Ravenstone (Book 1, The Ravenstone Chronicles) Read online

  “Nicholas is to inherit one day and an heir must be provided. If his father were alive, he would never consent to such a match and rightly so. The old Lord Markham was our greatest ally growing up. He took us in, Charles, raised us like his own, and dared defy father. He did that for us. Without his help, we might never have turned out so well, and you wish to repay him by proposing I marry his son. If you care anything for Nicholas, you would not allow him to marry me. And if you care anything for me then let me wed Sir Edward, for mother is right in that I should never be able to hope for more.”

  Georgiana wanted to scream and cry, feeling the resentment of being caught in her mother’s trap, but instead she smiled reassuringly. She could never allow Nicholas to even consider her. She would never let him be tainted by her past. She had too much to hide, too many secrets, and she knew she was broken. Nicholas deserved so much better and she had to convince her brother of it. She did not believe that Nicholas could still feel love for her, for his previous infatuation had been that of a pubescent boy for a girl.

  Any love he had felt once would have faded by now. If it hadn’t, she felt sure that if Nicholas knew the truth of her life, he would despise her. Her chance of a normal full life had ended the day her father touched her, and she would not drag Nicholas into her own sordid reality. She was making the right decision, even though she was condemning herself to a fate she could not completely imagine. She was doing the one thing she had always done, protect her girls.

  She watched Charles now as she had watched him for the past weeks. He was so tender with the girls. He made sure that they were given the attention and care that her mother had never even considered. He spent time with them every day and they were growing to love him as quickly as she knew they would. He brought presents home for them and took them for walks. He would take the best of care of them, better than she could ever hope to do.

  All that mattered was that they would grow up knowing they were loved, even if she could only do so from a distance. She knew it would break her heart to leave them, that it would be the hardest thing she would ever have to do, but she would do it for them. She would visit as often as she could, and it would have to be enough.

  “Charles,” she said softly. “This is for the best.”

  He looked at her a long time, a dark penetrating stare that she held because she must without flinching. “There is only one request I would ask,” she said.

  “Anything.”

  “Promise me you will love and protect Jane and Margaret as if they were your own.”

  “Why do you say something like this?”

  “Do this for me and you will be helping me more than you will ever know. Promise me, Charles,” she said, adamant, as she struggled to hold onto her rapidly fraying emotions.

  “I promise,” he said.

  “It’s just that Mother has never cared for children. That is all. They are deserving of attention and love, and I fear she will try to send them away.”

  “I will not allow it.”

  It was her turn to study him. He was still so young, only twenty. He was expected suddenly to take on the role of master of a great estate and to maintain it and its wealth. Now she was asking him to act the protector and guardian to two small girls. Other young men his age with the kind of money he had inherited would be out every night, gambling, carousing and drinking. He did not have the advantage of an older father or uncle to guide him in his decisions on the estate. He was going to make mistakes, maybe even some serious ones, and she feared for him. Would he be easily influenced by his mother’s counsel? she wondered.

  The truth of the matter was that with his long absence, she did not know what kind of man Charles had grown into. He had handled himself admirably on the battlefield under the orders of his superior. He was a brave soldier but what kind of man was he going to prove to be now? He had stood up to his mother twice that she had seen and it gave her hope. She knew him to be kind to the girls and she believed him when he said he would take care of them.

  “Why do you study me so?” he asked, smiling at her. “You think me young and foolish perhaps?”

  “No,” she lied.

  “I will not let you down, Georgiana. I promise.”

  She hugged him then and cried, not being able to stop the tears.

  “Now see here, you are getting my coat all wet with your waterworks,” he said as she laughed.

  “Sorry,” she said. “It’s just so good to have you home again.”

  “It simply won’t do to show such emotion in public,” he said, imitating her mother’s stern voice, and she laughed again. “Think of your comportment, dear.”

  The horses were getting restless and he picked up the reins and his whip and urged them on through the park. He nodded to a gentleman on horseback whom he knew. But he did not stop to talk out of deference for Georgiana who strived to regain her balance.

  “What do you know about this Sir Edward Fairchild?” he asked.

  “Nothing, I’m afraid.”

  “I shall make some enquires then to make sure he is up to snuff. I cannot have my beautiful sister marrying any old riffraff, after all.”

  She smiled. “It’s really good to have you back, Charles. I have missed you so.”

  He turned to look at her. “I’m sorry I deserted you for so long. It was wrong of me to leave the way I did. I see that now. It is only that I always thought of you as the strongest, bravest person I ever knew and it never occurred to me for one moment that you had need of me.”

  “I was perfectly fine,” she lied. “You had to go, Charles. Father was impossible and Mother was useless. It was the right decision, never doubt it.”

  “Do you mean that?”

  She did. The one thought that had kept her company on the darkest days was that Charles had escaped and would never know her misery. She intended to keep it that way.

  “Yes,” she said firmly.

  “Then, my brave girl, let us put your daring to the test, shall we.”

  He whipped the horses up and they flew out the park and into the street, barely missing the carriages and wagons in their path.

  “Faster,” she said, laughing, and he obliged.

