Family Scandals

by Denise Patrick

  “She should have let it go,” he finally said, his voice sad. “But I don’t blame her for not doing so. I’m not sure I could have either.”

  “Let what go?” Corinna asked as they picked their way across a patch of moor.

  “Her revenge,” he answered after a long silence. “I’m not sure, though, that I could have ordered the deaths of two small boys.”

  “Ordered the deaths…?”

  The eyes Marcus turned on her were dismal, reflecting his thoughts.

  “She hired some men to kidnap and kill Brand and my other brother, Michael, but they apparently thought to capitalize on the kidnapping and sold them to a slave runner who shipped them off as slave labor. Michael died anyway, but Brand survived, and returned.”

  Corinna heard the horror and shame in his voice. “She wanted you to inherit?” When he nodded, she thought she understood and said, “It was her way of getting St. Ayers back.”

  “Partially,” he replied. “My father was one of the witnesses against my grandfather. He and five other operatives had been the ones to discover and investigate what happened. As a reward, if you will, the King gave my father St. Ayers. So I suppose you could say it was her way of getting St. Ayers back, but it was also her way of avenging her father who, by the way, was indeed, innocent. Unfortunately, my father did not know that until it was too late.”

  The next village they visited was the one near the tin mine. Once again they were greeted warmly. Marcus left her chatting with the baker’s wife, Mrs. Horn, while he went down to the mine office to check the progress of the new pump’s installation.

  “There’s never been an earl in residence since I been livin’ here,” Mrs. Horn told her.

  “So you weren’t born and raised here?” Corinna asked between bites of a melt-in-your-mouth scone.

  “Oh no,” she replied, pouring Corinna a cup of tea. “My parents live in Truro. That’s where Henry and I met. We first come here for Henry to work in the mine ’bout five years ago, but his eyes turned bad so he took up bakin’. We been real happy for that.”

  Corinna glanced around the small but tidy room. Sitting just off the kitchen with its large ovens, it was the perfect place to “put a body’s feet up”, as Mrs. Horn told her earlier, while waiting for something to come out of the oven.

  The trim woman sitting across from her wasn’t much older than the duchess, she guessed. With her blonde hair scraped back into a tight bun, her slightly rounded face wreathed in a seemingly permanent smile, Corinna found herself relaxing in her presence.

  “Old Ma Cotter was once the housekeeper up at the house. She don’t see so well these days, but her mind is still sharp and she loves to tell stories about the earl, his wife and daughter. Near everyone, it seems, doted on that little girl.”

  “She must be pretty old then,” Corinna ventured. “The old earl died over fifty years ago.”

  “She ain’t talkin’, but I’m guessin’ she’s near ninety if’n she’s a day.”

  A wail came from a large basket Corinna hadn’t noticed in the corner, and Mrs. Horn jumped up.

  “So soon?” she asked no one in particular as she bent over the basket. “Ye should be sleepin’ a mite longer,” she said to the infant she lifted from its bed. “Ye must’ve known we had company.”

  Mrs. Horn sat in her chair again and Corinna could just barely see the top of a small, dark head peeking from the blanket the child was swathed in.

  “And who might this be?” she asked.

  Mrs. Horn beamed. “This is Jeremiah,” she answered proudly. “He’s but three months.” She partially unwrapped the blanket so that Corinna could see the tiny face.

  When Marcus entered the room with Mr. Horn a short time later, she was holding Jeremiah, marveling at his size and perfect features. Jeremiah, in turn, was gurgling up at her as she cooed at him. She had no idea how revealing her expression was when she looked up at Marcus. She only knew that the moment Mrs. Horn had allowed her to hold Jeremiah while she checked on something in one of the ovens, she had felt the sharp ache of desire rise within her breast. And when the infant seemed to smile at her, delight flowed through her like warm honey.

  Mr. Horn noticed the bundle in her arms and smiled, revealing a missing front tooth. “I see you’ve met my Jeremiah,” he said proudly, and Corinna thought she could see his thin chest swell. The baby turned toward the sound of his voice, another gurgle coming from him. “He even knows me voice already.”

