Caught in a Cornish Scandal

by Eleanor Webster

  Merryweather had taken Sam’s outer coat and, for a moment, she had the luxury of observing him without being observed. Then, the moment was gone, as he glanced upwards. Heat surged into her cheeks. For a second, she thought she detected a reaction, a flicker in his gaze as he took in her hair and gown. However, he merely nodded politely in greeting and she discerned no other change in his expression.

  She felt a flicker of disappointment, foolish in the extreme. What had she expected—that he would be entranced by a new hairdo and pretty dress? This was his world: a world of debutantes, dances and high fashion. Heloise had made a remarkable improvement, but she could not transform a Cornish waif into a London beauty. Besides, Millie had never aspired to the latter.

  Indeed, this entire London trip was to help Frances and pave the way for Lil’s successful debut. Millie’s own goal was that of independence.

  ‘Miss Lansdowne, you look well,’ Sam said as she reached the bottom stair.

  ‘Thank you, you as well.’ So much for originality, wit and the avoidance of dull chit-chat.

  ‘Lady Wyburn asked me to show you into the salon,’ Merryweather interjected. ‘Dinner will be served shortly.’

  ‘Thank you, Merryweather.’ Sam offered Millie his arm and she placed her gloved hand on it, conscious of a nervous tremble.

  They walked into the salon with its understated elegance. This man in these impeccable clothes seemed quite different from the half-drowned man she had rescued or even the casual gentleman of Cornwall. He belonged here, whereas she was an imposter, dressed in costume and suitably tongue-tied.

  ‘First and most importantly, my man of business spoke to Harwood. Or his solicitor. His health has declined. His offer of marriage to your sister was real, as he would like a legitimate heir, however, the promissory note is a forgery and need concern you no longer.’

  ‘Truly?’ Millie said, the sudden surge of relief making her clutch more tightly on his muscled forearm.

  ‘I promised to help.’ He glanced down at her and she felt a rush of embarrassment that she was clutching at him like an ill-mannered school girl.

  ‘Thank you, indeed, I am grateful for Lillian and myself. It makes my goal of independence the more possible.’

  ‘I am glad I could help.’

  There was an awkward pause.

  She was glad when he broke it. ‘I paid my respects to your mother before I left and she is well. She sends her best wishes,’ he said.

  ‘I am relieved she is still well. It is strange how one can worry about someone without even realising one is worrying. I am glad my mother is still better. Frances is also much improved. We go for walks frequently.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He smiled with that captivating dimple, which seemed to melt her into a mush of emotion.

  This made her again speechless while also causing her to remember the touch of his lips, the eager movement of his hands pushing down her chemise, touching her thighs, pulling her close to him.

  ‘Truly, I mean it,’ he said, his words jolting her back, and she felt her cheeks redden, as though he might be able to read her thoughts.

  ‘It has been nice to see her getting better,’ she said, clinging to this safer topic. ‘She hasn’t been talking about her dreams and is taking more of an interest in everyday events.’

  His lips lifted in that familiar half-smile and she found that the topic no longer felt safe. In fact, as she looked into his dark grey-green eyes, she could no longer remember the topic and was conscious only of the warmth which seemed to emanate from her core.

  ‘Frances wrote that you have helped her so much. I do appreciate it. You have a strength, a sturdiness of character.’

  His words made her feel oddly flat and heavy.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said stiffly.

  Sturdiness? She could not think of a single one of Lil’s books which spoke of a ‘sturdy’ heroine.

  ‘She wrote that she did not want to come tonight, but you will come? To the opera?’

  He looked at her with those earnest eyes, as though it was important to him that she come.

  And now her inners felt mushy. Gracious, she was a veritable collection of contradictions; hot, flat, mushy. Not to forget sturdy.

  She must not, she reminded herself, read too much into his invitation. He was grateful for her help with his sister and wanted to ensure she had a pleasant time in London. It was the sort of thing that Lady Wyburn might do if any country cousins came to town. Kind, but nothing more.

