The Scandal of the Season

by Annie Burrows

  ‘Yes, but...’

  ‘And anyway, what can he really do? He does not have the power to physically eject either of you from my home. He may spread rumours, but, really, I shouldn’t think that he will. It would not be the act of a gentleman to speak ill of a lady and he is one of the most rigid, principled men you are ever likely to meet.’

  That had, Cassy reflected, been just what she’d thought of him, before tonight. That he was noble and upright, and...solid. Like a rock, actually, when she’d seen him standing on the quayside, ramrod straight and clearly in command of all the soldiers scurrying about like so many ants. Even after he’d dealt with Guy, her belief in him hadn’t wavered, because he’d seemed like the one man upon whom she could rely.

  But now...well, he’d been so beastly earlier. He’d even made her question her initial impression of him. She’d thought, back then, that he’d been angry with Guy. Only now it turned out that he blamed her for everything.

  But that was a topic to mull over another time.

  ‘So...you don’t think he will do or say anything to hinder Rosalind’s chances,’ Cassandra asked, ‘until he has made sure I have confessed my supposed crimes to you?’

  ‘No, I don’t. What’s more, he is so busy with his work for, oh, some general or other who organises supplies for the army, or something of the sort,’ she said, waving her handkerchief about in a vague manner, as though working for the defence of the realm was neither here nor there, ‘that he probably won’t even remember to check up on you for some considerable time. And when that time comes, you may tell him whatever comes into your head that will serve the purpose.’

  Oh, dear. Godmama appeared to have forgotten Cassandra’s insistence that she was not going to sink to the depths of telling lies to explain her presence in London. She didn’t even seem to think that telling lies was sinking to any sort of depths at all.

  ‘But what,’ Rosalind objected while Cassandra was still trying to come up with a polite and respectful way of expressing her reservations, ‘if he thinks he can speak ill of me, since I ain’t... I mean, I am not a lady?’

  Godmama shook her head. ‘He cannot say anything about you without making himself rather unpopular. Because, darling, everyone knows, or at least, suspects, that Cassandra never met you before she came to my home. Everyone knows, or thinks they know, that your father is paying me to find you a titled husband. But everyone is perfectly happy to go along with the story we have put about, that I am launching my goddaughter and graciously extending hospitality to her friend. That way, they can invite you to places where you can meet their sons without looking as though they are being mercenary about it. It is a fabrication that suits everyone concerned. And if Colonel Fairfax goes about trying to put a spoke in your wheel he is going to upset a lot of very influential families with younger sons to provide for.’

  ‘Papa don’t want a younger son for me,’ Rosalind reminded her. ‘He wants a title.’

  Once again, the Duchess made play with her handkerchief. ‘Yes, yes, but you know what I mean.’

  ‘So, you don’t think,’ put in Cassandra before Rosalind could start really quarrelling with Godmama about the terms of their agreement, ‘we have any reason to worry about what he may do?’

  ‘There is never any point in worrying about what a man may do, darling. What matters is how you two deal with the threat. Trust me to know of which I speak,’ she said darkly. ‘Any sign of panic and people will say there is no smoke without fire. But laugh it all off as a piece of spite and people will...well, let us just see how it plays out, shall we? He has fired a shot across our bows, that is all. Given us a warning. Now, if that is all?’ Godmama gave them one of her charming smiles, gathered her things together and got to her feet.

  And, since there was nothing Cassy could do about Colonel Fairfax that night, anyway, she accepted her dismissal and went upstairs to bed.

  * * *

  She didn’t sleep well, though. Her dreams were uncomfortably crowded with images from the darkest time of her life, all muddled up with the things she feared might happen in the future. First Stepfather would be shouting at her and thrusting her from his doorstep. Then Colonel Fairfax would be shouting at her and dragging her out of this house and along the streets of London, where people she’d met over the past few weeks were staring and jeering, and throwing rotten fruit.

