Reputation Read online

  For Jane Austen. Sorry, Jane.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Acknowledgements

  Reading Group Questions

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  I

  t all began at a party, as almost everything of interest does.

  This particular party was by no means a grand affair. Dinner had been distinctly lacking. The man tasked with playing the viola seemed to be hurting it a little. A scar-city of candles – entirely due to poor planning on the host’s part, rather than a lack of monetary means to produce light – meant that whole rooms were so dark as to be hazardous.

  ‘It’s romantic!’ Mrs Burton had said generously as they were given the grand tour a few hours earlier, narrowly avoiding a headlong collision with a serving girl carrying a tray of diluted punch, who stepped deftly out of the way and was immediately swallowed into the shadows.

  It was not romantic. Her aunt had promised a night of skilful dancing, delicately blossoming friendships, and a wealth of eligible bachelors with shiny coat buttons and dashing moustaches. Instead, Georgiana was reclining in a gloomy alcove in the empty hallway, tying and untying little knots in her second-best ribbon and thinking wistfully of Viking funerals.

  Norse warriors were often burned on pyres with their boats, along with a great many of their personal effects. She had read about the custom in one of her uncle’s books, and had talked about it animatedly and at length earlier in the week at the Burtons’ dinner table while eating her potatoes. She was just getting to the part about wives and thralls following their masters into death when her aunt had slammed her hand down onto the table in an out-of-character display of force and cried, ‘Are you quite finished, Georgiana?’

  Georgiana had looked up from the potatoes to find her aunt’s face the very picture of horror.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Burton, but if you’d only let me finish, I don’t think the wives and thralls minded following the Vikings into death. The Norse believed in a sort of heaven. If Mr Burton were to fall on his morning walk tomorrow and dash his brains out on a rock, wouldn’t you want to go with him? If Heaven is as lovely as everyone says it is, it would be like a holiday. You’re so looking forward to St Ives in September – it would be like getting to go early. Wouldn’t you throw yourself upon a flaming pyre if you could be in St Ives tomorrow?’

  Evidently, Mrs Burton would not. The subject of Vikings had been banned from polite conversation.

  In the thirteen days since Georgiana had come to stay with her aunt and uncle, she had come to know them far better than she ever had in the past twenty years of her life. It had become clear to her rather quickly that while the Burtons were very kind and accommodating people, they were also particularly skilled at filling whole days and weeks with the kinds of monotonous minutiae that Georgiana could take no pleasure in. Any suggestion of an outing or an activity that bore even the slightest resemblance to a thrill or a caper had been tutted down with the proclamation that they were still ‘getting her settled’.

  Georgiana already felt so settled that if she were forced to settle any further, she might lose sentience altogether and become an integral part of the structure of the house – the human equivalent of a load-bearing beam. She had recently spent an entire afternoon in her new and rather small bedroom being forced to try on every item of clothing she owned, while Mrs Burton and her shy maid Emmeline checked for required fixes or alterations. By the time they were appraising her last gown, Georgiana had become itchy, quarrelsome and alarmingly wild-eyed with irritation.

  Clearly, in Mrs Burton’s eyes, the process of becoming properly ‘settled’ required a period of boredom and loneliness so excruciating that it rendered its subject broken in spirit, and therefore far less likely to rebel against the usual rituals of the house. There were only so many times a person could read the local advertisements, or arrange hundreds of embroidery needles by size, or discuss upcoming meals for three people as if they were feeding the five thousand. The morning when a neighbour’s horse had escaped and circled the garden, incoherent with freedom, was such a bright spot of excitement that she clung to the memory of it for days afterwards.

  This was not how fresh starts began in stories – and Georgiana had read a lot of them. A fortnight ago, she had dragged a trunk twice her weight to her aunt and uncle’s house, full of the tomes she had been unable to part with from home. In all the books she’d read in which a heroine started over in a new town or village or castle, she had immediately stumbled upon a series of daring adventures, or got dramatically lost on the moors, or swooned into the arms of a passing (and very handsome) gentleman.

  In absolutely none of them did the heroine spend two weeks staring at a patch of damp on a parlour ceiling, wondering if it looked more like a man falling over a stool or an owl playing billiards.

  Georgiana had begged her aunt rather doggedly for some form of social outing, and she supposed this party was her penance. She had been hiding in her alcove for almost an hour, wishing she’d had the presence of mind to bring a book. From here, she was perfectly placed to observe the comings and goings of guests as they shuffled from dining room to drawing room, and to eavesdrop on them in passing. Unfortunately, their hosts, the Gadforths, seemed to only know men and women above the age of five-and-forty without a shred of personality between them. Georgiana had eavesdropped on the exact same conversation twice, between two entirely different groups of people, about whether the drapes in the dining room were red or purple, and which constituted the more garish choice. All involved on both occasions were in agreement that either would be unseemly, but that as it was too dark to settle the matter presently, they’d revisit the subject at a later and more convenient date.

  ‘They’re plum,’ Georgiana muttered to herself, reaching for her drink as the latest group of soft furnishings experts ambled away out of earshot.

