Forever and a Day (31 page)

Part Three

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Nobility has its own obligations.

—Duc de Lévis,
Maximes et réflexions
(1808)

Evening on a long, dark road
just off Manhattan Square

“L
ADY
B
URTON
AWAITS
.”
Mischievous, hook-nosed and beady-eyed Mr. Astor grinned cheekily within the waving shadows of the carriage lanterns that barely sliced through the darkness. With a gloved hand, he reached out and enthusiastically patted Georgia’s cheek through her black veil, as if she were a horse he was about to race with his last dollar. “You will find my friend to be most
dedicated
. Most.”

“Thank you, Mr. Astor. I appreciate all that you’ve already done for me.”

Holding up a hand, Mr. Astor marched back toward the carriage and climbed into it with a dignified grunt. He disappeared inside without looking back as his footman refolded the stairs and shut the door before hurrying up onto his own seat in the back of the carriage.

And so she was merrily tossed toward an imposing house whose large, narrow windows were illuminated by the glow of light. Rain drizzled down upon her veil in a mist as Georgia gathered her satin skirts from around her slippered feet. She strategically avoided puddles on the narrow stretch of pavement, heading toward the lone farmhouse that sat ominously upon a night-cloaked field, surrounded by a vast, starless sky above. She hurriedly bounded up the wide, shadowed stairs leading to the main entrance and paused.

Letting out a shaky breath, she glanced back at Mr. Astor’s unmarked carriage one last time. The driver rounded all four horses through the thick mud, the lit glass lanterns attached to his box swaying against the shadows. Picking up its pace, the carriage eventually disappeared down the long stretch of road, trudging back toward the main city that was two miles out east.

Georgia scanned the glaring darkness beyond the porch she lingered on. There didn’t appear to be a single house in sight and she didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing. She swiveled back to the door and tugged on the bellpull beside it, chiming the calling bell within.

The farmhouse itself belonged to a certain Lady Burton, who had endured some sort of scandal in London that Mr. Astor and the duke had refused to go into. It appeared the path of becoming a gilded lady was to commence on a very dark night in the middle of God knows where with a woman who had done God knows what.

The soft breeze of the cool summer night rolling in from the surrounding fields rustled her skirts as the entrance door was dragged open by an old man in livery. He blinked out at her, tufts of his bushy gray brows rising as he graciously gestured for her to enter with a white-gloved hand.

She hurried in out of the night.

The moment the door closed and she was no longer in public view, she stripped her bonnet and veil, releasing the breath she’d been holding. She had made it without anyone seeing her. She paused within a large foyer decorated with potted orange blossoms. An oak staircase swept up to the floor above, giving an air of simple but impressive grandeur. Sea-green and white-flowered wallpaper covered all of the walls in sight, lending to a soft, cozy elegance.

The elderly butler took her veil and bonnet, placing them upon a side table. Setting a hand to the brass buttons on the waistcoat of his livery, as if he were a general about to march with orders, he guided her toward the right. His gloved hand eventually stretched toward a candlelit room beyond, indicating where she was to enter.

Georgia hurried into the room and paused to find it empty. Where was Lady Burton? She turned back. “Isn’t Lady Burton
—
?”

She blinked.

The butler had already disappeared.

Georgia awkwardly turned back to the room and lingered in the pale malachite drawing room, noting all of the paintings on the walls depicting lush, exotic landscapes of places she knew nothing of. Marble statuettes and a variety of gilded clocks scattered the mantelpiece of a most impressive marble hearth that dominated the large room.

So
this
was where she’d be locked away from the world until she was ready to be presented into New York society. It was purgatory at its finest.

Wandering across the wooden inlaid floors, Georgia carefully angled past several upholstered chairs and gleaming marble-topped pedestal tables, ensuring her verdant gown didn’t brush up against anything it shouldn’t.

She glanced around, rather liking the place. Vibrant white lace curtains shrouded the night-blackened windows beyond, whilst pretty etched glass lamps alongside the expanse of the walls had all been lit, giving the room a warm glow that made her feel welcome and at home.

The clicking of heels echoed from down the corridor, drifting toward her through the open doors. Turning, Georgia set both hands behind her back and stared at the shadowed entryway, waiting for whatever was about to walk into her life.

A voluptuous, petite woman appeared in the doorway, her embroidered powder-blue evening gown rustling to a halt. Pinned sable curls streaked with silver swayed against the arresting movement, settling around sharp but pleasant features that whispered of a refined age of at least thirty. She wasn’t particularly pretty but something about her was stunning. Velvet azure ribbons were intricately woven and braided into her hair, holding all of her gathered curls into place with a single visible knot that had been fashioned into a flower. The woman’s full lips parted, as black, hauntingly sad eyes met Georgia’s expectantly.

