This was utter madness. People would murmur at her absence. Mamma would grow suspicious when her infrequent letters remained unanswered. Mr. Oswald would have yet another puzzlement to uncover, as if he hadn’t enough already.
But she would do it.
She could not stop herself any more than she could rid her mind of the name Simon Fancourt, or cease dreaming of him during the night, or erase summer carriage rides from her most treasured memories.
Hurrying into her town house, she handed her bonnet to the butler and headed for the stairs.
Nellie awaited her at the base, wringing her hands. “Oh, miss, you are home at last.”
“What is it?”
“Lady Gilchrist arrived not half an hour ago. She was most demanding. I did not wish to assist her, but she said such determined things and Miss Simpson—”
“Miss Simpson what?”
“She cried and cried and said she could not stay here a moment longer. Lady Gilchrist told her it was disgraceful…that her own cousin should not defend or believe her in such a predicament. She made me pack all her trunks and valises. She said poor Miss Simpson would live with her.”
A choking bitterness filled Georgina’s mouth. The taste of betrayal. Abandonment.
But she did not have time for that now.
“Hurry upstairs with me, Nellie. I too am going away for a while and shall need you to pack my valise.”
“Oh, miss, but—”
“No fuss now. We must make haste.” They ascended the stairs together, and while Nellie folded dresses and organized stays, Georgina tucked stockings and ribbons and her comb inside the valise. No sooner had she snapped the lid shut than Nellie squealed.
“Oh, miss, you cannot go yet. I nearly forgot.” She dug into her apron pocket and held out two letters. “Both came for you this morning.”
The first one bore a red seal she recognized.Mr. Oswald.She read through his letter quickly—apologies for not having called upon her of late, mild complaints of his sister’s latest antics, an assurance that he would be on her doorstep sooner rather than later.“For a quiet visit where we might do a little less fainting and shivering and a little more analysis on the secrets of the heart.”
She folded it back, half regretting that she would not be here when he came. She would have enjoyed having someone to talk to. Even if she could not tell him anything.
Peeling off the second seal, she ripped open the next letter and blinked. Two faded, yellow rose petals slipped to the rug. The script was heavy, ink-blotched.“Meet me at the graveyard tomorrow at the fall of the eve. I must confess.”
Anxiety swept through her, tainted with grief, with panic. She was right. He knew something. Perhaps haddonesomething. Was it truly possible Father had not hung himself that night? That someone else had entered their house and murdered him?
She needed those answers.
She needed to obey this letter and face the man who had haunted her these past weeks. Perhaps, if her suspicions were right, much longer than that.
“What is it, miss?”
“Nothing.” Georgina folded the letters and handed them back to Nellie, with regret gnawing numbness throughout her limbs. “If Mr. Oswald calls, tell him I have gone to visit my aunt and uncle in Winchester.”
“How long shall I tell him you shall be gone?”
“Tell him my stay is…indeterminable.” Georgina grabbed her valise from the bed, sparing little more than a longing glance at the letters peeking out of Nellie’s apron pocket.
She prayed to heaven the answers would still be waiting when she returned.
“Miss Whitmore, this is truly preposterous.” Mr. Wilkins spared another frantic glance about the empty anteroom, as if in fear someone would overhear. “I could never do something so drastic without first consulting Mrs. Fancourt.”
“I do not think that wise.”
“But—”
“If the children truly are in danger, the fewer who know of their whereabouts, the less chance they shall be found.”
