The Emerald Comb (7 page)

‘Congratulations, I am sure,’ said Agnes. ‘You have torn your gown.’ She pointed to a seam at the bodice which had come away.

‘Oh!’ Georgia twisted to inspect the damage. ‘Well, never mind, you can mend it for me later.’

Agnes nodded curtly, then turned on her heel and walked up the beach, her head held high.

Bartholomew watched her go, his heart racing, his palms sweating. She’d had that effect on him, yet again. And had there been a touch of hurt, disappointment perhaps, in her eyes?

‘She fusses so,’ said Georgia. ‘She acts as though she’s my mother, although she is only a few years older than me. She says I am missing a woman’s influence in my life. My mother died when I was born, and Father never remarried. But never mind her – we are engaged, and you, sir, were about to kiss me, I do believe.’

‘I was indeed,’ he said, taking a step closer to claim the kiss. But Georgia picked up her skirts and ran off, along the beach, laughing like a child. Bartholomew grinned and shook his head. She was not much more than a child, he must remember that.

In the evening, having spoken to Charles Holland who’d readily agreed to the match, telling him it was about time, Bartholomew sat next to Georgia at dinner. All through the meal she flirted prettily with him, treating him to glittering smiles, laughing at his witticisms, and pressing her foot against his. Once she even put her hand beneath the table, on his knee. Bartholomew felt his desire for her increase – she may have acted like a young girl on the beach but now she seemed all woman. As the dinner drew to a close and the servants cleared away the dessert dishes, he longed to be alone with her; to get a chance to hold her and kiss her.

‘We’ll set your wedding date sooner rather than later, eh, St Clair? No sense making you wait longer than necessary to claim your bride.’

Bartholomew reddened. It was as though Holland had read his mind. He nodded, and smiled at Georgia. ‘I’d certainly like to marry as soon as possible.’

‘We’ll need to wait at least until the banns are read,’ she said.

‘Banns, my foot,’ said Holland. ‘St Clair’ll purchase a licence. He can get that in a day. We could have you married by the weekend.’

Georgia’s face fell. ‘Oh, but Uncle, but that’s too soon to arrange any celebrations, or buy any new clothes!’

‘He’s pulling your leg, my dear,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We’ll marry soon, but not quite as quickly as that. You shall have a new gown if you want one, and a bonnet, and petticoats, and anything else you desire. And for now, you shall have this.’ He pulled the box containing the hair ornament out of his pocket and handed it to her.

He watched as she opened the box and gasped at the comb. The jewels sparkled in the candlelight and reflected in her eyes.

‘It’s beautiful,’ she said, in a whisper. ‘Quite the most beautiful thing I’ve seen. I shall wear it for my portrait, so that when I gaze upon it in future years I will always remember this day. In fact, I want to wear it at once. Ring for Agnes – without a mirror I can’t put it in by myself.’

Charles Holland smiled indulgently, and reached for the bell-pull. A moment later Agnes entered. Her eyes widened as she saw the comb.

‘A pretty piece, Miss Georgia. You are a lucky woman.’ She removed a plain tortoiseshell comb from Georgia’s hair, and replaced it with the emerald one. Her eyes flickered towards Bartholomew, as she tucked away a stray strand of hair. What was in those eyes? Jealousy? Of her mistress’s betrothal, of her comb, of her fiancé? Desire? For the comb, or for him? She was standing behind Georgia, so close to Bartholomew he could feel her warmth, smell her soap. His skin tingled, and he pressed his foot closer still to Georgia’s.

‘There, miss. Looks very nice.’ Agnes curtsied and left the room.

Bartholomew let out the breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, and smiled at Georgia. ‘I am glad you like it, my dear. When we are married I shall take you to visit the man who made it, at the shop in Bond Street. He shall make you a brooch to match it.’

‘Watch it, St Clair. Don’t spend all your money on trinkets for her. Women are all the same, you know. They take your money, your youth and your vigour, and leave you an empty shell. Now then, Peters, where’s the brandy? Georgia, time you left us now. St Clair will be all yours soon – but for now, I want to enjoy his company for myself. You’ll join me for a brandy or two, I take it?’

‘Indeed I will,’ said Bartholomew, holding out his glass for Peters to fill. He turned to Georgia. ‘I shall see you in the drawing room later, my dear.’

