Chapter Twenty-Eight

T he next morning, Georgiana rose with the sun to prepare for her first day of work. She had secreted Mrs. Younge's marriage lines in the pocket of the skirt she would wear to Madame DuBois' establishment, and now could only pray that Mrs. Younge would not discover its absence before Georgiana was safely away.

George had insisted on doing that with her the night before. She had almost vomited, knowing that he had very recently been engaged in the same activities with Mrs. Younge – who should rightly be called Mrs. Wickham – the day before. She managed to control herself, but only with difficulty.

George seemed to linger over breakfast forever, but he was finally ready to take her to Bond Street. "Do whatever she tells you, Georgiana. We need this money to feed you and little George."

She tried to smile in response, but she knew it did not reach her eyes. He took her chin in his hand and roughly turned her face to his. "You are not sulking, I hope?" His tone was dangerous.

"No, George," she said, submissively.

"Good. Your princess days are behind you."

"Yes, George."

Finally, they arrived at their destination. Madame DuBois – who Georgiana discovered was no more French than Georgiana herself, for the woman looked baffled when Georgiana addressed her in French – shooed Wickham out, took Georgiana into the workroom, and introduced her to a Mrs. Boyle, who would supervise Georgiana. There were half a dozen seamstresses at work, among them Mrs. Cartwright. Mrs. Cartwright glanced up as Georgiana entered, gave her a minute nod, and then focused her attention back on her work. Georgiana was given a dress to embroider and she began immediately.

After about an hour of silent sewing, Mrs. Cartwright cleared her throat. Georgiana looked up at her. Mrs. Cartwright cut her eyes over to one corner of the room. Georgiana followed her glance and saw the back door Mrs. Cartwright had mentioned the previous evening. It was painted the same colour as the rest of the wall and she would not have seen it without Mrs. Cartwright's help. She inclined her head an inch to show that she understood and returned to her sewing.

Georgiana waited another thirty minutes. Then she rose, dropped the dress she had been working on, and walked out of the room through the back door.

"Hey!" Mrs. Boyle called out after her. "Where are you going?"

Georgiana did not respond; she was already running away from the shop as fast as she was able.

She knew the Matlocks lived in Grosvenor Square, but she did not know where that was. She knew she had to hurry – for what if George returned early for her? – so she stopped a gentleman to ask directions. "Excuse me, sir; can you tell me how to get to Grosvenor Square?"

"Be off with you!" he yelled, waving his stick at her.

She scurried away. What had she done wrong? Of course, they did not have an acquaintance, but she was only asking directions! What harm could there be in that?

She tried again, this time choosing a gentleman who looked a little less proper. She repeated her question. "Excuse me, sir; can you tell me how to get to Grosvenor Square?"

He eyed her quizzically, then came closer and took her arm. "What business might you have in Grosvenor Square?"

She stammered, "I – I have relatives who live there."

He looked her up and down and then said, "I rather doubt it, by the looks of you. But I think I can give you what you are looking for!" And he tried to pull her away with him.

She hissed, "Let me go or I will scream!"

He pushed her away and she fell on the ground. No one stopped to help her up. No one asked how she was. No one even glanced her way. She managed to get up and limped to a nearby building, leaning against a wall to try to recover her wits. She had thought she had no more tears left, but she had been wrong. She sobbed, afraid and helpless. She had thought she would be able to escape to the Matlocks, but what if she could not find them? London was enormous.

Still, this was likely her last chance, and she must make the most of it. She set off again, staring at the street signs as she walked. Was she even going in the right direction? Perhaps she should try asking a lady for directions, not a gentleman.

She saw two well-dressed young ladies, just a bit older than herself, laughing together as they looked in the shop windows. "Excuse me, could you please tell me the way to Grosvenor Square?"

They both raised their noses in the air as if they smelled something foul and ignored her.

"Please, I beg you, I am in terrible trouble!"

One of them looked at Georgiana's abdomen and said, "I should say that you are!" And the other one laughed as if this was the most amusing thing she had ever heard.

"Here," the first one said, handing her a coin. "Now run off." And they hurried away.

Georgiana stared after them. Had she ever been that mean, that proud? She did not think so. She looked at her palm; she had been given a shilling.

Then she saw an old woman, shabbily dressed, walking on the opposite side of the street. Georgiana ran across to her, dodging carts and horses, and stopped her. "Please, ma'am, I will give you this shilling if you will tell me how to get to Grosvenor Square."

The woman eagerly reached a hand for the shilling. Georgiana began to hand the coin over, but then thought better of it. Life in Mrs. Younge's boarding house had made her wiser than she had been.

"No; directions first."

The woman said, "For that shilling, I'll even walk you halfway there." The woman was as good as her word, for she walked with Georgiana for what seemed to be a very long time before saying, "There – see that tree?"

"That tall one?"

"Yes; that is in the center of the square. Do you know which house you are looking for?"

"No; but I believe I will recognise it when I see it."

"Now give me the shilling."

Georgiana did so, thanking the woman sincerely.

"Good luck to you, missy. Looks like you could use some." And with that, the woman turned and walked away.

Georgiana took a deep breath and continued on her journey. Finally arriving at the square, she paused for breath and looked around. The square was enormous. It was lined with fashionable townhouses that all looked very much alike. She did not think she would recognise Matlock House after all.

She approached the first townhouse on the corner; climbing the steps, she was heartened to see that the house had a plaque announcing its name just to the left of the front door. It was Derby House. Good; she need not bother knocking there.

The next house was Huntingdon House. The next was Lindsey House. Then Winchilsea House. Then Essex House.

Georgiana was in despair. Would she never find her aunt and uncle?