Georgina frowned as she followed the butler through the house, up the stairs, and through the east wing. What matters could possibly draw young Alexander Oswald to the quiet, sad splendor of Sowerby House?
She knew the rumors well enough.
He ignited romances with the same ease and disinterest as most men kindled their pipes. He was wealthy enough to make friends of all his acquaintances, yet distant enough that no one knew whether to trust his charm or heed his aura of wickedness.
He was driven. Intelligent. He possessed all the attributes of a reckless dandy, yet the determination and concentration of a somber-faced man of Parliament. What was she to think of his interest here?
Another thought struck her, more sobering. What was she to think of his interest inher?
“In here, Miss Whitmore.” The butler held open the door, and all puzzlements of Mr. Oswald were forced back as she entered the chamber.
Light streamed in through the sheer, lilac-and-blue curtains. The air smelled of sandalwood and linseed oil, an aroma as clean and pleasing as the woman sitting up in her four-poster bed. “My dear, I am so glad you have come. Do sit next to me.”
Smiling, Georgina pulled a chair next to the bed and sat. She reached across the soft coverlet and grasped the fifty-some-year-old woman’s veiny hand. “How are you, darling?”
“Not so terrible as before, I dare to say. I spent the morning on the pianoforte, but without the ability to read my sheets, I cannot seem to…” The sentence trailed into a sigh. Her skin was alabaster and smooth, her hair the same soft brown as Simon’s had always been, and her cheeks the same touch of pink as before the accident.
Only her eyes were different.
They stared without seeing across the chamber, pale and lifeless, echoing all the torments of things forever lost.
Georgina squeezed with gentleness. “Never mind that. You shall remember the notes soon, I am certain.”
“Will I?”
“Of course you shall.”
“Is it not puzzling how one can wish to remember some things, and wish so much to forget others?” Mrs. Fancourt blinked hard. Her smile trembled. “I still fathom I hear Geoffrey’s voice every morning when I awake. But then I reach for him…and he is not there. That is when I hear him scream.”
“You must not think of the accident. It was too terrible.”
“You are a dear girl.” Mrs. Fancourt patted Georgina’s hand. “Our Simon was a fool not to wed you.”
There it was again. His name. Why could she not escape the dreaded sound? Why would no one allow her to forget? Or did she not allow herself?
Drawing back from the touch, Georgina leaned back in her chair, the sunlight from the windows tingling her skin. “Mrs. Fancourt, may I ask you something?”
“You may ask me anything. You know that.”
“Are you so greatly acquainted with Alexander Oswald?”
“Oh, dear me.” A sweet chuckle. “What a question. No, indeed. Although I knew his parents and attended a few dinner parties at Hollyvale Estate, I cannot own to knowing any of the children at all.”
“Then why should Mr. Oswald call upon you?”
“He is an ambitious boy.”
“But what could he—”
“Oh, never mind, my dear. Do not worry over such a trifle matter. In all truth, I do not wish to discuss it anyway. I fear I am much too fatigued.”
“I am sorry.” Georgina stood, bent over the older woman, and kissed her forehead. “I shall leave you to your rest then. I only wanted to see how you fared.”
“God bless you for your kindness.”
When she reached the doorway, Georgina pulled at the crystal knob, but Mrs. Fancourt called her name. Georgina glanced back. “Yes?”
The blinded eyes moistened, then tears hung on her lashes. “I do wish things had been different. How wonderful it might have been to have you for a daughter.”
