Page 37 of A Duke of One's Own
But Georgie had not previously had occasion to spend any time alone with her sister-in-law, and might well take advantage of the opportunity now that it had presented itself. To talk about something that did not in any way relate to Mrs Aubrey, Captain Hart, or the shocking events of the day before would distract her, she thought. ‘Blanche…’ she said, when she had eaten and the dishes had been removed.
Lady Blanche looked up quickly from her sewing. ‘Can I get anything for you?’ she asked.
‘I am quite comfortable,’ Georgie reassured her, though it was not entirely true. ‘I was thinking about something Gabrielsaid to me – was it yesterday, or the day before? I have rather lost track of time, with everything that has happened.’
‘I am sure that’s perfectly understandable,’ said Blanche reassuringly, snipping off a thread.
‘He said that Ashby was always your father’s favourite, and that he, Gabriel, was a constant disappointment to him. He seemed… I don’t know, it can be hard to tell what he’s thinking. But it seemed to hurt him, if that’s not too strong a word. Then he deliberately changed the subject, and appeared to regret saying anything, and so I did not insist on his telling me more.’
‘If my brother does not wish to address a subject, it can be very difficult indeed to have such a discussion,’ replied Blanche drily. ‘But I’m glad you asked. There is no great mystery, you know, and I should be happy to tell you.’
‘I would be grateful. I have said to Gabriel before, we hardly know each other, and surely that must be remedied. The circumstances of our marriage…’
‘Quite.’ She set down her stitchery. ‘Both of my brothers were always army-mad; I am sure you of all people know how boys can be when they are fourteen or fifteen. But my father would not permit Gabriel to purchase a pair of colours; it was inappropriate for his heir to put himself in danger, he said, though a younger son was different, and nothing that Gabriel could say, no matter how passionately he argued, would move him.’
‘It must have been an awkward situation,’ said Georgie slowly. ‘But it was not an unreasonable position for your father to take, after all.’
‘Of course it wasn’t. But boys of that age arenotreasonable.’ Georgie laughed ruefully; she knew all too well the truth of this. ‘I think only a boy could conclude that his father’s willingness to put his younger brother in mortal danger meant he loved that brothermore.’
‘Oh God, they’re ridiculous, aren’t they?’
‘Perfectly ridiculous. But all might still have been well if my father had allowed Gabriel to begin involving himself in the management of the estates, as was his right. He did not; he did not want to give up any measure of control, all the more because his health was failing by then, he was starting to let things slide and he knew it, though he did not admit it to anyone, least of all to Gabriel. Hasty words were spoken between them, words that could not later be taken back. I was not in England by then – I was married, in Ireland, and had two small children. But my mama – my stepmother, that is, but we were very close and I always called her Mama – told me of the terrible arguments, and her fruitless efforts to bring them both to see sense. She said the likeness between them had never been more obvious than when they were saying dreadful, unforgiveable things to each other.’
‘I understand.’
‘And then of course Gabriel reacted by becoming terribly wild, which was not surprising since my father would give him no better way of passing his time, as you can be sure he pointed out most frequently, and he was in a sense cut off from Northriding, which he loves so much, by my father’s stubbornness and his own foolish pride. As anybody could have predicted, he was obliged to leave Oxford because of his behaviour there, and then worse things happened and a dreadful scandal blew up, which my father took as evidence that he had been right all along not to trust him. There was an irrevocable break between them. Papa tried to make Mama cast him off too, but of course she refused, and that caused trouble and unhappiness in their marriage, which my father, of course, blamed Gabriel for, though in truth he knew nothing of it since he was not here but abroad. Everything in the world was his fault, by this point.’
‘Was Gabriel estranged from your brother as well?’
‘No, thank heaven, never, or imagine how many more regrets Gabriel would have now our brother is dead. Ash was stubborn too, and refused to bow to my father’s pressure. Then my father’s illness worsened, he had a paralytic stroke and was incapacitated, and Gabriel returned, and at last was able to take over the running of the estates, which my father had handled very badly for several years. And Papa died, without the breach between them ever being mended.’
‘That’s very sad. I thought there must be something of the kind behind Gabriel’s words.’
