Page 59 of A Rare Find

“Write to your aunt.” Mrs. Alderwalsey commanded it. “You neglect her. And pay me a call. I will give you a pot of salve for those corns. And some blue satin. You’d look well in blue satin. You haven’t called since Susan brought you. Promise you will.”

“I promise,” said Elf.

“And how is Agnes? I saw her at the Parkers’ last August. She was blowing on an odd-looking horn and was quite red in the face. I hope her face isn’t always so red.”

“It’s not usually red, no.”

“Does she still play that odd-looking horn?”

“More so the lute.”

“She should play the pianoforte. Why doesn’t she?”

Nothing Elf said was to Mrs. Alderwalsey’s satisfaction. The interrogation went on and on. The carriage turned onto the road to Twynham, and eventually the lane to Redmayne Manor and Marsden Hall.

Georgie began to consider it again: the way forward.

Within my depths, the shadows play. And yet there is light at my mouth and water that brings life.

One answer would solve many problems.

“What is wrong with the gentleman?” asked Matilda.

Georgie shifted her to the side and looked out the carriage window. Their fist shot up and banged the roof.

“Stop!” they cried.

The carriage stopped abruptly. Georgie tumbled out. There was Marsden Hall, gray and grim on the hill. And there, stuck sideways in the hedge, squirming, his plum-colored coat snagged on broken twigs and thorns, was Lord Phillip Winston.

“Phipps.” They hissed it. What was wrong with him was obvious. He was half-sprung and fully embedded in a very prickly shrub.

“Do you know this man?” Mrs. Alderwalsey called from the carriage.

“No.” The denial dropped from their lips like a stone. “I feared some mishap, but he’s one of those devotees of nature, the sort that’s always climbing into hedges for solace and inspiration. We should drive on.”

“Don’t go,” slurred Phipps, squirming more vigorously. “I came all this way to see you.”

“Shh.” Georgie tried to shush him and simultaneously tried to appear as though they were doing nothing of the kind.

“Can’t hear you,” slurred Phipps. “Can’t find my topper.”

“You’re drunk.” Georgie linked their hands, standing decorously on the verge of the lane, posture upright, voice a furious whisper. “How did you get here? And get drunk?”

“Arrived yesterday. Spent the night at yours. There was a decanter in the study, and…”

“Spent the night!” Georgie yelped, then twisted around to wave at the onlookers. “Just one moment. Mr…. Mr. Hawthorne is a stranger to these parts and inquires after the nearest inn.” They moved closer to the hedge and resumed their furious whispering. “You can’t set foot in my house. Harry will have us both killed.”

“He won’t find out.” Phipps ripped himself free of the hedge with a curse, white blossoms and green leaflets showering down. Georgie danced backward.

“Yes, Mr. Hawthorne,” they said loudly. “A clean, well-run establishment, to be sure.” Back to furious whispering: “He will find out! He told me he asked the housekeeper to write him a tattling letter if I stepped out of line.”

Phipps was shaking the hedge now, trying to dislodge his top hat. It had the merciful effect of muffling his voice.

“The housekeeper won’t give herself the trouble. Housekeepers have too much else to do. Also, I tipped liberally.”

“You bribed her?”

“Tipped. Bribed.” Phipps gave the hedge a final shake. “Whichever it was, I’m completely out at the pocket. And my father’s about to disown me. We had an awful row. He insists I marry at once.” Phipps retrieved his hat and spun to face Georgie, overshooting and swaying back to center, much like a devotee of the bottle. “Your fault. There’s more gossip about me than ever. Our marriage was meant to quell gossip.”