An Elegant Façade (Hawthorne House Book #2) (30 page)

“I would like to stay.”

Five heads swiveled in her direction, each portraying varying degrees of surprise. They’d been here four days. A ridiculously short trip by most standards, but long enough to provide a bit of a respite from the busyness of London. Griffith and Trent were making plans to return to Town in the morning. They had assumed Georgina would be going with them.

But she didn’t want to.

“Stay?” Griffith leaned forward, looking her up and down as if to ensure himself of her good health.

“Yes. I would like to stay.” She turned to Miranda. “With your approval, of course.”

Miranda’s mouth gaped a bit. Her teeth snapped together as she exchanged looks with Marshington. “Of course. We were plan
ning a trip to Town in a couple of weeks. It would be no trouble to take you back then.” She fiddled with her skirt. “Assuming you wish to stay that long.”

Two more weeks away from London, away from parties and balls.

Away from potential husbands.

Away from failure.

“Two weeks sounds perfect.”

Air suddenly seemed like a very precious commodity. Her heart tripped over itself in its rush to beat faster. She clasped her fingers together in an effort to hide their sudden shaking.

She was taking two weeks away from the goal that had driven everything she’d done for the past three years.

Because the voice in her head had told her she needed to.

Obviously, she was going insane.

Her siblings looked from her to each other, their heads snapping back and forth fast enough to do themselves damage. Georgina shifted in her seat to glance toward her right, where Colin and Marshington were sitting in a matched set of tufted club chairs. Marshington was watching Colin with raised eyebrows. But Colin was staring directly at her.

What was he thinking?

Even the little man in her head shrugged.

“That’s decided, then.” Griffith rubbed his hands together. “Trent and I will depart first thing in the morning.”

Conversation moved on, but Georgina sat quietly in her seat, happy to let the words float past her. The past four days had been difficult. She’d tried on more than one occasion to speak to Colin, but he’d immersed himself in Marshington’s reconstruction plans and, other than mealtime, was nowhere to be found.

She was rather surprised he hadn’t made excuses to miss this evening gathering in the drawing room. Perhaps he’d only attended because he thought she would be leaving.

Things hadn’t been going much better with her siblings. After years of perfecting the art of keeping her distance, attempts to be less guarded were falling victim to instinct. Before she could
stop herself, she’d cut down every friendly overture they’d made. Frustration had birthed more than one set of tears in the past few days. Harriette had taken to visiting the laundry every day just to keep Georgina in clean handkerchiefs.

Perhaps, if she initiated the conversation, she wouldn’t reject her family out of habit.

“Have you plans for this next week, Miranda?” Georgina winced as she blurted out the question. She hadn’t the slightest idea what the rest of the group had been talking about, but she knew she’d interrupted them. “When you’re finished, of course.”

No one in London would believe her in possession of masterful social skills at the moment.

Miranda’s smile was tentative, her expression guarded. “I had plans to visit with all the tenants before we went back to Town.”

That sounded like a supremely dull way to spend a day, but Georgina would need to do that herself one day. Besides, she’d always done well with initial introductions. It was the relationships that followed she didn’t do as well with. “Excellent. May I join you?”

Once more, five stunned faces turned her direction.

“I should learn how to do things such as that. Whomever I marry will surely have estates and tenants.”

Unless you marry me.

Georgina nearly fell out of her chair. Her imaginary Colin hadn’t said much since she’d talked to the real Colin in the garden—and then he decided to speak up and say something like that? Marry Colin? What was she thinking? Sometimes she didn’t even like the man.

Yes, you do. That rush in your blood when you match wits
isn’t anger—it’s excitement.

If she didn’t know better, she’d think the little man in her head was truly a different person. She couldn’t be coming up with those thoughts on her own.

“Of course.” Miranda’s voice reminded Georgina she had a real conversation going on. “I usually gather a selection of foodstuffs or other necessities to take with me.”

“Do we shop for them? I’m excellent at shopping.” Though unless the tenants wanted their hams trimmed in lace and wearing a spruced-up bonnet, none of her shopping skills were going to be particularly helpful.

