Caught in a Cornish Scandal

by Eleanor Webster

  ‘I cannot put it into words. Perhaps that is the key. It is about expressing something that has no other language,’ he said.

  She looked at him and he had the odd feeling that she understood. It felt that this conversation was more real and intimate than any he had experienced for years.

  ‘Sometimes I feel that way when I listen to the wind and the sea.’

  There was a pause, punctuated only by the rain, the wind and the sizzling crackle of the peat. The room was quite dark now, daylight no longer visible through the ill-fitting shutter. The fire’s amber glow provided a low flickering light and the air had a smoky earthiness that was not unpleasant. They sat quite close. Glancing sideways, he could see the outline of her silhouette, her face half hidden by the sweep of her hair. He felt an urge to push the brown locks back to better see her expression, her lips, eyes and shadowy lattice of her lashes. He again had that wish to both prolong the moment and the need to break it.

  ‘Water?’ he asked, pushing the mug towards her.

  ‘Thank you.’ She cupped the mug. Her hands were small but sturdy. She drank, seeming to savour each sip, licking her lips. This was an almost sensual quality about it.

  He leaned forward, rubbing his hands to warm them over the fire. ‘It’s burning well. Who taught you?’

  ‘Flora.’

  ‘Your maid?’

  ‘Maid and friend. She introduced me to Sally—and her family. I also know how to fish and hunt.’ She paused, giving him that slightly impish smile. ‘If I had my catapult, I could get us a rabbit to roast over the fire.’

  He could see her as an elfin huntress complete with bow and arrow, a miniature Dianna with a dose of mischief. ‘Flora taught you that, too?’

  ‘Yes, and Sally, her niece.’

  ‘Jem’s wife?’

  ‘Yes...’ She paused, with a tiny sigh. ‘Sally and I would play as children. We became good friends. I learned a lot of useful skills from her. She told me about Cornish pixies, spriggans and knockers.’

  She looked into the flames, smiling, as though privy to some pleasant secret.

  ‘What in the world is a spriggan?’

  ‘Like a pixie, but nastier.’

  ‘And a knocker?’

  ‘Less malevolent, but tricky. They like to steal tools or play other tricks, particularly on the miners.’

  ‘You know a lot about Cornwall.’

  ‘It is my home,’ she said.

  He thought of Annie and all the other women in London. He could not envisage them hunting, weaving tales of pixies and spriggans or, he reminded himself, cavorting with smugglers.

  She was unique, different from anyone he’d encountered.

  ‘Your face is none too clean either,’ Miss Lansdowne said.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You seemed to be scrutinising me.’ She eyed him sternly from under her straight, strong brows, which were at odds with the delicate heart-shaped features of her face.

  ‘You are blunt,’ he said.

  ‘I warned you.’

  ‘I apologise. I was just thinking that I had never met anyone like you, in London.’

  ‘I doubt I’d survive long in London.’ Her nose wrinkled with distaste.

  ‘You do not like it?’

  She paused. ‘It is not...’ she said, after a moment’s contemplation. ‘It is not that I dislike London. I have only been there twice and it was very foreign to me. I felt as though I was always pretending, trying to impress people about things I did not think important.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘The latest fashion. An acquaintance of my mother’s once wore a collection of fruit on her bonnet because she thought it fashionable. And everyone complimented her on it.’

  ‘And did the bonnet impress?’ he asked.

  ‘Only the flies.’ She stretched, smothering a yawn.

  He smiled. It was true. Life was about pretending, although he doubted that was limited to London. At school, he’d pretended a love of sports and to have only average intelligence.

  His father had married his mother and pretended he did not care that she had a child from a previous marriage, was almost middle-aged, no great beauty, with a vast knowledge of scholarly works and a complete inability to utter a single witticism. None of it mattered because she was rich.

  His mother had married his father and pretended to care about the domestic challenges of retaining servants with a mind so brilliant she could read Greek, Latin, astronomy and play several musical instruments.

