Chapter 17 - GEORGINA—PRETTY GOSSIP GIRL

Chapter 17

GEORGINA—PRETTY GOSSIP GIRL

Wednesday’s lesson started in classic Wilcox fashion: chaos. We, the daughters of the coal king, lay claim to Anya House. The running and jumping of the moat—the steps began immediately.

With Lydia feeling better and Scarlett not disappearing for one of her missives—escaping to the Royal Society or reading a stolen science paper—the full Wilcox clan came to visit.

I watched from the music room as Scarlett interrogated the duke about some sort of advancement in heart research, and Lydia literally danced about the man, telling the duke of the latest story I read to her. I’d picked up a used copy of Pride and Prejudice, published by T. Egerton.

The author’s name was unknown, but at least the attribution was more than the words “By a Lady.” This time it read “By the Author of Sense and Sensibility.”

One glance at my music teacher thumbing through his sheet music made me feel a little more sympathetic to his creative plight. Pride and Prejudice was on its second printing but the author couldn’t put his or her name to the work. Celebrated, thousands of copies in print, and the credit was given to an anonymous person.

For Lord Mark Sebastian, the thing he labored upon, put all his hopes in, this sonata would be his first published work. He was brave enough to want his name on it. Yet, so driven to make it perfect, he might never finish.

“Stop running, Lydia.” Katherine’s voice echoed down the hall. Dressed in more gray, varying between shades of dingy silver and dull pewter, she moped behind the duke. She seemed forlorn and even forgotten.

The younger Wilcoxes delighted in the duke and all the opulence his Anya House offered. It made me understand Katherine’s feelings and even my teacher’s of not being enough.

“Georgina, please come away from the threshold. We need to begin. Are you ready?”

“I am.” I crossed the big room and stood at the pianoforte. “I told Mr. Thom about you.”

His brow wrinkled. “Excuse me?”

“He’s my family’s man-of-all-work. Mr. Thom is a good man. He hopes you are one too.”

Mark put down his papers and offered me his full gaze. “You cannot attest to this? I mean, my willingness to play along with our false relationship should say something.”

“It does. You are kind, but you could also be bored. You might find this a great amusement.”

His brow wrinkled. “Oh, I see.”

“I mean, you’ve told no one, right? You’re waiting for the ball for the big revelation.”

Now his smile returned. “I shared our false love with my closest acquaintance. He completely disapproves and is trying to save me from ruin.”

My eyes popped or exploded or both. “What? He doesn’t want you with the likes of me?”

“It’s not you, per se. Livingston hates the thought of marriage. He thinks it’s an abomination.”

Mark stretched his fingers, then settled his palms on the oak bench where he sat. “If you wish for me or my friends to not want this faux arrangement, say so. Don’t cozy around. You question whether I see you. Yes, I do. You’re a beautiful woman. One of the prettiest of my acquaintance, Blackamoor or White, poor or rich.”

When worked up, this man said exactly what he felt. He held nothing back. I liked that. Offering him my widest, brightest gaze, I said, “Thank you.”

“Why thank me for saying the truth? Even though our arrangement is a fabrication, there’s tension between us—it’s almost like you and I forget that part, that we are playing a game.”

“Does that mean you don’t mean what you’ve said?”

“No. I mean, yes. I mean . . .” His lips snapped close. His eyes followed for a moment. Then he whispered, “I meant exactly what I said. I like you. I think you’re gorgeous. So don’t assume something to be negative. I don’t do well under pressure.”

He peered at me fully, like it was the first time seeing me. “You say I want men to approve of me. That is true. I want you to as well.”

His blue eyes captured mine, and I felt that breathing would be a problem whether I sung or not. I clutched at the buttons of my pelisse. I hadn’t taken it off yet, so I could run outside in the cooler weather. Didn’t think I could will myself away.

“Sir, I don’t mean to cause strain. I have questions. I ask them all the time of friends and family. Perhaps, in this room, I feel safe enough to ask you.”

“Georgina, I want you to be able to ask anything.”

“Then it is settled. Outside the music room, let there be decorum and scripted behaviors. Not in here. Within these walls, let there be magic.”

His hand moved along the keys. Then Mark rushed to a side table. I ran and uncorked his bottle of ink as he readied his quill.

“Da da dum. Da da dum. Dum.”

His fingers glided about his paper, making quarter and half notes as easily as they did on the pianoforte.

