Читать книгу: «The Emerald Comb», страница 3

‘We’d only just started,’ I said. ‘But when the right house comes up straight away, well, you just have to go for it. We saw it yesterday, and have already agreed to buy it.’

‘Goodness, that was quick!’

‘They offered it to us at an amazing price,’ I said, grinning.

‘Well, that’s very exciting!’ said Mum. ‘Tell us about it, then, love. How many rooms does it have?’

‘Six bedrooms, two reception rooms, three if you count the study. And a large kitchen with separate utility room and pantry.’

‘Pantry!’

‘Well, a walk-in food cupboard, really.’

‘And what will you do with all those bedrooms?’

‘Convert one to an en-suite,’ said Simon, returning with a wooden spoon, painted with the number seventeen. ‘There’s only one bathroom and I think it definitely needs another.’

‘Nan, I’m having a room on the top floor,’ said Lauren, looking up from her game.

‘Lovely, dear!’

‘We’ll be able to have a proper guest room, Mum,’ I said. ‘So you can come to stay without being stuck on the living room floor.’

‘Christmas at yours next year, then?’ asked Mum.

That was a nice idea. ‘Why not?’

‘As it’s an old house, I guess there are proper fireplaces so Santa can come down the chimney instead of through the back door?’ Dad winked at me over Thomas’s head.

‘I saw Santa,’ said Thomas. ‘On a bicycle.’

‘That was just someone dressed up,’ said Lewis. ‘Not the real one.’

Thomas’s lip quivered and I frowned at Lewis to shut him up. Mum put her arm around Thomas. ‘I’ll take you to see the real Santa,’ she said. ‘He’s going to be at the shopping centre next week. He might give you a present, if you’re good.’ She looked at me. ‘I can’t wait to see the house. When will you move in?’

‘When we’ve sold our place,’ Simon said. ‘We’ve not even put it on the market yet. With the way the market is at the moment it might take ages to sell.’

Trust Simon to put a dampener on things. I hadn’t really given much thought to selling our current house. But of course he was right. I shouldn’t get too excited about moving to North Kingsley. What if we couldn’t sell our place, and meanwhile the Delameres got fed up of waiting and sold to someone else?

I must have looked worried, because Dad reached over and patted my hand. Simon picked up his pint.

‘Don’t fret, Katie,’ he said. ‘Since the Delameres have agreed such a good price for their house, we can price ours to sell quickly. They’re moving into an empty retirement flat. We could be in by Easter, with a following wind. As long as the survey’s OK. We’ll have to think hard if it turns out to be riddled with dry rot or rising damp.’

I didn’t listen to that last bit about surveys. Simon wasn’t going to spoil it for me. I was too busy considering the totally gorgeous idea of moving in spring. Simon, Mum and Dad began a discussion on house prices while I allowed my mind to wander, imagining the fields around North Kingsley bright with the fresh green growth of a new season, the hedgerows laden with elderflower and hawthorn blossom, cute rabbits hopping along the verges, swallows dipping and diving overhead. The kids would be out in the woods, exploring the countryside, learning the names of wild flowers and birds. We’d get a dog – with such wonderful country walks all around it’d be a crime not to. I’d plant up the garden with hollyhocks and lupins, and Simon would make the kids a tree house in the branches of the beech. And of course, I’d be living in the very rooms where Georgia and Bartholomew once lived.

It would all be so perfect.

‘Katie, how’s the old family tree research coming on?’ Dad’s voice broke into my thoughts. He’s the one person in my family who is truly interested in my genealogical research. I guess because he’s a St Clair too. But now wasn’t a great time to discuss it.

‘Um, I haven’t spent too much time on it lately …’

‘Like hell you haven’t,’ said Simon. ‘You’ve barely done anything else. Didn’t you go taking photos of some old house to do with your ancestors a few weeks ago?’

‘Oh, really?’ said Dad. ‘Fascinating! You must show me them. Where was the house?’

