No Greater Love (36 page)

“Georgia is an extraordinary gardener,” Nicholas said, giving them both a speculative look. “She has worked miracles with the gardens at Raven’s Close, and I had thought them ruined beyond repair.”

“Oh, no,” Georgia said. “I told you, Nicholas, it was only a matter of caring.”

“I agree with Georgia,” Marguerite said. “My own mother always said that whispering to the plants could make miracles happen. It was the same with people who were sick. It was never enough just to give them medicines, you had to make them believe they were growing better. And then nine times out of ten they would.”

“Exactly!” Georgia said with delight. “Exactly so.”

“It must be the French in you both that produces this whimsy,” George said dryly. “I cannot imagine finding myself whispering sweet nothings to a poppy seed.”

“You would be most unsuited to such a thing, George. Save your sweet nothings for elsewhere,” Marguerite said with a light laugh. “But what is this about your having French blood?” she asked Georgia, still smiling. “I am intrigued. You said nothing when we were discussing it the other day. Perhaps it explains a great deal.” Her eyes danced with mischief.

Georgia’s lips trembled with laughter. “But I am only half French,” she said. “You have to take into account my Scots blood too, which explains my terrible compulsion to pinch pennies.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Nicholas said with a grin. “I’d forgotten your father came from the Highlands. It does explain some things, doesn’t it? But I hadn’t realized your mother was French. George is right—that must have been where you acquired your fancifulness … I beg your pardon, but am I missing something here?” He looked at George and Marguerite, who were staring at his wife.

“What was your maiden name?” Marguerite asked Georgia, her face having lost its animation, now very still and pale.

“Cameron,” Georgia said, looking up, and it was her turn to stare as Marguerite’s fork fell from her hand and clattered to her plate.

“It can’t be,” Marguerite said, her voice barely a whisper.

Georgia met Nicholas’ eyes in question, but Nicholas only shrugged, as baffled as she was. “What can’t be?” he asked into the silence. “There is obviously some significance here, and I’d very much like to know why you are both looking at my wife as if she’d suddenly grown two heads.”

“And your mother’s maiden name?” George asked very quietly.

“I don’t know. She never spoke of her family. Please—what has upset you so? Is it something I said?”

Nicholas leaned forward as if to press the point, but George made a small checking movement with his hand, and Nicholas sat back again. He looked back and forth between the two of them, his brow drawn into a frown.

“I believe I see Jacqueline’s hand at work here,” George said quite calmly. “Do you not agree, darling?”

Marguerite pressed a shaking hand to her cheek. “Of course. Jacqueline must be behind this! Oh, George, you must be right! It does make sense…”

“For the love of God, what makes sense?” Nicholas said impatiently.

“Just a moment, Nicholas. It will all become clear.” Marguerite drew in a deep breath, then turned to Georgia. “Georgia, my dear. Listen to me carefully. Do you remember how I told you that Jacqueline hated our older sister, would torment her every chance she had?”

Georgia nodded, by now thoroughly bewildered.

“Jacqueline fabricated a story about her out of jealousy, for she had fallen in love with a handsome young man from a good family. Jacqueline created a situation to make it appear as if our sister had behaved very improperly. My father had no choice but to ask her to leave home. And the young man’s family disowned him. He was disgraced, forced to leave his regiment. His name was Charles Cameron.”

Georgia’s lips went bloodless, and Nicholas reached over and took her hand. “That … that was my father’s name,” she said, her body starting to shake all over.

“Yes,” Marguerite said gently. “I thought so. And your mother’s name was Eugenie, was it not?”

Georgia just nodded.

“Her maiden name was de Give. She was my sister.”

Georgia sat completely still. She concentrated on breathing, for she thought her heart might stop with shock. She was only dimly aware of Nicholas coming over to her and kneeling down beside her, only dimly aware of the tears that rolled down her cheeks, only dimly aware that Marguerite, too, was crying.

“I … I don’t understand,” she whispered. “I don’t understand.”

Nicholas stood and rested his hands on her shoulders. “This is one hell of a turn of events,” he said. “Would someone mind explaining to me just how we ended up here?”

“I don’t know why I didn’t see it sooner,” Marguerite said, wiping her cheeks. “It seems so obvious now.”