  ‘Nonsense. They’re sort of wine-coloured.’

  The reply came from so close to her ear that Georgiana immediately knocked her glass over in shock. She felt Mrs Gadforth’s undrinkable punch soaking rapidly through her dress and petticoat as she twisted around to find the source of the voice.

  The ledge Georgiana had situated herself on was tucked behind one of many mock-Grecian plaster pillars; clearly somebody else had been making similar use of one of the others for some time without her notice. She heard a rustle of skirts, saw a slender hand alight on the plaster, and then without conscious thought she was moving over so that the like-minded intruder could slide in next to her.

  In the low light Georgiana made out a slight figure, with a dark complexion and a lot of black, curly hair swept up intricately on top of her head. She was perfumed with something heady and floral, and as the stranger held out an elegant hand for her
to clasp, Georgiana caught a glimpse of bright stones and flashing gold.

  ‘Frances Campbell,’ the woman said in a polished voice, and then before Georgiana could reply, ‘This is without a doubt the worst party I’ve ever been to. If anything remotely stimulating happened I think they’d all keel over from the shock.’

  ‘I’m Georgiana,’ said Georgiana. ‘Ellers.’

  ‘Oh? I wouldn’t be here at all, only my father sold a painting to these dreadful people, the Godforths. They were just beside themselves, carrying on about what a triumph it would be and what great friends they hoped we’d all become. It was a hideous painting – Father couldn’t wait to be rid of it; he inherited it, for his sins. I suppose it’ll fit in just fine here, though, with all of . . . this.’ She waved a hand at the offensive pillars.

  ‘They’re called Gadforth,’ said Georgiana, wondering why she was suddenly only capable of announcing names.

  Frances Campbell didn’t seem to notice; she had put a hand down on the ledge between them, and then quickly removed it again.

  ‘But what on earth has happened to your dress?’ Georgiana had somehow entirely forgotten about the spillage, but Frances must have put her fingers directly into it. ‘I hope it wasn’t a favourite. Another tragic casualty of this vile punch. Here, don’t fret – have some of this.’

  She passed Georgiana a small flask, which Georgiana accepted and brought to her lips without question in a sort of daze, spluttering as something much stronger than punch burned in her throat.

  ‘It’s Cognac. Dreadful, isn’t it?’ Frances said delightedly as Georgiana coughed. ‘Have some more.’

  Georgiana did.

  She had never before met somebody capable of making such a bold impression in such a short period of time. She had known Frances Campbell for perhaps fifty or sixty seconds, and was already dreading the moment she’d slip off the ledge and abandon Georgiana to the rest of her solitary evening. She was certainly no swashbuckling adventurer or windswept nobleman, but Georgiana knew at once that she was in the presence of a Main Character.

  ‘I can’t believe they have the audacity to call this a party,’ Frances was saying, gesticulating violently with her free hand as she took the Cognac back with the other. ‘It has all the joy and charm of a dog’s funeral. And why is it so dark? I almost tripped on my hem and fell through a window earlier, and then I thought, actually, on the whole, that might be preferable. We are on the ground floor, after all.’

  Georgiana snorted with laughter, and then felt immediately embarrassed to have made such a repulsive noise.

  ‘Who dragged you here, anyway?’

  ‘Oh.’ Georgiana cleared her throat, her voice croaky and disused from an evening where she had mostly communicated via the humble nod. ‘I’m staying with my aunt and uncle, the Burtons. I believe they’ve been friends with the Gadforths for quite some time. They’re lovely, the Burtons,’ she said hurriedly, seeing Frances’s dark eyebrow twitch, ‘but I cannot account for their taste in parties. Believe me, if I had thought of the window I would be but a distant dot to you now, gathering speed as I rolled down the hill.’

  Frances laughed. She took Georgiana’s empty glass and filled it with Cognac, handing it back to her and then raising the flask as if to make a toast.

  ‘Cheers – to our monstrous families, and to the infinite number of far better parties we’re missing this very instant! May our friends wreak sensational havoc in our stead.’

  Georgiana did not think the Burtons particularly monstrous, and due to her current and miserable lack of connections she had absolutely nowhere better to be, but it seemed rude to bring that up at the minute, so she clinked her glass against the flask and drank deeply. Frances sighed wearily, wilting against the pillar as if there were truly no agony in this world greater than enduring a below-par social occasion.

  ‘The only consolation in all of this is that the lady of the house is truly a character. Have you seen her dress? It’s all pink satin and questionable corseting. She looks like a strawberry blancmange that somebody’s grabbed hold of and squeezed. I imagine Mr Gadforth will have to rub her down with goose fat to slide her out of it later.’

  Georgiana giggled, flushed and giddy from the attention and the Cognac, which seemed to spur Frances on. She was just describing Mr Gadforth’s moustache – ‘have you ever seen a squirrel that’s been trampled by a horse?’ – when they heard the tapping of metal on glass, followed by a lapse in the hubbub from the drawing room that indicated somebody was about to make a speech. Rolling her eyes, Frances got to her feet and smoothed the folds of her dress, tucking the flask neatly away in her reticule.