  Even with Annie, there had been pretence. He’d changed to be the person she wanted him to be. It had worked until the duke came along with the title and the lands and then all his pretty play-acting was for nought.

  Socrates had said that the greatest way to live with honour is to be what we pretend. What would it be, not to pretend?

  Millie gave another yawn and he pushed his thoughts aside, starting to collect some of the straw. ‘We should get some rest. I’ll stuff some straw under the door jamb. Cut down the draught.’

  ‘My mother calls it a door sausage.’

  He glanced at her profile. ‘She must be very worried.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said in a tone that did not invite further question.

  Frances must also be worried. He did not like to think of it. She had seemed so fragile and he hated to think that he was adding to her anxiety. Frances had always been his anchor. Even from a distance, she had helped during those first awful months at school. She’d written long letters with funny anecdotes about cook, nanny, the housekeeper’s cat who had somehow landed in the coal scuttle. He remembered her saying that she’d got the maid to post them as his father disapproved, saying that Sam was too much mollycoddled by the women in his life.

  Frances had been the strong one, pulling Sam from the brink when he had been set on self-destruct.

  ‘We will get back to them tomorrow,’ he said, as though saying it made it the more likely. ‘Let’s get some rest. I will lie in the small alcove and give you the fire.’

  ‘You will freeze. Stay near the fire.’

  He hesitated. ‘It hardly seems appropriate for us to be so close.’

  She laughed, a wonderful gurgling laugh which lit up the room. ‘I doubt being kidnapped by smugglers, escaping a sinking ship and almost drowning was appropriate either.’

  He grinned back with sudden lightness of heart. ‘You are unusual, brave and with a sense of humour. I cannot think of any other individual who could have endured what you have.’

  She gave a breathy gasp. ‘Then you really must expand your acquaintances.’

  ‘Here, my jacket is dry at last.’ He lay it over her.

  ‘Thank you.’ She curled into it and he lay close, making sure that his body blocked the draught which, despite the straw, still whistled under the door jamb.

  The wind rattled the shutter while rain drummed on the roof.

  ‘Tell me again...what is it that you like about Cornwall?’ he muttered.

  ‘It is beautiful and wild and free and independent.’

  ‘It is that,’ he said. ‘Goodnight, Miss Lansdowne.’

  ‘Might I suggest, Mr Garrett, that you call me Millie, given the experiences of the day?’

  ‘If you will call me Sam?’

  ‘Sam it is,’ she said softly. ‘Goodnight, Sam.’

  * * *

  Jason’s face was close to his own: so close Sam could see the spittle leave his lips; so close that he could see the pores and broken blood vessels threading his nose; so close that he could see the bloodshot red suffusing his eyes.

  Except he couldn’t breathe. His throat had constricted. He couldn’t see or hear. It was black and cold.

  He was drowning, unable to breathe, unable to move.

  Fear pounded though him.

  A scream s
hattered the night...

  ‘Shh, you’re having a nightmare.’

  The words came from outside his dream. Sam bolted upright. It was dark. He felt a confused disorientation and raised his fists to ward off an unseen enemy.

  ‘Mr Garrett... Sam...wake up. It’s me.’

  ‘Miss Lansdowne.’ He lowered his hands. ‘I apologise.’

  They were at the hut, of course. The memories from the day previous tumbled back.

  ‘You just had a bad dream.’

  ‘Yes... Jason...’ Images flickered through his mind but even as he tried to grasp them, they slipped away, ephemeral as mist.

  Millie was sitting up with her back to him, prodding the fire into reluctant life. It fizzled and she added more peat, cupping her hands and blowing gently. He shivered, his body cold and clammy with sweat.

  ‘Was it a memory or just a dream?’ she asked.

  ‘I do not know. I was with Jason. We were fighting. I was outside.’

  ‘Is that how you ended in the water?’

