Caught in a Cornish Scandal

by Eleanor Webster

  Millie and her mother had frequently disagreed. Mrs Lansdowne had spent little time in Cornwall during Millie’s childhood, always preferring London. When they’d lost their money, her parents no longer kept the London house, moving permanently to Cornwall.

  Mrs Lansdowne had not approved of Millie’s friendships with the villagers, her fishing or long walks. In turn, Millie had not fully understood the extent of her mother’s loss: the lifestyle, friends and social status. Indeed, these losses, followed by her husband and son’s death, had crushed her.

  Millie leaned against the chair, staring into the amber flames and watching the sparks flicker up into the chimney. After Tom’s accident, her mother had retired to bed, leaving Millie to comfort her sister, work with the solicitor and resolve a myriad of other details that had kept a roof over their heads. Millie had been patient. She had been understanding...at least until Harwood’s visit.

  Somehow that had unleashed an anger and frustration that had been building since Tom’s death. It was fear for Lil. It was anger that her mother had been in bed day after day but had struggled up for a man with a title. It was bewildered fury that such a marriage should even be considered. It was despair that Millie had just gained headway in the family’s financial affairs only to be struck down.

  They had fought. Millie closed her eyes as though this might help block out the memories and sharp unkind words on both sides.

  ‘We are your daughters, not your sacrificial lambs. I will marry Mr Edmunds, but Lillian cannot marry Lord Harwood. I do not care what Tom owned him. I do not care if he has money or a title. There must be another way and if you cannot find it, I will.’

  Except she hadn’t. She had merely almost killed herself, which would have made Lil even more vulnerable to Harwood.

  For a moment, as she listened to the crackle of the fire and felt its warmth, she could almost convince herself that she was back in the tiny cottage where past and future hadn’t mattered. There was a freedom in living only for the present.

  And then she thought of Sam. Even now, it seemed as though she could feel where his fingers had touched. As if, even through the cloth, her skin was still imbued with that peculiar, shivery, tingly, needy warmth.

  From the corridor, Flora’s footsteps could be heard trudging up the stairs. The door opened with whistle of cooler air as the maid stepped into the room, lugging a huge kettle of water, and placed it down with a heavy thud. Tendrils of steam rose upwards. Flora poured the hot water into the tub by the fire, then added cold water from the urn under the mirror—or rather, where the mirror had once hung. Now all that remained was the faded shape, like an imprint of a former life.

  ‘There you are,’ Flora said. ‘Let’s get you undressed.’

  Millie stood compliantly, much as she had as a child, while Flora removed her shirt.

  Lil came in with a second kettle of water, which she added to the bath. The curlers had been removed and her hair now hung about her in loose waves. Her face had flushed from the steam, or perhaps it was the excitement or the exercise of walking up the stairs.

  ‘Millie,’ she said in a hurried rush. ‘Tell me what happened? We searched for your boat. Flora’s family helped. We looked everywhere. Poor Mother has been frantic.’

  ‘Now, miss,’ Flora intervened firmly, ‘like I told your mother, enough time for that later. You can catch up with your sister tomorrow.’

  ‘But...’

  ‘In the morning,’ Flora repeated, half pushing Lil from the bedchamber.

  Turning, Flora walked back to Millie. ‘Right, miss,’ she said in brisk tones. ‘We’ll get off those trousers and camisole and get you cleaned and tucked into bed. You’ll be feeling as right as rain soon and that you may tie to.’

  Millie was only too thankful to take direction and absolve herself from thought. Willingly, she let Flora remove her soiled clothes and lead her to the tub. Her feet stung, but the heat comforted and, with a grateful sigh, she sank into the warm water.

  It smelled of lavender. Flora washed her gently, asking no questions. She wiped away the grime, making soft tutting sounds when she noted a bruise or abrasion. Flora always comforted first. When they were children, Tom and Millie would get into a scrape and Flora would feed, bandage and console before demanding explanation or restitution.