Mark wrote and wrote. Then he stopped, seized me about the waist, and waltzed me to his hum. “Da da dum. Da da dum. Dum.”

Then he stopped, bowed, and backed away. “A thousand pardons.” His face reddened. “But you did say in here there’s freedom. I paid attention to that part. Actually to all you say.”

“You’re celebrating. Did you finish your sonata?”

He sank onto his seat at the pianoforte. His hands moved quickly across the keys and I heard the tune of “Robin Adair,” a bit of Handel, and something wondrous with lots of chords. His pace slowed. The music lowered to a whisper.

“No. But I’m closer. I’ll have it. And I think that you, you are to blame.”

“For the distraction?”

“No, for the little shifting of my world that’s letting the music seep out. I, for one, will never regret you kissing me. I think I will have a song birthed from it.”

“Pregnant from a kiss. That’s dangerous.”

“It happens, I’ve heard.”

“If you say so, your lordship.”

His lip curled. “You’re doing it again, being bothered by my compliment.”

“Doesn’t seem to bother you to do the complimenting. I do appreciate it. It’s better than being insulted.”

“I can’t believe you hear insults.”

“Not all the time.” Moving to the nearby portrait, I stared at the new collection the duke had installed. These faces looked like politicians or prime ministers. “I try to avoid the noise. But walk the wrong street. Go to a market unfamiliar with my family. Read a newspaper or gossip pages when something political happens in the colonies or in Parliament around abolition, and you see slights. It’s hard sometimes to miss them.”

“I’m sorry.”

“When you say I’m pretty out loud with no caveats or regrets, your words are easy to hear. I hear all of what you say.”

We shared a glance again. Then he looked away and began searching through his papers. He seemed to have an infinite supply of pages with notes. His handwriting was very good.

“Found it. Georgina, let’s work on your progress.” He played the Pleyel hymn.

“While Thee I seek, protecting Pow’r,

Be my vain wishes stilled,

And may this consecrated hour

With better hopes be filled.”

When I started the second stanza, he stopped.

“What, my lord? Did I get the words wrong?”

“That’s not it. You do well for a line or two. When it’s time to raise your pitch and hit the high notes, you lose your confidence. Then you gasp.”

“My lungs failed me again. I’m trying my best.”

His fingers moved across the keys seamlessly as he looked toward the window. When he looked my way, the notes changed, not smooth, not even. It felt a little chaotic.

Then I was trapped in chaos, waiting for something familiar to touch me, to grab me and settle me in place.

“Pretend it’s a question. Deep breath to draw it to you, then push. Push it away. Let’s try again.” The music ramped up but I couldn’t get past the first line. “Miss Wilcox?”

“My voice falters. Exhibiting is difficult when people look at me.”

“I’m looking at you, Georgina.”

“You are and it doesn’t feel as if I’ve done something wrong.”

He breathed in and out, the same rhythm he played. “It’s you and I in here. There’s no shopkeeper. Neither Mr. Steele nor any of Torrance’s staff have interrupted.”

“Steele is a nice fellow.”

“Am I a nice fellow?”

He was. My height, and a little stocky but with muscles, which I was sure powered his arms as he played, I thought him quite fine and enjoyed the way his deep dark eyes became a little bluer when he made magic with the keys. “Maybe too nice, my lord.”

His lips curled. “I’ve never known my nature to be a problem to anyone other than you, Georgina.”

“But you say you’ve never met anyone like me.”

His chuckles sounded merry, but then he stopped. A serious expression consumed his face. “What happened to the bold woman who kissed a stranger in the garden?”

“What do you mean? I’m standing right here.”

He shook his head, played a few more chords before stilling his fingers. “No. You’re timid. You’re singing how you expect me to want to hear the music. There’s no freedom in your tone. It is very closeted. The slightest bit of distraction causes you to muffle your words, then your breathing gets ragged. You’re not singing with everything you can.”

“But I’m in tune. I’m singing the words. I honestly don’t understand.”

The duke came into the parlor. “What’s going on? Not arguing in here too.”

“No, Your Grace.” I bowed. “My tutor is trying to explain movement or singing. I don’t know.”

Torrance lifted my chin. “The bits I hear are good.”

“The bits over Lydia’s shrieks.” I shook my head. “I don’t know.”

The duke tugged on his emerald waistcoat and clapped his hands. “I don’t hear any music, but I don’t see any kissing. That must mean serious things are happening here.”