  ‘I... I do not know.’ He shook his head. ‘It cannot be. Jason is my sister’s husband. I wouldn’t fight him. It must be a dream.’

  ‘Maybe someone attacked you both?’

  Sam lay back, staring at the plume of tiny sparks twisting towards the ceiling. ‘If only I could remember. Sometimes, it is almost there, like when you see something from the corner of your eye but it disappears the moment you look at it.’

  She nodded, also lying down. ‘So maybe tell me what you do remember? Any detail might help. Just talk about the day. Why you came here.’

  He was silent for a moment. It couldn’t hurt. He did not feel sleepy and it was still dark. Perhaps it might help him to make sense out of the clogged confusion which was his brain.

  ‘I came to Cornwall to see my sister, Frances. I arrived in the afternoon. I went directly to Manton Hall.’ He paused.

  ‘You must have been happy to see her and her baby?’

  ‘Yes.’ He spoke, slowly, remembering both Frances’s surprise but also her apprehension. It was as though she was coiled too tight, her movements jerky and her gaze unable to linger on any one object. ‘But I was worried. I should have come sooner. She had changed.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘She seemed nervous and her maid said that she seldom went out.’

  ‘That much is true, but she was in the family way. Had you been close before she came here?’

  ‘She was four years older than me and I was sent away to Harrow to study. We were as close as circumstances allowed. Frances helped me, during the difficult time after my father died.’ He was almost surprised by his words, he seldom mentioned or even allowed himself to think about that time. His father’s death, swiftly followed by Annie’s decision to marry the duke had led to too many drunken nights.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Millie said. ‘About your father.’

  ‘I thought you weren’t comfortable with condolences.’ He glanced towards her.

  ‘I’m better when they’re not directed towards me.’

  ‘It was some time ago.’

  ‘And does time make it better, like they say?’ she asked, almost wistfully.

  ‘Yes.’ He paused. It felt, suddenly, that whatever was said in this isolated hut and on this isolated moor could not be the usual platitudes. ‘There are some days when it still hurts...a lot. When it feels raw, but those days become fewer. With Mother...’

  He stopped himself. With his mother it had hurt so much worse because he had not known she was so ill. Logically, he should have known. Even at eight, he should have known. But he hadn’t, so the pain had been mixed with shock, anger and a feeling of stupidity. Even now, he wondered if people had sought to keep the truth from him or merely assumed he already knew it.

  ‘What was she like? Your mother?’

  He smiled into the darkness. ‘Brilliant. Rude. She did not like fools which was unfortunate given her social strata. She could read many languages. Loved music. She was translating Thesmophoriazusae from Ancient Greek into English.’

  ‘Thesmo—what? You’ll have to enlighten me.’

  ‘Written by Aristophanes. She talked to me a lot about its meaning. I did not listen as much as I should have done. She would also tell me the most wonderful stories and had a Greek or Latin quote for almost every situation.’

  ‘You were close.’

  ‘Yes.’ In those last months she’d spent a lot of time with him. Frances was usually with her governess, but he only took lessons in the morning. During the afternoons he would sit with his mother as she told him story after story: myths, legends and make-believe. It was as though she wanted to pack a life time of books and music into a few weeks.

  It had been a wonderful time, followed by a pain so harsh it had crippled. His world imploded and he lost not only his mother but his trust. He distrusted happiness. He distrusted people. His distrusted his own intelligence.

  ‘People always want to help, but they never know what to say. They only want you to eat. Just when one wants to eat nothing,’ Millie said softly.

  ‘It’s true.’ He remembered cook making his favourite meal on the day after Mother died. He had eaten little and had felt the guilt of her disappointment. Then his father had shouted at the poor woman and told her not to ‘mollycoddle’ the boy, which seemed to layer further guilt on him.

  ‘Your sister must have provided some comfort.’

