‘Gretna Green?’
‘You have to be eighteen or over to marry without your parents’ consent. In Scotland you only have to be sixteen. Gretna is the first Scottish town over the border – maybe ten miles from Carlisle. It’s geared up for runaway weddings.’
‘We should tell Sally’s parents, and then the police.’
‘The poor family,’ Edward said drily. ‘If the police know, it will leak out to the press. A deb eloping to Gretna . . . That’s going to be one hell of a scandal.’
Georgia imagined the shame of her friend in the newspapers. She knew how brutal high society could be, and she thought of all Mr and Mrs Daly’s good intentions being thrown away thanks to the charm and cunning of a hotel waiter.
‘Then let’s stop them.’
‘Stop them?’
‘Stop them getting married. Edward, I have to.’
‘We’d better get going, then,’ said Edward decisively.
‘You’ll come with me? To Gretna Green?’
‘If you can think of a way to leave your party and get in the car before I change my mind.’
They waited another hour, until the crowds drifted off and Peter, Sybil, Clarissa and Estella were ready to go home. Georgia told her mother she was going on to Soho with some friends, which was not a particularly unusual occurrence. Many debs floated from dance to nightclub to house party, and parents turned a blind eye to their daughters returning home at dawn.
It was not possible to catch the train to Scotland. Edward’s family had a shooting lodge north of the border and he knew the timetables up there off pat. There was the Royal Scot morning train, an afternoon departure and the evening Caledonian, but if they left it until the next day, they ran the risk of Sally already being married. There was nothing for it but to drive. The road map of Great Britain was changing – motorways were being built which would apparently cut the travel time north by hours. But for now they had to take the A1 up to Birmingham and then Manchester. Edward’s Aston Martin was fast, but the journey was long and tedious. Georgia chatted as much as she could to keep him awake, although she found herself nodding off at intervals.
She wound down the window to let some fresh air into the car.
‘I think it’s a bit sad that Sally wants to get married alone,’ she sighed, sucking on one of the sherbert lemons they had bought from a tobacco shop.
‘I do believe she’ll have Gianni at her side,’ smiled Edward, his eyes fixed on the road.
‘She’s always been in love with the idea of love and was almost certainly seduced by the idea of la dolce vita and being a countess in Italy. It’s just so sad that she’s been duped. It’s going to turn her hard and cynical . . .’
‘A bit like you?’
‘How am I hard and cynical?’ she said, sitting up in her seat.
‘“Marriage is just a contract” . . . Does your boyfriend know that?’
‘Boyfriend?’ she said.
‘At the party. You were dancing with him. Head on shoulder. You looked quite in love with the idea of love yourself.’
‘Ah, Frederick,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m not entirely sure I’m his type,’ she said diplomatically. ‘The truth is – we’re just friends.’
They sat in silence for a few more minutes. Edward looked thoughtful, concentrating hard at the wheel. Watching him, she felt a wave of emotion so strong it almost took her breath away. She told herself she was just tired, and prayed that all the Season’s silliness hadn’t turned her into the sort of girl who loved the idea of being in love. But sitting inside the close confines of the car, she wanted to stay like this for ever. She liked the way she could tell him everything about her day. She liked the anticipation of what he would reveal about himself next. She liked the way her tummy felt – all fluttery and light – when she glanced over at him and saw his profile: straight nose, long dark lashes and those eyes that seemed to look right inside her and know what she was about to say before she had even said it. She liked the way everything just felt right when she was with him. Even if she had lost her handbag or been unwelcomely groped by a Welsh Guard or thrown her broken shoes into the river. Just being with him mended it all.
It was dawn now, and the soft sun rising over the rolling hills of the Lake District was quite beautiful. Another ninety minutes and they had passed the Welcome to Scotland sign and followed the road into Gretna, past the marriage rooms, which apparently had seen more than a thousand marriages performed since 1830. She hoped Sally and Gianni’s hadn’t been one of them.
The village was still quiet and Edward switched off the ignition of the car.
‘They could be anywhere,’ said Georgia, listening to the engine slowly die down.
‘That’s if they are even in Gretna.’
‘Now you tell me,’ she said, realising that their long, long drive could have been a total waste of time.
‘It’s a small place. There can’t be too many guest houses and hotels.’