Regency Debutantes: The Captain's Lady / Mistaken Mistress

‘Ah, Mr Praxton. I’d lay the blame for Miss Raithwaite’s misdemeanours firmly at his door. Taking advantage of the girl he is betrothed to.’ Nathaniel looked directly at his brother. ‘There’s something rather unsavoury about the man, wouldn’t you agree?’

‘He seemed perfectly fine to me. Rather a fashionable good-looking chap. I wouldn’t have thought he’d have too much trouble with the ladies, if you know what I mean.’ Freddie winked.

‘Perhaps you’re right. But my instinct sets me against him, however unfair that may seem. Still, what’s it to us? We shall likely never set eyes on Mr Praxton or Miss Raithwaite again.’ He twitched the reins beneath his fingers. ‘I wonder if she knows what she’s getting herself into, tangling with such a man?’

Freddie snorted. ‘You’re growing suspicious in your old age. I think it must be time that we stopped for some refreshments to soothe your poor addled brain. The George Inn isn’t far ahead. I’ll race you to it!’

It seemed to Mirabelle Farleigh that Georgiana’s health had suffered not so much from her plunge into the River Borne, but from the visit of her father and the man to whom she was betrothed. Subsequent to their leaving the girl appeared pale and listless. Scarcely a morsel of food had passed her lips since and she declined to be drawn by the brightest of conversation that her ladyship had to offer. Not that any sign of fever or pain could be seen to account for her behaviour. But something was wrong, very wrong. Georgiana wore the air of a woman condemned, not of one about to marry her lover. Lady Farleigh, who had an innate interest in such things, had every intention of getting to the bottom of the mysterious affair.

‘My dear Georgiana, I’ve spoken to your stepfather’s man and explained that you’re not sufficiently recovered to travel home today. Why, such a journey would be sure to leave you with a chill, and is quite out of the question. The carriage has departed with a letter to your stepfather explaining my decision.’ Mirabelle did not miss the brief flicker in Georgiana’s bleak eyes.

‘My father did not come in person?’

Mirabelle shook her head. ‘No, my dear. I’m sure he must have important matters to deal with that prevent his presence. Don’t concern yourself over it. It’s well and good that he didn’t come here himself, as he’s clearly busy, and gentlemen do so dislike a wasted journey.’ She adjusted her skirts and sat herself down on the bed. Taking hold of Georgiana’s hand, she studied the girl’s face with undue attention. ‘I understand that you would be much happier to be going home today.’

A careful guard slotted in place over the white features.

‘But can you reconcile yourself as a guest at Farleigh Hall for a few more days?’

The grey-blue eyes widened in surprise.

Mirabelle saw the blatant relief, felt the lapse of tension in the hand positioned beneath her own.

‘Of course. Thank you, Lady Farleigh…Mirabelle. I have been feeling a little unwell,’ Georgiana lied. The river experience had caused exhaustion, bruising, a sore throat and some cuts to her hands, nothing more. But the knowledge that Walter Praxton had tricked them all to force her into marriage affected her far more deeply. And the loathing that it engendered made her wonder just how she could endure such a thing. He stood for everything that she despised and now she had no choice but to marry him. ‘No choice at all.’ The mumbled words had escaped her before she realised what she was about. Her eyes slid to Lady Farleigh’s in a panic and she pressed her fingers to her lips as if to stopper any further traitorous disclosures.

Her ladyship’s bright blue eyes looked back, and Georgiana could have sworn that they held in them an understanding that belied the lady’s blithe manner. She held her breath and waited.

‘If something is wrong, Georgiana, you need only tell me and I will try to help.’ Her small face was unusually still.

Georgiana pressed her palms to her forehead. Dare she trust Mirabelle Farleigh? ‘I’m afraid that it’s a matter of some delicacy, ma’am.’

Lady Farleigh gently touched Georgiana’s arm. ‘I thought it might be, my dear. Rest assured I won’t discuss your story with anyone else.’

She so desperately needed to speak to someone, to tell another of Walter Praxton’s lies. She remembered Nathaniel Hawke’s concern and how he’d offered her the opportunity to confide in him. But he was a man, and a very attractive one at that. And she didn’t doubt that he had mistaken her situation with Walter Praxton entirely. Why else had she been forced to reveal the wretched betrothal? Lady Farleigh was different altogether. She undoubtedly liked to chatter. That wasn’t what worried Georgiana. The nature of her concern lay more in whether the lady’s preferences stretched to gossip. She twisted her fingers nervously together and contemplated further. If that was the case, then the damage was already done, for Georgiana was certain that the conversation witnessed by Lady Farleigh could do nothing but lead her to conclude that Georgiana had indulged in grossly inappropriate behaviour with Mr Praxton. And that man’s—she could no longer say gentleman’s—manner had done everything to foster the impression that he was her suitor. Heaven forbid that Lady Farleigh thought Georgiana and Walter Praxton lovers as Lord Nathaniel had done! The greatest harm had happened. Telling the truth couldn’t make it worse, and might even go some way to helping her situation. The prospect seemed appealing.

