“Which has nothing to do with it, dear.”
Genova slipped the ribbon of her fan onto her wrist. “You never call Ashart by his Christian name.”
Thalia pulled a face. “The dowager is quite ferocious about formality. She threatened not to let me see him if I called him Charles. Now, it doesn’t feel right.”
“Charles,” Genova echoed.
“The Trayce family has a tradition of using only Stuart names. No Hanoverian Georges or Fredericks among us. Thank heavens no one thought to put action to the thought and support the Jacobite risings. We were all in a quake at the time, I assure you! The Stuarts have always had a fatal charm. There is a rumor that Sophia’s father was Charles II. She does have the look, and Ashart has it, too.”
Sophia was the dowager Lady Ashart, Thalia’s sister-in-law.
“Royal blood?” Genova gasped.
“But safely on the wrong side of the blanket. Off you go and enjoy yourself, but behave! You can marry as soon as you wish, so there’s no need for impatience. Are you sure you want banns, dear…?”
Regeanne was draping Genova’s merino shawl around her shoulders. Genova gathered it and escaped before Thalia pinned her down to day and minute.
Chapter Eighteen
As Genova shut the door behind her, shivering slightly in the cooler air, she realized that no footman waited. Perhaps she hadn’t been expected to return downstairs, or perhaps she should have rung for service. Whatever the cause, her reaction was delight.
She looked up and down the corridor. The coast was clear. She had freedom, which as Lord Rothgar had pointed out, was beyond price. Before it could be snatched away, she hurried off in the opposite direction to the main staircase.
Perhaps it was scandalously impolite to wander a house in which she was a guest, but she wouldn’t enter any rooms. She just wanted some peace and quiet in which to think.
She turned into another corridor where dim light suggested lack of current use. The light came from occasional candles well guarded with glass that provided only enough illumination to prevent accidents.
As a result, Genova felt she progressed into a mystery, but one blessed with solitude. And not only solitude but the opportunity for exercise! Even in Tunbridge Wells, constrained by Hester’s ideas of what was suitable, she had managed walks to shops, church, and the lending library. In the past few days her only walks had been from vehicle to inn.
She followed whatever turn took her fancy, setting a brisk pace and swinging her arms until she’d shaken the misery from her bones. Probably much of her blue-deviled mood had been simply need for this.
Heart beating, skin tingling, she paused to stretch,reaching out on either side to walls still far away, then up, up, to the shadowy ceiling. Then she carried on, regretting that tomorrow guests would pour in, filling the house.
She stopped. What an ingrate she was. She’d thrilled to the idea of a grand house party but now wanted to be alone. She’d been desperate to escape Hester’s house, but now she almost wished she were back there, where the trials were familiar. She continued her walk, pondering this.
As she’d left childhood, she’d grown weary of the hardships of navy life. Even the best ships stank down below, where—if you were lucky—poor animals were confined to provide milk and meat for the voyage. Transporting cavalry horses was even worse.
On a long voyage food was often limited, and sometimes barely edible. Knocking weevils out of biscuits and scraping mold off cheese were everyday matters.
Weevils.She directed a baleful thought at Ashart, wherever he was.
In fine weather the sea could be beautiful, but in foul, it was hell. Then, no part of the ship could be completely dry, and those not needed to fight the storm huddled in misery in places awash with sloshing seawater and worse.
Life ashore had been a delight by comparison. With the thoughtless selfishness of youth, she’d sometimes prayed for battles, because then she and her mother were left in the nearest port. Often she’d wished for a permanent home back in England, and fate had given it to her. When her mother died, her father had retired, and they’d settled in a pleasant house overlooking Portsmouth.
Had she been happy?
No, but how could she be with her father so miserable? He’d seemed to need her company, perhaps as substitute for that of his Mary, but hadn’t welcomed guests. She’d made some friends, but had little opportunity to spend time with them.
Then Hester Poole, the widowed sister of a fellow officer, had come into their lives. Her father had foundjoy again. The move to Tunbridge Wells had not appeared to be a problem, since Genova hadn’t set down deep roots in Portsmouth.
Now, within months, she’d seized this chance to escape, and the thought of returning there filled her with panic. It wasn’t just that she found her new home oppressive; she feared what she would do. A screaming match with Hester would break her father’s heart. Her suppressed unhappiness was already wounding it.
After the distressing confrontation over thepresepe, her father had helped her pack it away, trying to make light of the problem. As they’d closed the box, he’d said, “We always made apresepewish, didn’t we?”
Past tense. Past tense.
She’d pointed out that they did that on Christmas Eve, but he hadn’t seemed to care. “This is my wish for you, Genni-love. A fine husband and a babe in your arms by next Christmas. Then you’ll have your own home in which to set up thepresepe, and a child to share it with.”
