Page 24 of Ladies in Hating
“Well, no, but—”
“Have you seen the way they’re marbling the endpapers these days? I saw one of the Austen novels in the shops last week with them, and the most delightful illustrations inside—watercolor on vellum, I think. One of those splendid gift editions.”
“Mother,” Georgiana said firmly, “no.”
Edith performed a restrained frown. “Whyever not?”
“It’s out of the question.”
Agitation pulsed through her at the idea, a hot tide of—of—what was it?
Some unnameable emotion. More than one. The very notion of setting out to confront Cat again—to spend more time in her presence—sent panic vibrating through Georgiana’s chest.
She could not deny the furious hunger that had risen inside her when she’d seen Cat’s rain-damp face in the shadows of Epping Forest. She had wanted Cat Lacey since before she knew what it meant to want. At fifteen, Georgiana had fantasized madly about the ways she might foster conversation between them, imagined a thousand circumstances in which Cat’s bottomless glance might fall upon her—mightseeher as no one ever had. She had thought about Cat—her face, her hands, the shape of her waist—in ways she had never once thought about the neighboring boys or the fellows from school that her brothers brought home.
And then, the next year, she had stumbled upon Cat locked in an embrace with one of the village girls in a shadowed corner behind the stables. Georgiana had crept silently away, flushed all over, one hand clapped to her mouth and the sight imprinted upon her mind.
It had proven remarkably clarifying. She’d wantedthat—the hot slide of lips and tongue, the press and give of flesh. And she’d wanted it with Cat.
It had been almost a decade, and it seemed she still wanted it.
And she could not have it. It was a ludicrous desire, a wish as far into fantasy as the supernatural events of her own books. She knew what happened to those she grew close to. Iris had lost her standing in society. Selina had nearly lost her library. And her mother and brothers…
Georgiana took a careful sip of tea and did not look at Edith when she spoke. “I imagine such an edition would be lovely, Mother, but it is not to be. There will be no convergence because I will not be writing about Saint Botolph’s. I have renounced High Ongar entirely.”
Edith placed her teacup back in her saucer. “Oh, Georgie, have you? You seemed so enthusiastic about the project.”
Damn it, she had been. In the past days, there had been enormous public demand for articles about the haunted churchyard, and she’d had the notion of publishing rapidly to capitalize upon the general fervor. Except…
Except she could not stop picturing Cat’s expression. When Georgiana had demanded to know if Cat was there for revenge, Cat had looked dumbfounded. As though such a thing had never occurred to her.
Could it be so? Was the woman really so pure of heart that she did not nurture her grievances against the entire Cleeve family?
Georgiana certainly had not forgotten what her father had done. How she herself had failed to act. Her rivalry with Lady Darling seemed almost foolish, somehow, when she recalled that Lady Darling was Cat Lacey. If Cat wanted Saint Botolph’s, then Georgiana supposed she would let Cat have it.
“The project did not satisfy me,” she said finally. “I have been contemplating alternatives all day.”
Edith was eyeing her appraisingly. “Have you, my dear? In that case—have you heard that Renwick House is open for visitors?”
Georgiana sat straighter in her chair. Shehadheard that about Renwick House—had had the news from her man of business and been briefly electrified by the information. She had always been fascinated by the place, drawn to its strange, eerie charm. Even as a child, she had wanted to step inside those dark imposing walls and uncover the house’s vast secrets.
But as quickly as the idea had come, she’d set it aside. Renwick House was too near Woodcote Hall. Too near to Percy and Ambrose.
“No,” she said. “I mean, yes, I did hear it, but—no. I can’t go there.”
“Georgie,” murmured her mother, and Georgiana looked down at her own fingers against Bacon’s dense white fur so that she did not have to meet her mother’s eyes.
After Georgiana had left—after Edith had gone with her—Alistair Cleeve had not let his sons associate with either of them. Georgiana had tried to write—to Ambrose, to Percy—but she knew the old earl had a habit of intercepting their mail. She’d never heard anything back.
And then one day, she’d stumbled across Percy in a London coffeehouse, his face pink with laughter as he’d sat among his friends. He’d leapt to his feet and tripped his way across the room to embrace her—and for just a moment she’d thought that everything might be all right. She had thought that she could have everything: her independence and her family both.
She’d been wrong.
She and Percy had met off and on for weeks in between Percy’s haphazard studies at Trinity College—until the day she’d comeacross him in a park, walking alongside a thin-lipped older man. The Regius Professor of Divinity, she’d learned later. Too late.
My sister,Percy had said, but the man had interrupted.
I know who she is,he had said. Briskly. Firmly.I was under the impression from your father, Mr. Cleeve, that your family had endeavored to eliminate this stain upon your name.
