‘That’s not the sort of question you should be asking your mother.’
‘But did you?’
Estella shook her head, but Georgia wasn’t sure if she was answering or thinking about the depths to which she had sunk.
‘Why do you think I wanted you to do the Season?’ she said finally. ‘Because I tried to marry well – and I failed. I failed because no man was interested in me. No one, not really.’
‘But you’re beautiful,’ said Georgia softly.
Estella gave a small, hard laugh.
‘Oh, it would have been easy to find someone who was willing to keep me in some small apartment in Marylebone, just visiting at the weekends. I’d have had furs and jewels and plenty of time to do my nails. But anything more? No.’
Georgia frowned. She knew about the stigma attached to divorced women in polite society, but Estella was a widow – a war widow, in fact. There was no shame in that. There could only be one reason why men would not be interested in someone as attractive as her mother. Georgia herself. The inconvenient daughter.
‘Is it because of me?’ she asked. ‘Did the fact that you had a child put them off?’
Estella laughed.
‘Don’t be silly. It’s not because of you, it’s because of me. I mean, look at me. What do you see?’
Georgia took in the clothes: dirty, but stylish in their own way; the smudged face, lovely even behind the soot; and her elegant frame. She thought her mother looked a little like an ageing fairy. A touch past her prime, perhaps, a little worn, but still sparkling with magic.
‘I see a unique, wonderful woman with so much to offer,’ she said honestly.
Estella snorted.
‘Well, let me tell you, that isn’t what men see. Yes, they find me attractive – for an evening or two. But there are plenty of pretty women in London.’
‘Not as pretty as you.’
‘Perhaps, but those women are happy to be . . . simple, I suppose. To sit there and simper and nod and give the occasional little laugh. Those are the sort of women rich men want to marry: the easy ones. They want a wife, not a challenge. And they certainly don’t want someone whose heart belongs to another – and always will do.’
Georgia glanced towards the farm, as if her father might be sitting there in the kitchen window watching them. But of course he couldn’t be. He was dead, however much she might wish otherwise. And anyway, there was no more kitchen, no more farm. They needed a plan – and quick.
‘Well, I have another idea for you,’ said Georgia. ‘Actually it was my friend Frederick’s idea. You’re an artist, aren’t you? You paint, of course, but that’s not all you can do.’
‘Georgia, you don’t need to be kind. I love what I do and I think I am quite good at it, but I’m n
ot deluded. I realise the big, famous artist’s career isn’t going to happen.’
‘I was thinking you could just diversify. Those cartoons you did at my cocktail party were fantastic. Why don’t you think about doing that for a living?’
‘Cartoons?’
‘A funny for one of the papers. There’re lots of different types of art and lots of different ways to make a living as an artist. In the meantime, I’ll go back and do the Season. And this time I’ll do it as it’s supposed to be done – to land a decent rich boy.’
Estella’s face clouded.
‘Don’t be so silly; you must marry for love. It’s one thing me looking at marriage as a career move; I’ve had my love match.’
‘Yes, but you and Dad were special.’
Estella shook her head.
‘Darling, you’ll be nineteen soon. Every girl of your age must aspire to one great romance in their life. What about that French boy, Jacques?’
Georgia shook her head.