Page 35 of A Sporting Affair (The Corinthians #1)
The carriage lumbered up the drive, the evening dark, Theia’s snores the only sounds from within, competing against the clomp of horse hooves and the creaks and groans of the carriage. Genevieve stared out into the darkness. Next to her, Mama nodded off, her head rolling onto Genevieve’s shoulder before rousing with a jerk. Papa stared out the opposite window. Cecilia was the only one still lively, nudging Genevieve’s shin from the bench opposite and making faces.
It had been a long, never-ending day, and a long, never-ending evening. Midnight was surely upon them. Not that dinner with Sir Courtney had been anything other than enjoyable, simply long. The Slades were unaccustomed to late evening hours. Sir Courtney had no children and no wife to keep his guests occupied while he and Papa consorted about rambles she did not think Papa would ever take and other topics of little interest to the ladies, turning an already lingering evening into a tedious one.
Her attention had wandered, mostly in the direction of Rafe. He had not happened on her in two days. Two days! Yes, she had seen him at church, but they had not exchanged more than pleasantries. Was he waiting for her to speak first? Was he angry she had not confessed her feelings? Was it a game to him? Oh, she did not know what to think. Her fencing lesson fast approached. She could seek him out then and gauge the weather, so to speak.
Rocking to a stop—and sending Mama rolling forward until Genevieve tugged her back—the carriage pulled in front of the house. Home at last. A washbasin, a nightrail, and a pillow were top of her list of most desirable things, aside from Rafe, of course. What was it that Roman poet had said? Absence makes the heart grow fonder, she believed. Two days was hardly a period of absence. But to have left her with such a command as he had done!
Genevieve accepted the footman’s hand and stepped down from the carriage. The butler waited by the open front door.
Just as she stepped over the threshold, she heard the butler saying to Papa, “…an urgent letter, sir. Promised Master Fitz-Stephens you would receive it without delay.”
Cecilia elbowed Genevieve. “I wager he’s decided I’m the young lady for him. Couldn’t wait until morning. Lost your chance!” Smothering her humor with a hand, she padded into the stairwell, leaving Genevieve to scowl after her.
Too curious to pretend she had not overheard, she followed Papa into his study.
Without acknowledging his shadow, he retrieved the note propped in bold view on the desk. He remained silent for an agonizing stretch of time. The letter held between his hands, he stared at it, unflinching, unresponsive. The stretch allowed a million and one thoughts to dance in her head. Rafe wished an audience to offer his hand, this time by his own volition. Rafe had a change of heart and wished to pursue Cecilia. Rafe thought it best that Lord Karras be persuaded to press his suit.
So silly for her to think any of these. If any were true, Rafe would have waited until the morning and said them himself. It must be something unimportant, likely about the horse sale, certainly that if he expressed it in a letter rather than in person. But then… why the urgency?
“Well,” Papa said at last, “it would seem your young man has decided London is the best course for his immediate future.”
Genevieve flinched. “I don’t understand.”
Papa flicked the paper. “Says here he’s off to London. By morning twilight, he’ll be gone.” With a sharp look at Genevieve, he said, “Must not have been given a reason to stay.”
“But… I…” she stammered, feeling faint.
“Sure, sure, he’ll return. At some point. Family home and that. But to what end?” Tossing the letter on the desk, he went to the cabinet and began pouring a glass of brandy. “A man knows when he’s not wanted,” he muttered.
Her vision blurred.
Before she made a silly goose of herself, she ran from the study and up to her bedchamber.
Just as she was about to fling herself onto the bed, a voice from the dressing table said, “Should have confessed.”
Genevieve stumbled over her feet, clasping the bedpost in time to keep herself from falling face first onto the rug. Seated in the chair, feet propped up with ankles crossed on the table, sat a most unladylike and smirking Cecilia, wafting an unfolded letter in her hand.
Sniffing the paper, she said, “Smells divine , strikingly like a gentleman we both know.”
With a wipe of her wet cheeks, Genevieve lunged forward. “Give me that,” she cried, trying to snatch the letter from her sister.
Cecilia played an infuriating game of keep away before Genevieve managed to wrangle it from her, crumpling the side of the letter in the process. Smoothing it against the table, Genevieve read.
Confusion first. Then a single ha of laughter. Followed by relief. And then another swell of panic.
She did not fully understand what the letter meant. Well, she did, but she did not know what it meant as far as the future. When next they met? In a year? In a month? Papa knew something she did not, something Rafe had not written in this letter, something that gave Papa the impression Rafe had chosen the Old Bailey rather than matrimony, something that indicated Rafe would not return soon. This letter did not deny those possibilities, but it felt more hopeful, as though he were dashing to London on a quick errand and might return any day.
That was not what he had written, however, nor was that what Papa had led her to believe.
Cecilia poked her in the arm. “What confession?”
Genevieve swatted at her, rereading the letter again, trying to understand what it meant. Had he chosen the Old Bailey? Had he waited the two days, and when she did not go to him, he took that as her answer and made his choice?
Oh, she did not know!
“ What confession?” Cecilia urged, then with suspicion, “Are you in an interesting condition?”
Jerking her attention to Cecilia, Genevieve coughed an incredulous laugh. “Am I what ?”
“You know….” Cecilia crossed her arms and arched her eyebrows.
Genevieve was about to give her sister a firm set down when it occurred that Cecilia could not know what an interesting condition referred to, most likely hearing it whispered in the village. She probably thought it meant something along the lines of being in love.
“My confession is for Rafe’s ears only, nosy blowsy.”
“Seems to me you’ve lost your chance to confess to him. Off to London, he says. I wager your cerulean scarf he won’t return. No reason, is there? Only a curmudgeonly spinster.”
“I’m not a spinster, nor am I a curmudgeon. Doesn’t speak well for you, either, if he has no reason to return.”
Cecilia shrugged. “Now. Tell me what confession would have kept him here.”
Genevieve sighed herself over to the side of the bed. What confession, indeed. What confession she did not make to him, the only words he needed to hear to help him realize there was more to life than pursuing a profession. Was it selfish for her to want him to stay? She should be celebrating—he had received his Call to the Bar! A momentous moment. His dreams were coming true. But he would not choose the Western circuit if he did not believe she loved him. He would move to London forever.
Ignoring her sister, she fought against the welling tears. She would not cry. There must be a way to seize the moment. If she could but think of a way, she would act. She would not lose him, not of her own making.