  When she was little, she had admired Tom. It had seemed as though his impulsivity brought with it adventure and excitement. She had followed him like a shadow. They had been mischievous imps. Once they’d even brought goats into the main house. Millie couldn’t remember why. Of course, the poor animals had run amok, butting the cook and eating several nice pillowcases hanging on the line. Tom had disappeared while Millie had chased the goats for the better part of an hour. Sal had helped—

  Sally! Millie bolted upright so abruptly that water splashed from the tub.

  Did she know? Did she know about Jem?

  ‘Sal—Jem—Does she know?’

  The image of Jem’s face flickered before her mind’s eye, bringing with it a wave of nausea.

  ‘Yes. His body was found. I imagine we need to be thankful you were not also on that beach?’

  Flora’s tone was brisk, her sentence ending with a disapproving ‘tsk’, but Millie saw the worry etched on the older woman’s face.

  ‘You knew?’

  ‘Aye. And it was a heavy burden not being able to tell anyone my suspicions.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘What made you do it, miss? I thought I’d hammered more sense into you.’

  ‘I am a work in progress, I suppose.’ Millie hugged her knees, one hand trailing in the sudsy water as she spoke reluctantly. ‘Mother told me that Tom owed Lord Harwood money... Harwood will forgive the loan if Lil will marry him. Mother wanted that.’

  She was angry also that, after all her sensible scrimping, saving, and strategizing, her mother had not even turned to her, asking for help, ideas, suggestions.

  Something to save Lil.

  ‘Harwood.’ Flora exhaled, pressing her lips together. ‘Well, that explains a lot.’

  Millie glanced at the older woman, her worn face as familiar as her own. ‘Does nothing shock you?’

  ‘I find shock an unhelpful emotion not conducive to sound reason. You should have told me. I might have come up with something a mite more sensible than smuggling.’

  ‘Does anyone else...know? About the smuggling? I mean, about me doing it?’

  ‘I told my family that you’d gone out fishing and were caught in the storm. And I told Sally not to breathe a word. I’ll get word down to her that you’re safe.’

  ‘I never meant to go on board the ship. I was only supposed to go to the vessel and be given the merchandise. Then I was to head straight back to shore and hide it.’

  ‘Do not say something went wrong with your foolproof plan,’ Flora said, wringing out the flannel, as though holding personal animosity against it.

  ‘I found a man drowning and pulled him out.’

  ‘You what now? One of the smugglers?’ Flora asked.

  ‘I thought so, but it was actually Mr Garrett.’

  ‘Never heard of the man.’

  ‘Mrs Ludlow’s brother.’

  Flora sat back on her heels, as she took in this new information. ‘And now Jason Ludlow’s gone missing. That cannot be a coincidence. There’s speculation about Mr Ludlow. Some says as he’s up to his eyes in nefarious doings. Likely this drowning victim might know summat about it.’

  ‘No, Sam wouldn’t,’ Millie said with more heat than she had intended.

  Flora raised an eyebrow, giving the flannel another twist. ‘Sam, is it? And this Sam convinced you to run off with smugglers?’

  ‘No, and I did not run off with them. They made us come on board. They pointed a pistol at us and then all manner of other awful things happened and... Anyway, I did not r
un off with them. I did not have a choice.’

  The strength of this last statement was marred by the tremble in her voice.

  ‘Hmm. A choice would have been to stay on dry land,’ Flora said. ‘But we can talk about that later. And mind you do not be telling your mother and sister about smugglers or this Sam character. Your mother would likely require smelling salts and your sister would find it romantic and tell all and sundry.’

  ‘Lil does like stories involving pirates and princesses,’ Millie said, which reminded her of her conversation with Sam. To her irritated mortification, she started to cry. Almost angrily, she wiped her eyes with the flannel, which was soapy, and only served to make her eyes sting further.

  ‘There, there,’ Flora said, providing her with a fresh cloth. ‘You’re alive, that’s the main thing. Who knows? Like as not, this may have knocked some sense into you. Life is not all adventure and romance.’

  Millie said nothing. Certainly, the last two days had not been romantic. They were too hungry and smelly and cold for romance. And her feet had hurt too much. Blisters were not romantic. But it had been something. Those moments with Sam had made her feel as though her whole body was more alive. She had felt as though she had briefly glimpsed something unknown and unchartered.

