Page 46 of Lessons for Marquesses
The laborers entered to clear the rooms, Oliver returned to his work, and Charlotte soothed Georgiana’s back as she watched the men traverse the main hall.
“Perhaps you should rest, dear,” her aunt suggested.
Georgiana peered over her shoulder. “Like a nap?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll ride instead.” She needed a reminder of why she was still trying, why she didn’t surrender and let the Marquess of Eastwick have it all. After her ride, she would calculate the near outlays required and send a payment toward the mortgage.
She slipped around two men hauling out a painting and, at the sound of hooves clattering up the drive, ran outside. Through the trees, she saw a cloak and a dark horse. Had Mr. Wolf arrived? What was the verse from long ago, the one she had hidden in her sleeve? The one Mr. Redgrave had cruelly burned to ash?
Fear thou not, for I am with thee. Yes, fear not. Mr. Wolf was here.
But no. Georgiana kicked her heel to the gravel. It was Timothy, the postboy. She paid for two letters, one for Oliver and one addressed to her from Coutts & Co, London.
She was an optimist. One had to be to raise and race horses, to live in the country where survival was dependent upon the whims of the weather and gods. But her hand shook at the address.
She faced challenges directly. Where did one get by burying their head in the sand? She contemplated burning the letter without reading it.
She never cried. Tears bit ravenously at her eyes as she read the letter.
…the above referenced mortgage is currently in arrears for £1045, including late fees. You are hereby notified that payment must be received in our office with your current payment of £335, totaling a sum of £1370, on or by 24 May 1763. If you fail to provide full payment, proceedings will commence to transfer your lien to a third party, the Most Honorable, the Marquess of Eastwick…
Folding the notice, she tucked it in her breeches and delivered Oliver’s letter. She stood before him like a tree, a dead tree waiting for someone compassionate to hack her down. “Oliver?”
Her cousin frowned over his letter. “Hmmm?”
If she sent all the money she had in hand, she still needed over six hundred to stop the marquess.
“Damnation,” Oliver muttered. “Annie’s decided to refurbish the ground floor in St. James. She says it’s required of my position.”
“I’m certain it is.”
Oliver looked up, settling on her. “Was there something you wished to ask me?”
“No. Only I wished to thank you for your help. If ever I am in a position to assist you, know I will show the same generosity.”
He squinted hard. “Are you all right?”
“Of course.” She saluted and walked to her room.
Slumping to the foot of the mattress, she thudded her heels to the carpet, her elbows at her thighs, hands limp. It smelled like spring and with the call of songbirds, new beginnings. Hope.
She wasn’t going to cry.
Her gaze landed upon the portrait. The first thing she saw upon awakening, the last thing she savored before snuffing the bedside candle. Her parents, six months before her mother haddied. Georgiana was there, too. And her brother or sister in her mother’s belly, never having found his or her way out.
Just like there was no way out of this.
What good would it do to have her cousin throw good money after bad? If the marquess foreclosed upon her, she still owed ten thousand. Her primary objective now was to avoid debtors’ prison.
She never imbibed liquor. Whatever joy momentarily gained or trouble temporarily soothed, there was, as she had noted during her father’s grieving, always the next day.
She went to the cellar and retrieved two bottles of claret and a bottle of brandy. She told Charlotte she was taking a nap and went to get smashing drunk.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Same Day
