—Samuel C. Bushnell
Georgina stood on the steps of the Cabot mansion and rapped the brass knocker three times. It was a huge home, but small compared to the family’s other residences. The entire house was red brick with windows along the front that looked out to the bay and beyond. There were white columns on the portico, and the front steps were Italian marble, the handrails cast iron with polished brass insets in an intricate Greek motif.
She knew from John that this house had twenty-five rooms. And she would enjoy every last one of them when she was mistress. She just had to give her best performance and this house and, more importantly, her own family estate would be all hers.
She stood there, her back stiff and straight as the ships’ masts out in the distant harbor. In her mind, she kept going over her speech, again and again.
Well, you see, John, it is the most ridiculous set of circumstances—
She heard sudden sharp and annoyingly familiar notes of Eachann whistling. She stepped back, leaned out, and looked down the street.
He was sprawled on the wagon seat watching her.
She gripped the iron handrail and leaned over it. In a loud whisper she said, “I told you to leave!”
He looked at her and cupped one hand to his ear and shook his head, acting like he couldn’t hear her.
Before she could move or shout, one of the front doors opened.
She spun back around, her hand on her hat.
The Cabot butler stood there. “Miss Bayard.”
“Samuel.” Georgina acknowledged him with a sharp nod and straightened her skirts by giving them a little shake. She raised her chin. “I’d like to see Mr. Cabot.”
“I’m sorry but Mr. Cabot isn’t home.”
She panicked. “He hasn’t gone back to Boston, has he?”
“No, Miss. Mr. Cabot has gone to Philadelphia.”
Good. Perhaps this was a good thing. Perhaps he didn’t know about the foreclosure yet. “When will he return?”
“I really cannot say.”
She gave him her most regal glare. “You can’t or won’t.”
“I don’t know, Miss Bayard. Neither he nor Mrs. Cabot said when they would return.”
“Oh, I see. He’s with his mother.” She laughed and raised a hand to her chest where her heart had been beating much too fast. “Well, Samuel, why didn’t you just tell me that?”
“Mr. Cabot’s mother is at home in Boston. I was referring to the new Mrs. Cabot. Mrs. Phoebe Cabot. I believe her family, the Dearborns, are from Philadelphia.”
Barely a moment later, right there, on that posh marble stoop with the iron rails and those tall white columns, something truly odd happened: for the first time in her life Georgina Bayard fainted.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Here’s to you and here’s to me,
And here’s to the girl with the well-shaped knee.
Here’s to the man with his hand on her garter;
He hasn’t got far, but he’s a damn good starter.
—Anonymous
Georgina awoke to someone unbuttoning her clothes. A warm hand brushed over her neck. Then she felt a few whiffs of air brush her face. She opened her eyes and blinked a couple of times.