  She knew she had to marry Mr Edmunds, now more than ever. And she would. Nothing in the last few days had changed that. But her reluctance to do so felt stronger. She did not want to marry Mr Edmunds with his sausage fingers, his rotund figure and quest for land.

  She closed her eyes. For a moment, she could picture Sam’s strong, regular features and firm chin. She remembered his smile, the crease in his cheek and occasional humour in his eyes.

  ‘Anyway, one way or another, we won’t let your sister marry Lord Harwood. Your mother likely doesn’t know his reputation. And I dare say once things are all sorted with Mr Edmunds, he’ll have a suggestion or two. He is a decent man, hard-working and kind. You could do worse.’

  ‘Yes,’ Millie said. ‘It’s just he is not...’

  Her words trailed into silence and she felt a sting under her eyelids. Flora took Millie’s hand. The touch, her palms slightly roughened by hard work, was familiar.

  ‘He is not...?’ Flora prompted gently.

  Millie remembered again the touch of Sam’s lips and the way her body had felt about him.

  ‘Mr Edmunds is not...’ she paused ‘...young.’

  ‘Oh, miss,’ Flora said, her voice soft with sorrow, reading between the lines as she always had. ‘I am that sorry. But you cannot be running off with some ne’er-do-well you’ve met on your adventures.’

  ‘No, indeed not.’ Millie spoke briskly. ‘Besides, I am not acquainted with any ne’er-do-wells desirous of running off with me. I have learned my lesson. I will be sensible. I won’t let Lil or Mother down.’

  * * *

  The butler opened the door of Manton Hall. Sam remembered him from when he had arrived in Cornwall...whenever that was. Time was a foreign concept. The servant was too well trained to betray any shock at Sam’s appearance, merely swinging the door open and stepping aside.

  ‘Mr Garrett,’ he said in neutral tones, as though well used to guests arriving in rags.

  Sam stepped in. ‘Is my sister at home?’

  ‘She is currently out, my lord.’

  ‘Out? Where?’

  ‘I do not know if I should—’

  The butler’s words were drowned by a sudden screech and the hurried patter of feet descending the stairs. A middle-aged woman rushed down so quickly that he almost feared she would tumble over her own flying feet. He recognised her as Marta Shingle, his sister’s long-time maid, although she seemed much changed from the prim and proper woman he recalled.

  ‘Mr Garrett,’ Marta said, before Sam had even greeted her. ‘Thank goodness you are here! I am that relieved. The magistrate has taken her off. As though the poor lamb would hurt a fly. I did not know what to think. And what with you visiting friends.’

  ‘What? I did not...’ He paused. ‘What friends?’

  ‘My poor lamb,’ Marta repeated, not answering his question. ‘I just did not know what to do. At my wits’ end, I was.’

  ‘I am here now,’ he said bracingly. ‘I can help.’

  ‘I hope so. But Mrs Ludlow thinks—’ She stopped herself, her eyes round and her lips pressed into a tight line, as though to force herself into silence. Indeed, she did not seem entirely sensible. All colour had drained from her face except for her eyes, red rimmed from crying. Her hair was in wild disarray and her hands were clasped together while her teeth worried at her upper lip.

  ‘Perhaps if you tell me what is happening...’

  ‘Not here.’ Marta rolled her eyes towards the butler in a manner which made him worry again for her sanity.

  ‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘I take your point. Besides, I need to bathe. Marta, you must calm yourself. Please go to the library and wait for me. I will talk to you before going to the magistrate and I am certain we can sort the matter out.’

  His firm tone had the desired effect. The woman’s breathing slowed somewhat. She nodded, taking out a handkerchief to wipe her eyes.

  ‘Northrupt.’ He turned to the butler, inordinately pleased that he had recalled the man’s name. ‘Perhaps we can arrange for a calming cup of tea to be served in the library? And get Banks to come up to my bedchamber immediately.’

