Page 5 of The Season for Loving
He looked so crestfallen that Georgie had to smile. “It’s not anyone’s fault. This is your house—yours and Eliza’s. But, as you say, I’ve never been the sort to sit around like a lazy old thing. Can you really blame me for wanting more than that, especially now that I’m healthy again?”
“If it’s useful activity you’re looking for, I can certainly use your help,” Eliza said earnestly. “There’s enough to keep us both busy and then some, especially since we’re going to be renovating the old priory wing. Just think how much fun that will be.”
Renovating a house didn’t sound like much fun to Georgie. But before she could respond, her brother jumped in. “I’m sure I could find something for you to do as well. Perhaps to do with the succession houses I want to add at the bottom of the gardens.”
They simply didn’t understand. It wasn’t just about the lack of meaningful activities, ones that challenged her brain as well as her body. “It’s more than that,” Georgie said. “I want to have some control over my life. To make my own decisions about how I want to live.”
Bertie had been lifting a scone to his mouth but plunked it back down on the plate. “I thought things were better in that respect. I’ve been trying not to hover so much or order you about.”
“I know, and you don’t order me about. Not really.”
He was the kindest and most solicitous of brothers, and the rest of the household also leapt with alacrity to give her whatever they thought she wanted. That was the real problem. They practically smothered her with attention and kindness, although Bertie had been trying his best to give her more independence.
“And I just bought you that new mare. You’ve even gone out riding on your own,” he said in a hopeful tone.
“And each time she did you were convinced she would end up in a heap in a ditch,” Eliza said in a wry tone, picking up her needlework. “You were a wreck by the time she returned home.”
Bertie sighed. “As bad as all that, is it?”
Georgie waggled a hand. “It does tend to put a damper on things.”
“All right, I’ll try not to be such an old worrywart,” he said. “And you should definitely do more about the house. Perhaps you can help Eliza plan the Christmas festivities. After all, we’ll have a full house, what with Will Endicott and his family coming to stay.”
“That’s a splendid idea,” Eliza said. “There’s the Christmas party for all the tenants, for one thing. And I thought we might add a skating party for the children on Boxing Day. It used to be an old Greenleaf family tradition.”
“I’m sure Georgie could do a bang-up job organizing that,” Bertie said in an approving voice. “Brilliant as always, my sweet.”
The newlyweds were so much in love that Georgie was tempted to dump a cup of tea over their heads. That was simply awful of her, she knew, but it rather hurt that everyone seemed to be getting married these days. Peregrine and Caro Lochley, for instance, were months into their union, happily making wine and helping Caro’s father manage his farms. And Belinda Leonard had married Adam Sturridge, moving north to join him on his estate. Belinda was already with child, which meant the Sturridges would not be coming to London for the Season, or visiting Hemshawe any time soon.
Georgie was truly happy for all of them—after all, she’d done everything in her power to foster their marriages. And it wasn’t that she needed to get married, although she hoped that someday she would fall in love and wed. What shedidneed was a life of her own, one where she took care of herself. She’d been coddled for much too long.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “But organizing a skating party will hardly address the problem.”
Bertie and Eliza both wore slightly bemused expressions. “Um, why not?” Bertie asked, his mind clearly still on his pretty wife.
Argh.
Georgie tried a different tack. “It’s not just the work, or lack of it. As much as I like the Friar’s House, I miss London. After all, it’s always been my home. I’d like to move back there—permanently.”
“You cannot be serious,” said Bertie, aghast.
“I will always come back for visits,” Georgie said. “But the only reason we moved here was so I could drink the waters at Tunbridge. Well, I’m not sick anymore, and I’m ready to move back to town.”
“But I thought you liked it here,” Eliza protested.
“I do. I like it very much.” Surprisingly, the country had been good for her. It had helped her heal and showed her that there were different and equally valuable ways to live. But she missed shopping on Bond Street and strolling through Hyde Park, watching the elegant ladies and dashing gentlemen gossip and flirt. She missed the theater and the bookstores, and getting ices at Gunter’s. She missed art exhibitions at the Royal Academy.
Some days, she even missed the noise and traffic, which showed how bored she’d become. London was vibrant, with an endless procession of sights and sounds. Georgie knew she had no right to feel bored, not with all the blessings she enjoyed. But in her mind, life in this little village of Hemshawe had come to represent her illness. She needed to start over again—healthy, strong, and in control of her life.
That would never happen as long as she remained under her brother’s worried eye.
“I do want to move back to London by March,” she said. “We can open up the house in Kensington until I come of age. After that, I can set up my own establishment.”
“Absolutely not,” her brother said.
“I don’t see why not,” Georgie said, defiantly. “I can certainly afford it, and Mrs. Clotworthy will be there with me.”
Bertie whipped around to stare at Mrs. C, who was doing her best to fade behind the curtains framing the alcove. “Mrs. Clotworthy, please tell me that you don’t agree with this mad scheme.”