‘It is a common enough tale, I dare say. Men and their ridiculous pride! And now you know, and it is right that you should. I am not sure my brother will ever speak of it, and it is ancient history after all, but you are family now. I only wish Mama had lived to meet you, for I am sure you would have dealt extremely well with her, and she would have been so happy to see Gabriel married to you. At least he always knew thatsheloved him and did not make favourites, and she never reproached him for anything more than what she saw as excusable youthful folly, such as any unlucky boy might commit. There was no nonsense from her such as blaming him for my father’s illness, though I am sure he blamed himself – perhaps he does so still, I do not know, or perhaps he has reconciled himself with the past. We rarely speak of it. But I should not rattle on so when you are tired, I am sure, and need to rest. Oh – one more family thing I should tell you while I think of it, and then I will hold my tongue. Good news: I saw Isabella and her parents, and I am glad to say that she is much better. Almost her old self again, in fact. Perhaps the shock of seeing you and Gabriel helped in some way that I do not fully understand. She said it did, at any rate. She asked me to apologise to you for the scene she created, and I promised her I would do so, eventhough I thought it quite unnecessary. I was excessively glad to see her so well. Now rest!’
Georgie murmured her thanks, and did close her eyes for a little while, to reflect on what she had heard. It shed a different light on Gabriel, she thought – to imagine him as a passionate, wrong-headed boy much like one of her young brothers, rather than the habitually controlled, self-deprecating, almost permanently ironic man she knew now. Or barely knew, if truth were told. He had not been so very controlled that morning, when he had shown her just a little of how deeply her injury had affected him. But she could not predict how he would be next time she saw him; whether the protective shell would be back in place, defying all attempts to know him better.
40
Gabriel came back into the room soon afterwards, bathed, changed and rested, the lines carved in his face by worry and exhaustion largely smoothed away. He smiled when he heard that she had been sitting up and taking refreshment, and was even more reassured when the doctor returned and, after talking with her, taking her pulse and examining her wound, pronounced her securely on the mend. That gentleman commended her upon her heroism and her extraordinary fortitude, congratulations which she received in embarrassed silence.
As soon as she was alone with her husband, she said urgently, ‘I have been on pins in case I said something wrong to the doctor! Quickly, tell me what is supposed to have happened! You did not say before, but I am quite sure you cannot have told anyone the actual truth.’
‘Indeed not. The story I have put about, my dear, is that Mrs Aubrey was an acquaintance of yours who, upon hearing of your marriage, wrote you a most piteous letter begging you for aid. Because you are all compassion and trusting innocence…’ Georgie pulled a face and his lips twitched, but he continued,‘Because, as I say you are known to be so extraordinarily good, if a little impulsive, you agreed to meet the lady, to see what assistance you could offer her in her time of trial. I, not being anywhere near so trusting nor so generous, accompanied you and stood close by in case you should need my help. Providentially so, for the meeting was nothing but a trap, as Mrs Aubrey was, all unknown to us, the half-sister of a rascally suitor whom your family had rejected some time past. Imagine our horror when he appeared, plainly intent on kidnapping you, whether for ransom or for some more nefarious purpose we cannot know. I knocked him down. But then his sister, deranged at being thwarted, filled with savage passion for revenge, produced a pistol, and you, heroine that you are, flung yourself upon it without a second’s thought to save your newly-wed husband’s life. You fell at my feet, insensible, bleeding. I clasped you in my arms, distraught. The villainess fled. And here we are.’
‘It sounds exactly like something that would be set forth upon the stage.’
‘It does. I am reasonably confident that it will be, and quite soon. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the company at the Theatre Royal is already in rehearsal. The house is full of flowers, by the way, brought by your many admirers. I am given to understand that next time you drive out you are in severe danger of the horses being taken from the poles and sturdy citizens taking their place, to pull you in triumph through the streets.’
‘I may just stay here, in that case, and never go outside again. That sounds terrifying.’
‘I don’t blame you in the least. I should add that I believe the local civic worthies are having a declaration in your praise written out on a roll of parchment and illuminated, and intend to present it to you in some small ceremony. There is talk of choirs. Prints are being?—’
Georgie put up her hand. ‘I can’t tell if you are inventing all or some of this. I hope it is all a jest. It still hurts to laugh, you know.’
He crossed to the bed and sat by her, and said with sudden seriousness, his voice cracking a little, ‘My dearest?—’
But she was never to know what he might have said, for at the most inconvenient moment possible a wild-eyed Hal burst into the room, still dressed in his mud-splattered many-caped driving coat, followed closely by Cassandra, white-faced and tense, both of them clearly suffering the greatest possible anxiety, and in her brother’s demanding what the devil had happened to her now, the moment was lost for ever.
