Page 26

Later that day, Elfreda found herself wandering between the standing stones in the garden. She’d slipped off her shoes and stockings, and the grass alternately warmed and cooled her bare feet as she crossed through the shadows cast by the stones. Around and around.

She would listen to Mrs. Alderwalsey. She would write to Aunt Susan.

Tell her she knew what her husband had offered, how Papa had responded.

Thank her. Swallow her pride and admit that Agnes was lonely and languishing.

That Hilda and Matilda had journeyed fifty miles in a trunk .

That Papa had paid the fare for a stagecoach and left them with buttons to get the rest of the way home.

That her hair was straight as a pin, and the house was a shambles, and she didn’t know how to go on.

But what then? Aunt Susan couldn’t take in her sisters, not if Papa didn’t relent. And she couldn’t fix the situation with curling tongs and castor oil. It was beyond repair.

Around and around.

No, she wouldn’t write to Aunt Susan. She would write to Papa at the inn.

Let him know they’d arrived home safely.

She would write to William Aubin-Aubrey as well.

About her work on Two Dissertations , about the bluff, the camp, all of it.

He’d show Papa, though, wouldn’t he? And Papa would feel betrayed—rightly so.

He supported her, and it was wrong to circumvent him.

But didn’t he limit her as well? What if it wasn’t her sex, her emotions, but him allowing her to go so far, and no farther?

Around and around.

When she heard footsteps approaching, she didn’t pause, didn’t look toward the sound.

“Hwat?” she demanded, exploding the initial h , like Papa, a warning. If her sisters could refrain from disturbing her for another quarter hour, the night would go better for everyone.

“I hoped we could talk.”

She stopped short and looked. Georgie was coming toward her. They were first in shadow, then in the slanting light.

They’d donned a gown of spotted muslin, a tribute, perhaps, to Mrs. Alderwalsey, sky blue, trimmed with black ribbon to match the black dots. Their hair was burnished by the setting sun. They caught her eye and smiled. The smile caught her heart.

She was glad the shadow hid her expression. “I thought you’d be on your way to Gretna Green by now.”

Back on the lane, they’d scrambled into the carriage, exclaiming in shock at the sudden proposal, calling Mr. Hawthorne a rattle, a cad, and a libertine.

As acting went, it had seemed fairly good.

But then again, it had seemed like acting, which defeated the purpose. She hadn’t believed them for a second.

“That was Lord Phillip,” she said. “Your betrothed.”

“How did—” they began, then laughed, and shook their head. “Anne. Anne told you. Yes, Lord Phillip. Phipps. But he’s not my betrothed.”

“He was, though. And he wants to be again. And you want to return to London. So…” She trailed off with a vague gesture in the direction of Scotland.

“There are a few more elements weighing in the balance.” Georgie was studying her now, with an uncomposed look on their face that seemed very much not like acting. “Did you really think I’d leave without saying goodbye?”

She’d been trying not to think of it. “Is that what this is? You’re saying goodbye?”

“No.” They joined her in the shadow. “I do want to go, but not with Phipps, not like that.”

They wanted to go. They were going. It was important to keep it front of mind.

And difficult when they were in front of her, smiling that Sphinx-like smile, as though they were the keeper of some marvelous secret.

She used to feel excluded by that smile.

Now she was inside it, or the smile was inside her. She was sharing its conspiracy.

They’d taken her hand. “I have other ideas.”

“Like what?”

The wind blew, flattening their hair on their brow, and they shivered. The sun was sinking, and the shadow anticipated the evening’s chill, but their hand felt warm. It wasn’t the cold that made them quake.

“Shall we leave the stones?” They glanced about, fingers tightening on hers. “This is the site, isn’t it? Where your grandfather burned the wicker man.”

Her turn to laugh. “You’re frightened.”

“So what if I am?” They frowned at her. “Who wouldn’t be?”

“Despite rumors to the contrary, I can assure you that my family doesn’t practice human sacrifice.”

“You’re barefoot.” They were staring at her feet, white and stark in the dim grass. “Like a druid priestess.”

“Indeed.” She curled her toes. “And behind my back I hold a ceremonial dagger.”

“You don’t.” Georgie’s eyes widened. She’d folded her arm, hidden her free hand behind her. “Let me see.”

She bent backward as they tried to reach for it.

“Sacrificed by a druid priestess,” they muttered, tugging her forward. “What did I do to deserve such a fate?”