  * * *

  His valet proved more coherent, but no more enlightening. Sam peppered Banks with questions while he prepared the bath, but the answers were not entirely helpful.

  ‘You had given me the evening off, sir,’ Banks explained.

  ‘Very generous and not particularly good timing,’ Sam muttered, throwing the tattered cravat and soiled shirt into a corner.

  ‘You wanted me to see if I could find any local gossip about Mr and Mrs Ludlow. You were worried about Mrs Ludlow.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I went to the tavern. Apparently, Mrs Ludlow hardly leaves the house. Mr Ludlow, on the other hand, leaves the house frequently. He spends much time drinking, gambling and spending.’

  ‘Any rumours about criminal activities?’

  ‘I am afraid the locals are somewhat tight-lipped on that subject,’ Banks said.

  ‘So Jason is currently presumed dead. What did they make of my own disappearance?’

  ‘Nothing, my lord. No one knew you had disappeared. Mr Northrupt merely told me as how you was up early requesting a horse to visit friends.’

  ‘But I was not up early. I never went to bed.’

  ‘No, sir, I did not realise that until yesterday morning. I will admit I drank too much and overslept, which as you know is not my wont, but you had been kind enough to say that you wouldn’t be needing me early. When I arose, Mr Northrupt said you had gone riding. I was distressed by this, given that I had not provided you with your usual shave. Indeed, I was uncertain if I had even packed suitable riding clothes given that you had not mentioned a plan to ride during this visit,’ Banks said in injured tones.

  ‘Because I did not have any intentions of riding and I did not go riding,’ Sam replied. ‘So no one noticed I was gone?’

  ‘I saw your bed had not been slept in, sir, but everyone was at sixes and sevens looking for Mr Ludlow. The maid, Marta, had hysterics which was very hard on my head.’

  ‘It sounds quite chaotic.’

  ‘Yes,’ Banks agreed. ‘And I thought I’d get a message from you. I was just about to discuss the matter with Mr Northrupt when he mentioned that you’d sent words of your imminent return and here you are.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Sam said. ‘However, given that I never sent word to anyone, either Northrupt is psychic or he knows more than he lets on.’

  Sam sat silent in contemplation on this point while Banks washed and shaved him.

  ‘Try to fin
d out why Northrupt said I was coming back soon,’ he said.

  ‘Of course,’ Banks said, touching his finger to the side of his nose and looking more confident of his investigative powers than Sam was. Banks might be quite excellent with cravat and collar, but certainly lacked any great skills of deduction or investigation.

  Indeed, Sam felt more confused than ever. He would just have to hope that either his sister or his own mind provided some help as neither Banks nor Marta appeared insightful.

  * * *

  The magistrate’s office and house was located in the centre of town. By the time Sam had bathed, dressed and talked to Marta, it was late and he was bone weary. Marta still did not seem entirely sensible, merely saying that the magistrate had come mid-afternoon and, moments later, the nursemaid, baby and Frances had left.

  ‘I would have gone myself, but they had no room and then Mrs Ludlow was most unpleasant and refused to send for the carriage.’

  ‘Mrs Ludlow? Frances?’

  ‘No, Mr Ludlow’s mother.’

  ‘Of course, where is she now?’ he asked.

  ‘She is resting,’ Marta said.

  ‘Good, let’s not delay getting over to the magistrate. I have my own vehicle and can drive you. I hope to bring Mrs Ludlow home, but in the event that I cannot, I am certain she can make use of you.’

  * * *

  The trip to the magistrate’s house was short, which was fortunate given that the weather had forced him to raise the head of the curricle and Marta apparently required smelling salts frequently, a smell he had always abhorred.

  The butler opened the door, and directed Marta to the servants’ quarters while leading Sam down a narrow corridor to the study.

  ‘Sir Anthony, may I present Mr Garrett,’ the butler announced in sombre, well-enunciated tones.

  A small, balding man sat behind a desk. He looked up when Sam entered, pale blue eyes shining from behind gold-rimmed spectacles.

  ‘Good Lord, Giles, you make announcements as though we are at a ball. Come in...come in...good to see you, Mr Garrett, I must say.’