Free Fogging Over by Annie Dalton Page A

hands behind her back like a child in a talent show.
    “The mistress says no hawkers, no traders and no workhouse riffraff,” she recited in a pleased voice.
    “I’m not selling anything and I’m not riffraff,” said Georgie with dignity. “My name is Georgie Hannay. Please tell my uncle I wish to see him, and that it’s a matter of life and death.”
    A few minutes later the maid flounced back, and sulkily showed Georgie in to his uncle.
    He was sitting by a crackling fire, apparently reading The Times. He had long dark hair with dramatic silver streaks. He was actually really handsome, I thought, in a slightly haunted way. A little speckled black and white spaniel was sitting wistfully at his feet, hoping to be noticed. It gave a joyful bark when we came in and Georgie’s uncle looked up.
    “Georgie! What is this ‘matter of life and death’ you have to see me about?”
    Georgie stammered out his story. He explained that Charlotte’s cough was getting worse and that she urgently needed a doctor. “But we can’t afford his fee, so I wondered if you could help us. I promise I’d pay you back,” he said anxiously.
    The whole time Georgie was talking, his uncle was searching his face with a strangely hungry expression. It wasn’t like he was really seeing Georgie, I thought, so much as looking through him to someone else.
    “I thought of asking Miss Temple,” Georgie babbled nervously. “But if she suspected my sister was ill, she might put her back on the street. I am so afraid Charlotte may have tuberculosis, like poor mama.” His lip trembled.
    His uncle was nodding as if he genuinely sympathised.“It must be worrying for you.”
    At that moment both Georgie and the neglected little cocker spaniel both wore an identical expression of hope and longing.
    “You do realise that before I do anything, I must first consult with your aunt, Mrs Scrivener?” his uncle said.
    “I understand—” Georgie began.
    His uncle cut across him. “I’m afraid you don’t. Mrs Scrivener is a formidable woman, some might say frightening, and it is she who holds the purse strings. The fine things you see around us here are mine only through marriage. Your grandfather did not leave me a fortune to squander as he did your dead papa, and if your aunt suspected I was spending her money on my half-brother’s brats—”
    He saw Georgie go red and added in a gentler voice, “Those are her words, obviously my dear, not mine. Your aunt does not feel for you as I do.”
    Georgie nodded miserably.
    “I’m sure this house seems very pleasant, doesn’t it?”
    “Oh, yes uncle—” Georgie began but his uncle was still talking.
    “Well, let me tell you, when Mrs Scrivener has one of her rages, it is a purgatory, a real Dante’s Inferno.”
    “Yes, sir,” mumbled Georgie, though he obviously had no idea what his uncle was on about.
    Mr Scrivener shook his head, as if he’d just that minute remembered his nephew’s disadvantage. “How foolish of me. How could you have heard of Italy’s greatest poet? You don’t even go to school. Come, your aunt will not be back for some time. We must have tea together before you go.”
    I’ve always adored real fires, so I went to warm my hands at the flames. The spaniel immediately came over and lay down beside me. That’s one cool thing about being an angel; animals absolutely worship you.
    While they waited for the tea to arrive, Georgie told his uncle about visiting his mama’s grave.
    His uncle’s handsome face flushed. “I believe that your mama’s delicate constitution was fatally weakened by that business with your papa.”
    Georgie looked wistful. “How did Papa die, Uncle Noel? Mama would never tell us.”
    His uncle swiftly avoided his eyes. “Believe me, it is better that way. We must simply pray that your papa’s fatal weakness has not been passed on to you.”
    Georgie looked bewildered. “Yes, Uncle.”
    The tea came and Uncle Noel plied Georgie with muffins