“Hullo, Georgie,” he said, bending over to buss her heartily on the cheek. “It seems you are to have a sister.”
“I’m sure I wish you and your bride very happy,” put in the vicar.
Unlike the females of the parish, Sir Harry was unmoved by the vicar’s charms, and consequently had been unaware of that gentleman’s presence until the clergyman spoke. “Good day, Reverend,” he said, moving quickly to pump the vicar’s hand. “Dashed if you didn’t slip up on me! I take it Georgie has already told you the news?”
“Indeed, she has, and I offer you both my heartiest felicitations. Furthermore, since wedding bells seem to be in the air, as it were, I wonder if I might have a word with you in private?”
This preamble, combined with his sister’s rosy blush, gave Sir Harry a fair indication of what was in the wind. He had not observed that young lady’s newfound religious zeal for the past six months without having a shrewd idea of what she was about, but he had not supposed the vicar to be so obtuse as to be taken in by this pious display.
“Of course, of course!” he said quickly, trying not to betray his surprise. “Right this way. Will you take a drop of brandy? No? Sherry, perhaps?”
Declining all offers of refreshment, the reverend allowed himself to be led into the room which was dubbed Sir Harry’s study, although that young man was not by nature studious. Still, the room had served as a study for the previous baronet, and it was to this room that the two men repaired to settle the future of that worthy’s daughter. When the door was securely shut behind them, the vicar turned to address his prospective brother-in-law.
“I have often had occasion to admire the many good works which Miss Hawthorne does in the interest of the parish,” he said, “and, since the holy scriptures say it is not good for man to be alone, I find my affections have fixed upon her as a suitable help meet. As I have cause to believe Miss Hawthorne is not averse to my suit, I have come to request your permission to pay my addresses.”
Knowing Georgina well, Sir Harry was quite certain that she was far from averse to the vicar. Still, the discovery that the Reverend Mr. Collier might entertain similar feelings for his flighty sister was nothing short of mind-boggling.
“Georgie?” he echoed incredulously. “A vicar’s wife?”
“I know the living at Hawthorne is not large,” confessed the vicar, prepared for objections on financial grounds. “Still, I have some money from my maternal grandmother, and I feel myself to be capable of supporting Miss Hawthorne in a manner which, I believe, you would not despise.”
“I don’t doubt it, but—dash it, Reverend! She’s only seventeen!”
“She is young, it is true, but her devotion to the work of the parish indicates a spiritual maturity beyond her years.”
Privately, Sir Harry suspected that his sister’s supposed devotion indicated nothing more spiritual than a schoolgirl
tendre
for the vicar, but he kept this observation to himself.
“It ain’t just that. She’s never even been out of Leicestershire.”
“Am I to understand, then, that your scruples have less to do with age than experience?”
“Yes, that’s it! Lack of experience, there’s the ticket,” said Sir Harry, seizing upon the excuse conveniently provided a scant half-hour earlier by his chosen bride. Warming to this train of thought, he stroked his sidewhiskers, adding piously, “She needs to see a bit more of the world before becoming leg-shackled—er, entering the bonds of holy matrimony.”
“I cannot fault your reasoning, nor your concern for your sister’s future happiness,” said his would-be relation, nodding his approval. “What, then, do you suggest?”
“Georgie shall go to London to make her come-out,” pronounced Sir Harry, improvising rapidly. “If, by the end of the Season, her feelings are unchanged, the pair of you may marry with my blessing.”
The Reverend Mr. Collier, overcome by the wisdom of this Solomonic decree, was moved to shake Sir Harry’s hand. “And, if the frivolities of town life prove too tempting for her to resist, then we shall know she was never cut out for life in the ministry.”
“I wish you good fortune, vicar,” said Sir Harry, returning the handshake, “but if you were a betting man, I would lay you odds!”
* * * *
It was not to be expected that Georgina would submit without protest to this test of her devotion; nor did she.
“But I cannot neglect my church work,” she objected, upon being informed of the treat in store. “If I go to London, who will see to the altar cloths, or the flowers, or—”
“Cut line, Georgie,” said Sir Harry, interrupting this recitation. “The parish church has survived for nigh on three hundred years without you; surely it can bear your absence for three months. And don’t tell me you won’t enjoy going to balls and the theater, and wearing clothes that are all the crack, for I know you too well.”