“Obvious
?” Nicholas said. “That is the last word I’d use for this situation. And Georgia is clearly just as confused as I am.”

Georgia looked over at Marguerite. “Please…” she said tightly. “Please, will you explain? It makes no sense to me. Are you sure there isn’t another explanation?”

“But how, my dear?” Marguerite said gently. “Your mother, a Frenchwoman named Eugenie, was married to a Scotsman named Charles Cameron. They lived in anonymity and near poverty because neither family would acknowledge them. I understand your shock, for I feel it myself. But it cannot be a coincidence.”

“No, I suppose not,” Georgia said uncertainly, still sure that a mistake had been made somewhere.

“And there are other things,” Marguerite said, smiling at her. “My mother supported us by dressmaking. You are very clever with a needle. But more important, my mother was renowned in France for her healing abilities and her knowledge of herbs and other plants. She taught us all, but Eugenie followed most closely in her footsteps—as you have followed in Eugenie’s.”

Marguerite rose and went over to Georgia, taking her hands. “I cannot quite believe it, but it is the most wonderful thing in the world, don’t you think?”

“I … Yes,” Georgia said, blinking back her tears. “I have missed having a family.”

“Oh, my sweet girl,” Marguerite said with a little laugh, “you do indeed have a family—and it is a very fine one. Not only are you the granddaughter of the Comte and Comtesse de Give, but your own grandfather is Ewan Cameron. He is a Highland chief.”

“Good God,” Nicholas murmured. “
Those
Camerons?”

“Indeed. Those Camerons. And here you were worrying all this time that you were not a lady. My dear, your bloodlines are impeccable. You have not a thing to fear from the
ton,
for they shall be falling all over themselves to meet you.”

“Dear heaven, I’ve gone and married an aristocrat,” Nicholas said dryly. “Whatever happened to my simple farmer’s wife?”

Georgia put her face in her hands, and her shoulders began to shake.

“Sweetheart?” Nicholas gently touched her hair. “Have I upset you? I was only teasing, you must know that.”

Georgia dropped her hands and looked up at him, tears pouring down her face. She was laughing so hard she could barely speak. “I can’t … I can’t…” she gasped. “I’m sorry—it’s the shock.” She put her head on her arms and lost herself in hysterics, and Nicholas grinned and looked over at Marguerite.

“Sorry,” he said. “I realize it’s a momentous occasion, but Georgia does this sometimes.”

Marguerite started to laugh. “She is more like her mother than you know. Eugenie had an irrepressible sense of humor, no matter what the circumstances. Oh, Nicholas. The entire thing is quite unbelievable, but all I can think of is that in a most extraordinary way Eugenie has been returned to me. My heart never ceased to break over her sudden departure, and then—not another word. And I loved her so.”

Georgia lifted her head, having finally managed to collect herself. She was a mass of conflicting emotions: disbelief battled with the extraordinary realization that she had a family of her own, that she belonged somewhere, that she had a history. “You are my aunt,” she said in wonderment. “I have an aunt.”

“I am sorry to say that you have two aunts,” Marguerite replied. “I am only one of them.”

“Oh, my God—Jacqueline.” Georgia’s hand went to her mouth, and she looked up at Nicholas. “What must you think of me?”

“Think of yon?” he asked incredulously. “What the devil is that supposed to mean? You cannot think that I in any way equate you with Jacqueline? Georgia, I love you. You are your own person. You have suffered at the hands of Jacqueline just as it seems your mother did—which brings me to another question. What happened to Eugenie? What charge did Jacqueline bring against her, Marguerite?”

“It was rather vile. You have to understand that Jacqueline was unbearably jealous when Eugenie met Charles. He was such a dashing guardsman, and Eugenie was so beautiful, so much in love with him. It was a great secret, their romance, for Eugenie was only sixteen. They were waiting until such time as she was of marriageable age, but Jacqueline managed to find out. She was eleven, and I think she couldn’t bear the idea that Eugenie might be happy—worse, that she might leave and Jacqueline would have to take on her work load. Eugenie and Charles used to send letters back and forth—delivering them was my job, and at the tender age of six, I thought it unbearably romantic. And then Jacqueline discovered where Eugenie hid her letters, and she took them to my father along with her story.’’