Trust Simon to remember that now. I felt myself blush. I hated keeping secrets from him but I wouldn’t put it past him to pull out of the house purchase if he thought I was only interested in it because of its connection to my family. I had to wait until the deal was secure before telling him.

‘Oh, er, it’s not far. Twenty, thirty miles away, something like that. I’m still researching other St Clair facts, too. Like where they’re all buried. I want to find their gravestones, and get some photos of those, too.’

‘So have you drawn up the family tree yet? I’d love to see it,’ said Dad.

‘It’s all on Ancestry.’ For once, I was desperate to steer the conversation away from genealogy.

‘Email me the link, will you? I’ll have a look at it this week, see if I can find any more details for you. I wouldn’t mind getting involved in all this research now I’m retired.’

I smiled and nodded. I’d have to forget to send him it. Otherwise he might follow up links and find Kingsley House, and recognise it from the estate agent details Simon had shown him. That would be awkward, to say the least.

Chapter 5
Brighton, April 1838

For the thousandth time, Bartholomew patted the pocket in which he’d stowed the trinket, to make sure it was safely tucked away. It wasn’t the first gift he’d given Georgia, but it was by far the most expensive. A silver hair comb, set with emeralds along its spine. He’d had it made in London by a Bond Street jeweller, and hoped she would love it. As the stagecoach rumbled southwards along the bumpy Brighton road, Bartholomew was glad he would be able to deliver this gift in person, rather than send it as he’d done with the last few presents.

It had been a few weeks since he’d last been in Brighton. Trouble with his investments had called him to his Mayfair townhouse, and it had taken him longer than expected to get everything back on track. His agent, Collins, should be able to take care of business from here on, freeing Bartholomew to live the idle life of a gentleman, as was his right. More than ever, he needed capital, and that could only come from marrying someone with money. Like Georgia Holland. There were rumours of a substantial inheritance, currently in trust for her but which would pass to her husband on the occasion of her marriage. She was pretty and charming, if a little immature, and could be a good choice of wife. He had not renewed the lease on his Brighton lodgings – Charles Holland had invited him to stay in the Brunswick Terrace house.

Well, he’d see the pretty little Georgia soon enough, and would ask for her hand at the earliest opportunity. If he played his cards right, he could be out of debt within a few months. And, of course, there was the added attraction of Georgia’s alluring lady’s maid. He felt a twinge of excitement at the thought of seeing her again.

The countryside passed by in a rush of bright new foliage, sweet white blossom, rich earthy scents of newly ploughed and planted fields. The spring sunshine cast a glow of hope for the future over everything. Bartholomew smiled. There was a world of possibilities ahead of him.

When he arrived at Brunswick Terrace, the door was opened by the footman, Peters. ‘Welcome, sir. The master is awaiting you in the drawing room. I shall take your luggage up to your room.’

‘Thank you.’ As he gave his hat and travelling cloak to Peters, Bartholomew noticed the maid, Agnes, on the turn of the stairs. He caught her eye, and raised one eyebrow. In return, she gave an almost imperceptible nod of her head, sending a thrill rushing through him. What did she mean by that nod? Could it be – an invitation?

‘Miss Georgia said to inform you she is indisposed,’ said Peters. ‘I believe her maid is attending to her now.’ He held the drawing-room door open.

Bartholomew was still gazing after Agnes. That woman had the most regal bearing of any woman, high- or low-born, he’d ever seen. She was slight but carried herself tall, graceful as a swan. She looked back at him once, a half-smile on her face, as though she was as pleased to see him as he was to see her.

He entered the drawing room, where a log fire was blazing in the grate, even though the day was warm and sunny. Charles Holland was sitting in an armchair near the fire, his back to the window. He had a brandy glass in his hand, and as Bartholomew approached he gulped it back and motioned for Peters to pour another.

‘Welcome, welcome, St Clair,’ he said, waving at Bartholomew to sit opposite him.

Pulling the chair a little away from the fire, Bartholomew sat down, but declined the brandy offered to him by Peters. He’d have welcomed its warming glow, but one brandy often led to another, and another. It was early yet, and he wanted to keep his wits about him during this interview with Georgia’s uncle.

