Page 94 of Ladies in Hating
“Oh,” she said. “In that case, you will not mind if I leave a card for His Grace—”
“I’ve heard of you,” the housekeeper said again. “I remember the day your father disinherited you. If you are not welcome at Woodcote Hall,my lady”—there was something spiteful in the phrase—“you certainly are not welcome here.”
Georgiana’s lips parted, then clamped closed. Her throat worked as she swallowed. “I see,” she said hoarsely.
And then the housekeeper shut the door.
Cat turned numbly to Georgiana. Georgiana’s face reflected back the emotions that churned inside her—fear and guilt and shame and regret.
Jemmy,Cat thought.I don’t know what else to try.
But before Cat could give voice to the black current of defeat rising inside her, Georgiana reached out and dragged her into an embrace.
Helplessly, Cat went. She pressed her face into Georgiana’s shoulder and let herself lean, just for a moment, into Georgiana’s strength. Let herself feel the ceaseless, stalwart rhythm of Georgiana’s heart.
“What do we do?” she managed finally. Her voice was clogged with tears. She’d left the shoulder of Georgiana’s dress speckled with damp. “We can’t gain an audience with Fawkes. We cannot even determine if Jem’s been here at all. Should we… search the roads, perhaps? Wait outside the servants’ entrance for someone we can question?” Stubbornness, she realized, was not so far off from courage. She felt it strengthen her voice. “We could ask after Jem at the closest coaching inn or—hell, Georgie. We could break a window outside Fawkes’s parlor and sneak inside, if we need to. If we have no other recourse.”
Georgiana’s arms tightened around her, a quick hard clutch, and then released. “I know what to do.”
Cat drew back enough to peer into Georgiana’s face. Her eyes were still hazed with tears, and she tried to blink them away. “What?”
Georgiana’s jaw tightened. For the space of a breath, Cat watched Georgiana’s pulse throb frantically at the base of her throat.
But when she spoke, her voice did not falter. “I’m taking you to Woodcote. We’re going to ask Ambrose for help.”
Chapter 30
Please update my direction in your records to the apartment in Bloomsbury. I no longer receive correspondence at Woodcote Hall.
—from Georgiana Cleeve to Jean Laventille in 1815, tear-blotched, destroyed, and rewritten
The drive between the Fawkes estate and Woodcote was short, and Georgiana spent the whole of it with her heart in her throat.
She was going back to Woodcote. She was going…
Not home. Not anymore. But to the place that had been home, seven years ago. Her mind kept wanting to fix upon tiny vivid flashes of memory—Percy’s hand pressed against his mouth, Jem’s baby fingers clutched around a bristled toy dog. She kept recollecting her father, his face drawn with rage.
See what happens when you’re all alone.
But she squeezed her eyes shut against the small blazing points of pain and tried to recall herself to the days she’d spentin the window in Woodcote’s library. To Percy’s fingers wrapped around hers as he taught her in secret how to hold a billiard cue.
If Ambrose had followed in the old earl’s footsteps—
But no. She could not think of that. Ambrose was not their father. She had to believe that Ambrose would not turn them away.
The post-chaise had barely stopped moving when she and Cat jumped free. To her surprise, the house looked unfamiliar, somehow, as they approached the door.
The windows were different, she realized slowly—some new sashing, larger panes.
There would be more light in the house.
She raised her hand to knock, but before she could, the door came open, held by a liveried man she did not recognize. “Yes?”
Oh God, she was all terror now. Fear that what had transpired at the Fawkes estate would happen again; that through her own lifetime of choices, she had ruined her best hope of helping Cat.
That she would disappoint Cat yet again.
Despite her valiant effort, her voice was thin. “I am Georgiana Cleeve. I am—the earl’s sister. I would like to request an audience with him.”