“Things are going, Your Grace,” I said. “Lord Mark is trying, but I’m still too nervous to sing with freedom.”

“She’s good, Torrance, but she’ll never gain the interest of the entire ballroom if she can only sing a few lines without becoming nervous.”

“Perhaps there needs to be other beautiful things to distract Miss Wilcox. You solve problems by running. Dancing is a different kind of movement.” The duke came to me with his hand extended. “Sebastian, play a good waltz. I wish to dance with the prettiest woman in the room.”

Being the only woman, I assumed he meant me. “I just talked with my music teacher about too many compliments.”

“Nonsense. There’s never enough.” To my teacher, he said, “Play something livelier.”

I looked at Lord Mark. He seemed a little uncomfortable, but then began to play “Robin Adair.”

The duke had my hand and twirled me slowly around, following the perimeter of the room. All the people in those new paintings watched us. I felt giddy.

“Imagine, Miss Wilcox, you’re in a lovely gown of emerald satin.”

“No, a warm rose. Like this room.”

“Nyet, you must stand out. Different from this. You’ll be a vision. A Vasilisa come to my ball.”

“Ah, your Cinderella.”

“Yes, you must be in something bold. Something with lots of lace. Imagine all eyes on you.”

My heart drummed. “Like the horrid people along the wall glaring at me?”

The duke stopped, then nodded. “These paintings are not right. I must do something else.” He turned to our musician. “Faster, sir. Faster.”

His steps quickened and I kept up. “You must be feeling better, Your Grace.”

“I am. But sickness is a part of life. I’m glad when it doesn’t last.”

Images of Mama, her lameness, touched my mind. Even Lydia’s illnesses. She’d had a fever a few days ago. I stopped dancing.

“What’s the matter, Miss Wilcox?”

“Just thinking of the past, Your Grace. We’ve lost a lot. Death has visited too often.”

He took my hand again. “We must not let it win. You fight every day to get out of bed and live in the light. That’s what my mother believes. I do too.”

A sadness I hadn’t heard or seen was in his eyes. Before I could ask him what made him glum, the duke whipped me away, spinning me around the room.

I followed his lead and soon our waltz caught the rhythm. “We’re chasing the music, Your Grace.”

“Chase it. Sing it. Win it.”

Was it right to sing out loud while in the duke’s arms? Mmm. No. I hummed the melody instead, but the Duke sang in my stead.

“What was’t I wish’d to see?

What wish’d to hear?

Where’s all the joy and mirth,

Made this town a heaven on earth?

Oh! they’re all fled with thee.”

Full circles, dizzying turns, he stopped, and then led dizzy me to the pianoforte. “Now practice the song. You know the words. I’ve been listening to the practices.”

“Robin Adair” was a fun song, but Pleyel’s hymn was sober.

With a glance to the duke, then my tutor, I closed my eyes and went for it.

“When gladness wings my favored hour,

Thy love my thoughts shall fill;

Resigned when storms of sorrow lower,

My soul shall meet Thy will.”

When I was done, I felt sick. But the duke clapped.

Lord Mark had a grin. He approved.

“It is something, sir,” the duke said, “to see a woman find her place in the world as simply as in a song.”

My tutor stopped and closed the pianoforte. “You’re proficient. You’re talented, Miss Wilcox, but the duke won’t be able to dance with you when you exhibit.”

His tone was tight, almost touchy.

“No, he won’t.” Katherine entered the music room. “If he did before your performance, His Grace would be singling you out. That won’t bode well. The gossip is out that there’s a secret engagement involving my sister and an unidentified gentleman, a peer. Everyone will assume it’s you, Your Grace. That’s not our plan.”

My sister had a newspaper in her hand. She laid it out on top of the pianoforte. “Someone saw you two at Anya House. They must know the secret lover is the musical Lord Mark Sebastian.”

In black and white, a cartoon portrayed a skinny fellow leaning on top of a pianoforte kissing a large Blackamoor woman. The Gilroy cartoon made a cruel joke of both characters, but especially the one who was made out to be me. She was abnormally twice the size in comparison to the fellow. The figure seemed old, ugly, matronly—a terrible wallflower, a horrid tall Meg.

Yet, the very worst thing was the comment bubble above saying Massa is cute.

“They spared no trope in this foolishness,” the duke said. “Lady Hampton is correct. The caption, Miss Coal finds a peer, is particularly telling.”

