Читать книгу The Emerald Comb - Kathleen McGurl, Kathleen McGurl - Страница 15

Chapter Five: Brighton, April 1838

For the thousandth time, Bartholomew patted the pocket in which he’d stowed the trinket, to make sure it was safely tucked away. It wasn’t the first gift he’d given Georgia, but it was by far the most expensive. A silver hair comb, set with emeralds along its spine. He’d had it made in London by a Bond Street jeweller, and hoped she would love it. As the stagecoach rumbled southwards along the bumpy Brighton road, Bartholomew was glad he would be able to deliver this gift in person, rather than send it as he’d done with the last few presents.

It had been a few weeks since he’d last been in Brighton. Trouble with his investments had called him to his Mayfair townhouse, and it had taken him longer than expected to get everything back on track. His agent, Collins, should be able to take care of business from here on, freeing Bartholomew to live the idle life of a gentleman, as was his right. More than ever, he needed capital, and that could only come from marrying someone with money. Like Georgia Holland. There were rumours of a substantial inheritance, currently in trust for her but which would pass to her husband on the occasion of her marriage. She was pretty and charming, if a little immature, and could be a good choice of wife. He had not renewed the lease on his Brighton lodgings – Charles Holland had invited him to stay in the Brunswick Terrace house.

Well, he’d see the pretty little Georgia soon enough, and would ask for her hand at the earliest opportunity. If he played his cards right, he could be out of debt within a few months. And, of course, there was the added attraction of Georgia’s alluring lady’s maid. He felt a twinge of excitement at the thought of seeing her again.

The countryside passed by in a rush of bright new foliage, sweet white blossom, rich earthy scents of newly ploughed and planted fields. The spring sunshine cast a glow of hope for the future over everything. Bartholomew smiled. There was a world of possibilities ahead of him.

When he arrived at Brunswick Terrace, the door was opened by the footman, Peters. ‘Welcome, sir. The master is awaiting you in the drawing room. I shall take your luggage up to your room.’

‘Thank you.’ As he gave his hat and travelling cloak to Peters, Bartholomew noticed the maid, Agnes, on the turn of the stairs. He caught her eye, and raised one eyebrow. In return, she gave an almost imperceptible nod of her head, sending a thrill rushing through him. What did she mean by that nod? Could it be – an invitation?

‘Miss Georgia said to inform you she is indisposed,’ said Peters. ‘I believe her maid is attending to her now.’ He held the drawing room door open.

Bartholomew was still gazing after Agnes. That woman had the most regal bearing of any woman, high- or low-born, he’d ever seen. She was slight but carried herself tall, graceful as a swan. She looked back at him once, a half-smile on her face, as though she was as pleased to see him as he was to see her.

He entered the drawing room, where a log fire was blazing in the grate, even though the day was warm and sunny. Charles Holland was sitting in an armchair near the fire, his back to the window. He had a brandy glass in his hand, and as Bartholomew approached he gulped it back and motioned for Peters to pour another.

‘Welcome, welcome, St Clair,’ he said, waving at Bartholomew to sit opposite him.

Pulling the chair a little away from the fire, Bartholomew sat down, but declined the brandy offered to him by Peters. He’d have welcomed its warming glow, but one brandy often led to another, and another. It was early yet, and he wanted to keep his wits about him during this interview with Georgia’s uncle.

‘I thank you for your hospitality, sir,’ he said. ‘It is most kind of you to offer me room in your house.’

Holland snorted. ‘You’re here because I assume you are going to propose to my niece, sooner or later. I thought if you were here under her nose for a few weeks it might hurry things along. She’s got money, you know. Plenty of it. In trust now, but goes to whichever poor blighter marries her.’

Bartholomew blinked. ‘Sir, I am not after her money, please don’t think that…’

‘Hmph. Most of ’em are. Granted, she’s a pretty enough little thing but there’s too little flesh on her for some men’s liking, and she can be far too spirited. You’ll need to tame her, somewhat. You ready for that, man?’

‘I like her spirit,’ Bartholomew said, remembering the night they’d met, when she’d walked in the snow in dancing slippers, and made him carry her.