Georgina gave him a look of pitying disdain. “At one time, perhaps, I might have been tempted by such frivolous pursuits. Fortunately, my dear James has opened my eyes to the futility of a life devoted entirely to pleasure. My feet are now set on a higher path.”
“Save it for the reverend,” advised her brother with a snort of skepticism. “You’ll forget all about your high principles the minute some blade asks you to waltz.”
“You may banish me to London, Harry, but you will never prevail upon me to whirl about a public room in the lascivious embrace of any gentleman, be he blade or no.”
“No? Not even with your vicar?”
“Oh!” cried an outraged Georgina, her cheeks suffused with an angry flush which, had she but known it, clashed most unfortunately with her coloring. “For your information, James says—”
But Mr. Collier’s opinions were destined to remain a mystery, for the quarreling siblings’ mother chose that moment to voice her own objections to the proposed scheme.
“My dear Harry, you cannot have thought,” she protested in a quavering voice. “I have scarcely put off my blacks! How can I undertake the launching of a lively schoolgirl into society? I am sure my poor nerves would never bear the strain.”
Having long acquaintance with his mama’s poor nerves, Sir Harry recognized the futility of opposing this argument. “What of Grandmama, then? Perhaps she might be persuaded to take Georgie in hand.”
“Your grandmother? Bah!” scoffed his fond parent. “Why, she abandoned London for Bath fifty years ago, and she hasn’t set foot outside her lodgings in twenty years—not even for your poor father’s funeral, God rest his soul.”
“But why should she?” protested Georgina. “You must admit, Mama, there was very little she could have done.”
But this argument, however reasonable, found no favor with the widow. “In times of bereavement, one’s proper place is with one’s Family. There is nothing like the presence of one’s nearest and dearest to give one comfort.”
“Perhaps she didn’t consider us near and dear,” pointed out Georgina with youthful candor. “After all, Papa only visited Bath twice a year, and we rarely accompanied him. Indeed, I can scarcely remember Grandmama at all—although I do recall that she bore a most striking resemblance to you, Harry.”
“A handsome old girl, in fact” was Sir Harry’s irreverent observation.
Actually, the resemblance between Sir Harry and his paternal grandmother was often remarked upon by those who were acquainted with both the dowager and the current baronet. The likeness was generally felt to be a fortuitous one, since the dowager Lady Hawthorne was the daughter of a viscount and bore the physical stamp of her illustrious lineage. To be sure, she would be an impressive patroness for any young girl making her come-out—or she would have been, had she not long since elected to cloister herself in her Laura Place lodgings.
“Failing Grandmama, I’ve another idea,” continued Sir Harry, undaunted. “Olivia is to be brought out this spring; perhaps Mrs. Darby would be willing to take Georgina on, too—with all expenses to be paid by me, of course.”
“An excellent notion,” nodded his mama in approval, warming to the scheme now that it seemed unlikely to cut up her peace in any way. “You must enlist Miss Darby’s aid in bringing her about. Georgina, my dear, you would not object to visiting London in Miss Darby’s company, would you, now that you are to be sisters?”
“Not at all, Mama. In fact, James has the greatest admiration for Olivia. He said that he admired her good sense, and that he hoped she would be a settling influence on you, Harry,” she added, not without satisfaction.
“I say!” cried that young man, eyes open wide in alarm. “When I settle down, it will be by my own choice, and not through the machinations of some cursed interfering female!”
“That is not at all a proper way to speak of your affianced bride, Harry,” scolded his mama.
Thus chastised, Sir Harry had the grace to look ashamed. “You are quite right. Mama, and I beg your pardon. I am a fortunate man to have Olivia for my bride. Besides,” he added with a rush of affection for his betrothed, “Livvy ain’t the type to begrudge a fellow his pleasures.”