“I can’t see what could have created such an uproar,” Nicholas said. “What story could an eleven-year-old girl possibly have fabricated? “

“I’m afraid that Jacqueline was rather advanced for her years and very clever when it came to knowing just what would incriminate both Eugenie and Charles.”

“And?” Nicholas demanded. “What did she come up with?”

Marguerite blushed and George answered for her. “She said that Eugenie had been meeting with Charles in the bedroom that she and Eugenie shared. Forgive me for my indelicacy, but she told the Comte de Give that she could bear it no longer, listening to them night after night while she waited outside on the roof. And she also told him that she had heard Eugenie tell Charles she was with child.”

“Oh, poor
maman,”
Georgia whispered.

“And the man
believed
Jacqueline?” Nicholas said angrily. “What, does everyone believe every foul lie that woman produces without ever questioning her?”

“He believed her because he could not credit that Jacqueline would know about such things,” Marguerite said. “Jacqueline had lied, naturally. But she had interspersed just enough truth to make it sound credible. And when my father questioned me, as much as I tried in my childish fashion to defend Eugenie, I could not deny carrying the notes. So she was banished. The biggest sin was not the child she was supposedly carrying, but the behavior to which they had exposed Jacqueline. That was unforgivable in my father’s eyes. It broke his heart to do it, but he sent her away and told her she was never to attempt to communicate with the family in any fashion. It was not unlike what Jacqueline caused your uncle to do to you, Nicholas. Perhaps now you understand better why I never doubted you.”

“Jesus Christ,” Nicholas said. “I don’t quite believe any of this. What are we dealing with here? The woman must have been spawned by the devil himself.’’ He pulled out his chair and sank into it, rubbing his forehead.

“I did not really understand what had happened, as I was so young, only that my beloved sister left in disgrace and I would never see her again,” Marguerite said, also returning to her seat. “But years later, when I was old enough to understand what it was Eugenie had been accused of, I was sure that Jacqueline must have lied. And poor Charles, who was only twenty at the time, to have his reputation destroyed in such a fashion—ah, it doesn’t bear thinking about. But I am as sure as I can be that he would never have compromised Eugenie. Tell me, Georgia, just to satisfy my own curiosity. When were you born?”

“August 4, in the year 1797.”

“You see—there! Didn’t I tell you? Eugenie left in July of ninety-six! She could not possibly have been with child, not if Georgia was born a year later. And did she have no other children?”

“Just myself. I … I am sorry. I am finding this a bit difficult to absorb.”

“Naturally you are.” Marguerite’s face glowed with happiness. “You have no idea how much you are like your mother, Georgia. Not so much in looks, for you have your father’s fair coloring, although you did inherit Eugenie’s curls—and her humor, and her gentle nature, and … Oh! So many things! This really is too wonderful. And yet it saddens me to think how Eugenie’s life must have been.”

“It was not so bad,” Georgia said earnestly. “She and my father loved each other very much, and there was always laughter in the house. They had each other, even if they had lost their families.”

“And they had you, my dear Georgia,” Marguerite added. “You must have given them great happiness despite everything else they might have lost because of Jacqueline. Tell me, if it is not too painful to speak of it. How did my sister die?’’

“She contracted typhoid from one of her patients. I nursed her for three weeks, but in the end there was nothing I could do.”

“Oh, poor Eugenie,” Marguerite said, tears glistening in her eyes. And Charles? What became of him?”

“He had died five years before.” Georgia briefly described those early years, trying hard to make them sound as glowing as possible, for she could see Marguerite’s distress. But she didn’t miss the incisive look Nicholas gave her, and she colored, for he knew just how much she was embellishing the situation.

“Oh, it is such a sad story,” Marguerite said, wiping her eyes. “My poor dear sister, forced to suffer so. And no doubt Charles’s health was broken by it all. What a terrible shame, when they might have had the blessing of their families to marry, once Eugenie had come of age.”

They were all silent for a few minutes, and then Nicholas sighed. “Well,” he said, “it seems clear that Eugenie and Charles were very badly used by Jacqueline. And it also seems clear that Jacqueline knew exactly who Georgia was from the start. It cannot be coincidence that she brought Georgia to Ravenswalk and proceeded to lock her away.”