  ‘She wrote often. She cheered me up and helped me to be strong. Maybe that was why I never thought of her as vulnerable. If I had, perhaps I would have come sooner.’

  ‘You came now. That is what is most important.’

  * * *

  Millie glanced at Sam’s silhouette, the straight nose and strong jawline, now shadowed with stubble. There was an intimacy in talking like this. She’d read somewhere that it is easier to talk to a stranger. Or perhaps it was the darkness which lessened social restraint or the comfort of being dry and almost warm within this tiny cottage protected from the wind and storm outside.

  ‘I got the feeling you do not like him. What do you know of him?’

  ‘Who?’ Millie was momentarily confused because something about his silhouette was distracting. ‘Ludlow?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Millie thought back to when Ludlow and his mother had first taken the lease on Manton Hall. Indeed, her own mother had been excited. After Father had lost so much money, poor Mother felt banished to Cornwall and hoped the Ludlows would infuse it with sophistication. In this she was disappointed. Mrs Ludlow, known as an arbiter of fashion and good taste in London, eschewed local society.

  Unfortunately, Jason Ludlow was not similarly reclusive. After Father had quietly died of a poor heart, Mother had succumbed further to her nerves while Ludlow became Tom’s antidote to the sadness of his home. He accompanied Tom often, going to Manton, London or some country house party. Ludlow had encouraged Tom to take risks but, truthfully, Tom needed little encouragement.

  Indeed, Millie was always trying to reason with him and save him from his own demons.

  ‘He was not a good influence on Tom. He emboldened him to seek danger, drink and gamble, but Tom’s death was not Ludlow’s fault,’ she said.

  ‘What happened?’

  She stared at the criss-crossing beams and felt the sting of tears. She hadn’t wanted him to go. ‘Do you believe in premonition?’

  ‘Like having a bad feeling about something?’

  ‘Yes. I asked him not to go. It was a country house party in Devon.’

  Truthfully, there was no reason to suspect that it would be any different than any of the other social events Tom attended. Maybe it was no different, he was just less lucky.

  ‘He did not listen?’

  ‘He bet he could jump a hedge. He died instantly,’ she said.

  The horse had
shattered its leg and was shot. Her mother had fallen apart, broken by the loss of husband and son in such quick succession.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Sam said, reaching for her hand.

  She accepted his offer. She felt the warmth of his fingers and the comfort of human connection. Loneliness—out of the full gamut of human emotion, loneliness was the sentiment with which she had the greatest familiarity. And duty.

  Since her father’s financial losses, she’d tried to help her father, her mother, Tom, Lil, even Flora. If willpower could have kept them safe, they’d still be alive. But willpower was not enough. Her parents were too broken, her brother too reckless and her sister too young.

  The firelight flickered. Outside, she heard a bird’s call and wondered if it was getting close to dawn. They should leave once there was sufficient light. And yet, she was reluctant to move. It was warm under Sam’s jacket, pressed close to the fire. She was conscious of his body, the size of him, which was both comforting and something else. She was peculiarly conscious of the present, as though past and future had slid into unimportance.

  Indeed, there was an intimacy in this moment with him which was both disconcerting and reassuring.

  She looked at his strong features, dimly lit by the firelight. His lips lifted in a smile.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  ‘I was only thinking that this felt...nice.’

  The touch of his hand changed from comfort to an awareness, a tingling sensitivity and a feeling of being more alive. It felt as though every particle of her body, every inch if her skin had an added vibrancy.

  Indeed, everything within the tiny bare cabin felt so completely different from the rest of her life, as if it was a separate moment, stolen in time. It stood out in brilliant, stark relief.

  What would it be like, she wondered, to throw duty to the wind? To forget about the ‘what ifs’? To forget about Mr Edmunds with his five children and the snuff stains liberally splattered across his too-tight waistcoat? To allow herself to inch closer to this man, to run her fingers across the stubble of his cheek, to feel the muscles in his shoulders?