Free Season of Light by Katharine McMahon Page B

it was there that Georgina first noticed a fair-haired gentleman dressed in black, who was drinking heavily and placing ever more extravagant bets. The talk, as usual, was of the scandalous events in France: London was still reeling from the news that a mob of low-lifes had invaded the Palace of the Tuileries, threatened the lives of the king and queen, and forced the Revolutionary Assembly, France’s new but ramshackle equivalent to the exemplary British Parliament, to declare an end to the monarchy. The French royal family was now interred in some dreadful prison and twelve hundred people were dead, mostly the king’s Swiss guards but also a considerable number of the Parisians who had invaded the palace.
    ‘So death, at least,’ said the fair-haired gentleman, ‘is proving egalitarian in France.’
    ‘A state of affairs in which the future of our nearest neighbour is decided by mob rule cannot be countenanced,’ replied Warren. ‘Soon we’ll have no choice but to declare war on the French or vice versa.’
    ‘You seem rather excited by the prospect of war,’ said the stranger, scooping up a heap of chips.
    ‘That,’ whispered one of Georgina’s gossipy friends, ‘is young Harry Shackleford. I say young, but actually he must be well over thirty by now. What I meant is, he’s the younger Shackleford. If I were you I wouldn’t let your husband play him at dice much longer – he’ll be bankrupt within half an hour.’
    Georgina, decked out in a gown copied from the style known as chemise à la reine , after a dress worn by Queen Marie Antoinette in her pre-revolutionary attempts to emulate a shepherdess, put her hand to her throat. ‘ Shackleford . Tell me more. My distant cousins are called Shackleford. When my father dies it’s a Shackleford who stands to inherit everything.’
    ‘But surely you must have heard? It seems to me that nobody’s talked about anything else for weeks. Harry Shackleford has recently inherited several hundred thousand pounds and vast estates in Somerset.’
    ‘ Somerset . Our relatives are from Somerset.’
    ‘Then claim kinship quick. You see, until a couple of months ago Harry Shackleford was worth virtually nothing. Then the news came that both his father and his brother had died at sea, in very odd circumstances.’
    ‘What can you mean?’
    ‘Who knows? The thing is, they were on a voyage to Jamaica but never arrived. Nobody’s sure what happened. Some say disease, others mutiny or revolt. But one way or another Harry has inherited the lot.’
    The minute there was a pause in play Georgina gathered her skirts, glided over and dropped a deep curtsy so that Shackleford was confronted by her magnificent bosom and a froth of silver-sprigged muslin. ‘Mr Shackleford, forgive me, but I felt I must come and offer my condolences since we’re related. In fact, I believe that I too should have been wearing black, or perhaps purple, if only I’d known.’ Shackleford, bewildered, stood up and bowed. ‘My name is Georgina Warren. You’ve been dicing with my husband for the last half-hour and neither of you realised you were relatives. I’m a daughter of Squire Ardleigh of Sussex. Do you see the connection?’
    After her bosom, Georgina’s smile was by far her best feature. Her nose was broad and her face rather square but her smile, which revealed a full set of white teeth, was delectable, and the accompanying toss of curls had certainly been the downfall of Geoffrey Warren. But it was her words, on this occasion, which had a bizarre effect on Shackleford, who drew breath sharply and even seemed a little flustered.
    ‘Mrs Warren, I’m delighted to meet you. How very kind of you to make yourself known to me. Is your family well?’
    ‘Goodness, they’re all extremely well, I’m sure. Unlike your own. Oh, it’s so sad. You lost both your father and your brother at the same time, I believe.’ Her eyes filled with tears.
    Shackleford shrugged. As Georgina later