Georgia pushed back her chair and stood, trailing her fingers over his shoulder. ‘Don’t keep him too long, Uncle, please.’ She patted her hair comb and left the room.

‘I wasn’t joking about marrying her at the weekend,’ said Holland, as soon as the door closed behind her. ‘Sooner the better. I’ve enjoyed your company, but having that young filly about the place doesn’t suit my lifestyle. She had nowhere else to go, when my brother died. He’d appointed me guardian and trustee of her estate, but frankly, I want shot of the whole responsibility. First time I saw you I thought you’d be suitable for her. An older, more sensible kind of chap than the young pups just after her money. Someone of whom poor Francis would have approved. Glad she accepted you – could have been awkward otherwise, especially with that colt Perry sniffing around. You did well to move quickly. Here’s to a quick wedding and happy marriage.’

He raised his glass, and gulped the brandy down in one swallow. Bartholomew did the same. ‘She’ll be off your hands within a month,’ he promised. ‘I’ll start making the arrangements tomorrow.’

‘Where will you live?’

‘In my Mayfair house, I expect. Or if she wants to stay in Brighton I’ll take a lease on a house here.’

‘Take her to London. Women like being in the capital.’

He really didn’t know his niece well, thought Bartholomew, remembering how Georgia had told him how much she preferred the country.

‘Will you release Agnes Cutter? To come with Georgia, I mean?’ He hadn’t realised he was going to ask the question until it left his lips.

‘Hmm? Who’s Agnes Cutter?’

‘Georgia’s maid. I – I believe Georgia’s rather fond of her. If you can spare the girl, I will of course take over her employment…’

‘Oh, that one. Of course. Part of the package, you might say. Another brandy?’

It was several more brandies before Bartholomew could take his leave, and adjourn to the drawing room. Holland decided to retire, and after pouring himself a nightcap brandy he went upstairs to bed. Bartholomew went through to the drawing room where Georgia was sitting alone, sewing a sampler. She looked up and smiled when he walked in.

‘At last! I was beginning to wonder if you would ever come.’ She put down her sewing and stood to greet him.

‘I am sorry. Your uncle kept me talking a while. And now he has retired for the evening.’

‘No matter, I only wanted to see you.’

‘And I, you,’ he said, taking a step towards her. She held out her hands to him. He took them and drew her towards him. ‘Georgia, my dear, you have made me so happy by agreeing to be my wife. Let’s get married soon. Next month?’

‘In the summer,’ she said, smiling up at him. ‘I’d like a summer wedding, I think.’

He pulled her closer still, wrapping an arm about her waist. ‘I’m not sure I can wait so long, Georgia, darling. Why not a spring wedding?’ His head was swimming after the brandy, and her closeness was intoxicating. He bent his head towards hers, hoping to claim the kiss he’d been denied on the beach, earlier in the day.

But she pushed him away, with a giggle. ‘Bartholomew, I do believe you have had rather too much brandy. I think you had better go upstairs now.’

He considered pulling her back, forcing the kiss on her but a distant, more sober part of his mind told him not to. This was no casual affair, no street-corner hussy. This was the woman he’d chosen to be his wife and bear his children. The woman whose money would save him from a debtor’s prison. He must wait.

He let go of her and bowed. ‘I am sorry, and you are right. Good night. I shall look forward to seeing you in the morning.’

He left the room before he made even more of a fool of himself, and took the stairs two at a time. She was but a girl, he reminded himself. She’d had little experience of men. She was right to rebuff him, in the state he was in. Tomorrow he would not let Holland fill his brandy glass quite so frequently. Tomorrow, if he found himself alone with her, he’d claim his first kiss. If he acted more like a gentleman she wouldn’t refuse him. He would taste those sweet lips at last, smell her skin, feel that soft body pressed against his. And the wedding would be in spring, whether she liked it or not.

Upstairs he turned towards his bedchamber, which was at the end of a corridor, near the stairs which led on upwards to the servants’ quarters at the top of the house. As he reached his room, a rustle of petticoats made him turn, thinking Georgia had perhaps followed him up. But it was Agnes. She was carrying the green gown Georgia had torn on the beach. She stopped beside him.

‘Is everything all right, sir? Are you in need of anything,
anything
at all?’ There was a glint in her eye.