‘I thank you for your hospitality, sir,’ he said. ‘It is most kind of you to offer me room in your house.’

Holland snorted. ‘You’re here because I assume you are going to propose to my niece, sooner or later. I thought if you were here under her nose for a few weeks it might hurry things along. She’s got money, you know. Plenty of it. In trust now, but goes to whichever poor blighter marries her.’

Bartholomew blinked. ‘Sir, I am not after her money, please don’t think that …’

‘Hmph. Most of ’em are. Granted, she’s a pretty enough little thing but there’s too little flesh on her for some men’s liking, and she can be far too spirited. You’ll need to tame her, somewhat. You ready for that, man?’

‘I like her spirit,’ Bartholomew said, remembering the night they’d met, when she’d walked in the snow in dancing slippers, and made him carry her.

‘So did a young chap she met last week,’ said Holland. ‘Son of a wine merchant, I believe, name of Perry. He’s called here every day. She’s having her portrait painted, and the poor sop waited mutely for hours while she sat for the artist. If you want my niece – and Lord knows you’re welcome to her, I make no secret of the fact I want her off my hands – you’ll need to act quickly. I’ll give my blessing. Frankly I think an older, settled chap like yourself will be better for her than a love-struck pup like Perry.’ He gulped back his brandy and reached for the decanter to pour another. ‘Sure you won’t join me?’

‘Perhaps just a small one.’

Holland poured a generous measure into a large brandy glass and handed it to him. ‘So, St Clair, as Georgia’s official guardian I should ask you about your property and income and such like. Don’t give a damn, myself, but it’s the done thing as I understand it, and sooner or later some busybody’s bound to ask about my niece’s fiancé. So I’d best have the detail, man.’

Bartholomew cleared his throat. He’d been expecting this question, but not quite in this form. ‘Well, sir, I am comfortably off. I have a townhouse in Mayfair which is my usual residence when in town, and two other properties near the Regent’s Park, which are let out. I expect to inherit a small country estate in Hampshire from my father in time, but I may not keep that for long.’ Best not to mention that all the London properties were mortgaged to the hilt, and he was barely able to keep up the repayments.

‘Hampshire? Nice county. Know it well, from my youth. Where’s your father’s place, exactly?’

‘North Kingsley, on the London road out of Winchester. The house is called Kingsley House.’

Holland snorted. ‘Never heard of it.’

The captain’s dismissal made Bartholomew feel defensive about his childhood home. ‘It’s not large, but is comfortable, and very pleasantly situated. Any woman would be happy living there.’ He swallowed his brandy, and set the glass on a small table beside his chair.

Holland immediately reached for it and poured him another. ‘How long till you inherit?’

Bartholomew blinked. The directness of the man! ‘Sir, my father is old and frail. Only the Lord above knows how much longer he will live, but I would not expect it to be more than a couple of years.’

‘Until then, what’s your income?’

‘I have upwards of £800 a year from my investments. Your niece, should she accept me, will want for nothing.’ At least, he had been generating £800 a year from his investments, up until losing thousands when an East Indiaman had sunk off the Cape. Bartholomew drank again from his brandy glass.

‘Well, that’s settled then. I’ll ring for her to join us.’ Holland heaved himself out of his chair and pulled on a bell-cord which hung beside the fireplace.

Bartholomew frowned. ‘I believe your footman said she was indisposed?’

‘Indisposed, my foot. She was dancing late at the Assembly Rooms last night with young Perry, and gave herself a headache. Fetch my niece,’ he said to Peters, who responded with a small bow. ‘Tell her she has an important visitor and I want her downstairs at once.’

Peters left the room. Holland nodded at Bartholomew’s glass, and raised his eyebrow. Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, thought Bartholomew, as he held out his glass for yet another refill. It was indeed a fine brandy.

A moment later there was a tap at the door. Bartholomew stood, straightened his collar and arranged a smile on his face to greet Georgia.