  “He’s quite handsome,” Corinna told the baker as she reluctantly released the blanket-wrapped infant to his father. “I’m sure you must be very proud of him.”

  Mrs. Horn bustled in just then, distracting Corinna from her preoccupation with the baby. “It’s time for his feedin’ now that you’re here and can watch the ovens,” she said to her husband. “Did you find everything satisfactory at the mine, my lord?” she asked Marcus.

  “Yes,” he responded, distractedly. “All is in order.”

  “That’s good,” she responded.

  Corinna thanked her for her hospitality and promised to come visit again, then they were on their way. On the way back, she mentioned Mrs. Cotter to Marcus, who hadn’t known of her existence.

  “Perhaps we can visit her one day,” he agreed. “I’d like to know more about my mother. Despite her quest for revenge, she was a good mother. Eliza and I wanted for nothing, and never once did we feel we were a burden. Perhaps, as children we were not as sensitive to the undercurrents, but never did I sense she harbored any ill will toward my father or he toward her, although there were times when she was out of sorts with me.” The smile that lifted his lips caused his eyes to sparkle mischievously. “As I got older, though, she was a bit too overbearing for my taste. It was one of the reasons I spent so much time with Douglas.”

  “To get away?”

  “Some,” he confirmed, “but also because he was the only friend I had who accepted me for myself, and refused to be scared off by my mother. She could be quite intimidating when she wanted to be.”

  He was quiet as they rode back toward the house, and she wondered if he was thinking of his mother. Just before they reached the stables, he stopped at a small chapel that seemed to sit alone in the middle of a flower-bedecked meadow. As they approached, she noted the fenced area beside it and realized what it was.

  “The earliest St. Ayers are buried beneath the chapel,” he said, as he led her through the gate and into the small cemetery, “but the last three earls and their families are all buried out here.”

  They stopped before a relatively new stone. It was made of simple gray granite, the inscription noting that Emily Anne Therese St. Ayers Waring had been born in 1806 and died in 1864.

  “Do you miss her?”

  “A little,” he admitted. “But I’m afraid she was too obsessed by her quest for vengeance. She would never have allowed Brand and Felicia to live in peace.”

  Corinna moved closer to him and his arm slipped around her waist. “They don’t seem to resent you for it.” It was more of a question than a statement.

  He shook his head. “No, but for what she wanted, the price was too high. I would have felt guilty stepping into my father’s shoes.”

  “About the kidnapping, you mean?”

  “No, not that. I think deep down I always knew she was behind my brothers’ disappearance. I never let on, but I was secretly glad when that gypsy told my father Brand was still alive and would return.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it let me off the hook, so to speak. My father had been half-heartedly teaching me about the various ducal holdings and I had been half-heartedly learning, but that gypsy made it so we no longer had to pretend. Her pronouncement freed me to be what I wanted to be. Unfortunately, only within limits. I still could not have a commission.” He took one last look at his mother’s grave then turned to look at her. “I don’t think my father wanted to rub it in by letting me have one before Brand actually returned.”

  H
e turned her then and the two began walking toward the gate. “Now that I look back on it, that gypsy also gave me back my self-respect. I’m not sure I thought much about it then, but I know I would have always felt I had stolen the title if Brand hadn’t returned.”

  They reached the gate and he opened it. “And now?” she asked as she passed through.

  Closing the gate behind himself, he approached as she stopped beside her mare. “Now, I feel as if I am the luckiest man on earth.”

  Corinna could not voice the question in her eyes, but it was unnecessary as Marcus drew her into his arms and his mouth came down on hers. Not only was the question unnecessary, but now it was lost.

  His actions took her by surprise, but only for a moment. Slipping her arms around his waist, she lifted herself up on her toes, and parted her lips against his. The chapel and cemetery vanished, as did the sun, sky and meadow around them, as Marcus suddenly became her whole world.