“We’ll shop tomorrow, then.” The look on Miranda’s face was one Georgina couldn’t remember seeing before. A bit befuddled, a touch of happiness, and perhaps a little relief? Whatever made up the emotions and thoughts swirling across her sister’s face, one thing was clear—Miranda was looking at Georgina as if she’d never met her.

And maybe she hadn’t.

Because Georgina was beginning to wonder if she’d played a part for so long that she’d forgotten who she really was. Or if she’d ever even known.

One week later Georgina didn’t feel any closer to her goal. She’d visited tenants and embarrassed Miranda thoroughly because she’d had no idea how to interact with them. She’d spent her life studying aristocrats and gentry. She could observe a dinner party for five minutes and then move through the room with utter grace and to her complete advantage.

Not so in an encounter with a farmer’s wife. After the third cottage, Miranda asked if Georgina wouldn’t be more comfortable waiting in the wagon.

It wasn’t much better back at the house. Harriette hadn’t packed all of Georgina’s art supplies, thinking a sketchbook and pencils would be sufficient for the trip. And it would have been if she had gone home when planned. But without her supplies, Georgina found herself more than a little bored at the country house. Particularly since Miranda enjoyed spending the late afternoon in the library.

After-dinner entertainment frequently involved reading to the group, which Georgina actually enjoyed, until they offered her a turn with the book. She turned down the offer in a way that effectively ended the evening each time. And each time she saw a sad look cross Colin’s face. Did he expect her to blurt it out in a public
setting? Confessions were for intimate gatherings in bedchambers or private parlors. Not drawing rooms.

Only there wasn’t anyone in this drawing room except her sister, her brother-in-law, and a bothersome man who she wasn’t sure what to call but who already knew her secret anyway. It didn’t get much more intimate than that.

And yet, she couldn’t. Last night she’d turned her nose up at the book and stomped from the room, even though she desperately wanted to know what happened next in the story. She’d have to see if Harriette could sneak it up to the room later.

Her time at the Abbey was supposed to be healing, but instead she was nothing but exasperated. She never saw Colin except at meals and the occasional evening gathering. The entire city of London and she couldn’t stop stumbling across him, but now that they were in the same house, she couldn’t bump into him even when she tried.

And she had tried. She didn’t realize how much she missed his voice until she heard him read during the evenings.

She supposed things with Miranda weren’t all bad. They had spent a great deal of time poring over upholstery samples. Bonding time to be sure, but nothing more than a superficial discussion on the merits of brocade or wool.

Georgina was an utter failure.

No, you’re not.

Yes, I am.
And she didn’t know what to do next. She was desperately afraid that she was on the verge of finding herself alone in the world, her only friend a maid she paid exorbitant sums of money to in order to ensure she stayed by Georgina’s side.

Who wanted to live like that?

Not her. And it scared her. Because if she didn’t want the life she was living, what was the alternative? Not to live it?

She began avoiding balconies. And her family. And even Harriette. She started walking in the woods instead of by the lake because the thoughts in her head terrified her.

For the first time in three years she considered what would come
after the wedding. What would happen once she found the perfect man and married him in spite of her problem? How would she live? How would they live? There wasn’t a man alive who wouldn’t come to resent the fact that she could do nothing useful or helpful and that she hadn’t let him know before the wedding.

She couldn’t save herself by doing what she’d always done. It was going to take something new, something so out of character she couldn’t even come up with it on her own.

So she asked the man in her head.

And somehow she found herself in the library. A room she’d been in more in the past week than the rest of her life combined, but never by herself.

The room must have been a small chapel in the building’s previous life as an abbey. She understood now why Miranda had decorated the room in such light, subdued colors.

It was transformed by the afternoon sun.

Soaring stained-glass windows splashed jewels of colored light on every surface. Green, red, and purple streaked across the bookcases, while blue and orange swirled over a plump sofa.