But when Holland called ‘Come!’ and the door was pushed open, it was Agnes, the maid, who stepped quietly into the room, her attitude deferential but at the same time, her head held high and confident.

‘Beg pardon, sir, but Miss Georgia is not well. She asks your forgiveness, and sends her apologies to Mr St Clair, but fears she cannot be in company for today.’ She gave a pretty curtsey, then turned to Bartholomew. ‘If it please you, sir, she says she would like to meet you after breakfast tomorrow, and if the weather be fine, perhaps take a stroll along the beach.’

She nodded, curtsied once more, and left the room, not waiting for an answer.

Bartholomew smiled. A fine woman, and one who, if he played his cards right, would soon be a part of his household.

‘Thought you’d be upset, man,’ said Holland. ‘Travelling all this way to see my niece, only for her to stay abed. Well, plenty more days I suppose. You need to supplant that young Perry in her affections. Give her some jewellery – the ladies always like that kind of thing.’

‘I am indeed sorry I cannot renew my acquaintance with Miss Holland this evening,’ said Bartholomew, sounding formal even to his own ears, as he struggled to compose himself. Why did that maid have such an effect on him every time he caught a glimpse of her? He’d barely said two words to the woman since he’d met her, but something about her made his pulse race. And if he was not mistaken, she was also attracted to him.

‘Well then, if my niece is not to join us for dinner, we may as well have another brandy. Hand me your glass, man, I’ll top it up.’

The following morning, it was a bleary-eyed Bartholomew who made his way down to the breakfast room. Thankfully the room was empty when he arrived. Peters informed him that Holland would not rise until eleven, and Georgia usually had breakfast brought up to her in her room. Bartholomew sat down to a plate of cold meat and cheese, and worked his way through a whole jug of coffee. When it was finished, he felt a little more ready to face the day. He resolved to be more careful the next time he was in company with Holland and the brandy decanter.

He had not yet seen Agnes, the maid, that morning, but his night had been disturbed by vivid dreams of her. He tried to bring his thoughts back to Georgia – it was she he was here to court – but it was Agnes’s face he saw in his mind’s eye, Agnes’s voice he heard, Agnes’s hands he imagined caressing him.

He shook his head. He had to pull himself together. Agnes was a maid, too lowly for him to consider as a wife. He needed a woman with status, and definitely one with money. He had to focus on Georgia. The two women were superficially alike – both were blonde with green eyes, slight figures and clear complexions – but Agnes had sharper features and a more knowing, worldly manner, whereas Georgia’s face was round and plump, and her attitude more like that of an overgrown child.

The sound of light footsteps on the stairs pulled him out of his reverie. He glanced out of the window; it was indeed a fine day. The breakfast room was at the front of the house, and there was a fine view across the promenade to the beach. High white clouds scudded across a brilliant blue sky, and the wind was whipping the sea into a frenzy of white water. He looked forward to a walk with Georgia. The fresh air would clear his head for certain.

He folded the newspaper he’d been reading, and went out to the hallway. The sun shining through the half-moon-shaped fanlight above the door made a dancing pattern on the tiles. Georgia was standing by the bottom of the stairs, one hand on the newel post, the other clutching a bonnet. She was wearing a pale-green silk dress, trimmed with brown lace, and with her golden hair shining in the sunlight she looked like spring embodied. Without a doubt she was a pretty young thing.

‘Good morning!’ he said, giving a small bow. ‘I was sorry not to have the pleasure of your company last night, but your uncle made me most welcome. I trust you are fully recovered today?’

She smiled, her cheeks dimpling prettily. ‘Yes, I am perfectly well, thank you. And ready for some exercise, if you would care to walk with me?’

‘I can think of nothing I would like more. It is windy out – you will require a shawl, I think.’

‘I shall ask Agnes to fetch me one,’ she said, and she pulled the servants’ bell-cord.

Bartholomew felt the now-familiar surge in his chest at the thought of another glimpse of Agnes. But it was Peters who answered the bell, and was sent upstairs to fetch the shawl.

