about tying a bonnet and had her belt tied about herself in a trice. She shoved her feet into her slippers and hurried across to the door. She opened it half-way and heard the door knocker.
It cannot be a groom, or any other servant—they would have gone to the kitchen door.
Her heart tripping in sudden anxiety, Georgiana opened the door further and moved along the corridor until she stood at the top of the stairs.
Glancing about and not seeing her cousin, she wondered if she should go and wake him.
Hearing footsteps crossing the tiled floor, Georgiana peered through the shadows, watching the lantern and the man it illuminated, expecting to see Brewster, the Bingley’s butler.
It is Elliot. No one will dare to force their way into the house with him guarding the door, she thought, immensely relieved.
Why Georgiana felt so much anxiety over this unexpected visitor she could not say. Sinking down onto her haunches, Georgiana grasped hold of the carved wooden balusters and hid behind them while she spied the goings-on in the entrance hall between them.
Elliot slowly opened the door. It was thrust out of his hand and it swung wide. A tall man, dressed in a red military uniform, wearing a bicorn hat, swept in.
Relief coursed through Georgiana. Oh, he has come for Cousin Douglas.
And then he spoke.
“Elliot, old man, good to see you.”
Georgiana’s eyelids fluttered, and she thought she might faint. Her grip on the balusters tightened even further.
George!
Oh, Lord, it is George!
“Mr. Wickham, sir,” Elliot was saying, though Georgiana heard his words as though he spoke at the end of a tunnel. “Yer not permitted inside. Leave.”
“I have come to speak to Georgie,” he said, sounding merry and full of himself.
“Miss Georgiana’s gone t’bed, she has,” Elliot said, his tone menacing. “You ain’t seein’ ‘er.”
“At this hour?” George demanded, removing his hat. He folded it shut and poked Elliot in the chest with one corner of it. “She will see me.”
“I ain’t wakin’ ‘er up no matter what y’says,” Elliot growled. “Iffen y’don’t leave on yer own, I’ll put y’out.”
“By yourself?” George asked, laughing. He put his head back and shouted, “Georgiana! Georgiana! Come out, come out, wherever you are!”
“Ye must be drunk,” Elliot said, disgust in his voice.
Georgiana cringed away, hiding her face in her hands. A drunk George frightened her nearly out of her wits. Tears hovered in her eyes. She squeezed them shut and the tears rolled hot and stinging down her cheeks.
“What the devil?” her cousin cursed from behind her. “Georgie,” he said, his voice calmer. He crouched behind her and put his hands on her shaking shoulders. “What is it? What is happening?”
Unable to speak in her terror, Georgiana weakly pointed down the stairs before covering her face once more.
“Right,” he said, his voice hard. “You return to your room and lock the door.”
Georgiana could not move. She felt frozen to the spot, unmoving limbs useless and ignoring her pleas. From between her fingers, she watched Cousin Douglas, in his dressing gown, hurry down the stairs.
From below, Georgiana heard Elliot say, “That’s it. Out wi’ye.”
Georgiana watched Fitz’s huge valet take hold of the back of George’s collar, grab his arm, and march him to the open front door.
“Let go of me! Let go, I say!” George sounded outraged as he struggled in Elliot’s grasp.
“Iffen y’can’t be’ave like a gentleman, I’ll not treat y’like one.” Elliot threw George out the front door. Georgiana could not see if he fell or not.
“Hey!” he shouted.
“And don’t y’be comin’ back, neither, George Wickham,” Elliot growled.
“Iffen y’do, I’ll evict y’covered in bruises, I will.
” He stepped back and swung the door to, fastened the locks, and turned away to face the interior of the entrance hall, his back to the door as though he guarded it. Georgiana felt infinitely safer.
Her cousin reached the ground floor. “Was that who I think it was?”
“Colonel,” Elliot said, nodding respectfully. “It was Wickham, sir.”
“Darcy told me he saw him in town,” her cousin said. “I am going to dress, and then we will patrol the grounds with Corporal Laman to make certain Wickham has left. Wake Brewster and have him rouse the footmen. Light the house.”
“Aye, Colonel,” Elliot said, marching toward the baize door which opened into the realm of the servants.
Georgiana waited for her cousin to reach her. He crouched and held onto her shoulders, lifting her to her feet. He put an arm around her.
“Come, my girl. Let me take you to your bedchamber. You must ring for Farley. Lock the door until she gets there. Let her in and lock it again. Will you do that for me?”
“I will,” Georgiana whispered.
“Good girl,” he praised, leading her to her open bedchamber door. He put her inside. “Lock it, now.”
Georgiana obediently turned and locked the door with fingers that trembled so badly she thought she might tug the key out of the lock. After a moment of deep breathing, she hurried over to the bell that rung in her maid’s bedchamber.
“My window,” she whispered. Forcing herself to cross to the open window she hurriedly closed and locked it.
Without looking out the clear pane, she folded the shutters closed as she had seen servants do her entire life.
She locked them and then tugged the drapes over the shutters as though the cloth represented another layer of defense.
Georgiana pressed her closed fist over her wildly beating heart. What can I do next? What did Douglas say? Her gaze roamed the chamber, coming to rest on the lone candle still burning on her night table.
More light. He said light the house. She examined her shaking hands and wondered if she could trust herself near a flame. Farley can light them.
If only Fitz would come home. Georgiana cast a swift glance at the clock on the mantel. It is not even eleven. He will not be here for another hour at least.
A light knock sounded at the door and the door handle turned. Georgiana flew across the room.
“Who is it?” she asked, her hand on the key.
“It’s me, miss,” Farley said.
Georgiana sobbed and turned the key. She wrenched open the door and fell into her maid’s arms.
“There now, miss. Don’t you worry none. I’m here now.”
Farley shuffled them into the bedchamber and kicked the door closed behind her. “I’ll jist lock this here door first, miss, since you felt the need fer it.”
Georgiana nodded and struggled to contain her tears. “I…I w…will sit on the bed.”
“That’s a fine idea, miss. And, I’ll light these here other candles.”