Page 27

The answer was cave . That was her guess, and Georgie’s too. A cave by the river. Dark and deep, limestone mouth open to the sun-dappled water.

Amazed by her own daring, she shut herself up in the library after dinner, built a small fire, drank a finger of Canary sack from the green goblet, and began taking books down from the shelves.

None were promising prospects, already discovered, already searched. But perhaps they opened onto neglected chambers, or branched into narrowing tunnels, inaccessible to male invaders and explorers. Accessible only to someone small. A medieval nun.

Elfreda Marsden.

It was somewhere to start at least.

The next morning, she met Georgie as planned at Holywell Rock.

She’d come alone. Agnes was punishing Hilda and Matilda for running away, giving her and Mrs. Pegg such a terrible fright.

The punishment was a game of Princes in the Tower, which pleased all parties.

Papa always objected to Princes in the Tower—Agnes made her Richard III sound too much like him—but there it was, another benefit to Papa’s being gone. He couldn’t accuse anyone of pertness.

Georgie had not come alone. Elfreda’s eyes lit on them first. Purple silk jockey cap. Cocky grin. Lilac walking dress.

She sped up, drawn to them like a bee to a bloom. She’d almost closed the distance entirely before she saw the man from the hedge.

Lord Phillip. Georgie’s former betrothed.

He was perched atop the boulder.

“Ahoy!” he called. “I understand you’re the captain of this outing.”

He jumped down, demonstrating significantly more dexterity than he had the previous day and managing to hold on to his hat.

“I offer myself as boatswain. Harpooner? Yeoman of the sheets!” He was clean-shaven and gave her a lopsided, unconscionably charming smile.

“Yeoman of…?” She blinked at him, then turned to Georgie. “A word.” She dragged them by the elbow several yards down the path toward the woodland.

She stopped, still holding their elbow. Sometimes she held Agnes by the elbow, or one of the twins. This was different. Georgie’s elbow attached to Georgie’s arm, and their shoulder, and neck, and chin, and mouth. Their mouth—it seemed very close.

She let go. “What’s he doing here?”

“He’s staying with me for the time being.

Hiding out.” Georgie cupped their elbow absently, their palm where her palm had been, and watched as Lord Phillip climbed back up Holywell Rock.

He posed, hands on his hips. Anyone driving down the lane would see his head and shoulders rising above the hedges.

“Hiding from his father,” Georgie amended. “Lord Hartcliffe. If you’re going to cross a viscount, it shouldn’t be him. A swan once had the temerity to defecate near his foot at a garden party and he wrung its neck with his bare hands.”

“That’s horrible.” She tried not to picture it. “But what is he doing here —right now? You didn’t tell him?”

“About the hoard?”

“Shhhh.” She glared.

Georgie lowered their voice. “All I said was that you were keen on historical remains and wanted to take me along on a ramble. I thought historical remains would deter him from joining, but he’s also keen on the stuff. Has an arrowhead collection and everything. I should have remembered that.”

“What a view!” Lord Phillip jumped once more to earth and jogged over. “That pile on the hill—it’s deliciously dilapidated. No one lives there?”

She stiffened.

“Phipps.” Georgie was wincing, on her behalf, which was either mollifying or mortifying, she couldn’t quite tell. “We’d better part ways. You go see about the pile, and we’ll go see about…something else.”

“Something else?” Lord Phillip raised a quizzical brow.

“Something of interest only to us.”

Lord Phillip chuckled. “So! That’s how it is.”

“How it is?” Elfreda inquired. “How is it?”

“You’re in love,” he announced, his index finger waggling from her to Georgie and back to her. “ Historical remains , my foot! You want to ramble to some secluded dell so you can have your wicked way with each other in the roses.”

Elfreda went hot from head to toe. She couldn’t look at Georgie. She heard their low laugh.

“I’d never,” they said. “Roses have spikes.”

“Posies, then,” said Lord Phillip.

“Buttercups,” suggested Georgie.

“Violets,” countered Lord Phillip.

Elfreda cleared her throat. “We are not in love.”

Her voice had a strange pitch.

She could feel Georgie’s gaze heating the side of her face.

Lord Phillip shook his head. “You don’t have to lie.”

“I’m not—” she began, but he interrupted with another knowing chuckle.

“There’s no scandalizing me . I’ve tumbled half the House of Commons. Oh, no.” He paused, wearing an expression of concern. “Did I scandalize you ? When I say tumbled half the House of Commons , I don’t mean all at once. It was one by one, for the most part. The work of several years.”

He said it modestly.

She couldn’t think how to respond. “Congratulations?”

“Thank you.” He bowed. With his square jaw and mop of curls, he looked a bit like Antinous, the handsome young lover of Emperor Hadrian.