In the middle of the room a Bible sat open on an ornate stand, bathed in a circle of golden yellow. Behind it rose another window, the shards of colored glass blending into a fractured picture of a beautiful sunrise.

She crossed the floor in slow steps, watching the brilliant colors creep across her white skirt. Deep green flowed into purple and then red. It felt as foreign as the walls of books surrounding her.

This was an unbelievably cork-brained idea. It was a book, like every other book in this room, and all it was going to do was make her feel alone and despondent. Who cared if the rest of her family believed it held the secret to incredible power and peace? It was written in a book, so it wasn’t meant for her.

God wasn’t meant for her.

But she was just desperate enough to beg Him to give her a chance.

She stopped at the edge of the yellow circle. The shadowed line
created by the leading in the window formed a wall she couldn’t break through. What would she do if this didn’t work?

Miranda put a great deal of stock in the Bible. She refused to start her day without reading it. Griffith had spent his entire life claiming to never make a decision without looking at it. All Georgina knew, though, was what the bishop read each week before he droned on about how horrible people were. Georgina was well aware that God found her wanting. She didn’t need a church to tell her that.

She could see the book now, the pages open, far enough away that the sea of black ink would be indistinct to anyone. It made her a bit bolder, knowing that from where she was right then, no one had access to the words in that book.

Colin seemed to think those words were the secret to everything, though. Yesterday he and Ryland had been bent over the thick book, talking intently about some decision. They’d walked away, confident they’d come to the right conclusion.

If this book could do that, she had to try.

For the first time in memory, she prayed for a miracle.

Her toes peeped out from beneath her skirt, glowing blue in the filtered sunlight. She edged her foot forward. The white she thought so bright and special looked bland as it crossed from the light to the shadow.

Easing the next foot forward into the yellow brought the brilliance back.

Another five tiny steps brought her to the stand. Yellow light made the book glow. A thick ribbon poked out between sections of pages in the back. A river of black swirled across the page, the letters blurring into a blob even more indiscernible than normal.

It was proven, then. God considered her damaged. Unworthy. He wouldn’t even allow her to read the book He’d gifted to the others.

A tear slid down her cheek and splashed onto the edge of stand.

Tears. She swiped at her eyes, a glimmer of hope sparking once more. The extra blur was caused by tears.

She looked toward the ceiling and blinked until the wetness left her eyes. Two deep breaths and she was ready to try again.

A large E caught her eye, but the word was long and she couldn’t tell if it was complicated or she couldn’t see the right letters. Moving on, she picked a place on the facing page. The letters shifted and jumped, blurring together. She squinted and worked one small area at a time. It seemed to take hours but a few words finally managed to come through.

All is vanity.

It was certainly turning out that way in her life. Everything she’d done, all the plans she’d made had brought her nothing. Everything had failed. Could this book tell her why?

A quick tug pulled the ribbon from the back of the book. She turned it sideways, laying the smooth edge along the words. Her breathing deepened as a few more letters slid into a semblance of order.

Another edge. She needed another edge.

She reached behind her and yanked at the knot of her sash, tearing at the ribbon until it finally fell free. Smoothing it across the page in front of her, she slid it down until only a single stream of letters marched across the page.

Memories of her governess’s tired sighs and condescending explanations threatened to bring tears of frustration to the forefront again. But she also remembered Harriette’s gentle encouragement as they tried time and again to find a way to keep the words where they belonged. Her friend had cheered with every word Georgina managed to read, even when it took half an hour and left her with a headache that sent her to bed for the rest of the day.

Georgina swallowed hard and pushed back her shoulders. She wasn’t five years old anymore. She could do this.

He that loveth silver shall not be satisfied with silver; nor he that loveth abundance with increase . . .

Her back ached from the amount of time spent hunched over the bookstand, but she wasn’t about to move. She struggled through the sentence, going back over the words twice until she was able to make the sentence flow in her head. Well, she wasn’t after money. Not directly.

Aren’t you though?