‘So did a young chap she met last week,’ said Holland. ‘Son of a wine merchant, I believe, name of Perry. He’s called here every day. She’s having her portrait painted, and the poor sop waited mutely for hours while she sat for the artist. If you want my niece – and Lord knows you’re welcome to her, I make no secret of the fact I want her off my hands – you’ll need to act quickly. I’ll give my blessing. Frankly I think an older, settled chap like yourself will be better for her than a love-struck pup like Perry.’ He gulped back his brandy and reached for the decanter to pour another. ‘Sure you won’t join me?’

‘Perhaps just a small one.’

Holland poured a generous measure into a large brandy glass and handed it to him. ‘So, St Clair, as Georgia’s official guardian I should ask you about your property and income and such like. Don’t give a damn, myself, but it’s the done thing as I understand it, and sooner or later some busybody’s bound to ask about my niece’s fiancé. So I’d best have the detail, man.’

Bartholomew cleared his throat. He’d been expecting this question, but not quite in this form. ‘Well, sir, I am comfortably off. I have a townhouse in Mayfair which is my usual residence when in town, and two other properties near the Regent’s Park, which are let out. I expect to inherit a small country estate in Hampshire from my father in time, but I may not keep that for long.’ Best not to mention that all the London properties were mortgaged to the hilt, and he was barely able to keep up the repayments.

‘Hampshire? Nice county. Know it well, from my youth. Where’s your father’s place, exactly?’

‘North Kingsley, on the London road out of Winchester. The house is called Kingsley House.’

Holland snorted. ‘Never heard of it.’

The captain’s dismissal made Bartholomew feel defensive about his childhood home. ‘It’s not large, but is comfortable, and very pleasantly situated. Any woman would be happy living there.’ He swallowed his brandy, and set the glass on a small table beside his chair.

Holland immediately reached for it and poured him another. ‘How long till you inherit?’

Bartholomew blinked. The directness of the man! ‘Sir, my father is old and frail. Only the Lord above knows how much longer he will live, but I would not expect it to be more than a couple of years.’

‘Until then, what’s your income?’

‘I have upwards of £800 a year from my investments. Your niece, should she accept me, will want for nothing.’ At least, he had been generating £800 a year from his investments, up until losing thousands when an East Indiaman had sunk off the Cape. Bartholomew drank again from his brandy glass.

‘Well, that’s settled then. I’ll ring for her to join us.’ Holland heaved himself out of his chair and pulled on a bell-cord which hung beside the fireplace.

Bartholomew frowned. ‘I believe your footman said she was indisposed?’

‘Indisposed, my foot. She was dancing late at the Assembly Rooms last night with young Perry, and gave herself a headache. Fetch my niece,’ he said to Peters, who responded with a small bow. ‘Tell her she has an important visitor and I want her downstairs at once.’

Peters left the room. Holland nodded at Bartholomew’s glass, and raised his eyebrow. Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, though Bartholomew, as he held out his glass for yet another refill. It was indeed a fine brandy.

A moment later there was a tap at the door. Bartholomew stood, straightened his collar and arranged a smile on his face to greet Georgia.

But when Holland called ‘Come!’ and the door was pushed open, it was Agnes, the maid, who stepped quietly into the room, her attitude deferential but at the same time, her head held high and confident.

‘Beg pardon, sir, but Miss Georgia is not well. She asks your forgiveness, and sends her apologies to Mr St Clair, but fears she cannot be in company for today.’ She gave a pretty curtsey, then turned to Bartholomew. ‘If it please you, sir, she says she would like to meet you after breakfast tomorrow, and if the weather be fine, perhaps take a stroll along the beach.’

She nodded, curtsied once more, and left the room, not waiting for an answer.

Bartholomew smiled. A fine woman, and one who, if he played his cards right, would soon be a part of his household.

‘Thought you’d be upset, man,’ said Holland. ‘Travelling all this way to see my niece, only for her to stay abed. Well, plenty more days I suppose. You need to supplant that young Perry in her affections. Give her some jewellery – the ladies always like that kind of thing.’

‘I am indeed sorry I cannot renew my acquaintance with Miss Holland this evening,’ said Bartholomew, sounding formal even to his own ears, as he struggled to compose himself. Why did that maid have such an effect on him every time he caught a glimpse of her? He’d barely said two words to the woman since he’d met her, but something about her made his pulse race. And if he was not mistaken, she was also attracted to him.

‘Well then, if my niece is not to join us for dinner, we may as well have another brandy. Hand me your glass, man, I’ll top it up.’