But perhaps she was imposing a family resemblance on men who desired men.

She’d never met one in the flesh. Or she had and hadn’t known.

People didn’t speak of such things. People rarely wrote of such things, not directly.

Years ago, she’d read the story of Ruth and Naomi and felt a thrill.

Whither thou goest, I will go. The poetry of it had moved her.

But until she’d glimpsed Miss Poskitt and Miss Mahomed entwined in the bower of bliss, she hadn’t fathomed all the possibilities.

All the ways devotion between women might manifest.

You’re in love , Lord Phillip had said, pointing at her, at Georgie.

And Georgie hadn’t contradicted him.

She risked a glance. Georgie stood with their arms crossed, looking at her. The morning was cloudless, and their eyes should have shone, but instead, they smoldered, dark with emotion.

Because she had contradicted him?

But she wasn’t in love. Georgie wasn’t in love. Someone had needed to correct the misapprehension.

“Miss Marsden—it’s Marsden, isn’t it?” Lord Phillip interrupted her thoughts. “Let’s elope.”

Her head whipped around. “Pardon?”

He was smiling even more charmingly than before.

“Separate bedrooms. No relations. No relations with each other, that is. Anyone else is fair game. Unfortunately, Georgie can’t pose as your lady’s maid.

Everyone knows them in town.” He tapped his chin.

“If Georgie would elope, you could pose as their lady’s maid. That would simplify things.”

“Georgie will not elope,” said Georgie. “Georgie could have married you at St. James but decided death first.”

“I know I was bossing you.” Lord Phillip looked contrite.

“I promise, as my wife, you can dress however you want—in private. You can go about the house in trousers. You can go about naked . Just draw the curtains. You can even act. Not in England, because my father might catch wind of it. On holiday, though. We can spend the winter in Italy! They must want English actors. It’s so hard to understand Italian. ”

“No.” Georgie’s arms remained firmly crossed. “Be grateful I haven’t turned you out of my home. I will, if you bring this up again. And don’t pester Elf about eloping either. Unless…” They tipped their head. “Elf, do you want to marry Phipps? It’s not for me to decline on your behalf.”

Elfreda’s ears were ringing. Nothing in her life had prepared her for a proposal from a stranger, let alone a future viscount with a swan-murdering father and male paramours in Parliament.

She didn’t feel scandalized so much as saturated. She couldn’t absorb anything else.

“I want to take a walk,” she said, and hurtled down the path. By the time she’d reached the river, she’d slowed her pace, and Georgie and Lord Phillip had drawn up alongside her, bickering.

She passed out of the woodland, into the sun, and followed the gleaming river through the meadows.

“Blast!” Georgie gripped her arm. By Lord Phillip’s yelp, they’d gripped his too. “Did he see us?”

Elfreda looked. The enormous farmer with the cart, who’d come to Miss Poskitt’s aid—he was cutting across the pasture toward the river.

The two trajectories—hers and the farmer’s—were going to intersect by the packhorse bridge.

“La!” Lord Phillip craned his neck. “He’s strapping.”

“He’s my tenant.” Georgie’s hand was still tight around Elfreda’s arm, and they were walking faster. “He wants to feed me to his cows.”

“Why? Are you beastly to the tenantry?” Lord Phillip tutted. “I wouldn’t have suspected.”

“I didn’t know I was.”

“Oh, you’re one of those .”

“Maybe.” Georgie’s hand released. “What defines one of those ?”

“You own the land. But blame the mismanagement on the steward.”

“Yes, I’m one of those.” Georgie kicked at the hem of their skirt. “But the steward is to blame.”

“Sack him!” Lord Phillip sang it out. “Get a different steward.”

“Harry would have to sack him.” Georgie frowned. “Is that what your father would do? Sack the steward?”

“Of course not.” Lord Phillip laughed. “My father is the other kind. Beastly to the tenantry. It’s what I would do.

Farmers have had a bloody time of it, ever since the war ended.

Plummeting prices. That goes for grain, cheese, mutton, beef, wool.

Everything. And last year the spring was cold and wet, catastrophic for the harvest. They need rent abatement.

But that means us taking in less. The landlords.

Worth it in the long run. I’m not talking in terms of the soul, although I don’t discount that aspect.

I mean, economically. Good morning. ” His voice dropped a register.

The farmer was upon them.

“Fine day,” offered Georgie, as everyone came to an awkward halt.

“Fine,” agreed the farmer, shortly. “But foul’s blowing in.”

Elfreda had forgotten just how tall and broad he was. His face was weather-beaten, but he couldn’t have been so very many years older than the rest of them.