“Everything.” She was giggling now, which made her easier to subdue. They had her pinned against them in an instant, and it took only an instant longer for them to wrench her arm around.

“No dagger,” they confirmed. They were gripping both her wrists, grinning down at her, eyes darkened by the shadow of the stone.

“The wicker man was filled with straw.” Her pulse was thundering, beating in her wrists, under their thumbs. “But I’ve looked at Grandpapa’s sketches. It was enormous. People saw it burning from Thornton. I understand how they might have jumped to conclusions.”

“Mm,” said Georgie, amusement in their voice. “As far as outlandish rumors go, it has a surprisingly solid basis in reality.”

“And the ones about you?” Her breath hitched. A broken engagement. A duel. A curricle crash.

“Also.” They nodded and released her.

She walked out of the circle of stones, as they’d suggested, but mostly to clear her own head, to exist again in ordinary daylight.

The unkempt lawn prickled the soles of her feet.

She sat on the nearest bench and gazed over the grounds.

When Grandmama was still alive, before the gardener was sacked, the garden hadn’t been smothered with weeds and vines.

Now the fountains were dry, the camellia walk impassable.

The statues had been swallowed whole by the shrubberies.

Stray tulips provided pops of color here and there, but green and brown predominated.

The wind made a whisking, rattling sound as dried stalks and pods rubbed together.

Georgie sat beside her for a time in silence. Finally, they spoke, quiet as a sigh. “ Within my depths, the shadows play. ”

It turned her toward them. She’d lain awake last night with the riddle running through her head. She supplied the second line. “ And yet there is light at my mouth and water that brings life. ”

They smiled. “I know the answer.”

“I doubt it.” The words slipped out.

Their smile became a laugh. “Of course you do.”

She rolled her eyes, a warm glow in her chest.

Strange thought: Georgina Redmayne was poking fun at her, at both of them, and she liked it.

“Go on,” she said. “I have a guess of my own, but I want to hear yours. What’s the answer?”

“I can’t tell you. Not until I know we’re looking together.”

“I don’t know that we are looking together.”

“You’d rather we compete?”

“You would look for it, without me.” Her throat tightened. “A hoard you learned about from my grandmother’s papers.”

They put up their palms. “I’d tell you if I found it. I’m not trying to run away with all your gold, or even a fraction of your glory.”

Yes, she remembered clearly. “You want a chalice or two. A handful of coins. To sell.”

“Exactly.”

“No.” She shook her head. “We’re not talking about robbing a stagecoach. We’re talking about delving into the past. The hoard’s value is the story it tells, not what it can buy.”

“And you’ll tell its story.” Georgie sounded certain, so certain her heart gave a leap. “I won’t get in the way of that. But you can’t control what happens to the objects. You said yourself they’ll all go to the Crown in the end. Well, minus the odd chalice.”

She swallowed. The hoard would draw antiquaries from every corner of Britain. And she would tell its story. She’d write a book of her own, and include Grandmama’s notes. As a Fellow of the Albion Society, she’d request patronage to dig next in Orkney, where Papa had never taken her.

“You doubt my use to you,” said Georgie. “But I’ll prove myself. Let’s count to three and give our answer at the same time. One.”

She met their eyes. “Two.”

She could feel something gathering in the space between them, as though the air were crowded with all the things yet unsaid.

Were friendships always like this? Crowded? Haunted even? Or was this friendship different, because the two of them had known each other for so long without really knowing each other at all?

She pressed closer.

“Three,” they whispered, as her hands settled on their shoulders.

She kissed them, their soft lips parting in surprise, their hand curving around the back of her neck.

She could almost smell the wisteria, although this garden contained no such blooms. Bliss beat through her like butterfly wings, a delicate sensation tremoring over her skin.

And then their tongue slid inside her mouth, and they were tipping back her head, and she pushed with her own tongue, and moaned, because she hadn’t known, but of course. It was so obvious. So right.

“Wrong,” murmured Georgie, easing back. Their hand was still on her nape. She realized again that the bench was cold and hard. Her toes were digging into the chamomile.

“Not the answer.” She was blushing. “ Kiss is never the answer. Not of any riddle I know. And we shouldn’t. Never again. That was more sufficient than last time, I think. We’re finished now. Anything else might distract us.”

Their lashes lowered, and a gleam entered their narrow gaze. “Distract us?”

“From our search,” she said. “For the Viking gold.”