  She shook her head. ‘No.’

  The ludicrous truth was that against all sense, all reason, she liked...cared for...was intrigued by...loved the man. It seemed that, despite her stern lectures, a foolish, unsupervised part of her had been building fanciful castles in the air. Going to the opera, sitting in his box, wearing a fancy dress that she could never afford was a pretence. And the longer she played along with this ludicrous pretence, the more she would be hurt when it inevitably ended.

  For a moment she thought he looked disappointed.

  ‘But thank you for inviting me,’ she added, realising that she had been ungracious. ‘My sister and Lady Wyburn will attend.’

  ‘But not you?’

  ‘It might be too much like soirée.’

  He laughed. ‘I smile more around you.’

  Great—sturdy with comedic abilities.

  ‘And there I thought it was my lack of chit-chat,’ she said, perhaps the first spontaneous thing she had said since she’d encountered him at the bottom of Lady Wyburn’s stairs.

  He grinned back. ‘I am grateful that we have thus far avoided an analysis of the weather.’

  ‘And sheep,’ she added. ‘Very overrated, although the British seem somewhat obsessed with the subject. The weather, not sheep.’

  ‘I recall one young lady attempted to amuse me with a lively discussion of puddles.’

  ‘Puddles? As in rain puddles?’

  ‘Yes, she liked to paint them,’ he said, straight-faced but with a twinkle.

  ‘Art can be interesting.’

  ‘Indeed, but not for an entire dinner involving several courses.’

  * * *

  Millie laughed, a rich spontaneous sound. He had missed her. He hadn’t realised how much until he’d seen her standing at the stairs. Actually, seeing her there had been revealing, disorienting, confusing. The woman defied categorisation—one moment she was a rebel smuggler, the next a pragmatic competent young woman and now...a beauty. The lavender dress shimmered with her every move. The low neck emphasised the creamy expanse of skin while the loose folds draped down with diaphanous elegance.

  She was not pretty, that would be too insipid. Nor was she beautiful. Her face was not cast in classic lines. No, she was striking, inspiring, unique. It was hard to connect this glamorous woman with either the scruffy smuggler or country gentlewoman and yet this enhanced her allure. His every sensation seemed heightened, as though he had been sleepwalking through life and was now awake. This feeling was both discomforting and exciting.

  Just then Lady Wyburn swept into the salon, followed by Merryweather, more bowed than ever.

  ‘Dear boy, it is so lovely to see you,’ Lady Wyburn said, smiling so that her cheeks bunched up like round, ripe apples. She paused, studying him with apparent concern. ‘I do hope that you are eating your vegetables, dear.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You are looking contemplative and I find thinking leads to irritation. I avoid it when possible which helps me to remain remarkably sanguine. I always tell my solicitor, Mr Begby, that he should eat additional vegetables when he gets a dyspeptic countenance. Likely you have had to spend too much time with your solicitor today. In general, I find spending time with solicitors quite disturbing to my peace of mind.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Sam said with some confusion. His great-aunt was his very favourite relat
ive, but following her convoluted thought processes could be challenging.

  Merryweather served them drinks and then shuffled away.

  ‘I hope he has some help serving dinner,’ Sam said, eyeing the butler’s retreating form.

  ‘I have a couple of younger footmen,’ Lady Wyburn said. ‘Otherwise, I fear we would never be fed and then Cook would be dreadfully angry. However, I wanted to talk to you about Frances.’

  He stiffened. ‘I have heard she is doing better.’

  ‘Absolutely, she is much improved. I just wanted to let you know that if there is gossip or anything unpleasant, I could take her away from London. I assured her that she need not worry, someone is always doing something dreadful in London but, well, I wouldn’t want her to be hurt by gossip.’

  ‘Thank you, that is appreciated,’ he said. ‘Jason and Mrs Ludlow are pleading guilty so at least there won’t be the publicity of a trial. I was at my club and I did not hear much except an inaccurate rumour that Jason and Mrs Ludlow had been involved in treasonous activity with the French.’

