Regency Debutantes: The Captain's Lady / Mistaken Mistress. Margaret McPhee
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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.
Georgiana longed to still its maniacal movement, but she waited with restrained patience.
Eventually her stepfather turned from the window to face her. ‘No man, or woman for that matter, makes a fool of me.’ His voice was slow and measured.
The breath escaped her in a small sigh of relief. The deed was done, the truth told. Mr Praxton would be banished from her life.
‘How could you even think it?’ He surveyed her with a closed look. ‘Whether you did, or did not, indulge in unladylike behaviour no longer matters. Your marriage to Mr Praxton has been arranged and in time you’ll come to see that it’s a good thing for both our families. Mr Praxton thinks very highly of you and I trust you will endeavour to become a good wife.’
A strangled laugh escaped Georgiana’s lips as she stared at her stepfather with growing disbelief. ‘He lied to you, tried to destroy my reputation. Does that mean nothing? You would still have me wed him?’
Edward Raithwaite’s manner was carefully impassive. ‘There was never