The teacup slipped from Georgiana's hand.
It broke upon the saucer with a sound like fractured crystal, sharp and merciless, so that Eleanor started from her quiet repose. Yet Georgiana scarcely noticed. Already that telltale warmth—dark, metallic—had begun its descent.
With practised grace she raised her handkerchief, though not before a single drop of crimson had fallen upon the whiteness of her gown.
Not now. Not here.
"Georgiana—!" Eleanor's voice rose, shrill with alarm.
But Georgiana had already tilted her head back, in that elegant motion so often rehearsed, cambric pressed to her lip, white already flowering red.
"It is nothing," she murmured—through lace and deceit. "The heat."
A falsehood. The conservatory was cool as a crypt, its panes dimmed with the mist of morning.
Eleanor moved swiftly toward her—too swift, too earnest—but Georgiana stayed her with a raised hand. The chamber tilted as she did so.
Ah—curse it all.
Her sight darkened at the edges, like velvet left too long to spoil. And the last she saw, before the floor rose to claim her, was Eleanor's face—wide with horror, framed by drooping fronds and the dim, filtered light.
---
Lord Hastings' Study – Later
"Again?"
Lord Hastings did not lift his eyes from the ledger.
Georgiana sat upright in the chair opposite, a fresh handkerchief pressed to her lips. The bleeding had ceased, yet the iron taste lingered—like rust upon silver.
"Yes," she replied evenly.
Her father sighed—the long, weary breath he reserved alike for tenants' quarrels and women's weakness. He laid down his pen with deliberate care.
"You told Eleanor it was the heat?"
"She believed me."
"Good." He steepled his fingers, the signet catching the light. "And the fainting?"
"A passing indisposition. She thinks it bridal nerves."
He let out a dry laugh. "Let her."
Georgiana's nails pressed crescents into her palms. "Father… this grows worse."
He regarded her a long while—the unnatural pallor, the shadows beneath her eyes, the defiance wrapped in courtesy. At last he spoke, cool as judgment pronounced:
"Dr. Mayhew shall send more draught. It is the vapours, Georgiana. A condition most suitable for a young lady in your state."
She nearly laughed aloud. The vapours. As though her veins were not already staging a mutiny, betraying her by slow, scarlet degrees. Yet she knew well the futility of dissent.
"As you wish," she said softly, the very image of obedient decorum.
He turned again to his accounts.
Dismissed.
She rose, slower than she would have liked. His voice arrested her at the door.
"See that you do not swoon before the Blackwoods. Alexander harbours… reservations. Weakness will not recommend you."
Her smile was knife-thin. "Shall I contrive to bleed after the vows, Father? So there may be no question of returning the goods?"
The silence that followed was colder than the family vault.
A flick of his fingers. Go.
She left without another word—handkerchief clutched like contraband, spine straight, and every step an act of defiance.
---
Georgiana staggered to her chamber, each pace an effort. The corridor wavered faintly before her eyes, shadows lying long across the carpet.
"Why… why is this happening to me…" The words escaped her lips in a breath scarcely her own.
She sank upon the edge of her bed, the coverlet chill beneath her palms. Slowly, almost unwillingly, she reached for the small cupboard at her side. From it she drew her diary—the leather worn, the edges frayed. She breathed out sharply, as though even air had grown heavy, before opening it.
It seemed heavier than memory. She turned back the pages—further, and further still—until her fingers stilled. Her eyes fixed upon a single entry, the ink pale yet unyielding. She read but a few lines ere her throat closed and her vision blurred.
"Mama…" The whisper broke from her, fragile as glass.
---
A child crouched in a narrow chamber, pressed into the angle beside a door. Her knees were drawn close to her breast, her arms wrapped tight about them, her fingers clamped hard upon her ears. Her hair fell forward like a curtain, veiling her face—yet not the tears that fell upon the cold marble.
"LET ME GO—" The cry rang out, ragged, desperate, echoing until it died in silence. That silence lingered—thick, waiting—before the tread of deliberate steps drew near.
The latch turned. The door opened with a long, reluctant creak. A figure filled the threshold—her father. His shirt was drenched, his hands and collar dark with stain. He spoke not. His gaze passed over her like a shadow, and then he was gone.
She fled into the next chamber—
---
Georgiana's eyes flew open. The ceiling hung pale above her. She could not recall when sleep had claimed her. Yet the taste of that memory clung still—bitter upon her tongue, like ashes that would not fade.
---
TO BE CONTINUED