  As she clung to her own sanity by a thread, a small shiver slid down her spine when she heard Marcus groan, and momentarily, she wondered if he was in pain. The thought was lost as quickly as it was formed when Marcus slid his hands down her back, pressing her intimately against his hard frame.

  When he raised his head, she opened eyes she hadn’t remembered closing to stare up into his face. It could have been carved from the same granite as his mother’s headstone, so set were his features. His eyes, however, were gentle as they studied her upturned face.

  “Yes, I am truly the luckiest man on earth,” he said softly. “I only wish I had known how lucky I was sooner.”

  Corinna wanted to ask him what he meant, but he released her then and lifted her into the saddle.

  The door closing softly behind her told Corinna she was alone as she sat soaking in a large tub of steaming water. With her head resting against the back of the tub, her eyes closed, she re-lived her day.

  She had not had a more wonderful day in recent memory. It had been months since she’d last spent a day with an adult merely enjoying herself. In the four months since Great Aunt Mirabel’s death, she had been very lonely, and it had taken Marcus’s presence for her to realize how lonely she’d truly been.

  Feeling the water beginning to cool, she took up the cloth and soap and began washing herself. It had been years since she’d ridden for so long and she knew she would be feeling it tomorrow. Yet, she would not have traded today for anything else. Spending it with Marcus had made the hours seem to fly by, and resurrected pleasant memories of the past, even as it created new ones of the present.

  Raising her leg to wash it, she absently explored the contours of the puckered flesh just below the back of her knee. There was another such scarring on the outside of her thigh on the other leg. Closing her eyes, she remembered clearly the first time Douglas had brought Marcus home. She had been in the nursery with her governess, Miss Pippin, when Douglas entered.

  “What happened to you?” he asked, ruffling her hair.

  “My dress caught fire,” she answered, wrinkling her nose at him. “Mama says I got too close to the fireplace.”

  Douglas laughed at her. “It must have been an awful cold day. Did it hurt much?”

  She nodded and lifted her arms for him to pick her up, but he looked at Miss Pippin for approval first. “Will I cause her more pain if I pick her up?” he asked.

  “No, it’s been a few days,” the governess answered. “It may still hurt a little, but she won’t tell you.”

  “I want to see Barney,” she said. “Papa said I can’t ride him, but I want to see him.”

  Douglas picked her up, careful of the two areas on her legs that were swathed in bandages. “Very well then, we will be back shortly. I brought a friend home for you to meet,” he told her as they left the room and headed downstairs.

  “Is it someone nice?” she asked, snuggling against his shoulder.

  “No,” he teased. “I brought an ogre who likes to eat little girls. Seven-year-olds are his favorite dish.”

  She giggled. “Why seven?”

  They reached the ground floor and he turned down the hall toward the billiard room.

  “Because, six-year-olds are barely a mouthful, and eight-year-olds are too tough. But seven-year-olds are just right. Nice and plump and tender.”

  She giggled again. “Then he doesn’t want me. Diana says I’m scrawny.”

  They entered the room as Douglas said, “Don’t you know you can’t believe anything Diana says?”

  “Of course,” she replied, “but Pip says I could use some fattening up too.”

  Marcus was lining up a shot on the billiard table as they entered. He looked up and missed as she laughed out loud. “He doesn’t look like an ogre,” she said to her brother. “Are you sure he wants to eat me?”

  Douglas didn’t answer her question. Turning to Marcus, he said, “I brought the imp with me. She’s been cooped up with her governess for days now and wants to check on her pony. How about a trip to the stables?”

  Marcus put down the cue and grinned at her.

  “I don’t taste very good,” she told him, even as she clung to Douglas’s neck.

  “Then I guess I’ll have to wait until you’re nine,” he replied evenly. “You ought to taste better by then.”

  She frowned at him. “I don’t think so. I’m already burned—and Papa never likes it when the Cook burns the roast.”

  The two boys had laughed at her comparison, and the three of them had left the room headed for the stables.

