“I shudder to think what you might arrange.I have no desire to go from pan to fire.”
Andrew had given in, but concern for her reputation vexed him.He knew Mrs.Potter gleefully put it about that he had taken a student.She gave Georgiana the cover of her sterling reputation in Cambridge.He ought to be grateful, but he didn’t like it.Still, he knew that whatever maggot Georgiana got into her brain next might be worse.Her obsession with the work outran her common sense.
The second reason he chose notto interrupt soon proved fruitful.His father taught him that a student learns best when he reaches conclusions on his own.The teacher merely provides the opportunity.
“This is no use.”Georgiana tossed down her pen and glared at him.“How can it be translated any differently?The words mean what they mean.Too literal they may be, but they are what they are.”
“Think for a moment Geo—uh, my lady.In English you might describe an incident thusly, ‘the Countess, who wore white, overturned the cup and expressed herself in high-pitched tones.’It would be accurate, but not the entire truth.”
“How so?”
“Compare that to ‘The white clad countess shrieked when she spilled the wineglass.’”
“They are the same,” she considered, “but the second one provides more of a picture.”
“What else?”
“Emotion.The Countess is furious,” she grinned, “and afraid she has ruined her court dress in front of the upper ten thousand.”
“It doesn’t say that,” he pointed out.
“It does when you word it right.”
“Exactly.”
“But I know that because I know the Countess–or ladies very like her–and I know court dress and the world in which she moves.How can I possibly know those things for Korinna?”Georgiana wrinkled up her brow.
“You can’t, at least not as precisely anyway.You can, however, read about her world, compare her words to the words of other authors, and make a shrewd guess at what nuance and emotion lay beneath the words.You are able to be shrewd, are you not?”The quirk to his crooked lips belied seriousness.
“Nottoday.I confess I am weary.”
Her pallor worried him.He wanted to know how much of her desperation about her translations—and he saw the desperation daily—came from fear about her health.She wouldn’t talk about it, and he wouldn’t make the mistake of asking again.
Andrew leaned back, and they passed a long moment in comfortable silence, black eyes on blue, each one lost in thought.She reached up at last and brushed back the coarse black hair from the rim of his spectacles.
“Andrew, how did you get this terrible scar?”Her graceful fingers traced the puckered line across his face.An electric shock trailed behind her finger.He took her wrist firmly and replaced her hand gently on the table.“A French saber,” he said without breaking eye contact.
Questions formed and reformed on her expressive face.“Waterloo?That is to say, I know there were other battles, but it is fully healed.Was it long ago?”
She would flay him alive yet.“Yes.”
“Which?”
“Yes, long ago.No, notWaterloo.”No amount of pushing would get her more.He wouldn’t describe the horrors of a French prison to this lady, and by God, he didn’t plan to relive it himself.
He rose and gestured toward the door.She held her seat, with avid interest on her face.
“Give it up, my lady.”He emphasized those last two words.He fought to keep formality between them.“Some things are notfit for polite company.”
He regretted that approach immediately when she pounced on his words.“Nonsense!I am no frail flower.”
“That may be true, but my face isn’t a topic for discussion.”
Outrage exploded across her face.He suspected that she thought he accused her of attempting to criticize his looks.He let her believe it.
“I’m sorry, Mr.Mallet.It is of course your private business.”She sputtered and began to pack her work slowly.
“The other scars—” she began, coloring deeply.He remembered her face when she saw him in his dressing gown, her eyes on the long red line that snaked up his leg and around his knee.