The following morning, it was a bleary-eyed Bartholomew who made his way down to the breakfast room. Thankfully the room was empty when he arrived. Peters informed him that Holland would not rise until eleven, and Georgia usually had breakfast brought up to her in her room. Bartholomew sat down to a plate of cold meat and cheese, and worked his way through a whole jug of coffee. When it was finished, he felt a little more ready to face the day. He resolved to be more careful the next time he was in company with Holland and the brandy decanter.

He had not yet seen Agnes, the maid, that morning, but his night had been disturbed by vivid dreams of her. He tried to bring his thoughts back to Georgia – it was she he was here to court – but it was Agnes’s face he saw in his mind’s eye, Agnes’s voice he heard, Agnes’s hands he imagined caressing him.

He shook his head. He had to pull himself together. Agnes was a maid, too lowly for him to consider as a wife. He needed a woman with status, and definitely one with money. He had to focus on Georgia. The two women were superficially alike – both were blonde with green eyes, slight figures and clear complexions – but Agnes had sharper features and a more knowing, worldly manner, whereas Georgia’s face was round and plump, and her attitude more like that of an overgrown child.

The sound of light footsteps on the stairs pulled him out of his reverie. He glanced out of the window; it was indeed a fine day. The breakfast room was at the front of the house, and there was a fine view across the promenade to the beach. High white clouds scudded across a brilliant blue sky, and the wind was whipping the sea into a frenzy of white water. He looked forward to a walk with Georgia. The fresh air would clear his head for certain.

He folded the newspaper he’d been reading, and went out to the hallway. The sun shining through the half-moon-shaped fanlight above the door made a dancing pattern on the tiles. Georgia was standing by the bottom of the stairs, one hand on the newel post, the other clutching a bonnet. She was wearing a pale green silk dress, trimmed with brown lace, and with her golden hair shining in the sunlight she looked like spring embodied. Without a doubt she was a pretty young thing.

‘Good morning!’ he said, giving a small bow. ‘I was sorry not to have the pleasure of your company last night, but your uncle made me most welcome. I trust you are fully recovered today?’

She smiled, her cheeks dimpling prettily. ‘Yes, I am perfectly well, thank you. And ready for some exercise, if you would care to walk with me?’

‘I can think of nothing I would like more. It is windy out – you will require a shawl, I think.’

‘I shall ask Agnes to fetch me one,’ she said, and she pulled the servants’ bell-cord.

Bartholomew felt the now-familiar surge in his chest at the thought of another glimpse of Agnes. But it was Peters who answered the bell, and was sent upstairs to fetch the shawl.

The wind was indeed strong, and Georgia slipped her small, gloved hand through his arm to steady herself as they walked eastwards along the promenade, with the wind at their backs. They nodded at other walkers. They must make a handsome couple, he supposed – Georgia with her blonde daintiness and tiny waist, he with his upright bearing, fine shoulders and bushy side-whiskers.

After a while, they approached the busy part of town, in front of the Regent’s Pavilion and the bottom end of the Old Steine gardens. Georgia proposed that they went onto the beach to walk back. It was rough going over the pebbles, and the wind sent a fine spray from the sea into their faces, but it was invigorating.

‘Marvellous place to live,’ Bartholomew said. ‘With this on your doorstep and the Assembly Rooms for entertainment, you have everything you could want.’

‘I suppose so,’ Georgia replied. ‘Though I confess I preferred living in the country. I only moved to Brighton after my father died, when Uncle Charles took me in.’

‘And how would you feel about living in London?’ he asked. If he married her, that would be where they would live, for that was where most of his property and business interests were.

She shuddered. ‘I should think it would be too big and brash for me. All those people, and so little space. At my father’s house in Lincolnshire I would go for long walks across the fields, seeing no one except a few farm labourers. It was blissful.’

He smiled. ‘I had you down as a party girl – I thought you enjoyed the excitement and glamour of the Assembly Rooms. You were there last night, were you not?’

‘My uncle insists I go to every ball. I missed having a proper coming out in London, as I was in mourning. But he is desperate to find me a husband. Oh!’ She put her hand to her mouth. ‘I should not be saying this to you. But I have always found you so easy to talk to.’

‘I am happy to listen, my dear Miss Holland.’

‘Oh, call me Georgia, do! You know, I quite think of you as another uncle – no, as a favourite uncle. Do you mind?’