  Rising from the now cool water, Corinna dried herself, slipped on her chemise and drawers, then put on her wrapper. Padding over to the window, she looked out over the expanse of sea and wondered if Marcus remembered their first meeting as clearly as she did.

  When Irma returned a short time later, she was sitting at the dressing table brushing her hair. As the maid helped her into a soft gray gown of brushed twill, she inquired as to the duchess’s whereabouts and was told that she was out. In fact, upon further questioning, she learned the duke and duchess had taken both children out for the afternoon, leaving word that they would return in time for tea.

  Sending Irma down to inform Cook tea should be served in the cliff parlor, she wandered into her sitting room.

  It still felt strange to have so much time on her hands and, for the moment, she was somewhat lost as to what to do with herself. If she had someone to correspond with she might have spent time writing letters. It was what the duchess often did in the afternoons. Unfortunately, she did not feel comfortable writing to friends she hadn’t kept in touch with in the four years since she left school.

  She could write to Gregory, she supposed, but a part of her wanted to leave her family in her past. She wasn’t sure she understood why, but she knew telling Gregory of her changed circumstances and whereabouts might result in unpleasant repercussions. Gregory would find out eventually, but for now, she preferred to remain lost to him.

  Settling onto one of the window seats, she cracked open the window and gazed out over the landscape beyond, an unopened book in her lap. The contrast did not escape her. The garden below was lush and well-kept, the riot of color and texture a delight to the senses. Beyond it, however, the stable buildings rose, plain and stark against the sky, set in an open area cleared of all vegetation. Beyond the stables, she could just make out the steeple of the small chapel in the family cemetery.

  She’d noticed the absence of a grave for his grandmother, but had not asked him about it. From what he’d told her, she had deduced it was likely the countess had died in France.

  Was that why his mother had returned? Had she waited until her own mother’s death before returning to exact her revenge? Had she known her mother had been involved in her father’s disgrace? If she had, how had she reconciled the situation? The people in the area all had good memories of her as a child, yet Marcus had told her his father had never allowed her to visit St. Ayers. Had Marcus’s father known who she was and kept her away deliberately? If
so, why had he married her in the first place?

  The small clock on the fireplace mantle began to chime softly and she looked up to realize it was time for tea. As she left the room and headed downstairs, she wondered if the duke and duchess had returned.

  She admitted to herself that she was beginning to feel a little lonely, and memories of her childhood surfaced again. Despite her wish to deny it, she had been lonely as a child. Her parents had doted on her, true, but being an only child had not been much fun. After the accident when her dress caught fire, her father had sent Diana to live with her uncle, Viscount Dryden. All of the boys had been away, either at school or, in Gregory’s case, living in London, and Anna had married the year before.

  Neither she nor Douglas had ever been welcome in her siblings’ circle, even when they were at home. More often than not, she and Douglas were the butt of their jokes and pranks and had learned quickly to retaliate. Gregory, Phillip and Diana had been their targets most often. Gregory because he was the oldest, Phillip because he was the same age as Douglas, which often caused the two of them to be pitted against each other, and Diana because she seemed to have developed an unreasonable hatred of Corinna. It had been Diana who was there when her dress had caught fire, and Diana who had locked her in the garderobe, destroyed one of her favorite dresses, and nearly lamed her pony. It had taken much too long for her to realize Diana truly hated her and she should not seek out her older sister’s company.

  Reaching the cliff parlor, she was surprised and delighted to find the duchess already present, with the twins. Caroline noticed her first.

  “Corrie!”

  “It’s Aunt Corinna,” Michael told his sister in disgust. “You never remember anything.”

  Corinna looked up from giving Caroline a hug. “You may still call me Corrie if you wish,” she told both of them. “I do not mind. But Michael, you should remember we all forget sometimes.”

  Caroline wrinkled her nose. “If everyone would stop changing their names, it would be easier to remember,” she declared.

  “You just need to remember better,” Michael informed her.