Chapter Two
London, thou art the flower of Cities all. WILLIAM DUNBAR,
London
For Miss Olivia Darby, the next two months flew by in a blur of preparations for her London debut. The local dressmaker was summoned to take Miss Darby’s measurements for the vast wardrobe which, according to her mama, was
de rigueur
for a Season in Town. When she was not submitting to endless fittings, Olivia was enlisted to aid her mother in writing to all that lady’s London acquaintances, in the hopes of exploiting these connections to her daughter’s advantage. But of her affianced bridegroom Olivia saw little, for Sir Harry, upon learning of Mrs. Darby’s intention to hire lodgings in Upper Wimpole Street, objected to seeing his future bride installed at such a
démodé
address, and insisted upon offering Mrs. Darby the use of the Hawthornes’ town house in Curzon Street, while he (he said) would content himself with hired rooms more suited to his bachelor status. Upon Mrs. Darby’s acceptance of this generous offer, he announced his intention of departing for London within the week to ensure that all was in readiness for their arrival. Mrs. Darby was moved to exclaim at the thoughtfulness of her future son, but Olivia, aware of Sir Harry’s fondness for town life, quite correctly ascribed this fit of generosity to more self-serving motives.
Mother and daughter arrived in London in mid-March, along with Sir Harry’s sister Georgina, who whiled away the journey by outlining for her companions the various perils of the fashionable life which, according to Mr. Collier, lurked in the Metropolis, ready to devour the unwary. Indeed, any disinterested listener might have supposed their southeasterly course to lead directly to Hell, rather than London. At last they entered the city, its cobbled streets alive with the cries of vendors hawking their wares and the squeals of grubby, unwashed children at play. Upon seeing these unfortunates, Georgina was moved to denounce the
beau monde
for frittering away fortunes on gaming and fashion in the face of such squalor. These noble sentiments, while they would no doubt have found favor with the good reverend, were quite wasted on her intended audience, for the Darbys, both mother and daughter, had long since fallen asleep.
The slumberers at last awoke as the carriage rolled to a stop before the Curzon Street town house, and the ladies exited the vehicle somewhat stiffly. Sir Harry’s butler flung open the front door as they mounted the stairs, and the travel-weary trio entered the edifice which was to be their home for the next three months.
“Well,” declared Georgina, who had not visited the London house since she was in leading strings and, consequently, feared the mansion might be out of keeping with her newly-acquired democratic notions. “ ‘Tis not nearly so large as I remembered it.”
“Nonsense,” replied Mrs. Darby, who had no such scruples. “It is a fine house indeed, and it appears dear Harry has done an excellent job of seeing all put to rights.”
Only Olivia declined to offer an opinion. Instead, she silently followed her parent into the tiled entrance hall. Here her heart leaped at the sight of a solitary figure which, upon closer inspection, proved to be a very fine piece of statuary set into a niche in the wall.
“Oh,” she said, striving in vain to keep her disappointment from showing in her voice. “I thought perhaps Harry would be here.”
“But my dear, don’t you remember?” prompted her mama. “Harry has taken lodgings in Stratton Street. ‘Twould not be at all proper for you to be living under the same roof before you are wed.”
“I know, Mama. I only hoped—that is, I thought perhaps he might be here to welcome us.”
“I think it very shabby of him not to meet us upon our arrival,” concurred Georgina. “Depend upon it, he has probably gone to some dreadful prize-fight or some such thing.”
But in this estimation she was mistaken. Sir Harry was, in fact, preparing to visit Covent Garden, where the celebrated actress Violetta was to appear in one of the breeches roles for which she was so much admired. Enthusiastic patron of the arts that he was, Sir Harry arrived early in order to procure a choice spot in the pit from which he might ogle the fair thespian to his heart’s content. It was here that he was hailed by the Honourable Felix Wrexham.
“I say, Harry,” remarked this worthy. “Had no idea you was in London. Beginning to think you’d left us for good.”
“No, just until my mourning was up. My pater, you know.”
“Deuced sorry to hear it, old boy,” Mr. Wrexham muttered, ill at ease with the subject of man’s mortality. To this gentleman’s heartfelt relief, the curtain rose at that moment, revealing the fair Violetta as the heroine of Shakespeare’s
Twelfth Night.
For this first act she was clothed in female garb, to the vocal dissatisfaction of her admirers. Fortunately, her role as the sole survivor of a shipwreck had given Mr. Kemble the inspired notion of saturating his comedienne’s gown with water, so that it clung enticingly to her every curve. It was, perhaps, only this happy circumstance which saved the theater from a mob revolt. By the time the curtain rose on the second act, revealing Violetta in her masculine disguise, her audience was in a much more receptive mood.