He did mind; a favoured uncle was hardly the kind of man she would want to marry. But he laughed and shook his head. ‘Not at all, Georgia.’

‘Good!’ She stopped walking and turned to face him. ‘May I ask your advice about something, please? It is perhaps a little personal, but it is the kind of thing a girl would talk to her favourite uncle about…’ She lifted her eyes to his.

He raised his eyebrows questioningly. Perhaps if he gained her confidences he would then be able to gain her affections.

‘It is about my marriage prospects,’ she said, blushing. ‘I – I think that I have some money held in trust, from the sale of my father’s property, and that when I marry my husband would be in control of that money. But I confess I have no idea how much it is. Am I rich, Mr St Clair? Am I a good marriage prospect for some eligible young bachelor? Oh, forgive me if I embarrass you with such talk!’

‘If I am to call you Georgia, you must call me Bartholomew. And no, you do not embarrass me. But I cannot answer you. I am afraid you must discuss this matter with your real uncle who is, I believe, a trustee of your estate as well as being your guardian. You are right: you should know what you are worth. Some men might court you only for your wealth, and not for yourself.’ He coughed.

‘But surely not Mr Perry,’ she said, blushing and turning away.

Bartholomew straightened his shoulders. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not acquainted with the gentleman of whom you speak.’

Georgia turned towards the sea and gazed at the horizon. ‘I have met him several times at the Assembly Rooms. He has called on me a few times in the afternoons. I believe he may propose to me.’

‘And will you accept?’

‘Oh, Bartholomew, I do not know! Do you think I should?’

‘Is he rich?’

‘He works for his father who is a wine merchant. I believe he owns a small house in Kemptown. But doesn’t love matter more than wealth?’

‘Do you love him?’

‘Yes, I think I do…’

Bartholomew thought hard. He needed to turn Georgia away from this Perry fellow, without also turning her away from him. He’d won her trust, and surely that went a long way as a foundation for a good marriage? Besides, he needed her inheritance. He needed to switch on his charm.

He stepped towards her and took her hands. ‘Georgia, my dear, although it sounds harsh, I do not think you should marry for love. You need to think of your future comfort. Think of the children you will have, and the kind of life you would like them to lead. If you marry this man Perry, you might have a couple of happy years to begin with, but then the realities of lower middle-class life would kick in. Could you really live in a small Kemptown house, having been used to your uncle’s substantial property? You would only be able to afford a minimum of servants – a cook perhaps, and a maid-of-all-work. You are used to having your own lady’s maid, and a very fine maid she is.’ He cleared his throat. ‘My advice, which you may not want to hear, is to be practical when it comes to marriage. Accept the best proposal you can get, from the richest man, who will be able to keep you in a manner which befits your class. Put thoughts of romantic love aside. As long as you respect and trust the man, and don’t find him wholly repulsive, you will be able to love him in time. Love grows, my dear. The enduring type rarely arrives fully formed.’

Georgia had kept her gaze fixed on the horizon for the first part of this speech, but now she looked deep into his eyes. ‘But where will I find such a man? No one else has made me a proposal, or indeed, shown any interest in me. And I know I am a burden to my uncle; the sooner I marry and move out of his house, the better, as far as he is concerned.’ She brushed away a tear. ‘Forgive me. If only my father were still alive, he would know what to do. I miss him so much.’

Bartholomew pulled out his silk handkerchief and gave it to her. ‘It is barely a year since he died, isn’t it? Of course you miss him still.’

He realised there was a chance for him here, if he played the game right. He watched as she dabbed at her tears with the handkerchief. ‘ I think I know what your father might have advised,’ he said, gently.

She looked up at him in surprise. ‘Please, tell me.’

‘Marry a man you like and trust, and who can provide a secure future for you. Someone who is already established in life, perhaps a little older than yourself. Someone of whom your uncle approves. Someone…well, someone like me.’

He watched as her eyes widened, and a smile began to play at the corners of her mouth. ‘Do you mean to say…’

‘I do mean to say… I mean, Georgia, I would consider it an honour if you would agree to be my wife.’ Well, the words were out, the deed was done. If she said yes, there was no going back.

Her smile widened, and she raised an eyebrow. ‘Bartholomew, I did not suspect you cared for me in that way! I am flattered, honoured, and, well… I suppose you want an answer…’ She turned away, gazing out to sea as though the answer would be brought to her on the crest of a wave.