The wind was indeed strong, and Georgia slipped her small, gloved hand through his arm to steady herself as they walked eastwards along the promenade, with the wind at their backs. They nodded at other walkers. They must make a handsome couple, he supposed – Georgia with her blonde daintiness and tiny waist, he with his upright bearing, fine shoulders and bushy side-whiskers.

After a while, they approached the busy part of town, in front of the Regent’s Pavilion and the bottom end of the Old Steine gardens. Georgia proposed that they went onto the beach to walk back. It was rough going over the pebbles, and the wind sent a fine spray from the sea into their faces, but it was invigorating.

‘Marvellous place to live,’ Bartholomew said. ‘With this on your doorstep and the Assembly Rooms for entertainment, you have everything you could want.’

‘I suppose so,’ Georgia replied. ‘Though I confess I preferred living in the country. I only moved to Brighton after my father died, when Uncle Charles took me in.’

‘And how would you feel about living in London?’ he asked. If he married her, that would be where they would live, for that was where most of his property and business interests were.

She shuddered. ‘I should think it would be too big and brash for me. All those people, and so little space. At my father’s house in Lincolnshire I would go for long walks across the fields, seeing no one except a few farm labourers. It was blissful.’

He smiled. ‘I had you down as a party girl – I thought you enjoyed the excitement and glamour of the Assembly Rooms. You were there last night, were you not?’

‘My uncle insists I go to every ball. I missed having a proper coming-out in London, as I was in mourning. But he is desperate to find me a husband. Oh!’ She put her hand to her mouth. ‘I should not be saying this to you. But I have always found you so easy to talk to.’

‘I am happy to listen, my dear Miss Holland.’

‘Oh, call me Georgia, do! You know, I quite think of you as another uncle – no, as a favourite uncle. Do you mind?’

He did mind; a favoured uncle was hardly the kind of man she would want to marry. But he laughed and shook his head. ‘Not at all, Georgia.’

‘Good!’ She stopped walking and turned to face him. ‘May I ask your advice about something, please? It is perhaps a little personal, but it is the kind of thing a girl would talk to her favourite uncle about …’ She lifted her eyes to his.

He raised his eyebrows questioningly. Perhaps if he gained her confidences, he would then be able to gain her affections.

‘It is about my marriage prospects,’ she said, blushing. ‘I – I think that I have some money held in trust, from the sale of my father’s property, and that when I marry my husband would be in control of that money. But I confess I have no idea how much it is. Am I rich, Mr St Clair? Am I a good marriage prospect for some eligible young bachelor? Oh, forgive me if I embarrass you with such talk!’

‘If I am to call you Georgia, you must call me Bartholomew. And no, you do not embarrass me. But I cannot answer you. I am afraid you must discuss this matter with your real uncle who is, I believe, a trustee of your estate as well as being your guardian. You are right: you should know what you are worth. Some men might court you only for your wealth, and not for yourself.’ He coughed.

‘But surely not Mr Perry,’ she said, blushing and turning away.

Bartholomew straightened his shoulders. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not acquainted with the gentleman of whom you speak.’

Georgia turned towards the sea and gazed at the horizon. ‘I have met him several times at the Assembly Rooms. He has called on me a few times in the afternoons. I believe he may propose to me.’

‘And will you accept?’

‘Oh, Bartholomew, I do not know! Do you think I should?’

‘Is he rich?’

‘He works for his father who is a wine merchant. I believe he owns a small house in Kemptown. But doesn’t love matter more than wealth?’

‘Do you love him?’

‘Yes, I think I do …’

Bartholomew thought hard. He needed to turn Georgia away from this Perry fellow, without also turning her away from him. He’d won her trust, and surely that went a long way as a foundation for a good marriage? Besides, he needed her inheritance. He needed to switch on his charm.

