Work Text:
When had his daughter become such an adept manager of men, Stephen Maturin wondered. Here he was, driving some fifty miles through frigid air merely to attend a concert in Bath, when the most vigorous activity he had planned for the day was a journey from the side of the generous fire in the library to that of the one in the dining room.
“This is the third time you have mentioned the Liszt concert, papa,” Brigid had said. “You should go.”
Stephen rarely attended concerts, which were fairly easy to avoid in any case, buried in Hampshire as he was, far from civilised music. Too far for an old man such as himself to travel. Stephen felt he'd earned the right to stay home, if he chose. He'd travelled enough for one lifetime.
“Your lovely horses could use the exercise, so they could, too,” Brigid had said.
“I exercised them just yesterday! For hours!” cried Stephen.
“They stood in the cold for hours, having moved not more than half a mile from home, whilst you tramped about the commons.”
Stephen could not deny it. His collections were awaiting him in the library, on the large table by the generous fire. All those years of travelling to the farthest reaches of the globe, and yet he could be absorbed by a myriad of finds in his own neighbourhood.
“I do not wish to go alone,” said Stephen peevishly.
“Then take Georgiana,” answered Brigid.
Stephen opened his mouth to object, then closed it when he realised he had no argument to make. The child was old enough, and the Dear knew she was quiet and still enough for a concert. Unnaturally quiet and still, whilst music played. How often had he and Jack come across her, listening to them play until the small hours, she having escaped the nursery who knew how long ago, awake the whole time.
This same quiet child interrupted his reverie, as they drove along the frozen country road. “Who is that lady, daideo?”
Stephen frowned. “What lady, child?”
“That one – she is waving and calling to you.”
The hamlet of Maiden Oscott was quiet, hardly a soul visible, no ladies at all, and no one looking their way nor calling nor waving.
“She always waves to me, when we come this way, but I've never seen her wave at anyone else,” continued his granddaughter. “Mama can see her, but pretends not to. The lady never waves to mama. Or to Patrick. Patrick says he can't see her, but he can, he is a deceitful creature who tells the black lies of the world, so he is.”
Georgiana was quiet most of the time, except when she had her grandfather to herself. When asked why she spoke so little, she said, “No one listens.” Stephen could not but acknowledge the truth of that.
“Hush, gariníon, do not speak so of your brother,” said Stephen abstractedly. He slowed the horses to an easy walk down the hill. “Where is this lady? What does she look like?”
“She's right there. In the blue dress, with black hair. And a blue bonnet. Why is she waving to you if you can't see her?”
Stephen's heart leapt, then thudded dully in his chest. He'd heard vague tales of ghosts haunting the Maiden Oscott bridge – no one dared talk to him of it directly, of course, no one who knew how he'd been widowed. Sure it was true that there'd been many deaths at the bridge over the years. He'd never thought to connect the legend to Diana.
He pulled his pair to a stop next to the vacant spot at which Georgiana was smiling and waving. “Is the lady still there, child?”
“Yes, she is laughing and thanking you for finally stopping this time. She calls you Maturin, but without saying Doctor first,” added Georgiana in a disapproving tone. “Who is she, to be so familiar?”
“Never mind that now. How do you do, my dear?” Stephen said to the empty air. “May I be of assistance? Does she hear me?” this in an urgent undertone to his granddaughter.
“She asks if she may ride with us over the bridge.”
“It would be my great pleasure, madam.” Stephen said. He looped the reins about the rail of the carriage and stepped down. The horses sidled, restless, and he spoke a calming word to them as he passed in front of them on his way to the invisible lady. He held out his hand, as if to assist her into the carriage. Georgiana shifted over to make room. The horses whinnied and shied again, rolling their eyes. Stephen moved quickly to their heads and calmed them once more. “All settled then?” he called to his passenger. Passengers. Georgiana nodded.
~o~o~
Stephen walked back to his side and climbed back aboard. Before he could gather the reins, they started slipping from their loop, the horses pulling once again, moving restlessly, out of step.
“The lady asks may she drive she longs ever so much to drive again.”
Stephen took firm hold of the reins and gathered his pair back to their senses. “No, I thank you, my dear; I will drive. It is time for you to rest now, so it is. Time to rest.”
~o~o~
Bundled up snugly against the cold, relaxing after the excitement of having the strange lady ride with them, Georgiana found herself growing sleepy, the steady clop-clop-clop on the hard road. She leant against her bony grandfather, just to rest for a minute. The lady looked softer to lean against, but she was cold, so cold. Daideo was warm. She closed her eyes.
When she opened them they were making the long descent down into Bath. The lady with the black hair and the blue dress was gone. Her grandfather was murmuring to himself, occasionally to the horses, sometimes to herself, as he often did.
Georgiana never saw the lady with the black hair and the blue dress again, however often they drove across the bridge at Maiden Oscott.