‘You do not need to answer immediately, my dear. Take time to think about it, if you need to.’

She nodded, then turned back to him with a flirtatious smile. ‘You carried me once, along the promenade in the snow. That was fun. I cannot quite imagine Mr Perry doing such a thing.’

‘And is that the kind of behaviour you would like in a husband?’

‘I believe it is required behaviour in a husband.’ She held out her hand. He took it and kissed her fingers.

‘In that case,’ he said, hoisting her up into his arms as she squealed and giggled, ‘I shall demonstrate my suitability as a husband, and shall carry you down the beach.’

‘Not into the sea!’

‘What is your answer?’ He took another few steps towards the waves.

She squealed again ‘You said I could take time to think about it!’

‘You may think about it – in the sea!’ The waves were now lapping at his boots.

‘But my feet will get cold and wet!’

‘That did not bother you at New Year. Do you say yes?’

He made as if to drop her. She clung tightly to his neck, and, laughing, gasped out a yes.

His debts would be paid, his future secure. How easy it had been to influence her! She would make him a perfect wife. He held her more firmly, and bent his head to seal their agreement with a kiss.

‘Mr St Clair, Miss Georgia, is everything all right? Has something happened? Do you need any help?’

It was Agnes, clutching a shopping basket, her eyes wide with concern. Where had she appeared from? Had she followed them? How much had she overheard? Bartholomew stepped back from the water’s edge, and placed Georgia carefully on the bank of pebbles above the water line. He coughed, embarrassed.

‘Oh, Agnes, I am perfectly all right. You gave me quite a surprise, appearing like that. You mustn’t mind our larking about. I am so excited – I am engaged to be married to Mr St Clair!’ Bartholomew felt momentarily embarrassed by the way Georgia had blurted out their news, like an overexcited child.

‘Congratulations, I am sure,’ said Agnes. ‘You have torn your gown.’ She pointed to a seam at the bodice which had come away.

‘Oh!’ Georgia twisted to inspect the damage. ‘Well, never mind, you can mend it for me later.’

Agnes nodded curtly, then turned on her heel and walked up the beach, her head held high.

Bartholomew watched her go, his heart racing, his palms sweating. She’d had that effect on him, yet again. And had there been a touch of hurt, disappointment perhaps, in her eyes?

‘She fusses so,’ said Georgia. ‘She acts as though she’s my mother, although she is only a few years older than me. She says I am missing a woman’s influence in my life. My mother died when I was born, and Father never remarried. But never mind her – we are engaged, and you, sir, were about to kiss me, I do believe.’

‘I was indeed,’ he said, taking a step closer to claim the kiss. But Georgia picked up her skirts and ran off, along the beach, laughing like a child. Bartholomew grinned and shook his head. She was not much more than a child, he must remember that.

In the evening, having spoken to Charles Holland who’d readily agreed to the match, telling him it was about time, Bartholomew sat next to Georgia at dinner. All through the meal she flirted prettily with him, treating him to glittering smiles, laughing at his witticisms, and pressing her foot against his. Once she even put her hand beneath the table, on his knee. Bartholomew felt his desire for her increase – she may have acted like a young girl on the beach but now she seemed all woman. As the dinner drew to a close and the servants cleared away the dessert dishes, he longed to be alone with her; to get a chance to hold her and kiss her.

‘We’ll set your wedding date sooner rather than later, eh, St Clair? No sense making you wait longer than necessary to claim your bride.’

Bartholomew reddened. It was as though Holland had read his mind. He nodded, and smiled at Georgia. ‘I’d certainly like to marry as soon as possible.’

‘We’ll need to wait at least until the banns are read,’ she said.

‘Banns, my foot,’ said Holland. ‘St Clair’ll purchase a licence. He can get that in a day. We could have you married by the weekend.’

Georgia’s face fell. ‘Oh, but Uncle, but that’s too soon to arrange any celebrations, or buy any new clothes!’

‘He’s pulling your leg, my dear,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We’ll marry soon, but not quite as quickly as that. You shall have a new gown if you want one, and a bonnet, and petticoats, and anything else you desire. And for now, you shall have this.’ He pulled the box containing the hair ornament out of his pocket and handed it to her.

He watched as she opened the box and gasped at the comb. The jewels sparkled in the candlelight and reflected in her eyes.