‘I am quite all right, thank you,’ he replied, stumbling slightly as he reached for his door knob. She caught hold of his elbow to steady him. A shudder jolted through him at her touch.

‘I think not,’ she said. ‘Wait, I will fetch you something to clear your head.’ She opened the door to the servants’ stairs and began to ascend.

Without really knowing what he was doing, Bartholomew followed. She glanced back, with an expression of mild surprise on her face which was quickly replaced by a half-smile. There was, if he was not mistaken, an invitation in that smile. He followed her to her room in the attic. She threw the dress she’d been carrying onto the narrow wooden bed, and began searching through a chest of medicine bottles which stood under the small window.

She chattered as she rooted through the box. ‘My mother is a herbalist. She taught me all the old remedies. And sir, believe me, they do work.’

At last she found the potion she’d been looking for and turned back to him.

‘Here. This will clear your mind a little, and stop your headache in the morning.’ As he took the bottle his fingers brushed hers, sending a sudden shock up his arm.

She was looking directly at him, that half-smile at the corners of her mouth, her eyes wide and bright. She felt it too, he was sure. She’d felt that jolt – she wanted him as much as he wanted her.

He put the bottle down on the wash-stand, and stepped forward. She didn’t move. He put a hand to her cheek, and brushed it gently with his thumb. She turned her face towards his hand, nuzzling against it, and took his thumb in her mouth. All the while her eyes were on his.

He could stand it no longer. He pulled her roughly towards him and covered her mouth with his, kissing her fast and furious. She kissed him back, and snaked her hands around his back, under his jacket. He could feel the thrilling warmth of them through his shirt. He kissed her face, her neck, her throat where the coarse wool of her dress met her soft, soap-scented skin. He was mad with desire for her and pushed her backwards, towards her bed. She lay down, crushing Georgia’s gown, and drew him down on top of her. He tugged up her skirts as she reached for his trouser fastenings, and a minute later he was inside her, grunting and panting, thinking of nothing but the moment they were in, and
her.

My dear Barty, it is at this point in my narrative that you will no doubt have begun to despise me. How could I, on the very day of proposing marriage to one woman, take another to bed? My defence, for what it’s worth, is merely that I was intoxicated by Agnes. When I was with her, with or without a gut full of brandy, I could not think clearly. I was at the mercy of my lustful feelings for her. She knew, I believe, that she had this hold over me. And she was as besotted by me at that time as I was by her, as she later confessed to me.

You might want, having read this far, to throw this manuscript down in disgust, and hear no more of your father’s indiscretions. But, my dear son, bear with me please, for you must know the truth. Steel yourself, Barty, for there is worse, far worse, to come. And some of it, I must write as though Agnes herself is telling the story. She was loyal to me, in those days, and told me everything, or at least, almost everything, that passed in private between her and Georgia.

Chapter Six: Hampshire, April 2013

The day we moved into Kingsley House was one of those bright blue April days, when the air is rich with birdsong, the sun shines with golden promise, and the hedgerows explode with blossom. The newly-unfurled leaves on the huge beech tree were an electric lime green, and the grass, in its first growth since the winter, rivalled them in intensity of colour. It almost made your eyes hurt to look out at the day.

The removal men whistled as they carried our furniture and cartons into the house. Lewis and Lauren were taking huge delight directing them – ‘Lounge!’ ‘My bedroom at the top!’ ‘Kitchen!’ – according to what was scrawled on the boxes in marker pen.

‘Can you put my curtains up, Mum?’ Lauren called down the stairs.

‘Dad, when are you going to plug in the telly?
Deadly Sixty
’s on, and I don’t want to miss it. They’re doing tarantulas this week.’ Lewis was apparently bored of directing removal men.

‘Katie, any sign of the box with the kettle in? I could so do with a cuppa,’ Simon said, as he staggered past me carrying two boxes at once.

‘Mind your back! Why are you shifting boxes anyway, aren’t we paying blokes to carry them in?’ I said.

‘These got put in the living room but they’re books, should be in the study,’ he said. ‘They’ll go on those big built-in shelves in there. Fabulous piece of carpentry, that. Wonder how old it is?’

I smiled. It was one of my favourite features in the house too. And if Simon was wondering about the age of it, it’d surely only be a matter of time before he started wondering about the people who used to live here…and then I’d be able to spend many happy hours filling him in. I still hadn’t mentioned the fact my ancestors had lived here.