  ‘I do think treason is much better than murder and will likely generate considerably less gossip,’ Lady Wyburn said with apparent approval. ‘However, we are not at war with the French any more. Is it possible to be treasonous when one is not at war?’

  ‘I am not an expert on such matters, but believe it is possible,’ he said, with a wry smile. ‘However, there will still be some unpleasantness so London may not be the best place when the rumour mill really gets going.’

  ‘Bath.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Bath is always good because everyone is ancient, deaf and about twenty years behind the times. I would be happy to take her to Bath. One always needs the waters at my age. Or we could go to Wyburn. Although I would like to stay here at least long enough to launch dear Miss Lansdowne and her sister.’

  ‘I am not being launched,’ Millie said, hurriedly.

  ‘Nonsense, you will spoil all my fun. I love organising a debut and I know that you will both be so very successful. Indeed, I am quite positive you will be flooded with offers. There is always something alluring about a female who doesn’t recognise her full allure.’

  ‘You do not understand. Truly, I am not interested in marriage.’

  ‘That is very unusual.’

  ‘Did you not know, Aunt Tilly? Miss Lansdowne is somewhat unusual.’

  ‘So, what do you aspire to?’

  ‘I thought I would be an independent spinster in Cornwall.’

  ‘In other words, you would likely live with your mother or be a governess. Sadly, unless a female has wealth, independence is limited and usually results in kowtowing as a governess or companion.’

  ‘What would you have me do?’

  ‘I have no idea.’ Lady Wyburn beamed. ‘Fortunately, that is your decision. But, talking of independence, I hope we will be able to ensure Frances’s freedom from that dreadful Jason Ludlow.’

  ‘I am working on that,’ Sam said.

  ‘I suggest a poisoned hatpin.’ His great-aunt made this announcement with an enthusiastic nod.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I always fancied poisoning someone with a hatpin,’ she added with another bob of her grey ringlets.

  ‘Much as I hate to curtail such heady aspirations I really must put a damper on that idea,’ Sam said.

  ‘My great-nephew is absolutely no fun,’ Lady Wyburn announced. ‘I will just go and make sure Merryweather hasn’t collapsed or bent down and got stuck.’

  With these words, she stood and with a brisk fluidity which belied her years, moved swiftly from the room, leaving only the sound of the hurried ‘tap-tap-tap’ of her heels on the hardwood.

  The chamber felt quiet without her vibrant energy and Sam was aware of their solitude. He looked across to Millie.

  ‘I wish you would reconsider the opera.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked in that blunt way of hers, with her firm brows contracted.

  He paused, trying to find the right words. He knew that they had no future. He had found the one woman in England determined not to marry. But they had shared so much. He had learned so much, about himself, the world...

  ‘I’d like to share the beauty of opera with you. I think it is for me like the moors are for you,’ he said, surprised by his own words and his own honesty.

  The room felt very silent. It seemed for a moment as though it was just the two of them, as it had been at the peat-cutter’s hut. ‘You shared with me the magic of the moors. Let me share this. It is also magic,’ he said softly.

  ‘I’ll go to the opera,’ she said.

  * * *

  The opera house was full. Lady Wyburn and Lil stopped and chatted with everyone, but Sam steered Millie directly to his box.

  ‘See, hardly any social chit-chat,’ he said.

  He realised how very much he wanted her to enjoy the activity and to find it magical, yet the very eagerness of this emotion felt odd. He was not used to caring so much about whether someone enjoyed an event. Moreover, he felt as though he was constantly wrong footed. The wild creature from the moors had morphed into a practical young woman and now an elegant beauty.

  He watched as Millie leaned forward. Her interest was evident as she took in details of the orchestra pit and mill of people below. As was typical, she made no attempt to hide her interest or pretend a blasé sophistication.