  7

  Georgiana paused at the unlit corner, sure that she was being followed. Suddenly, she turned, but the street was simply busy with its usual night traffic. Men walked quickly on their way to home or entertainment. A street sweeper swept a path through the muck for a gentleman, who deposited a coin in the sweeper’s hand. Carriages rolled along the road as a hackney swerved around a slower-moving cart. She did not see anyone in the shadows.

  She pulled her cap lower and crossed the road, careful to avoid the worst mud puddles. She had had the same feeling of being watched for a week now. Every night she went out in her disguise to roam through the streets and every night she could have sworn she was being followed. She shook her head at her own suspicions. It was guilt playing with her mind. She shouldn’t be out. She shouldn’t be taking the risk of discovery that increased with every night that she spent walking along the dark city streets. It was foolish of her, dangerous even, but every night she found herself crawling through her window again. After years of being kept a prisoner, she could not resist the sudden freedom she had found.

  She made her way to St. Giles as she had done each previous night. She was learning the streets and alleys, hiding in the shadows if she came upon a large group or a solitary person whose looks she did not like. She knew that she had been fortunate not to be confronted so far. She kept her eyes down and minded her own business. She observed the life around her, sometimes finding an inn to sit in for a while and observe the patrons around her. She would imitate their speech, listening carefully, trying to find meaning in their exchanges. She spoke as little as possible, knowing that her upper class accent could give her away.

  She heard it again. The same footsteps following her. It wasn’t her imagination. She put her hand in her pocket, feeling the pistol there, and
kept moving.

  She took a sudden left into a murky alley she now knew well, and hid behind a crumbling stone wall of a house destroyed by fire. She waited, holding her breath, listening carefully. A wagon lumbered past the alley. Then she heard the footsteps of a gentleman’s boots moving swiftly up the street, while in the distance a Charley called out the time. She closed her eyes to listen carefully to an unrecognizable yet familiar sound, the pistol perfectly balanced and ready in her hand.

  The rustle was small but continued around the corner and into the alley, pausing a moment before moving faster past her hiding place. She lunged out of the darkness and brought the pistol down hard when she saw the outline of a head. The crack of the pistol on skull sent a pain shooting up her arm, and she cursed. The figure crumbled to the ground in front of her. She dragged the body out of the alley and into the faint light of a street lamp.

  The face was dirty and lean, but she recognized the pickpocket from the inn. She swore under her breath then dragged the body back into the darkness before someone saw her. She sat in the alley with his head cradled in her arms as she sought a pulse in his neck. She felt his chest rise and fall and she said a prayer of thanks she hadn’t killed him. Why was the little fool following her? When had he started? She thought back to the night they had shared a supper and she realized he must have followed her home that very night. Clever bugger. The only question that remained was what did he want?

  She heaved him over her shoulder, and struggled to her feet. She made her way down the alley, staggering under the weight, and tried to avoid the endless potholes that were like pits in this part of the city. An old woman, who sat reeking of gin and grinning with a toothless mouth, watched their every move. She spoke but Georgiana couldn’t understand a single syllable, and kept walking. She scurried between back alleys until she finally arrived at her destination.

  The Red Lion Inn was one she had found a few nights ago. It was dilapidated and unsavory; the worst kinds of people found their rest here. She had been wary of it but had forced herself inside then, as she did now. She shifted her burden as if she was dragging a drunken companion instead of an unconscious one. As she pushed her way to the counter amidst the early crowd, she put a coin in front of the bedraggled barmaid. “It’s a room for the night I’d be looking for,” she said imitating the speech she had heard around her.

  The barmaid studied her, then her companion. “We is full up,” she said, and returned to serve the customers.

  Georgiana took another coin from her pocket, and put it beside the first. The barmaid looked at her again, curious as she studied Georgiana. Taking the coins, she pocketed them and ordered a small girl to take them to a room.

  Georgiana followed the girl who held a candle. Struggling up the stairs, her burden slipped but she managed to grab a better hold, and kept climbing the narrow stairs covered with years of grime. Inside the tiny room was a small bed where Georgiana deposited the boy.

  The girl started a fire in the grate that soon filled the room with more smoke than warmth. Then she hurried out, and Georgiana closed the door and tried to latch it, but the lock looked as if it had been kicked in. Propping the chair at the door so no one could enter, she listened for a minute but heard no footsteps outside.

  She found a rag and some water in a bucket, trying not to think about another night when she had done the same in almost identical surroundings. She approached the bed and wiped the boy’s face, parting his dirty hair to see the gash the pistol had made. His hair was soaked with blood, and she grimaced as she realized his hair was also crawling with lice and fleas. The boy’s stench overpowered her. She placed him back on the bed, the cloth under his head. There was no help for it.

  She made her way back down the stairs, and finding the little girl huddled under the stairs, she asked for some food, more water for a bath, some sturdy thread, and a needle. The girl didn’t move, just stared at her as if uncomprehending. Georgiana looked around the crowded room. Finding the barmaid, a bargain was struck. With a nod from the barmaid, the little girl went off to fetch the items.

