G
inny invited the girls back to the morning room. She went to the settee and patted the seat. There was no time like the present. “Come here. Both of you. I have something I wish to discuss with you.”
Celia plopped on the seat. She wore a small locket around her neck that bounced against her chest. The ever etiquette-conscious Irene lowered herself primly, smoothing a hand over her muslin ivory skirts. She folded her hands demurely in her lap while Celia nursed her thumb in her mouth. “We’re ready, Mama.”
Now that Ginny had their undivided attention, every idea in her head eroded, leaving a blank slate. She studied them for a long moment, then leaning forward, gently tugged at Celia’s thumb. The distinct pop made her smile. Celia’s tiny hand in hers stiffened Ginny’s resolve. “Where do I start?” she breathed.
Celia giggled. “The start, Mama.”
She nodded. “Yes, the start. We’ll begin there. What do you remember of my injury last year?”
“Lord Brockway took us to Lord Kimpton,” Celia said, “because Papa hurted you.”
Irene flinched, her hands squeezing into white-knuckled fists. Ginny swallowed the temptation to put off this first heart-breaking lesson. Of course Brock would have a much easier time of it. If he followed through.
In her memory, he had not been so dependable. Well, that wasn’t fair. He’d found her girls after Maudsley had beat her to within an inch of her life. Nursed her back to health and protected her reputation. Actually, he’d shown true heroic qualities. But that didn’t mean he mightn’t walk out again. One broken heart per lifetime was her limit.
To protect her girls, Ginny had tried desperately to absorb Maudsley’s reign of terror by keeping his attentions on herself. That left much of Celia’s care to Irene and their nursemaid, a young woman of ten and six Maudsley had seduced and abused abominably.
Ginny tried another of the deep inhaling techniques. This talk would be one of the most important of her career as a mother. “Maudsley hurt many people and… well, I had no way to defend myself.” She took up Irene’s hand with her free hand. “I would like the three of us to embark upon a journey.”
“What sort of journey?” Irene was not the most trusting of souls.
Ginny told herself that was a good thing for this situation. “It is my most fervent wish for you girls to be able to take care of yourselves.”
Celia’s bottom lip poked out in confusion. “I don’t understand, Mama.” Then firmed in alarm. “Are you leaving us? Where are you going? Who are we to live with?” Each statement rose like a vocal exercise of ascending notes on the pianoforte in a shrill panic.
Ginny slid from her chair to her knees and cupped Celia’s face. “I’m not going anywhere! Oh, dear. I’m not explaining this well at all.” Ginny nudged her ebbing confidence aside. If she had any inkling of what she was doing, things would progress much more smoothly, but this was a new endeavor. For all of them.
She made a mental note to definitely accept Brock’s offer to help.
“My goal is to teach you how to help yourselves if for some reason I’m not there.” She pulled both girls to her in a fierce hug. “It terrifies me to think of anything happening to you.” The article on forced marriages she and Lorelei had seen in the Gazette whipped through her. She forced another deep breath and reached for the last of her arsenal. “Perhaps you would feel better knowing Lord Brockway has offered his assistance?”
The tension eased from their small bodies. Irene and Celia each leaned back, assessing her, then nodded. Something to scrutinize over later. How irksome, and admittedly curious, to have to bring in Brock’s name to sway them. What else was she to do but grasp the opportunity with both hands? One must select one’s skirmishes with care.
“What should we learn first, Mama?” Irene rarely smiled, and while she didn’t now, her eyes sparkled with curiosity. A definite sign of encouragement.
Relieved, Ginny gathered her skirts and climbed back up in her chair, taking care with her left wrist. “I know that giving such instructions to young ladies is highly irregular, but what I wish for the two of you is the ability to make… well, make more enlightened decisions, if you will. To follow your instincts. Does this mean I will not be there to guide you through etiquette lessons, discipline, and seasons eventually? Of course not. These safeguarding lessons will just be part of your curriculum.”
“You mean like geography and French?” Celia said.
“Exactly. Except different.”
“Huh?”
“Don’t say ‘huh,’ Celia.”
“Please proceed, Mama.”
Lord, this was difficult. Thank you, Irene. “What I should like to instill is… an awareness. Yes. An awareness. There may be times where you must trust your instincts and make hasty decisions to-to…” She dropped her chin to her chest. What a hash of this she was making.
“To hide?” Irene’s tone was thoughtful.
“Yes! Exactly. To hide. To run. To scr—”
“I like to hide and run,” Celia said.
“Excellent. There are other things too,” Ginny said, warming to her topic. “It’s a delicate matter, between balancing etiquette and saving one’s life.”
Irene frowned.
Ginny squeezed her hand. “Don’t fret so, my darling. Saving your life is considerably more important than one’s ladylike manners.”
Celia beamed and clapped her hands. “Oh, this is splendid, Mama. No more compormint lessons.”
“Comportment,” Irene corrected her.
“Not quite, Celia.” Ginny smirked. “There is a time and place for all.”
“Celia, let Mother finish. You know she bumped her head, so it’s harder for her to explain,” the ever-prescient Irene chimed in.
Ginny darted a glance at Irene, surprised by her dry wit, only to let out a steady stream of breath. She hadn’t been jesting. Unshed tears glittered on Irene’s lashes, though her voice never wavered in pitch. She blinked, and Ginny snatched up her lace kerchief to dab at the tracks silently trailing down Irene’s cheeks, blatantly aware of how utterly precious she was. Her heart broke for her older daughter. “Thank you, Irene.”
Celia wriggled on her seat, straightening her back. “Sorry, Mama. What else?”
Ginny tapped her chin, trying desperately to come up with something. Anything helpful that would not terrify her girls. She cleared her throat. “Well, yelling for help. Or if someone takes your hand without your, uh, permission, you could thrash about. Make any attempt to get away.” She watched their expressions carefully.
Celia jumped to her feet and raised her pert nose in the air. “I would yell, ‘Unhand me, sirrah, or I shall scream.’”
Irene wrinkled her nose. “That certainly isn’t ladylike, is it?”
“That is sort of the point, my darling,” Ginny said.