  After observing the crowd for several minutes, she turned back to him, her expression curious. ‘Tell me what it is that you like most about the opera.’

  With anyone else, he would have answered glibly, providing some trite answer, but Millie demanded honesty.

  He looked at the musicians tuning their instruments, their sounds still discordant. ‘I like the anticipation. I like the way the instruments sound dissonant now and then later they are harmonious.’

  But it was more than that. He remembered going to his first opera after his mother’s death. He had been alone in his box and for the first time he had felt something. Since her death he had been numb. At school and with his father, he’d learned that emotion was a weakness, a flaw and a vulnerability. The numbness, the ability to function, had been a life skill. Indeed, it had become so ingrained in him, he’d forgotten how to feel.

  He leaned towards her. ‘You know how you do not like chit-chat?’

  She nodded.

  ‘After my mother died, throughout my adolescence, my whole life was chit-chat and pretence, even to myself. But when I am at the opera I am aware of emotion. I feel more alive...’ He paused.

  She said nothing, as though comfortable with the silence, not needing to fill the quiet with words.

  ‘After my mother died,’ he continued, ‘I tried to talk to people. I remember talking to Cook, but it made her sad to see me sad. I tried to talk to my father, but it made him angry and made him see me as weak.’

  ‘I do not think it is weak to feel,’ Millie said softly. ‘I think my father and Tom both went to excess in the attempt not to feel.’

  ‘My mother would have agreed. She said the British aristocracy were emotionally constipated.’

  ‘She what?’ Millie gave a wonderful chortle of suppressed laughter.

  ‘We fear bad manners. We fear excess emotion. She loved her Greek and Latin scholars. She loved opera.’

  He stopped, staring down at the crowds filling the pit. ‘In the end, she proved herself so very British.’

  ‘When she hid her illness.’ Her deep blue and intense gaze seemed to understand more than he could put into words.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We lie to save our loved ones’ pain. But the lie causes more pain. The Cornish peasants are much more honest. Perhaps is their heritage or the hardship of their lives.’

  ‘You have changed me,’ he said. ‘You have made me think about so many thi
ngs. Like your friend Sally trying to educate her children. And my mother, so brilliant and yet forced to hide her brilliance. Even our politics are a pretence. More than a decade ago, we made it illegal for Britons to participate in the slave trade and yet it still happens. And we are still making money.’

  ‘I misjudged you when I first met you.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, I had given money to schools and philanthropic societies. It made me feel virtuous, that I was doing more than just eating, drinking and playing. But I still judged things I did not understand. I thought the law was always right. I thought I was always right.’

  ‘And now?’

  He leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. ‘I still believe in the law, but I think the law can be improved.’

  * * *

  From the first moment the orchestra played, Millie was entranced. It was magic. She forgot about the crowded theatre, the gossip, the smells. She was unaware of Lady Wyburn, Lil and even Sam. The music vibrated through her, giving her soul wings, making her feel as though she understood or had glimpsed some eternal mystery.

  It was, she thought, like those moments when the sea and the sky took on a splendour that seemed beyond the beauty of earth.

  For the first time, she could understand London’s appeal. To hear something like this was remarkable. To have such a multitude of instruments—cellos, violins, flutes—playing together. Moreover, it was not only music. It was movement, dance and song. It was like entering a separate world of golden light, music and magic—Oberon’s palace, peopled with faeries.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Sam sat in front of his pianoforte. He should go to bed. He had told Banks to retire, but the man was likely waiting up with a sad expression. Banks did not trust him with the proper maintenance of his jackets or cravats.

  Sam felt tired, but he couldn’t go to bed quite yet. Usually, the opera both thrilled and calmed him, leaving his soul feeling freshly laundered. He’d enjoyed every second, but he also felt a heady excitement, which precluded sleep. He remembered the way Millie had held her breath during certain arias, releasing it with that breathy gasp. He remembered how she’d leant forward, propping her elbows against the edge of the box and cupping her chin.