She tried to dismiss the sensation as easily as Mamma always dismissed her.
Yet she could not. She never could. The gloom settled over her, stifling and painful, and all the memories of that night in the library resurfaced with horrifying vividness. The strange stillness. The bloodless skin. Papa’s horrifying shadow on the rug—
She shook her head against the thoughts. She must stop this at once. Perhaps if Agnes had not fallen ill today, her company might have been a distraction from the darkness. Would there ever come a day in Georgina’s life when the memories did not haunt her? Would she ever be free of their hold?
The carriage pulled to a stop, and after patting her curls in place, Georgina alighted from the vehicle. The visit with Mrs. Fancourt would doubtless dismiss this despondency, at least for today. After all, how could one look upon a soul so lamented as Mrs. Fancourt’s and not feel their own plight dim in comparison?
The woman had endured so much. After losing both sons, how could she bear to lose a husband too?
Mrs. Fancourt was as trapped in the darkness as Georgina.
“This is quite the surprise.”
Hand leaping to her heart, Georgina whirled to the voice on her left.
Alexander Oswald fell in step beside her, scented of strong coffee and faint vanilla. “In truth, my landau has been behind your carriage for the past fifteen minutes. Imagine my delight when you turned to Sowerby House, as well.”
She glanced behind them, where a stoic-faced driver readjusted the black hood. “I did not notice.” She lifted the hem of her white muslin dress as they reached the stairs. “Pray, what are you doing here?”
“I might ask the same of you.”
She waited until they had been shown into the house, attended by the butler, then led into the drawing room and seated before answering. “I visit Mrs. Fancourt most every week.”
Mr. Oswald scooted to the edge of his wingback chair. Amusement tugged one side of his lips. “Your mystery thickens.”
“There is very little mystery, I fear, in calling upon a bereaved widow.”
“That depends.”
“On?”
“Who the widow is, for example.” He glanced about the room. “And her relation, of course, to matters of the past.”
“I fear I do not understand.”
“I should think you would.”
She stared at him, intertwining her fingers, an itch of discomfort stirring the desire to squirm. What was he about?
Mr. Oswald laughed. “You wear your heart on your face, Miss Whitmore. An attractive attribute, although I could have determined your thoughts regardless.”
“You profess to read minds, sir?”
“Only those I find interesting.” He stood from his chair, pulled a cigar from his waistcoat pocket, and strode to the white-marble mantel. “Allow me to apologize. You must find me peculiar.” He lit the cigar. “I was referring, of course, to your former engagement to the youngest Fancourt son.”
Strange, how even the mention of Simon Fancourt could cause heat to suffuse her cheeks. She glanced the other direction, willed her cheeks to cool, lest the intuitive Mr. Oswald discover more than she wished unearthed. “That was many years ago. I was but a child.”
“Children, I have learned, are susceptible to the most passionate of emotions.”
The mahogany drawing room door swung open, and the butler reappeared with a slight bow. “Mrs. Fancourt shall see you in her chamber today, Miss Whitmore.”
She nodded and rose.
“Mr. Oswald, she most regrettably declines your visit, as she has not the strength to come down and see you. Perhaps another day.”
He smiled around the cigar between his lips. Was it her imagination, or did his eyes flicker with constrained frustration? Or was it more than that? Perhaps anger?
“Do offer my sincere condolences,” he said. “I am certain Mrs. Fancourt shall be much improved after such a lovely visitor.” He bowed to Georgina, smiled again, then quit the drawing room before he could be shown out.