‘It’s beautiful,’ she said, in a whisper. ‘Quite the most beautiful thing I’ve seen. I shall wear it for my portrait, so that when I gaze upon it in future years I will always remember this day. In fact, I want to wear it at once. Ring for Agnes – without a mirror I can’t put it in by myself.’

Charles Holland smiled indulgently, and reached for the bell-pull. A moment later Agnes entered. Her eyes widened as she saw the comb.

‘A pretty piece, Miss Georgia. You are a lucky woman.’ She removed a plain tortoiseshell comb from Georgia’s hair, and replaced it with the emerald one. Her eyes flickered towards Bartholomew, as she tucked away a stray strand of hair. What was in those eyes? Jealousy? Of her mistress’s betrothal, of her comb, of her fiancé? Desire? For the comb, or for him? She was standing behind Georgia, so close to Bartholomew he could feel her warmth, smell her soap. His skin tingled, and he pressed his foot closer still to Georgia’s.

‘There, miss. Looks very nice.’ Agnes curtsied and left the room.

Bartholomew let out the breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, and smiled at Georgia. ‘I am glad you like it, my dear. When we are married I shall take you to visit the man who made it, at the shop in Bond Street. He shall make you a brooch to match it.’

‘Watch it, St Clair. Don’t spend all your money on trinkets for her. Women are all the same, you know. They take your money, your youth and your vigour, and leave you an empty shell. Now then, Peters, where’s the brandy? Georgia, time you left us now. St Clair will be all yours soon – but for now, I want to enjoy his company for myself. You’ll join me for a brandy or two, I take it?’

‘Indeed I will,’ said Bartholomew, holding out his glass for Peters to fill. He turned to Georgia. ‘I shall see you in the drawing room later, my dear.’

Georgia pushed back her chair and stood, trailing her fingers over his shoulder. ‘Don’t keep him too long, Uncle, please.’ She patted her hair comb and left the room.

‘I wasn’t joking about marrying her at the weekend,’ said Holland, as soon as the door closed behind her. ‘Sooner the better. I’ve enjoyed your company, but having that young filly about the place doesn’t suit my lifestyle. She had nowhere else to go, when my brother died. He’d appointed me guardian and trustee of her estate, but frankly, I want shot of the whole responsibility. First time I saw you I thought you’d be suitable for her. An older, more sensible kind of chap than the young pups just after her money. Someone of whom poor Francis would have approved. Glad she accepted you – could have been awkward otherwise, especially with that colt Perry sniffing around. You did well to move quickly. Here’s to a quick wedding and happy marriage.’

He raised his glass, and gulped the brandy down in one swallow. Bartholomew did the same. ‘She’ll be off your hands within a month,’ he promised. ‘I’ll start making the arrangements tomorrow.’

‘Where will you live?’

‘In my Mayfair house, I expect. Or if she wants to stay in Brighton I’ll take a lease on a house here.’

‘Take her to London. Women like being in the capital.’

He really didn’t know his niece well, thought Bartholomew, remembering how Georgia had told him how much she preferred the country.

‘Will you release Agnes Cutter? To come with Georgia, I mean?’ He hadn’t realised he was going to ask the question until it left his lips.

‘Hmm? Who’s Agnes Cutter?’

‘Georgia’s maid. I – I believe Georgia’s rather fond of her. If you can spare the girl, I will of course take over her employment…’

‘Oh, that one. Of course. Part of the package, you might say. Another brandy?’

It was several more brandies before Bartholomew could take his leave, and adjourn to the drawing room. Holland decided to retire, and after pouring himself a nightcap brandy he went upstairs to bed. Bartholomew went through to the drawing room where Georgia was sitting alone, sewing a sampler. She looked up and smiled when he walked in.

‘At last! I was beginning to wonder if you would ever come.’ She put down her sewing and stood to greet him.

‘I am sorry. Your uncle kept me talking a while. And now he has retired for the evening.’

‘No matter, I only wanted to see you.’

‘And I, you,’ he said, taking a step towards her. She held out her hands to him. He took them and drew her towards him. ‘Georgia, my dear, you have made me so happy by agreeing to be my wife. Let’s get married soon. Next month?’

‘In the summer,’ she said, smiling up at him. ‘I’d like a summer wedding, I think.’

He pulled her closer still, wrapping an arm about her waist. ‘I’m not sure I can wait so long, Georgia, darling. Why not a spring wedding?’ His head was swimming after the brandy, and her closeness was intoxicating. He bent his head towards hers, hoping to claim the kiss he’d been denied on the beach, earlier in the day.