All the while Mirabelle Farleigh had sat, quietly watching the play of conflicting emotions on Georgiana’s face. ‘If you choose not to speak of what’s bothering you, then I’ll say nothing further on the matter other than there’s always a choice, no matter what you might think, and you must always remember that.’

The words confirmed Georgiana’s decision and with a sigh she uttered, ‘There’s so much to tell, I scarcely know where to begin.’

Mirabelle’s curls swayed as she lowered her head. ‘You must start at the beginning, it is usually the best place.’ And, so saying, she made herself comfortable upon the bedcovers and prepared to hear Georgiana’s tale.

It was some considerable time later that Lady Farleigh had heard it all. Her ladyship was fairly bursting with indignation. ‘I cannot conceive that a gentleman could be so profoundly dishonest and despicable. Indeed, his actions are most definitely not those of a gentleman and I refuse to call him that.’ She paced up and down the bedroom, her hands pulling at her skirts, her cheeks a blaze of furious colour. ‘Of course you won’t marry him.’ She honed her gimlet eye upon Georgiana, who was already feeling much better for having unburdened herself.

‘No. I had no intention of accepting his addresses when he indicated that his affections lay in my direction. I made sure that he fully understood that I wouldn’t look favourably upon him—that’s why he resorted to this scheme.’ She had swung her legs from beneath the covers and was sitting on the edge of the bed.

Lady Farleigh struggled to understand the motivation behind such a dastardly deed. ‘He must be mad for love of you; when he realised that you’d no intention of accepting his suit, it forced him to take desperate measures. What other explanation can there be?’

‘I don’t know.’ Georgiana shook her head. ‘But I cannot believe that he loves me, for all his declarations.’ She moved her bare toes across the rug. ‘Indeed, I cannot believe that he loves anyone other than himself. My friends, Sarah and Fanny, can barely contain themselves in his presence. They swear that he’s quite the most handsome man they’ve seen. Their response seems ludicrous to me, for I cannot find him handsome in the slightest. He’s a cruel and unfeeling man with no regard for the welfare of others.’

The small woman was regarding her quizzically. ‘Have you seen evidence of his nature to reach such a conclusion?’

Georgiana stood up and found herself a full head taller than her hostess. ‘Mirabelle,’ she implored, casting her hands out before her, ‘I’ve seen it with my own eyes. He owns the paper mill in Whitchurch and, because of his friendship with my family, invited us to visit. I attended with my mama and papa and explored all through the mill. Oh, Mirabelle, you wouldn’t believe how that man treats his employees. It’s truly awful. I saw one poor boy, who couldn’t have been more than five years old, running around gathering any rags that had fallen on the floor. He was as thin as a stick and couldn’t stop coughing. The child had the misfortune to drop a piece of material close to Mr Praxton—not that it touched him in any way at all. And do you know what that man did?’ Georgiana’s face contorted with anger. She swept on heedless of Mirabelle’s reply, fuelled by wrathful indignation. ‘He struck the boy hard across the head with his cane. Can you believe it?’ Her breast heaved dramatically, leaving Lady Farleigh in no doubt as to the extent of Miss Raithwaite’s feelings. ‘Blood ran from the child’s crown and the boy didn’t dare to utter a sound. Not one sound. That is the essence of Mr Praxton’s nature. Nothing excuses such callous behaviour.’ Georgiana’s eyes flashed with all the fervour of the stormiest sea, grey and green lights shimmering in their depths. ‘These people have nothing, Mirabelle. They steal bread to feed their families, such is their plight. And for that crime, Walter Praxton would have them flogged as thieves. He was the one who reported Tom Jenkins, and you know what fate that poor soul met.’

Lady Farleigh nodded. ‘Flogged through the streets before transportation for seven years.’ She pursed her lips. ‘Theft is indeed a crime, but the punishment seems a trifle harsh.’

‘Harsh?’ The word erupted from Georgiana with all the force of Mr Trevithick’s new Wylam locomotive. ‘That must be the greatest understatement I’ve heard.’

‘Georgiana, I understand that you feel sorry for these people, but you’re becoming distracted from the point. Mr Praxton is reprehensible to you. He’s behaved abominably and it’s quite clear that you cannot allow your stepfather to believe his lies.’

The fire surging through Georgiana’s blood mellowed and she let out a sigh. ‘I’ve tried. He won’t listen.’

‘Perhaps if you spoke to your mama, she would intercede for you.’

Georgiana wrung her hands miserably. ‘Mama loves me dearly, of that I’m sure, but she would never stand against my stepfather, not for anything in the world. She says that a good wife must do her husband’s bidding, for he always knows best.’

Exactly what Mirabelle Farleigh thought of that statement was written all over her face, but she made no mention of it.

