ChapterTen
Every jolt of the carriage over Little Saint Mary’s cobbles sent a spasm of anxiety through Georgiana.Transporting her life’s work terrified her.Why did I refuse Andrew’s insistence that he come to Helsington?
The carriage lurched to a stop and swayed for several moments under its burden.Georgiana leapt down, waved off her footman’s helping hand, and ran to peer around the back.The precious cargo was in place.Relief flooded her.Her babies had arrived safely.
She turned to discover the avid faces of her servants studying her.With a snap to her skirts and tug to her sleeve, she summoned her dignity and said, “You may announce me to the household.”
She caught sight of a woman peering through curtains across the street.Two more paused down the lane and openly stared at her.She wondered if they recognized her and saw that an unmarried lady visited the scholar’s house.
She suspected the nosey neighbors puzzled over the mountain of boxes delivered with her and hoped that, at least, gave value to the commotion she caused.She remembered what Mrs.Potter had told her?“Give them something to chew on, Georgiana, and they’ll ignore the rest.”
“I see the contents of the great library at Alexandria have been located.And to think that for centuries we thought they were lost in the fire.”
Georgiana spun on her heels.Andrew stood in his doorway.Quick assessment showed excellent color, confident posture, and no sign of his staff.Relief trumped his irony.She followed him in.
“It is quite a lot,” she admitted.
John Footman, she saw, had begun to neatly stack the first few boxes in Andrew’s little sitting room just to the right of the front door.
“I suggest we place my boxes upstairs in your study,” she said.
She suspected her boxes would fill the little sitting room on the ground floor, and she longed to work in his book-lined study.She gestured toward John Footman who hesitated in the doorway, another box in his hands, silently commanding him to go up the stairs.
Andrew blocked his way.
“I work upstairs,” Andrew said with authority that brooked no contradiction.
“Yes.The work belongs in the study, and?—”
“If I turn my study into a warehouse, I won’t be able to work.If I am unable to work, I won’t be able to provide you the tutoring you require.Your papers will be safe and dry in my sitting room, my lady, or I wouldn’t have ordered it.You can trust me with them.”
She hoped that her doubt was evident on her face.She bit her tongue and glared until she saw fires ignite in his eyes.“Very well.”She squeezed her lips tightly and spat.“The boxes can be brought above stairs one at a time.”
“Perhaps you could describe the general contents, andIwill decide what to do.”
Stubborn man.She forgot that about him.No one bullied Andrew Mallet.He knew his own mind and did as he chose.Could anyone bully such a man into joining the army?He had said, “I will call on you tomorrow,” and he meant it.Then he disappeared from her life for eleven years.That wasn’t like him.This vexatious stubbornness was.
Georgiana opened her mouth to ask him why he joined the army so abruptly all those years ago.She shut it again.
“Whatever you are going to say, don’t.I know what I am doing.Can we get on with the work?”He looked thoroughly annoyed.She found it oddly endearing.“The work, my lady?”
“The work, yes.”She had won one battle.For now, it was enough.
* * *
Andrew immediately regretted demandingan overview of her boxes, but he let her continue with the description.How can a few fragmental poems take up so many boxes?
“Let me begin with the individual boxes.There is one for each author.You will note that some boxes are fuller than others.Some have only a few scraps.”She hefted one to show him how light it was.“Those are cases in which I have been unable to find much for the poet other than a name and a line or two.”
Andrew noticed the carefully lettered name of a poet on each box.Only her organization kept his sensation of drowning at bay.At least the fool woman injected some method into her madness.
“Within each there are papers, folders, and parcels.On top of each is the original in Greek.”She opened one to demonstrate.A neatly transcribed text on one sheet of paper rested on top of other sheets and scraps of notes.
“Under that is my current translation, such as it may be.On the bottom is my research—sometimes extensive, sometimes sparse—into the poet, what I know of the period, the location, and so on.That, by the way, is the hardest part, and I?—”
“We will talk about the specific work later.What is your global view of this body of work?”
She blinked, visibly confused.
