Page 13 of Haunted
Francesca sank onto the nearest stool, indicating he should sit also. He did, and Ada brought them each a cup of tea before retreating to her stove.
“I have become inhuman?” Francesca asked, wondering if she should be offended.
“To people like Jack and Bill, yes. Probably also to the vicar’s wife and Mrs. Paston, even Mr. Paston. They will have convinced themselves that because you once played on the stage you are not respectable and are therefore unworthy of normal, human consideration. It is not right, but it happens.”
Something in his voice made her peer more closely. “Did it happen to you?”
His eyes slid away. But he nodded. And then he moved his gaze back to hers, as though with conscious bravery. She wanted to take his hand and assure him he was one of the finest human beings she had ever met.
He said, “As a child, I did not always understand what was expected of me. And no one seemed to understand me. Except my little brother. My father thought I was stupid, then mad. Then one day he explained to me that Hugh, my brother, would make a better heir to his land and title. I believed him and promised to help Hugh in every way I could. In due time, my father died and Hugh inherited according to plan. I was happy to help him make the land profitable, and to invest wisely and cleverly on the Exchange. It was only gradually that I realized he was taking everything, and I had nothing but two rooms and a garden in the house that should by rights have been mine.”
Francesca set down her cup. “But that is monstrous and surely illegal!”
George smiled sadly. “I had become less than human to my brother. I was a tool, a machine, to be guarded but not cared for.”
“What happened?”
“I had little to do but read. I longed to see the world I learned of in books, to meet people other than Hugh and his wife and our old nurse. Hugh and Caroline had ambitions too, and to further them, he hired a lady, ostensibly to be a companion to Caroline but really to help look after me so that they could go away together for longer periods of time. That lady, Hera, became my first friend. The man she married, a doctor, was my second. They helped me to see my worth and to understand thatIwas the better man to have the land and the title. So I took them back.”
She searched his eyes, aching for the pain of betrayal he must have suffered, admiring the spirit that had made him into the assured, gentle man who sat across the table, quietly drinking his tea in her kitchen.
“Good,” she said. “And you are telling me this because I should take back control of my life, too?”
“The situations are different. But I would like to help you in any small way I can. As Hera helped me.”
“You already have,” she said, through a peculiar tightness in her throat.
He poured some more tea from the pot into both their cups. “I have another confession.”
“You have?”
He cast her a slightly crooked smile. “When I was in the village this morning, I posted a letter to some friends in London. It is possible you will receive a visit from the Duchess of Cuttyngham. She is Hera’s sister-in-law. You should not look surprised if she greets you as though you are old friends.”
After a stunned moment, she began to laugh. “You are like a fairy godmother! Or should I say godfather?”
“Neither, if you please,” he said, and she laughed harder—which might have accounted for the tears she had to wipe from her face.
*
Dinner was avery pleasant meal. They dined early so that Mark could join them, but the autumn nights were drawing in and it was already dark. Ada and Martin both served at a very slow pace and then departed, leaving them to help themselves thereafter.
“I think you need younger servants,” George observed.
“We might be able to afford them this year,” Mark piped up, with no concept of discretion, repeating only what Francesca had once said to him. “Then Ada and Martin can retire with a pension.”
“I see. Very proper,” George said, leaving her to wonder what on earth he made of it in reality. But he changed the subject, and the rest of the time was spent in lively conversation and laughter.
Afterward, Francesca took Mark upstairs to bed.
“You will write to me, won’t you, sir?” Mark said anxiously from the drawing room door.
George, who was pouring himself a glass of brandy, at Francesca’s invitation, glanced at him. “Of course I will. But we will meet again in in the morning.”
Mark grinned and allowed himself to be led off. “I like Sir George,” he confided on the stairs. “Do you?”
“Yes, very much.”
“That is what I told Papa. He likes him too, now.”