‘Please, Mirabelle, do not blame her. My own dear papa died when I was fourteen years old, leaving Mama and me quite alone. After his death she was so lonely and afraid…and then she met Mr Raithwaite, and everything changed.’

Mirabelle laid a hand across Georgiana’s white knuckles and said gently, ‘Try to speak to your stepfather again. I’m sure that, once the truth is revealed to Mr Raithwaite, he’ll send Walter Praxton packing with a flea in his ear. You must speak to him, Georgiana, even if he doesn’t want to listen.’

Later that night, as Georgiana lay snug beneath the blankets within the four-poster bed she mulled over Mirabelle’s advice. It was the most sensible approach of course. No more moping. No more lying in bed. Mirabelle was right. Papa would be horrified to learn that Walter Praxton had used them both miserably and all talk of marriage would be dismissed. But first she just had to make Papa listen; knowing what she knew of her stepfather, that was not likely to prove an easy prospect. It was very late before Georgiana finally found sleep.

Two days later, and Georgiana had left the sanctuary of Farleigh Hall. The clock ticked its frantic pace upon the mantelpiece as she faced her stepfather across his study. She stood tall with her head high, her hands held tightly behind her back, trying hard to convey an air of confidence that she did not feel. From the moment of her entry to the room, it was clear that Mr Raithwaite’s annoyance with his stepdaughter had not mellowed since their last meeting in Farleigh Hall. He continued to write, refusing even to acknowledge her presence, never mind actually look at her. Georgiana waited in silence. The only sound in the room was the frenzied ticking. And still Edward Raithwaite concentrated on the papers lying neatly on the desk before him. Some fifteen minutes passed.

‘Papa.’ She uttered the word softly, as if to diffuse any notion of confrontation or insult it might contain.

Mr Raithwaite’s flowing script did not falter, his hand continuing its steady pace across the page.

She thought he had not heard or was intent on refusing any means of communication with her when he placed his pen upon the desk with the utmost care. Finally he raised his eyes to meet hers and they were filled with such unrelenting severity as to almost unnerve Georgiana before she even started.

‘Have you come to apologise for your appalling behaviour and the lack of respect with which you treated me the other day?’ His thick wrinkled hands lay calm and still upon the polished wood veneer, a stark contrast to Georgiana’s fingers, which were gripping onto each other behind her back.

‘I meant no disrespect to you, sir, and I’m sorry if my words sounded as such.’

Mr Raithwaite’s austere demeanour relaxed a little. ‘No doubt the shock of falling into the river was responsible for your harsh words. And now that you’ve had time to reflect upon the whole affair, you see the error of your ways.’ The elderly brow cleared a little more. ‘Mmm.’

A woman was expected to be obedient and unquestioning, first to her father, and then to her husband. Her stepfather was an old-fashioned man, fully supportive of the view that his wife and children were merely chattels. Nothing would be gained by antagonising him, or so Georgiana reasoned. The best strategy was to agree with most of what he said, even though it rankled with her to do so, and then, when he was at his most amenable, to reveal Mr Praxton’s lies. Not for the first time, Georgiana wished that she’d been born a man. The feeble weapons of women were not those she would have preferred to use. But they were the only ones available to her. She forced her face into a smile. ‘Indeed, Papa. I didn’t mean to be ill mannered with you. I know that you only have my best interests at heart.’

The old man nodded and looked at her with a strange speculative gleam in his eye. ‘Never a truer word has been spoken, Georgiana. Your welfare lies at the heart of all of my actions of late. It’s well that you realise that.’ And then he looked away, and the peculiar intensity of the moment had vanished.

It was precisely the opening Georgiana was looking for. ‘I never should have doubted it, and it’s with such an understanding in mind that I must speak with you. I ask only that you listen to me, for what I have to say is the truth. I would never lie to you, Papa, you must know that.’

He cleared his throat, rose, and meandered over to stand before the window. ‘Then say what you must, child, and be quick about it.’

The time had come. Now she would reveal Mr Praxton for the man he truly was. She pressed her cold clammy palms tighter and began to speak in what she hoped was a calm and controlled voice. Any hint of emotion could condemn her as a hysterical female, not worthy of Mr Raithwaite’s attention. ‘I’m aware that Mr Praxton has spoken to you regarding what happened prior to my accident. And I also know that you hold that same gentleman in high regard.’ She swallowed hard. ‘But I must tell you, sir, that Mr Praxton has not spoken the truth. I would never entertain an improper dalliance with any gentleman, let alone Mr Praxton. You know that I’ve never encouraged his attentions. Why should I then behave in the absurd manner he’s claimed? I swear that I’m innocent of his charges. He’s trying to make fools of us both.’ Her heart was pounding and her lips cracked dry. She waited to hear his understanding, his proud belief in her virtue, his condemnation of Walter Praxton.

Silence, save for the clock’s incessant ticking.