A sigh brushed through her lips as she brought one hand up to rub at the dull pain swelling behind her left ear. Yes, she wanted wealth and prestige and everything that came with it. But what she’d read did beg the question of what would be enough. Would she be satisfied if she weren’t the reigning patroness of Almack’s? How much popularity was required for her to feel safe?

She flipped the page and set her ribbons in another section, curious if everything in the book was like that line. She didn’t remember the words being so admonishing when they were read on Sunday.

For oftentimes also thine own heart knoweth that thou thyself likewise hast cursed others.

Georgina swallowed. The dull ache spread across the back of her head and down her neck. It was true. She had belittled and used others for her own gain. But if this book did nothing but point out everything she did wrong, where was the hope? Reading it was agonizingly slow, though somewhat easier than the last book she’d tried. The ticking of the tall clock in the corner marked the long minutes.

With nowhere else to turn, she pressed on.

And I find more bitter than death the woman, whose heart is snares and nets . . .

No. No, there had to be something good in here, something to make the effort worth it. Heart pounding, head aching, she flipped the page back again, wincing at the small rip her panicked, trembling hands created.

They also that come after shall not rejoice in him. Surely this also is vanity and vexation of spirit.

A stabbing pain that had nothing to do with the act of reading and everything to do with the words themselves shot through her body. Was that her fate? No matter what she did, would the approval she thought would protect her fade and falter? If this book was right, if they all believed what it said . . .

“Georgina?”

She wrapped her fingers around the edge of the stand, twisting to look at Colin over her shoulder. “Is this what you think?”

He entered the room slowly. “What?”

“Do you think this is true?” She wanted him to say no, willed him to say it. Because if he told her it wasn’t true, she’d believe him. Colin never lied to her. There was no one else she could say that about, not even her family.

His throat jerked as he swallowed and he rubbed a hand along the back of his neck, but his eyes remained locked with hers. “Yes.”

A laugh stumbled and jerked from her chest as she broke the connection and looked back at the book. “You haven’t even read it.”

“If it’s in that book, I believe it.”

He finished crossing the room and stood behind her, his heat surrounding her, but it went no deeper than her own skin. She had failed. Somehow this man had come to mean everything to her. His high opinion the one she craved more than any other.

Perhaps because he saw the truth and found her worth saving.

But apparently not worthy enough. “This is what you think of me, then.”

His hand covered her left on the bookstand, and his right arm wrapped around her. The black of his sleeve cut through the yellow light as he shifted her ribbons out of the way. His breath stirred her hair as he read the passage over her shoulder. “I’ve never approved of your ambitions, Georgina. And I’ve never kept that a secret from you, even when I probably should have.”

Anger sparked in her gut, and she grabbed at it, hanging on
for dear life. Anything was better than this helplessness. “Oh, no you don’t.”

She whirled, her head bumping his chin and sending them both dancing sideways in an attempt to regain their balance. His strong hand wrapped around her arm, anchoring her upright even as he scrambled for his own footing. “What on earth?” he mumbled.

The tang of salt met her tongue as she licked her lips. When had she started crying again? “You don’t get to claim your precious honesty right now. How can you say you’ve been honest with me?” She pointed to the Bible. “God thinks I’m worthless. That my life is nothing but . . . but . . . dismal futility. Vanity of vanities and vexation of spirit. And you’ve pushed me. You went on and on about truth.”

“Georgina, I—”

“And I believed you.” She swiped a hand over her eyes. “But all along you felt the same way He does.” A painful hiccup sliced through her chest. “Do you love God? Griffith says he loves God more than anything. He says things like you say, about honesty and justice and kindness. So I have to know, Colin, do you love God like that?”

He swallowed. She watched the movement of his throat as if she could see the words before he said them, could brace herself for the implications. “Yes, I do. More than anything. Sometimes I don’t do—”

A sobbing laugh born of despair cut him off. “I can’t compete with that. I thought I could be different, that I could change and you would like me. But I can’t compete with God for your affection.”

His eyes widened, and his hand relaxed its grip on her arm.

“You . . .” His voice was dry and croaky. He coughed, clearing his throat. “You want my affections?”