Page 76 of Marry in Scarlet
“What? Oh, sending Rose and Lily to a seminary in Bath. His reasons were vile—he couldn’t be bothered with girls, and he found poor little Lily an embarrassment—but it meant I could see a lot of the girls.” Her face softened. “They’ve been like daughters to me.” She glanced at George and patted her on the arm. “As are you, dear child, even though your very existence was unknown to us for so long.”
She sighed. “The Rutherford men have a great deal to answer for—all so selfish and so arrogant. All except fordear Cal—I wonder how he turned out so different? Protective and responsible and loving. Did his mother play Alfred false, I wonder?”
George opened her mouth to object, but Aunt Dottie shook her head. “I suppose not. All you have to do is look at the family portraits, and you’ll see his likeness looking back at you from a dozen frames. Yours too, my dear—anyone can see at a glance you’re a true Rutherford. But Cal is kind—which is not a male Rutherford trait. Interesting, isn’t it? I wonder who little Bertie will take after...”
Before George could suggest that with Emm and Cal as parents, young Bertie couldn’t go wrong, the carriage pulled into an inn yard, the wheels rattling loudly over the cobbles. Darkness had fallen. Ostlers ran out. The postilion dismounted and walked a little stiffly toward them.
Aunt Dottie peered out into the lowering gloom. “What is it, postboy? Why are we stopping?”
He opened the carriage door. “We’ll stop the night here, ladies.”
“No, no!” Aunt Dottie’s face crumpled worriedly. “We must go on.”
He gestured at the sky. “No moon tonight, and even if there was, see that there fog gatherin’ in the hollows? It’s good and thick and it’s only going to get worse. Can’t drive on a moonless night in the fog, m’lady. Too dangerous.”
“Light some lanterns then.” Aunt Dottie’s voice rose with incipient panic. “Wehave togo on.”
The postboy—he was about forty and no boy—shook his head. “Sorry, m’lady, but I won’t do it.”
“I’ll pay you extra to go on.” She clutched her reticule, and George wondered if it was a bluff. Aunt Dottie never usually carried money.
He hesitated, and shifted uncomfortably, but shook his head. “Not worth me life, ma’am, nor yours.” He glanced at George, a silent plea for her support. “Best stay the night, m’lady, safe and warm in the inn—it’s a good place, clean and honest—and we’ll go on first thing in the morning.”
George slid an arm around her. “He’s right, Aunt Dottie.You wouldn’t do Logan any good if you had an accident on the way. We’ll leave first thing in the morning, at dawn.”
“Dawn.” Aunt Dottie’s eyes filled with tears. “You know that’s when people... you know. Just before the dawn...”
George squeezed her gently. There was nothing to say to that. “Come along, Aunt Dottie.”
All the fight drained from the old lady. All the hope too, George could see. She seemed to have aged ten years in the last day. The last ten minutes.
Traveling and reminiscing had kept the demons of worry at bay for a time, but they were back now in full measure.
A good night’s sleep—if such a thing could be had in this situation—would make the old lady feel better. Stronger, anyway. As long as... as long as Logan survived the night. He was no longer a young man...
“The sun will rise around five. We can be on the road by then, and be in Bath before noon.” She glanced at the postboy, who nodded.
“And in the meantime we pray,” Aunt Dottie whispered.
Chapter Fourteen
But there are some situations of the human mind in which good sense has very little power...
—JANE AUSTEN,NORTHANGER ABBEY
Hart greeted his host and hostess, Lord and Lady Filmore, ignoring the hush that accompanied his arrival, the low speculative murmur. He swept the room with an icy glance. Beneath it, eyes dropped, gazes slid sideways. His lip curled.
The previous week Lady Salter had sent him a list of all of Georgiana’s engagements in the lead up to the wedding. The sooner he was married, the sooner this going-to-parties nonsense would be over, and people would move on to some other source of gossip.
He wouldn’t even be in London. He and his bride would be on their way to Venice.
He glanced around the room. Where was she? He could see Lady Salter in an alcove talking to some of her cronies. No sign of Georgiana or the plump little aunt. He strolled into the next room. Not there, either.
He glanced into the card rooms. He didn’t think she was fond of cards, but he still didn’t know her very well. She wasn’t there. He frowned.
The Filmore house had no garden, just a small terraceand courtyard, but it was drizzling, and nobody would be outside. So where was she? The ladies’ withdrawing room?
He accepted a glass of wine, sipped it—a very inferior vintage—and set it on a nearby table. He waited. Ladies came and went, but none of them was Georgiana. He sought her aunt.
