“No, not yet, I’m afraid. He’s got a long drive ahead of him, bless,” Mrs. Pewter said, wiping her hands on a tea towel tucked into a pocket of her pinafore.
“From where?” Georgia asked.
“Why, I don’t know the exact place,” Mrs. Pewter pondered aloud, “somewhere in Kent as far as I know. Why, Your Grace?” she asked, inquisitively.
“I just had a hankering to see my cousin, that is all. Of course, my timing could not have been worse, for the very moment I decide to call on her is the precise moment she falls ill.”
Georgia noticed the look that passed between the servants.
“Shewastaken ill, was she not?”
“Yes, Your Grace. Of course,” Mrs. Pewter quickly answered, returning to her pots and pans.
The others echoed this sentiment as Georgia looked around the room.
“If there is something wrong, something I should know about…?” Georgia asked urgently.
“Only this, Your Grace. And you didn’t hear it from me,” murmured Murtaugh, her father’s former valet who also took up occupancy at Silverton as a senior footman, “Lady Amelia looked right as rain the day she went away. And none too pleased about going.”
Ice settled into Georgia’s stomach. She nodded, having expected something of the sort.
“No more of that talk now, James Murtaugh,” Mrs. Pewter warned with a flick of a soup spoon that sent liquid flying across the room, “it's his Lordship and Ladyship that do decide, and that’s what they said.”
“I would very much like to visit. Will you write me when Tom returns? Please?” Georgia implored.
She left Silverton in the same manner she arrived, and feeling the weight of her burdens even more than she had. The clock in the kitchen had told her there was little time to get back to Westvale and prepare herself for the afternoon at VauxhallGardens. Keaton would be displeased, she was sure. But that could not be helped. She would not abandon Amelia even if it cost her Keaton’s enmity.
CHAPTER 17
“Champagne?” Georgia asked, and Keaton felt a cold, perspiring glass against his fingers.
He took the offered drink, sipping from it and appreciating the flavor.
“A good year,” he murmured.
“I have never tried champagne before. It is quite delicious,” she nodded, sounding as effervescent as the drinks they both held.
“Your Graces! Welcome to my little gathering!” Lady Gertrude’s shrill voice ran out over the babble of voices that filled the warm air.
“Lady Gertrude,” Georgia smiled, redundantly identifying the voice.
“I remember her. One does not forget such a voice,” Keaton muttered.
Georgia giggled, and he heard her take a long sip from her glass. Was that the second she had taken since they had arrived ten minutes ago?
“Be careful,” he warned gently, “champagne is a trick of the French intended to make the English appear foolish. Too much when you’re not used to it will have you on your back.”
“I shall remember that. I am just so in love with this taste. It goes perfectly with such a hot day, don't you think?”
“I have always thought so.”
Keaton was trying to keep his suspicions from his face. He could not keep them from his mind. But he had to trust that Thorne would untangle the dilemma. Though he was yet to untangle the dilemma of Keaton’s ‘accident’.
Perhaps something more in his sphere, such as following a woman suspected of an affair, will yield better results.
They were moving through Vauxhall Gardens under what felt like an unadulterated, blazing sun. The air was redolent with the aroma of flowers, and Keaton imagined the gardens were a riot of color. He could hear the lazy, contented buzzing of pollinating insects underlying the chink of cutlery, glasses, and the steady drone of conversation.
“How nice to see you both again and how privileged I am to be in your company so soon after that fine evening at Lord Swinthorpe’s house,” Lady Gertrude declared, intruding into Keaton’s thoughts.
