Page 28 of The Colonist’s Petition (Heirs & Heroes #2)

Twenty

M ost of the leaves had fallen from the trees, allowing a view of the crisp morning sunrise through twisting branches.

Johnathan crested a hill that overlooked The Willows and dismounted.

Time alone became a precious commodity for Johnathan.

His early morning rides, though shorter than he wished, were precious.

He pulled George's letter from his pocket. It arrived yesterday afternoon, but between the tutor’s lessons on British history and customs, and the earl’s instructions, he had little time to read it.

He decided, rather than read it before bed, when his mind was heavy and slow, he would read it in the morning when he could be alone with his thoughts.

Dear Cousin,

I feel quite settled in. At the same time, I feel as if I am a stranger here. My aunt, her son, and I walk everywhere we go, which is only inconvenient on the Sabbath, as we are expected to be at church without mud on the hems of our dresses. We do not stay after to socialize.

I have been helping my aunt by cleaning the house, including the shuttered rooms. Not only are the rooms shuttered from the inside, but also from the outside.

The glass has been pulled from several windows, and they have been boarded up.

No doubt, my father's way of saving money.

Almost every window that does not face the street has been boarded thus.

I do not think that this is what Parliament intended to happen when they created the glass tax, which by my way of thinking, is quite ludicrous.

If they must, they should tax the windows when one buys them—not every year for them just being there.

I am unlikely to ever have a say in such matters, but I may have an opinion.

There is a distinct lack of trees in the moors, which I suppose is what makes them moors.

I am not precisely sure. I shall have to write and ask Jane as to their definition.

The heather, like leaves on trees, turned orange before turning brown.

Winter is close enough now that there is very little color left at all, but I can see for miles—especially from the remaining window of my bedroom on the second floor.

I wonder which would cost father more, the glass tax or the extra candles needed to make a room useful?

Since he is not the one purchasing the candles, I should never know. We are very stingy with them.

I have taken on the responsibility of teaching Timothy mathematics and history.

Admittedly, he is somewhat easier to teach than Rose was.

He is eager to learn, which makes all the difference.

He has confided that he wishes to go to Oxford rather than Cambridge.

I can only hope my father will pay for such an education.

I fear, when Timothy becomes baronet, he will have much to rectify—providing my father leaves anything behind other than what he is required to by the Crown.

My knitting is improving. Wool is in abundance in the North Country. In the evenings before we retire—for we do retire very early here, to conserve both firewood and candles— Elaine and I knit while Timothy practices reading for us. Sometimes I knit just to keep my fingers warm.

My aunt receives no callers, though people seemed polite enough on Sunday. I think somehow that this is her choice—to turn them away rather than let them see the poverty in which she lives.

I do not think money should define a person.

Truly terrible people have amassed prestigious wealth, and that does not make them good.

Nor does lack of money keep a beggar from being mean.

Some claim money would change a person. I’m not sure I believe it.

Take you, for example. I hope you will be the same person when you become an earl as you have shown in all respects your goodness.

Although my grandfather’s wealth is vast, I have yet to see a trace of it changing you. I pray for your sake it does not.

Obviously, I have too much time to ponder.

This is what going to bed so early each night does.

More than ten hours in my bed each night gives me far too much time to think, and without Jane or Sir Galahad to keep me company I find my mind wandering down random paths.

Sometimes to The Willows, wondering about you.

As always, yours,

Georgiana

Postscript: I nearly wrote “George”—but for you, I will be Georgiana, because I know you prefer it.

Johnathan returned his horse to the stables.

At least he was doing one thing properly.

No one corrected his riding. His handwriting, on the other hand, was an altogether different matter.

Just yesterday, his tutor commented that he had not seen worse chicken scratch from a child over ten in his life.

And now penmanship was to be added to the pursuits he must undertake—the things he must study—on his way to an Earldom.

He was not sure why penmanship mattered, as the earl's secretary took care of most of his correspondence, and the earl, from what he could see, did very little other than sign his name properly.

And the writing his tutor saw was personal notes—it was not as if it was a letter.

All of his correspondence was written in his neatest hand.

Georgiana had not complained, nor his family.

Of course, he only received one letter from America, as it took so long for mail to go by sea, if it ever made it.

Some of his studies seemed like a lot of fuss and bother.

