The Emerald Comb. Kathleen McGurl

she looked like spring embodied. Without a doubt she was a pretty young thing.

      ‘Good morning!’ he said, giving a small bow. ‘I was sorry not to have the pleasure of your company last night, but your uncle made me most welcome. I trust you are fully recovered today?’

      She smiled, her cheeks dimpling prettily. ‘Yes, I am perfectly well, thank you. And ready for some exercise, if you would care to walk with me?’

      ‘I can think of nothing I would like more. It is windy out – you will require a shawl, I think.’

      ‘I shall ask Agnes to fetch me one,’ she said, and she pulled the servants’ bell-cord.

      Bartholomew felt the now-familiar surge in his chest at the thought of another glimpse of Agnes. But it was Peters who answered the bell, and was sent upstairs to fetch the shawl.

      The wind was indeed strong, and Georgia slipped her small, gloved hand through his arm to steady herself as they walked eastwards along the promenade, with the wind at their backs. They nodded at other walkers. They must make a handsome couple, he supposed – Georgia with her blonde daintiness and tiny waist, he with his upright bearing, fine shoulders and bushy side-whiskers.

      After a while, they approached the busy part of town, in front of the Regent’s Pavilion and the bottom end of the Old Steine gardens. Georgia proposed that they went onto the beach to walk back. It was rough going over the pebbles, and the wind sent a fine spray from the sea into their faces, but it was invigorating.

      ‘Marvellous place to live,’ Bartholomew said. ‘With this on your doorstep and the Assembly Rooms for entertainment, you have everything you could want.’

      ‘I suppose so,’ Georgia replied. ‘Though I confess I preferred living in the country. I only moved to Brighton after my father died, when Uncle Charles took me in.’

      ‘And how would you feel about living in London?’ he asked. If he married her, that would be where they would live, for that was where most of his property and business interests were.

      She shuddered. ‘I should think it would be too big and brash for me. All those people, and so little space. At my father’s house in Lincolnshire I would go for long walks across the fields, seeing no one except a few farm labourers. It was blissful.’

      He smiled. ‘I had you down as a party girl – I thought you enjoyed the excitement and glamour of the Assembly Rooms. You were there last night, were you not?’

      ‘My uncle insists I go to every ball. I missed having a proper coming out in London, as I was in mourning. But he is desperate to find me a husband. Oh!’ She put her hand to her mouth. ‘I should not be saying this to you. But I have always found you so easy to talk to.’

      ‘I am happy to listen, my dear Miss Holland.’

      ‘Oh, call me Georgia, do! You know, I quite think of you as another uncle – no, as a favourite uncle. Do you mind?’

      He did mind; a favoured uncle was hardly the kind of man she would want to marry. But he laughed and shook his head. ‘Not at all, Georgia.’

      ‘Good!’ She stopped walking and turned to face him. ‘May I ask your advice about something, please? It is perhaps a little personal, but it is the kind of thing a girl would talk to her favourite uncle about…’ She lifted her eyes to his.

      He raised his eyebrows questioningly. Perhaps if he gained her confidences he would then be able to gain her affections.

      ‘It is about my marriage prospects,’ she said, blushing. ‘I – I think that I have some money held in trust, from the sale of my father’s property, and that when I marry my husband would be in control of that money. But I confess I have no idea how much it is. Am I rich, Mr St Clair? Am I a good marriage prospect for some eligible young bachelor? Oh, forgive me if I embarrass you with such talk!’

      ‘If I am to call you Georgia, you must call me Bartholomew. And no, you do not embarrass me. But I cannot answer you. I am afraid you must discuss this matter with your real uncle who is, I believe, a trustee of your estate as well as being your guardian. You are right: you should know what you are worth. Some men might court you only for your wealth, and not for yourself.’ He coughed.

      ‘But surely not Mr Perry,’ she said, blushing and turning away.

      Bartholomew straightened his shoulders. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not acquainted with the gentleman of whom you speak.’

      Georgia turned towards the sea and gazed at the horizon. ‘I have met him several times at the Assembly Rooms. He has called on me a few times in the afternoons. I believe he may propose to me.’

      ‘And will you accept?’

      ‘Oh, Bartholomew, I do not know! Do you think I should?’

      ‘Is he rich?’

      ‘He works for his father who is a wine merchant. I believe he owns a small house in Kemptown. But doesn’t love matter more than wealth?’

      ‘Do you love him?’

      ‘Yes, I think I do…’

      Bartholomew thought hard. He needed to turn Georgia away from this Perry fellow, without also turning her away from him. He’d won her trust, and surely that went a long way as a foundation for a good marriage? Besides, he needed her inheritance. He needed to switch on his charm.

      He stepped towards her and took her hands. ‘Georgia, my dear, although it sounds harsh, I do not think you should marry for love. You need to think of your future comfort. Think of the children you will have, and the kind of life you would like them to lead. If you marry this man Perry, you might have a couple of happy years to begin with, but then the realities of lower middle-class life would kick in. Could you really live in a small Kemptown house, having been used to your uncle’s substantial property? You would only be able to afford a minimum of servants – a cook perhaps, and a maid-of-all-work. You are used to having your own lady’s maid, and a very fine maid she is.’ He cleared his throat. ‘My advice, which you may not want to hear, is to be practical when it comes to marriage. Accept the best proposal you can get, from the richest man, who will be able to keep you in a manner which befits your class. Put thoughts of romantic love aside. As long as you respect and trust the man, and don’t find him wholly repulsive, you will be able to love him in time. Love grows, my dear. The enduring type rarely arrives fully formed.’

      Georgia had kept her gaze fixed on the horizon for the first part of this speech, but now she looked deep into his eyes. ‘But where will I find such a man? No one else has made me a proposal, or indeed, shown any interest in me. And I know I am a burden to my uncle; the sooner I marry and move out of his house, the better, as far as he is concerned.’ She brushed away a tear. ‘Forgive me. If only my father were still alive, he would know what to do. I miss him so much.’

      Bartholomew pulled out his silk handkerchief and gave it to her. ‘It is barely a year since he died, isn’t it? Of course you miss him still.’

      He realised there was a chance for him here, if he played the game right. He watched as she dabbed at her tears with the handkerchief. ‘ I think I know what your father might have advised,’ he said, gently.

      She looked up at him in surprise. ‘Please, tell me.’

      ‘Marry a man you like and trust, and who can provide a secure future for you. Someone who is already established in life, perhaps a little older than yourself. Someone of whom your uncle approves. Someone…well, someone like me.’

      He watched as her eyes widened, and a smile began to play at the corners of her mouth. ‘Do you mean to say…’

      ‘I do mean to say… I mean, Georgia, I would consider it an honour if you would agree to be my wife.’ Well, the words were out, the deed was done. If she said yes, there was no going back.

      Her smile widened, and she raised an eyebrow. ‘Bartholomew, I did not suspect you cared for me in that way! I am flattered, honoured, and, well…