Tom nodded. “Nearly five months ago. She had been out riding and stopped to water her horse. She doesn’t remember everything, which is probably a blessing. A man she didn’t recognize passed her, greeting politely, but then doubled back, taking her unawares. He covered her eyes with something, but she remembers a red coat, she is definite about that. When her horse wandered home alone, I went out and found her.”
Tom looked frayed, recalling the details. “It was very bad what he did to her. Vile, cruel…very bad…” Tom sat down wearily. “She must have fought with all of her strength because he beat her brutally before doing his worst. I hardly recognized it was her when I saw what he—”
“Stop! I don’t—I don’t want to hear any more!” Jeremy dropped his face into his hands and scrubbed back and forth. It hurts to know! I cannot bear to hear it!
His mind reeled wildly at the images which came to him anyway. Georgina fighting and losing, her hurt and terrified— “Wait! Who did it to her? Tell me you caught the piece of shit that hurt her.”
Tom shook his head. “We tried but turned up nothing. We thought the red coat might indicate a possible regimental on leave or deserting, but we never got even a hint of a trail on the bastard. All investigating had to be done furtively for Pater is determined to keep her attack a secret. He is petrified of bringing a stain to our family name. ’Tis why he wants her married and gone from here. Pater thinks he is protecting her—that a respectable husband and her own children will cover up what’s happened to her. No one knows but you, Greymont.”
“I think Pellton knows.”
“No.” Tom was adamant. “He can’t possibly. He is only here because he needs a young bride for want of an heir, like you. Father’s known Pellton for ages and thinks my sister is out of her mind to turn him down—and the title of baroness as well. Georgie won’t have him though, which is good for I don’t think he’d treat her well.” Tom looked reflective. “I thought for sure she’d accept you though. She likes you. I know she does! She’s always spoken of you admiringly over the years, Greymont, you know?”
“I did not know, and I am very sorry for all she has borne. She deserves much better.” A better man than I.
Tom spoke hopefully. “May I see if I can change her mind about accepting you? I can go to her right now and make her understand how marrying you would be—”
Jeremy stopped him, holding up a palm. “I cannot marry her now, Russell. Surely you can see that.”
“I understand,” Tom said, sadly. “You want a virtuous bride.”
Jeremy looked to his friend unbelievingly. “That’s not why, you idiot.”
“Well, what then?”
“Are you that stupid and insensitive, Russell? Your father certainly is! Trying to give her to a man that will mistreat her, especially since she has been brutalized and cannot bear the touch of a man, by her own word!”
Tom still looked confused, and Jeremy wanted to hit him again.
“My purpose in marrying is to get an heir, remember? Your sister refused me, saying she cannot fulfill the duties of the marriage bed. She was very clear. She told me she cannot do a wife’s duty. Now, if she cannot do that, then there will be no child! Is that clear enough, you witless dolt?”
“Yes,” Tom replied, chastened. “I recognize your position, and I apologize for leading you here. It was wrong of me. You were my one good hope for her, Greymont, and I thought you might—” He stopped himself, offering his hand. “Sorry for everything, my friend.”
Chapter Ten
I do not know how elastic my spirit might be, what
pleasure I might have in living here…if the remembrance
of you did not weigh so upon me.
—John Keats, “Letter to Fanny Brawne” (1819)
“Sir?”
Jeremy looked up at the concerned face of his man of business, mind completely blank, realizing he hadn’t been listening to a word, but could hardly feel embarrassed by his breach of manners, for he’d been doing it a lot lately. “Paulson?”
“Yes, well, I was just reminding you of my absence commencing tomorrow,” the man said haltingly.
“Absence?”
“Yes, sir. The appointment for Mrs. Paulson with the specialist doctors. I am to take her to them tomorrow.”
Remembrance nicked the skin of self-preoccupation, flooding Jeremy with shame. The cast of Paulson’s eyes carried the burden of worry. “Oh, yes, of course, Paulson. I do remember you told me. Please. Off you go.” Jeremy swept his hand in a motion.
Paulson looked solemnly back, saying nothing, but no doubt assessing everything. Jeremy hadn’t quite been himself lately, and Paulson was no dolt, even if he was far too polite to ask why his employer had become a brooding wretch.
The man was hardworking and clever—phenomenal with the ledger books. Jeremy couldn’t imagine where his business would be without Paulson running the day-to-day of things at the London office. The man was carrying a heavy load, both with his employment and his personal life. Paulson had a lovely, but sadly, ill wife, an asthmatic, at the mercy of her lungs’ poor condition, and from all indications, worsening.