After another look at the horribleness, I questioned if it was us—Lord Mark and myself—or someone trying to tarnish everyone at Anya House. “Very odd. We were in the garden. Yet, the artist put us in here. Look—the exact number of paintings on this wall are the same as in here.” I counted again, noting the five picture frames in the cartoon matching the five watercolor landscapes hanging behind the pianoforte. “This is this room.”

Mark picked up the paper. He paled and looked up at me. “This is terrible.”

My heart pounded. “This is a warning to you, my lord. The cartoonist withheld your name, this time.”

“They want him scared away,” Mr. Steele said. In his arms were several copies of the same Morning Post newspaper. “Lord Mark Sebastian, it’s pure intimidation. We had so many reporters here the day of the science meeting. I should’ve been more on guard.”

“This is a home, Steele. Not a fortress.” The duke retrieved the paper, balling it in his hand. “My residence is meant to be welcoming. It’s a place for science to progress. Cures for the illnesses no one speaks of can be discussed here.”

“There was a slight mention of the meeting next to this scandalous illustration.”

“It’s not enough. More will suffer.” The duke’s fisted hand trembled. His face filled with the frown of a man caught in fresh mourning. “Sorry, my dorogaya, my Anya.”

My sister, maybe for the first time ever, glanced at him with compassion. “There will be more time, Your Grace. More days for good works.” Her voice was low and unusually warm. “Everything, including medicines, takes time.”

The duke turned from her to his man. “Steele, our people, our sources couldn’t stop this?”

“No, sir. No matter what I offered, they refused. I have good knowledge that all the Town’s rags will have similar images, but they will probably reprint this one. The artist, the terrible Gilroy, is popular.”

The butler used some choice foreign-sounding words, but I could tell they were curses by his harsh, grumbling tone. Then I knew that dorogaya was an endearment.

“I’m horrified,” Katherine said. “Miss Coal . . . They might as well have said Wilcox. Everyone will know it to be us.”

“We must fight this, madam,” Mr. Steele said. “Many fear interracial and even interfaith marriages. These two have become another target in the bigger fight against abolition.”

“Practice is done for today.” The duke ripped the paper in two. “As much as it pains me to say, Lady Hampton is right. Mr. Steele too. This faux romance must become bigger and more public. Joy must defeat the darkness.”

“More public? No, Your Grace.” My throat closed up a little. I wanted to pound the top of the pianoforte in protest, but Mark must’ve known.

He put his hand along mine, his finger stroking my thumb. Then he slyly drew back as if he were merely aligning his papers. “Torrance, what do we do?”

“You’ll still be able to beg off at my ball, Miss Wilcox,” the duke said. “But I insist that your heads are up and that you and Sebastian be proud of your courtship, no matter how false it is. None of the Wilcoxes are made for the shadows. You will not be condemned because of a fool’s cartoon. Nor can Anya House.”

My feet felt cold thinking about being out in London as a couple, for the world to see and mock. “I don’t know, Your Grace.”

“Only a fool hides a diamond in the dark. Only a fool abandons a gem in the dark because he’s too afraid of it being seen in the light.”

With the newspaper pieces crumpled into a tight ball, he handed them to Steele. “Burn this. Then get my largest carriage available tomorrow. We must do an open walk. Lady Hampton, you and I shall chaperone the couple at a park.”

My sister looked terrified. “Are you sure we shouldn’t stop?”

The duke took her hand, then released it as quickly. “It’s bigger than us. It’s a fight worth having. One I wish I’d fought years ago. We can never run scared. It never works.”

I nodded. “You’re right. We must lift our heads.”

My music teacher looked oddly pleased.

“Are you committed, Sebastian?” the duke asked. “I understand—”

“Of course,” Mark said, his voice sounding deeper and very strong as he gathered his things. “I want to fight too. I look forward to Hyde Park tomorrow. Good evening, Your Grace, Lady Hampton, and my lovely faux fiancée, Miss Wilcox. I’ll be proud to take a walk with you.”

“Maybe show me some of your special birds, sir.”

“Yes, and we should dance a few times at the ball, now that Torrance has shown me you are proficient in that as well. Your Grace, I’ll handle her waltzes from now on. She’s my betrothed.”

“Of course, the faux suitor takes precedence.”

Mark’s smile and bursting dimples shone for me. And I suspected he was happy—happy to help and happy to claim all my dances, taking them away from the duke.