Georgia curtsied, sensing the woman was waiting for
her
to say something. “Thank you for havin’ me, Lady Burton. I’m ever so grateful knowin’ that you’re willin’ to—”

“Having,
knowing
and
willing,”
Lady Burton said in a smooth British accent, drawing out each word. “You must learn to pronounce your
g’
s.”

Georgia blinked, sensing she had just been reprimanded.

Those haunting eyes met hers again as the woman stepped forward and into the room, allowing the butler to wordlessly slide the doors closed behind her and leave them in private.

The woman quietly observed her. “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Milton. I look forward to educating you about London society and ask that you refrain from blurting words. Instead, allow them to leave your lips slowly to ensure control. Now say the following. ‘I am ever so grateful
knowing
that you are here.’”

Oh, this woman was good. Georgia wet her lips and focused. Drawing out her words in a slow and steady manner, she repeated, “I’m ever so grateful…
knowing
that you’re here.”

“That was passable but passable will not see you wed. Elongate each word. Say ‘I am,’ instead of shortening who and what you are with a mere ‘I’m,’ and say ‘you are’ instead of insulting me with ‘you’re.’ Now say it again and remember to pronounce your
g’
s.”

“Yes, my lady.” Georgia drew out her words slowly, controlling every sound as best she could. “I…
am
…ever so grateful…
knowing
…that you…
are
…here.”

Lady Burton sighed, her dark brows coming together. “We will focus on procuring a more natural, sophisticated tone.” She paused, scanning her length. “Given your ambitious plan to launch yourself into London society by April, our schedule will entail a grueling eight hours a day, allowing you rest only on Sundays, which will be spent in silent prayer. During daily hours of lecture, I hope never to hear the words ‘I am exhausted’ or ‘I cannot.’ Do you understand?”

It was like being in the military. “Yes, my lady.”

“Lovely. Now before I introduce you to your nightly routine, which you will carry to the grave, I would like to briefly test your basic understanding of protocol so I may better coordinate tomorrow’s lesson plan. Is that acceptable to you?”

“By all means. Have at it.”

Lady Burton’s brows lifted. “Women do not ever ‘have at it,’ my dear. Men ‘have at it.’ And we most certainly do not care what men do, let alone what they think. We women will not be mentioning men at all unless it involves a lesson on how to make them better service us. Do you understand?”

Damn. Who had dirked this woman? “Yes, my lady. I’ll not mention men again.”

“I
will
not mention men again.”

“I…
will
not mention men again.”

“Very good. Now pay attention.” The woman gracefully held up a small ivory card between slim fingers, as if she’d been holding it all along between the folds of her gown. Presenting it at eye level, Lady Burton breezed closer, her full skirts rustling against poised, elegant movements. “Do you know what this is, Mrs. Milton?”

Georgia blinked. “A…card?”

Lady Burton paused before her and held the card tauntingly closer. “Yes, but what
sort
of card? Do you know?”

Georgia blinked again, not understanding her point. She glanced nervously toward the card, observing its characteristics. “’Tis a very expensive, crisp white one? With gold embossed letterin’?” Georgia paused and added, “And as pretty as it is, it’s probably also perfumed or powdered.”

Lady Burton pursed her lips. Still holding Georgia’s gaze, she daintily ripped the card in half and, with the flick of her wrists, sent both halves fluttering to the floor. “It
was
a calling card, my dear. Until I ripped it in half in an effort to contain my disappointment in how hard you are going to make us both work. A lady
never
perfumes or powders her calling card. Why? Because it insinuates that she needs more than a name to carry her through respectable society.” She sighed. “’Tis obvious we will be working ten hours a day, not eight.”

Georgia cringed, sensing the woman was already agitated with her. “You mean a lady goes about handin’ out cards to everyone? What for?”

“Handing,”
Lady Burton chided, rounding her and scanning her again as if she were a smashed yam on a cart. “And no, a lady does not go about
handing
her card to just anyone. Would you flip up your skirts and place your leg into
everyone’s
hand as a means of introducing yourself?”

Georgia pressed her lips together and shook her head.

“No. Of course not. Because that would be as crass as
handing
out your card to everyone. So as to better explain this, Mrs. Milton, a calling card is an incredibly important extension of your identity. It announces
who
you are, it announces
where
you live and, above all, it announces whether you are worth anyone’s time.” She lowered her chin. “And as of right now, my dear, you are not even worth mine.”

Georgia’s lips parted. And she thought
she
had a tongue on her. “Is it necessary for you to toss off to me in such a condescendin’ tone?”

“The tone I am using is the same condescending tone you will hear from the lips of every waxed apple who dares call herself an aristocrat. Seeing you willfully intend to marry into my circle, I suggest you learn to not only cradle everything known as condescending, but that you kiss its little forehead until those lips of yours bleed.”