A Wedding In Springtime(87)

She wrapped her gauzy wrap around her tightly and opened the door. If by going to Grant she could save her brother’s life, she would do it. It was highly improper, but her heart sang with the prospect of being with Grant. She would find happiness with him, of that she felt sure. It may not be what she pictured for herself, but it was better than becoming a spinster, knowing she had the power to save her brother’s life and did nothing to protect him.

Genie plunged herself into the cold, the gauzy wrap being of no practical use against the damp chill of night. Her dainty slippers too would be no match for traipsing through the garden. She returned to the house for her coat and a pair of pattens. She may be a wanton hussy, but she was a sensible, practical, farm girl type of wanton hussy.

She slipped through her garden easily enough, but at the back where the two gardens joined, it was dark and somewhat foreboding. Telling herself not to be timid, she plunged ahead, ignoring the squeaky gate that sent shivers down her spine, picked up her skirts, and ran to Grant’s house. She wouldn’t turn back now and go back through the spooky garden for anything. She tried the back door and breathed a sigh of relief to find it unlocked.

She slipped in the door and paused. What now? Tiptoe through his house like a common thief? What if his servants saw her? She had imagined clandestine romances in the past, what self-respecting teenager had not? But the reality was more mundane and less romantic than anything she expected.

Genie looked back from where she came. Dark, foreboding garden or dark, foreboding house? Tough choice. Genie removed her pattens. It wouldn’t do any good to go tromping through the house. She headed toward the parlor and stopped. She had no candle. It was dark. Very dark.

She had read more gothic novels than her mother would say was healthy, but none of these stories had fully prepared her for her own adventure. How was she going to get upstairs to meet her lover?

Lover?

A mental image of her shocked parents’ faces floated before her. Genie turned around. She had not the stomach for it. Better a spooky garden than her mother’s look of disappointment and shame.

“Come now, don’t you run away from me!”

Genie jumped at the male voice and the light that followed. Afraid to move, Genie swallowed hard and turned slowly in the hall toward the light.

Mr. Grant walked, or rather stumbled, down the hall, swinging a lantern. “Here, my pretty. I need you, pretty precious.”

Genie’s mouth dropped. Grant was half dressed, without a coat or cravat, and his shirt unbuttoned at the collar. Grant took another two swaying steps and she realized two important things. First, he was hideously drunk. Second, he was not talking to her. Indeed, it did not appear that he even noticed her presence standing in the shadows of the corridor.

He ambled into a room and she heard a crash and a curse. She stepped closer to see what he had done, but he came back out, a bottle in his hand.

“There’s my sweet girl,” said Grant gazing with affection at the bottle in his hand.

“Grant?”

Grant stopped and stared at her, as if not quite comprehending who she was. He looked down at the bottle then back up at her. “I’ve done drunk myself mad.” He pulled out the stopper of the whiskey bottle with his teeth and spat it on the ground, taking a hearty swig from the bottle. “And I hopes I never recovers.”

“Hello,” said Genie, helpless to know what to say. The urge to run back home had never been so great. What on earth was she thinking? This is why all those morality plays had grim outcomes for young girls who did not protect their virtue.

“Where’s my manners. Care for a drink?” Grant held out the bottle, even as he swayed.

“No, thank you, sir.” It was ridiculous to put on her pretty manners at a time like this. She had entered a man’s house in the dead of night to find him drunk as sin and now she was refusing hard drink as if she was standing in her mother’s parlor.

“I should go.” Genie turned to leave.

“Don’t go.” Grant’s voice was so bereft she turned back. “Please, I don’t mind madness. Don’t leave me, I pray.” Grant’s voice cracked, and Genie rushed to him.

“No, no of course I won’t.” She put an arm around him to keep him upright, for she feared he would topple over. “Let us get you to bed.”

“Yeeeeesssss. Bed, bed, bed.”

She walked beside him, her arm around his waist, his arm leaning heavily on her shoulders. He made a fair bit of thumping and thudding and babbling as they made their way up the steps and though Genie’s heart was pounding from the exertion and the fear that a member of his staff would find them, no one came forward. She guessed the loud ramblings of Mr. Grant were not so unusual as to rouse the house.