Was the correct fork that important? If anyone else were becoming an Earl, they would not have to attend studies.

Of course, as the tutor pointed out more than once, he would have gotten a proper education at Oxford, or perhaps even Cambridge.

Even if Johnathan graduated from Harvard, it would not have been enough.

A drop of rain fell from the sky as Johnathan made his way back to the mansion. At least he would not be giving up a lovely day for his studies. Those were the most difficult.

Wrapped in a blanket next to the dying fire, George pulled out the letters she retrieved earlier that day. The thickest one was from Jane.

Dearest George,

I'm getting used to sleeping alone in this big bed. Sir Galahad has taken to sleeping on your pillow. I do not like this, because when his tail wags at night, he hits me in the head. I am most afraid that Father will come home and find him. However, I now can sleep several hours at a time.

Speaking of Father—he has only come once since you left. Long enough to clean out the household accounts again. I wish he would stop gambling—but we both know that wish is not likely to come true.

We are well. The house is very quiet with only Alex and I here.

I fear that I do not wish for the silence as I once thought I did.

Alex says she will stay until I leave for town for the Season then she will travel to Bath so I will not be alone.

If the weather holds, Phil and Michael will come during the parliamentary break.

Will father allow you to come for Christmas?

I dearly wish it, but I know he will not spare the expense.

Isabel has gone to Town with her parents. Her father is passionate about the Apothecary bill as is Grandfather…

Jane’s letter continued on detailing everyday life. So much so that the only new piece of information in Alex’s were two recipes she copied from Cook using potatoes. One of the few food items Aunt Elaine could easily grow.

George poked the fire hoping for more light before breaking the seal on the other letter. As she hoped, it was from Johnathan. She reached for the handkerchief she kept under her pillow. It was all she had of him.

Georgiana,

I believe your grandfather is trying, or more precisely, the tutors he employed are trying to bore the American out of me.

He’s even hired a tutor to help me work on my English—to give it that little bit of French accent that seems so popular.

My speech, it seems, is too close to that of the farmers and laborers.

I’m doing my best to adopt the more formal accent of the peerage, but I do not think it will hide my American roots.

We depart for London in two days. Your grandfather has been marshaling assistance in my petition—or is it his petition?

I’m not sure. It has my name on it so I assume it is officially mine—to be named as heir at every point.

Apparently, we must meet with most of the lords, earls, viscounts, dukes and everyone else who can claim or persuade a vote in person.

I have also learned that I must meet all their daughters, granddaughters, nieces, near and far relations and all the while be utterly charming.

I am not excited by the prospect. I do not find that I have the personality to flirt and flit with all I meet unless my heart is involved. Which it cannot be.

George paused and reread the line. Was he trying to tell her something?

She was glad that he did not pass around his flirtations lightly.

Again she read the paragraph, this time a dread filled her.

How could she possibly be the daughter of a disgraced baronet of little consequence, compete with the sophisticated and educated daughters with important connections, fine complexions, and full dowries?

She read on hoping to find answers.

May I say—your grandfather’s cook is not nearly as good as yours. I have been missing the apple and egg concoction she makes for my breakfast each day.

I am learning British history—monarchs and kings and such.

It is a brutal history, but in many ways, it’s also the history of my country, because we share common roots.

I liked the Magna Carta. At home I learned it was one of the foundations for the Constitution.

I do not know if you knew that. Of course you do.

I enjoy my rides each morning. I’m told that I can still ride when we go to Town in one of the parks. I do not think it will be the same. I am certain I shall have less time for myself there than I do here. Still, I will save your letters for those few precious moments of privacy.

Yours,

Johnathan.

The last part was hopeful, was it not? He wanted to read her letters without interruption or witnesses just as she did.

With a sigh, she folded the letters. She stored them in her trunk, carefully tucking Johnathan’s recent letter with his others inside of his handkerchief.

As of yet, Aunt Elaine was not aware that some of the letters that came each week were not from her sisters.

George only mentioned Johnathan in relation to her grandfather’s scheme, since if he was successful in changing the earldom, it would have repercussions on her Aunt as Father would lose the privilege of living at Kellmore upon grandfather’s death.

Wind rattled her windows, and a draft swirled around George finally forcing her into bed seeking for warmth in the chilled room.