“How did he come to cut himself?” Hermione asked.
“He fell in the dark.”
“Why was it dark?”
“He is blind, it isalwaysdark for him,” Georgia remarked, “it really is a marvellous day, isn't it? I just wish the gardens were not so unruly.”
Hermione hurried to catch up with her. Georgia knew that her face was scarlet and that Hermione was worldly enough to know what that meant.
“Will you tell me why you and your husband of convenience were alone together in a dark room?” she asked bluntly, one eyebrow raised high.
Georgia sighed. She was not comfortable discussing intimate matters with her friend, but part of her wanted to. Part of her took pride in the degree of arousal she had managed to elicit from Keaton.
“There was a misunderstanding. I was looking for Lady Alison and found him there. We... argued, and he lost his bearings and fell. That is all there is.”
“Hmm, when a man and woman argue, there is often a period of...rapprochement, shall we say? Which has clearly taken place, judging by your demeanour. It is often referred to as, ‘kiss and make up’?”
If Georgia had thought she was scarlet before, it was nothing compared to the heat she felt rising in her face now. Hermione clapped her hands together and laughed in delight.
“It is nothing to be embarrassed about, dear Georgie! You are married after all. Nothing could be more natural. And, quite frankly, I think you should be getting more out of this arrangement while it lasts.”
“I am getting plenty, thank you,” Georgia murmured, looking away to hide her face.
She glimpsed movement at an upstairs window, then, as she glanced back towards the house. She frowned as the figure lingered at the window. She did not yet know the geography of Westvale and could not have said which room that particular window looked into. Keaton would have no reason to be standing, staring out of a window.
“Who is that?” Hermione asked.
“I do not know. I did not hear a carriage arrive, did you?” she replied distractedly.
“No. Is it not your husband? He cannot bear not to be looking at you for too long...oh.”
Georgia gave her a significant look, and Hermione colored.
“I see...” her friend trailed off.
“Quite. Whoever he is, though, I fancy he is looking in this direction.”
“Then it must be a servant, and he is not looking, but dusting. We were talking about what you can get out of this relationship, Georgia. I think you should be more ambitious.”
Hermione took her arm and steered her away from the house so that they turned their back on the water. But Georgia could feel the silhouette’s eyes upon her. A male servant would not be tasked with dusting. That would be for the maids.
I have heard enough female servants complaining about the distribution of tasks based purely on gender to know.
“I am not sure, Hermione,” she answered finally. “Things feel very precarious. Swinthorpe, I think, would like to see my back. Keaton would as well... part of the time. He doesn't seem to care as long as we achieve our objectives.”
“Hang them both!” Hermione shouted passionately, “You have a window of opportunity. A narrow one that is closing rapidly. I say, this is your chance for a taste of freedom. Let us make a list of things that you will forever regret not doing if you have not achieved them by the time this inconvenient marriage of convenience comes to an end.”
Georgia found the notion somewhat attractive. She smiled, mind already conjuring a number of notions that she would not have considered otherwise.
If I look at it as now or never. Which it may well be. Once this is over, I will have no choice but to go back to Silverton. Then my freedom will be severely limited.
“I see you already have a few things in mind,” Hermione said excitedly, “as do I. But let me hear your ideas first!”
Georgia glanced back at the window, but the watcher was gone. She licked her lips, took a deep breath, and began to list some of the things she would do if this were her last chance to do them. Hermione laughed and offered her own suggestions.
Georgia was somewhat scandalized but found Hermione's ideas more daring than her own. More enticing...
“Blast it!” Keaton roared as the chisel slipped again and sliced the palm of his left hand. His forearm ached where the glass had driven itself into the muscle, and it was affecting the dexterity of his gesticulations. Thorne had just left, slipping through the servants' wing. Keaton had instructed him by letter to be circumspect when he arrived that morning. He did not want Georgia to know.