He stepped towards her and took her hands. ‘Georgia, my dear, although it sounds harsh, I do not think you should marry for love. You need to think of your future comfort. Think of the children you will have, and the kind of life you would like them to lead. If you marry this man Perry, you might have a couple of happy years to begin with, but then the realities of lower-middle-class life would kick in. Could you really live in a small Kemptown house, having been used to your uncle’s substantial property? You would only be able to afford a minimum of servants – a cook perhaps, and a maid-of-all-work. You are used to having your own lady’s maid, and a very fine maid she is.’ He cleared his throat. ‘My advice, which you may not want to hear, is to be practical when it comes to marriage. Accept the best proposal you can get, from the richest man, who will be able to keep you in a manner which befits your class. Put thoughts of romantic love aside. As long as you respect and trust the man, and don’t find him wholly repulsive, you will be able to love him in time. Love grows, my dear. The enduring type rarely arrives fully formed.’

Georgia had kept her gaze fixed on the horizon for the first part of this speech, but now she looked deep into his eyes. ‘But where will I find such a man? No one else has made me a proposal, or indeed, shown any interest in me. And I know I am a burden to my uncle; the sooner I marry and move out of his house, the better, as far as he is concerned.’ She brushed away a tear. ‘Forgive me. If only my father were still alive, he would know what to do. I miss him so much.’

Bartholomew pulled out his silk handkerchief and gave it to her. ‘It is barely a year since he died, isn’t it? Of course you miss him still.’

He realised there was a chance for him here, if he played the game right. He watched as she dabbed at her tears with the handkerchief. ‘I think I know what your father might have advised,’ he said, gently.

She looked up at him in surprise. ‘Please, tell me.’

‘Marry a man you like and trust, and who can provide a secure future for you. Someone who is already established in life, perhaps a little older than yourself. Someone of whom your uncle approves. Someone … well, someone like me.’

He watched as her eyes widened, and a smile began to play at the corners of her mouth. ‘Do you mean to say …’

‘I do mean to say … I mean, Georgia, I would consider it an honour if you would agree to be my wife.’ Well, the words were out, the deed was done. If she said yes, there was no going back.

Her smile widened, and she raised an eyebrow. ‘Bartholomew, I did not suspect you cared for me in that way! I am flattered, honoured, and, well … I suppose you want an answer …’ She turned away, gazing out to sea as though the answer would be brought to her on the crest of a wave.

‘You do not need to answer immediately, my dear. Take time to think about it, if you need to.’

She nodded, then turned back to him with a flirtatious smile. ‘You carried me once, along the promenade in the snow. That was fun. I cannot quite imagine Mr Perry doing such a thing.’

‘And is that the kind of behaviour you would like in a husband?’

‘I believe it is required behaviour in a husband.’ She held out her hand. He took it and kissed her fingers.

‘In that case,’ he said, hoisting her up into his arms as she squealed and giggled, ‘I shall demonstrate my suitability as a husband, and shall carry you down the beach.’

‘Not into the sea!’

‘What is your answer?’ He took another few steps towards the waves.

She squealed again. ‘You said I could take time to think about it!’

‘You may think about it – in the sea!’ The waves were now lapping at his boots.

‘But my feet will get cold and wet!’

‘That did not bother you at New Year. Do you say yes?’

He made as if to drop her. She clung tightly to his neck, and, laughing, gasped out a yes.

His debts would be paid, his future secure. How easy it had been to influence her! She would make him a perfect wife. He held her more firmly, and bent his head to seal their agreement with a kiss.

‘Mr St Clair, Miss Georgia, is everything all right? Has something happened? Do you need any help?’

It was Agnes, clutching a shopping basket, her eyes wide with concern. Where had she appeared from? Had she followed them? How much had she overheard? Bartholomew stepped back from the water’s edge, and placed Georgia carefully on the bank of pebbles above the water line. He coughed, embarrassed.

‘Oh, Agnes, I am perfectly all right. You gave me quite a surprise, appearing like that. You mustn’t mind our larking about. I am so excited – I am engaged to be married to Mr St Clair!’ Bartholomew felt momentarily embarrassed by the way Georgia had blurted out their news, like an overexcited child.

‘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.