  ‘Come on. Mr Gadforth is about to cry with joy and offer his earthly body and immortal soul to my father in thanks for that damned painting, and I should be there to smile and curtsey – or at least to restrain him, when he goes in for an open-mouthed kiss.’

  She offered an arm to Georgiana, and they walked back into the party looking to all the world like dear old friends and closest confidantes.

  Mr and Mrs Gadforth were, in fact, standing directly in front of what must have been That Damned Painting, beaming at their guests and clutching overfilled glasses in their somewhat sweaty hands. She now couldn’t help but see poor Mrs Gadforth exactly as Frances had described her, and bit down on a snort of laughter as their hostess clumsily adjusted her bodice, heaving her bosoms optimistically skyward. Frances laughed, too, making absolutely no effort to conceal her mirth, and then unlinked her arm from Georgiana’s and gave a brief, sarcastic bow of farewell before crossing the room to stand with two people Georgiana assumed must be Mr and Mrs Campbell.

  Suddenly feeling exposed without a new friend or relative to hide behind, Georgiana stepped to the back of the room as Mr Gadforth cleared his throat and began to speak. She didn’t hear a word of what she was sure was an excruciating monologue; instead, she was looking at the Campbells.

  Frances’s father was a handsome man: tall, pale and broad-shouldered, dark hair and moustache neatly combed. He looked imposing and almost military in his bearing, and had fixed a small smile upon his lips that, though it may have wavered a little as Mr Gadforth got louder and more enthusiastic, never faltered. His wife was also tall and striking, but she was slender where he was well-built, and her skin was very dark; Georgiana thought she must have originated from Africa, or perhaps the West Indies – undoubtedly somewhere far less grey than England. Upon first glance nobody seemed to be paying her any mind, but when Georgiana looked again, she noticed that the gentleman standing a few feet away couldn’t stop his eyes from returning to Mrs Campbell every few seconds; a servant, passing by with a tray of drinks, stared openly. She was dressed in sumptuous navy silk, with thick, tight black curls expertly shaped and pinned in place; the necklace at her throat was unmistakably frosted with real diamonds.

  Impressive as her parents were, neither compared to Frances.

  Georgiana could see her clearly now, for Mrs Gadforth had obviously concentrated her candle budget in this room and this room alone. Frances’s dress was cut simply but meticulously bejewelled, so that she seemed to shimmer whenever she caught the light. Her cheeks had a certain lustre, which probably gave the impression of a lively, youthful glow to all those unaware that the effect had been achieved through copious quantities of French brandy. There was something about her eyes – gold-brown, startlingly bright against the dark amber of her skin – that implied she had just thought of something extraordinarily funny. Everything from the ribbons in her hair to the way she held herself spoke of unimaginable wealth, and the unpractised elegance that went with it. Georgiana felt instantly unworthy of such company, coupled with a much more urgent and desperate desire to somehow woo Frances and win her as a friend.

  Mr Gadforth, meanwhile, was clearly reaching the climax of his speech.

  ‘This fine painting – this exquisite work of art – has completed our home, and I shall think fondly of my extraordinarily kind friend, the most hig
hly esteemed Lord Campbell, whenever I look upon it.’

  Georgiana startled, almost spilling her drink for the second time that night, then stole another awed glance at Frances’s parents – not Mr and Mrs Campbell after all, but Lord and Lady Campbell. She looked back at Frances, who was positively smirking at Mr Gadforth now; he was smiling back benignly as he raised his glass, as if he were in on the jest rather than the unfortunate subject of it.

  The speech concluded to polite applause, and Georgiana’s stomach clenched uncomfortably. If Frances and her parents were to escape now, it would put an abrupt end to this brief and sparkling recess from the monotony of her life with the Burtons. If she had to endure another week consisting solely of conversations about the thread counts of shawls, or the right conditions to grow turnips, she knew she’d lose control of her rational mind. Frances held promise of future witty conversations, esteemed company and parties one did not dream of escaping by rolling down a steep hill and landing in a stagnant ditch. Frances felt like the beginning of something – a story Georgiana desperately wanted to follow through to the end.

  As voices rose all around the room and general socialising resumed, she didn’t dare look up to see whether the Campbells had made a graceful exit; she felt light-headed with relief when a cool hand touched her arm.

  ‘You look terribly lonely back here,’ said Frances. ‘Like you’ve just suffered a jilting. Come and meet my parents instead.’ She steered Georgiana across the room to make introductions.

  ‘Are you summering here, Miss Ellers?’ Lady Campbell asked, once formalities had been exchanged.

  ‘In a sense I am, Lady Campbell, although I may outlast the summer,’ Georgiana said, affecting what she hoped was a light and jocular tone, as if her circumstances only faintly amused her. ‘My mother has been unwell, so she and my father have moved to the coast, for the air. They thought it best that I remained closer to civilisation. My aunt and uncle – the Burtons – have been most kind as to take me in. They live just over the west bridge.’