But she pushed him away, with a giggle. ‘Bartholomew, I do believe you have had rather too much brandy. I think you had better go upstairs now.’

He considered pulling her back, forcing the kiss on her but a distant, more sober part of his mind told him not to. This was no casual affair, no street-corner hussy. This was the woman he’d chosen to be his wife and bear his children. The woman whose money would save him from a debtor’s prison. He must wait.

He let go of her and bowed. ‘I am sorry, and you are right. Good night. I shall look forward to seeing you in the morning.’

He left the room before he made even more of a fool of himself, and took the stairs two at a time. She was but a girl, he reminded himself. She’d had little experience of men. She was right to rebuff him, in the state he was in. Tomorrow he would not let Holland fill his brandy glass quite so frequently. Tomorrow, if he found himself alone with her, he’d claim his first kiss. If he acted more like a gentleman she wouldn’t refuse him. He would taste those sweet lips at last, smell her skin, feel that soft body pressed against his. And the wedding would be in spring, whether she liked it or not.

Upstairs he turned towards his bedchamber, which was at the end of a corridor, near the stairs which led on upwards to the servants’ quarters at the top of the house. As he reached his room, a rustle of petticoats made him turn, thinking Georgia had perhaps followed him up. But it was Agnes. She was carrying the green gown Georgia had torn on the beach. She stopped beside him.

‘Is everything all right, sir? Are you in need of anything, anything at all?’ There was a glint in her eye.

‘I am quite all right, thank you,’ he replied, stumbling slightly as he reached for his door knob. She caught hold of his elbow to steady him. A shudder jolted through him at her touch.

‘I think not,’ she said. ‘Wait, I will fetch you something to clear your head.’ She opened the door to the servants’ stairs and began to ascend.

Without really knowing what he was doing, Bartholomew followed. She glanced back, with an expression of mild surprise on her face which was quickly replaced by a half-smile. There was, if he was not mistaken, an invitation in that smile. He followed her to her room in the attic. She threw the dress she’d been carrying onto the narrow wooden bed, and began searching through a chest of medicine bottles which stood under the small window.

She chattered as she rooted through the box. ‘My mother is a herbalist. She taught me all the old remedies. And sir, believe me, they do work.’

At last she found the potion she’d been looking for and turned back to him.

‘Here. This will clear your mind a little, and stop your headache in the morning.’ As he took the bottle his fingers brushed hers, sending a sudden shock up his arm.

She was looking directly at him, that half-smile at the corners of her mouth, her eyes wide and bright. She felt it too, he was sure. She’d felt that jolt – she wanted him as much as he wanted her.

He put the bottle down on the wash-stand, and stepped forward. She didn’t move. He put a hand to her cheek, and brushed it gently with his thumb. She turned her face towards his hand, nuzzling against it, and took his thumb in her mouth. All the while her eyes were on his.

He could stand it no longer. He pulled her roughly towards him and covered her mouth with his, kissing her fast and furious. She kissed him back, and snaked her hands around his back, under his jacket. He could feel the thrilling warmth of them through his shirt. He kissed her face, her neck, her throat where the coarse wool of her dress met her soft, soap-scented skin. He was mad with desire for her and pushed her backwards, towards her bed. She lay down, crushing Georgia’s gown, and drew him down on top of her. He tugged up her skirts as she reached for his trouser fastenings, and a minute later he was inside her, grunting and panting, thinking of nothing but the moment they were in, and her.

My dear Barty, it is at this point in my narrative that you will no doubt have begun to despise me. How could I, on the very day of proposing marriage to one woman, take another to bed? My defence, for what it’s worth, is merely that I was intoxicated by Agnes. When I was with her, with or without a gut full of brandy, I could not think clearly. I was at the mercy of my lustful feelings for her. She knew, I believe, that she had this hold over me. And she was as besotted by me at that time as I was by her, as she later confessed to me.

You might want, having read this far, to throw this manuscript down in disgust, and hear no more of your father’s indiscretions. But, my dear son, bear with me please, for you must know the truth. Steel yourself, Barty, for there is worse, far worse, to come. And some of it, I must write as though Agnes herself is telling the story. She was loyal to me, in those days, and told me everything, or at least, almost everything, that passed in private between her and Georgia.