  Georgiana waited inside the room, sitting on the chair against the door and studying the boy. She had no idea how old he was. His features suggested he was maybe twelve, but his body was so small and thin she could not be sure. His chest rose up and down irregularly, and she felt a twinge of guilt at his condition.

  A knock at the door, and she moved aside, and slowly open it. The girl handed her a bowl of soup with bread, then disappeared down the dark hallway again to return with two buckets of water. She placed them in the room, turning to look at the boy on the bed. Her expression gave nothing away. From a pocket, she pulled the needle and thread.

  “What’s wrong with him?” she asked.

  “A bump on the head but he’ll survive.”

  She didn’t leave.

  “What’s your name?” Georgiana asked.

  “Ann.”

  “He will be fine, Ann, I promise.”

  She shrugged then left, closing the door.

  Georgiana set quickly to work. Wrapping him in a blanket that wasn’t really clean, she put his head in her lap again. She hoped he would stay unconscious for a little longer. With the candle close to her, she threaded the needle, and then wiped the blood from his wound. She pierced through his skin with the need and began the messy job of sewing up the cut.

  Her hands shook and she took a deep breath to try to steady herself before continuing. After five stitches, she was done and she tied off the last stitch. She stood to wash her hands. Then she stripped the boy’s filthy clothes off. He wore only a pair of torn breeches and a brown shirt with one solitary button.

  His body was gaunt, his ribs threatening to come through his skin. He was covered in bruises of different shapes and sizes. His feet were unshod and covered in a thick layer of dirt. She tried to wash him to her satisfaction, but realized he would never be fully clean. She rinsed his clothes as best she could and hung them to dry. Finally, she sat again by the door, the pistol beside her on the table, and waited.

  She was tired and she allowed herself to relax. Her mind wandered to her mother, and she sighed. She had no illusions about her mother. The real reason her mother wanted the marriage was that she feared Charles would eventually learn the truth about the girls.

  Georgiana had no intention of telling Charles, but her mother didn’t know that. Lady Wyndham was trying to protect Charles but she was also once again trying to safeguard her own good name. Her greatest fear always was the loss of that. She had gotten rid of Nurse Gibson for that reason. She had told Charles she held Nurse Gibson accountable for the bruises on Georgiana, saying the servant was untrustworthy. Charles had confided this to her and she had let him believe it. The truth was she didn’t want Charles to know any of it. He didn’t need to. It was in the past and it would serve no one now except to make Charles feel even guiltier for having left. More than anything, she didn’t want him to know because she was ashamed.

  She walked to the fireplace and poked at the feeble coals burning in the grate. Touching the clothes, she knew they were hours away from being dry again.

  A groan from the bed got her attention, and she watched as the boy opened his eyes slowly, his face scrunched up in pain. He moved a hand toward his head but she stopped him from removing the cloth. As he became aware of her, he jumped up against the wall, clearly frightened.

  “It’s all right,” she said reassuringly, and moved away from the bed. “I won’t hurt you.”

  He didn’t look convinced and she couldn’t fault him. She sat on the chair by the door and his eyes went to the pistol next to her. Blast, she had forgotten the gun was there. “Look, I’m sorry I hit you, but I didn’t know who was following me.”

  He watched her warily and she thought of the soup. She moved it across the table to him and put the bread next to it. “Are you hungry?” His eyes darted between the food and her, and she waited patiently for him to reach for it. He snatched the bread lightnin
g fast and stuffed as much as he could into his mouth, never taking his eyes off her. He was wrapped in a blanket and he suddenly realized he was wearing no clothes, for his eyes widened and he stopped chewing. He saw his shirt and pants hanging by the fire, and looked at her accusingly.

  “I stole your dirt, sorry,” she said. “I washed you and sewed up the cut, too,” she said, pointing at his head. He glared at her a moment, but then his hunger won over again. He reached for the soup and drank it from the bowl as quickly as he could. He used his finger to scrape out every last drop. Then he was at the fireplace and she was amazed at how quickly he moved. He grabbed his clothes and glared at her. They were still wet.

  “Just let them dry,” she said. “The room is paid for the night, so you might as well stay.”

  He shook his head, but put his clothes back to dry. The cloth she had wrapped around his head came off, and he left it where it fell on the floor. He returned to the bed and sat on its edge watching her.

  “You don’t speak much, do you?”

  He shook his head and opened his mouth, showing her what was left of his tongue. She inhaled sharply, horrified. His tongue had been cut out.

  “Who did that to you?” she asked, and then felt foolish. “Sorry.”

  He shrugged.

  “I guess it would be useless to ask you why you followed me.”

  This time he smiled.

  “Do you write?” she asked hopefully, but she already knew the answer before he shook his head. Where would a street urchin have learned to write? She sighed, defeated.

  “Do you know where I live?” she asked and he nodded.

  “Are you going to keep following me?”

  Another nod.

  “Right.” She studied him, at a loss. There wasn’t really anything for her to do. If she couldn’t make him stop following her, maybe he could be of some use. He lived on these streets and he had been pretty good at following her until tonight. “You grew up on these streets?”

  A nod.

  “You know them well?”

  Another nod.