Veronica. Nattie Jones
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She greeted me as she would a sister. “Georgette! You must call me Georgette! We are as sisters, now!”
She hugged me, and I tried to receive it gracefully.
When I took a seat, I folded my hands in my lap, exactly as I had when I'd been interviewing for a position as lady’s companion, two years earlier. I was certain I should say something, but I could think of nothing. I had accompanied Lady Bridget on many social occasions, and now I realized how little I had paid attention. I preferred the fantasies in my head to my reality.
“Oh my dear sister,” she gushed. “You look positively worn out from the journey. I will show you to your room.”
I stared at her in shock. Certainly she would not show me herself, but she was standing and preparing to do just so. I really wanted to know if she resented me, if she thought her brother's choice peculiar, if she suspected the worst of me, if she thought the whole situation odd. I wanted to know if she knew of the secret circumstances that had compelled the Duke to propose to me.
I stared at her sweet smile, her kind eyes and her pretty blond hair, and realized I would never know these answers. If perhaps she thought me a terrible choice, she would never say so outright. It made me uncomfortable and far more uncertain than if she had been cold to me or if she had given me a scolding until I was compelled to cry.
I think I responded to her, but I couldn't remember. I followed her to my room, and once left, I collapsed on the bed in mental exhaustion.
What girl does not dream of marrying a rich Duke? But my fantasies had never mentioned the difficulties. Confronted with the first person that knew of the engagement, I felt every word I uttered and everything I did could be taken as proof that I was not of the right sort.
I went to the mirror and stared at my dress. It was a drab sort of yellow. My allowance from Lady Bridget had not been generous. I believed she would have been more generous once she married: she had always seemed afraid I would outshine her. She had taken some care to choose a woman she thought plain, and she had succeeded in me. I had once done my hair in a fashion like hers, in the hopes of appearing more respectable for her. The rage she'd flown into had taught me my plainness was more desirable than my respectability.
It was ironic: I had never imagined her fears had any root in reality. I felt, in some way, that I had betrayed her. I would not have been in the Duke's manor at all, if not for Lady Bridget. And now I was marrying the catch of the peerage. I'd been fascinated by her for the first year, and gradually I'd grown more careful and more guarded. I had not liked being what she wanted, but I was dependent on her allowance.
After I dressed for dinner, I had gathered my confidence to me like a crutch. Every time I felt inferior to the Countess, I reminded myself that she could one day be dependent on my charity, should her circumstances drastically deteriorate. I reminded myself she was younger than I was.
I even convinced myself that it was my job to put her at ease. I could not wholly delude myself, but I did manage to converse with Georgette throughout dinner.
When we were alone, after dinner, she turned to me with enthusiasm. “My brother told me no details. Please, you must tell me everything.”
I must have looked shocked, because an expression of uncertainty passed over her face.
“We are sisters now. I've always wanted a sister. Do you have a sister?”
This was an easier question to answer. “Yes, her name is Sarah. She is married to a clergyman.”
Georgette fluttered a hand to her heart, as if this was the most romantic thing she'd ever heard. “My husband is not much concerned with me. He was pleased with me after I bore our son, but now he spends much time in London.” She crinkled her nose. “I have hopes he will return today or tomorrow.”
She stared out the window, and then her attention suddenly snapped to me. “But my brother will not be like that, I promise you. He is most attentive to his sister and his cousins, and he will be to you, too.” She spoke in a tone that suggested she would scold him soundly if I ever reported otherwise.
I laughed more loudly than a lady should, and she grinned all the wider. I really liked her, and for a moment, I wished I could be her lady's companion and not Lady Bridget's. But then I remembered I was no one's lady's companion.
Would I hire a lady's companion?
What a startling thought.
I realized Georgette was looking at me shyly, as if she very much wanted me to agree to something she was about to ask.
“My brother has suggested we go to London so you could be outfitted for new dresses, but there is a dressmaker in town who is a dear. She makes the most beautiful dresses, and everyone always thinks I go to Paris for them.” She paused. “She apprenticed in London, but her mother is very ill, so she will not return.”
I thought better of Georgette. “I will be happy to go wherever you like.”
At that moment, a man entered. Georgette jumped up and greeted him with enthusiasm, and I was certain this was her husband. He looked twice her age, quite a bit older than the Duke.
I stood, and Georgette introduced us.
“This is my husband, Lord Riverchurch, but you must call him Michael. He is your brother now.”
I curtsied as she introduced me as “Miss Veronica Bridges.”
He frowned. “Bridges?” he asked, as if trying to place the name.
“Sir Thomas,” I said. “He has passed on.”
“And how were you introduced to the Duke?” He spoke so severely, his disapproval was clear. Had he heard some gossip and returned to his wife in order to protect her from me? Or protect the Duke from his rash proposal?
I did not dare address him as Michael, in spite of Georgette's invitation. “I was Lady Bridget's companion, my Lord.”
His eyebrow lifted. Just the one eyebrow. I realized I was holding my breath. As he surveyed me, I tried to breathe normally, but I felt like the effort it cost me was visible. I braved a glance at Georgette to see if she also disapproved.
She was smiling as if nothing was amiss, as if her husband was not glaring at me, as if the room was not thick with tension, as if everything was grand. She seemed so happy to see this stern, serious, disapproving man that I had to take a second look at him to see if I had missed some kindness or charity in him.
I curtsied. I thanked them and begged tiredness, then excused myself. I ran away. It was not my proudest moment.
I was anything but tired: my heart was beating so fast my chest hurt. I made my way up the stairs and nearly knocked over a maid. She looked startled and immediately turned to face the wall as I passed.
“Please forgive me,” I said.
She turned and looked at me. When I said nothing else, she curtsied and said, “Yes, mum.” Her gaze went past my shoulder, and I turned to see what she was looking at. Lord Riverchurch frowned up at us, and the maid hurriedly turned to the wall again. I continued up to my room.
It was very late when I heard muffled cries from far away. I sat up in bed. It was not my home, so I told myself to return to sleep. But trying not to listen made my ears strain all the more. Perhaps I would peak out in the hallway. I put on my robe and stole to the doorway.
I pushed the door open just a crack. The candles were still lit in the hallway, and the sounds drifted from the right.
It was a spanking.
I had never heard a spanking before, but still the sound was unmistakable. The sound of a hand slapping flesh was something I had only imagined, but I had been accurate. The crying was hearty and unembarrassed.
My breathing sped up, and I felt very hot. I was compelled down the hallway. Was