The Emerald Comb. Kathleen McGurl
her. An older, more sensible kind of chap than the young pups just after her money. Someone of whom poor Francis would have approved. Glad she accepted you – could have been awkward otherwise, especially with that colt Perry sniffing around. You did well to move quickly. Here’s to a quick wedding and happy marriage.’
He raised his glass, and gulped the brandy down in one swallow. Bartholomew did the same. ‘She’ll be off your hands within a month,’ he promised. ‘I’ll start making the arrangements tomorrow.’
‘Where will you live?’
‘In my Mayfair house, I expect. Or if she wants to stay in Brighton, I’ll take a lease on a house here.’
‘Take her to London. Women like being in the capital.’
He really didn’t know his niece well, thought Bartholomew, remembering how Georgia had told him how much she preferred the country.
‘Will you release Agnes Cutter? To come with Georgia, I mean?’ He hadn’t realised he was going to ask the question until it left his lips.
‘Hmm? Who’s Agnes Cutter?’
‘Georgia’s maid. I – I believe Georgia’s rather fond of her. If you can spare the girl, I will of course take over her employment …’
‘Oh, that one. Of course. Part of the package, you might say. Another brandy?’
It was several more brandies before Bartholomew could take his leave, and adjourn to the drawing room. Holland decided to retire, and after pouring himself a nightcap brandy he went upstairs to bed. Bartholomew went through to the drawing room where Georgia was sitting alone, sewing a sampler. She looked up and smiled when he walked in.
‘At last! I was beginning to wonder if you would ever come.’ She put down her sewing and stood to greet him.
‘I am sorry. Your uncle kept me talking a while. And now he has retired for the evening.’
‘No matter, I only wanted to see you.’
‘And I, you,’ he said, taking a step towards her. She held out her hands to him. He took them and drew her towards him. ‘Georgia, my dear, you have made me so happy by agreeing to be my wife. Let’s get married soon. Next month?’
‘In the summer,’ she said, smiling up at him. ‘I’d like a summer wedding, I think.’
He pulled her closer still, wrapping an arm about her waist. ‘I’m not sure I can wait so long, Georgia, darling. Why not a spring wedding?’ His head was swimming after the brandy, and her closeness was intoxicating. He bent his head towards hers, hoping to claim the kiss he’d been denied on the beach, earlier in the day.
But she pushed him away, with a giggle. ‘Bartholomew, I do believe you have had rather too much brandy. I think you had better go upstairs now.’
He considered pulling her back, forcing the kiss on her but a distant, more sober part of his mind told him not to. This was no casual affair, no street-corner hussy. This was the woman he’d chosen to be his wife and bear his children. The woman whose money would save him from a debtor’s prison. He must wait.
He let go of her and bowed. ‘I am sorry, and you are right. Good night. I shall look forward to seeing you in the morning.’
He left the room before he made even more of a fool of himself, and took the stairs two at a time. She was but a girl, he reminded himself. She’d had little experience of men. She was right to rebuff him, in the state he was in. Tomorrow he would not let Holland fill his brandy glass quite so frequently. Tomorrow, if he found himself alone with her, he’d claim his first kiss. If he acted more like a gentleman, she wouldn’t refuse him. He would taste those sweet lips at last, smell her skin, feel that soft body pressed against his. And the wedding would be in spring, whether she liked it or not.
Upstairs he turned towards his bedchamber, which was at the end of a corridor, near the stairs which led on upwards to the servants’ quarters at the top of the house. As he reached his room, a rustle of petticoats made him turn, thinking Georgia had perhaps followed him up. But it was Agnes. She was carrying the green gown Georgia had torn on the beach. She stopped beside him.
‘Is everything all right, sir? Are you in need of anything, anything at all?’ There was a glint in her eye.
‘I am quite all right, thank you,’ he replied, stumbling slightly as he reached for his doorknob. She caught hold of his elbow to steady him. A shudder jolted through him at her touch.
‘I think not,’ she said. ‘Wait, I will fetch you something to clear your head.’ She opened the door to the servants’ stairs and began to ascend.
Without really knowing what he was doing, Bartholomew followed. She glanced back, with an expression of mild surprise on her face which was quickly replaced by a half-smile. There was, if he was not mistaken, an invitation in that smile. He followed her to her room in the attic. She threw the dress she’d been carrying onto the narrow wooden bed, and began searching through a chest of medicine bottles which stood under the small window.
She chattered as she rooted through the box. ‘My mother is a herbalist. She taught me all the old remedies. And, sir, believe me, they do work.’
At last she found the potion she’d been looking for and turned back to him.
‘Here. This will clear your mind a little, and stop your headache in the morning.’ As he took the bottle his fingers brushed hers, sending a sudden shock up his arm.
She was looking directly at him, that half-smile at the corners of her mouth, her eyes wide and bright. She felt it too, he was sure. She’d felt that jolt – she wanted him as much as he wanted her.
He put the bottle down on the washstand, and stepped forward. She didn’t move. He put a hand to her cheek, and brushed it gently with his thumb. She turned her face towards his hand, nuzzling against it, and took his thumb in her mouth. All the while her eyes were on his.
He could stand it no longer. He pulled her roughly towards him and covered her mouth with his, kissing her fast and furious. She kissed him back, and snaked her hands around his back, under his jacket. He could feel the thrilling warmth of them through his shirt. He kissed her face, her neck, her throat where the coarse wool of her dress met her soft, soap-scented skin. He was mad with desire for her and pushed her backwards, towards her bed. She lay down, crushing Georgia’s gown, and drew him down on top of her. He tugged up her skirts as she reached for his trouser fastenings, and a minute later he was inside her, grunting and panting, thinking of nothing but the moment they were in, and her.
My dear Barty, it is at this point in my narrative that you will no doubt have begun to despise me. How could I, on the very day of proposing marriage to one woman, take another to bed? My defence, for what it’s worth, is merely that I was intoxicated by Agnes. When I was with her, with or without a gut full of brandy, I could not think clearly. I was at the mercy of my lustful feelings for her. She knew, I believe, that she had this hold over me. And she was as besotted by me at that time as I was by her, as she later confessed to me.
You might want, having read this far, to throw this manuscript down in disgust, and hear no more of your father’s indiscretions. But, my dear son, bear with me please, for you must know the truth. Steel yourself, Barty, for there is worse, far worse, to come. And some of it, I must write as though Agnes herself is telling the story. She was loyal to me, in those days, and told me everything, or at least, almost everything, that passed in private between her and Georgia.
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