  * * *

  She woke with what felt like a dark cloud hanging over her. A cloud that was all too familiar from years before, but which had been slowly dispersing ever since she’d gone to live with her unconventional aunts. The cloud comprised of the opinions of people who thought she was no better than she ought to be. Who had branded her a hussy and a slut for running away with an officer and coming back unmarried. Before reaching her aunts’ house, nobody had blamed the officer concerned. And even when the aunts had come down on her side, she’d always felt it had been more from habit, since they hated all men on principle, rather than from having any faith in her. Betty didn’t count, because she’d always claimed she had no right to judge anyone, considering the things she’d got up to when she’d been Cassandra’s age.

  And now it turned out not even Colonel Fairfax had believed in her when all these years she’d thought he had been the one person who had tried to protect her.

  For a moment or two, when she first woke up, all she wanted to do was pull the covers up over her head and...and what? She couldn’t hide from her own life. And to be honest, thanks to Godmama’s effervescence and Rosalind’s open manner, she’d been enjoying it immensely of late. Right up to the moment Colonel Fairfax had accosted her and robbed her of all her joy.

  Well, to the devil with Colonel Fairfax, she shocked herself by thinking, as she thrust aside her bedcovers and got out of bed. She wasn’t going to let him make her feel ashamed of herself. Because she hadn’t jolly well done the half of what he’d said. Even the things she had done were only the result of being gullible and naive. Or, to put it another way, young and foolish, and so desperate to escape her stepfather’s tyranny that even Guy’s offer of marriage, and going off on campaign, had sounded perfectly acceptable.

  But now she was older and had learned the folly of allowing some man to divert her from her plans. If only she’d waited, patiently, as her mother had counselled her to do, her stepfather would have had to allow her a Season in London, however grudgingly. Now she was here, she was not going to let anyone, not even Colonel Fairfax, ruin her pleasure in it. Not when she’d been dreaming about having one for such a long time. And what was more, she wasn’t going to let him spoil Rosalind’s chances of finding a husband. Why shouldn’t Rosalind marry a man of rank? She was as lovely a person as many of the better-born girls she’d met in Town. She’d make any man an admirable wife. Nobody had the right to look down their long, thin, aristocratic noses at her just because her father had pulled himself up by his bootstraps rather than having his wealth handed to him on a plate.

  Golly. She’d worked herself up to such a pitch that she needed to go to the window and fling up the sash to get some fresh air blowing over her heated face. She leaned on the windowsill and gazed out over her view of the mews at the back of the house, where the grooms were just starting to amble about, scratching various parts of their anatomy. The sun was already shining from a cloudless sky. It was going to be a lovely day. And she would enjoy it.

  She would.

  Because she wasn’t in disgrace and shunned by society any longer. Nor was she alone and unprotected. Godmama didn’t care what she might or might not have done. And it was thanks to her determination that she was here. And the generosity of Rosalind’s papa, she would not forget that.

  She bit down on her lower lip as she watched the grooms working the pump in the yard. She was going to stop finding fault with Godmama’s motives and her flexible attitude to the issues of right and wrong and remember what she owed to her generous heart and that f
lexible attitude towards those suspected of great sins. It wasn’t as if Godmama had tried to hide anything from her, was it, not after she’d made her own confession? And hadn’t both her aunts agreed that, in certain circumstance, a tiny bit of subterfuge was justified? And who would know better than they?

  Cassandra went to her washstand and lifted the ewer, which was empty. Because not quite all of Godmama’s staff had been as loyal as she’d claimed. One or two of her more junior employees had defected during the period between the Duke making his threats and Godmama’s coming up with the solution. In the form of Rosalind Mollington, whose father was willing to meet all the expenses of a London Season providing the Duchess could bring her out just as if she was a real lady and find her a titled husband while she was at it.

  However, those who’d stayed with Godmama all pitched in to fill in the gaps. And, since Cassandra was awake before any of the staff had decided to take on the task, she had no objection to going down to the kitchen and fetching her own hot water for washing.

  It was funny, she reflected as she covered her nightgown with a modest wrap before venturing from her room, how Godmama had manged to make her rather rash and impetuous stand against her stepson sound like taking up a noble cause. Even her aunts had applauded her determination to defy the man who was threatening the livelihoods of so many working people. And that was the thing about Godmama. Even though she would do just about anything to get her own way, no matter how unethical, she could always make it sound as if it would be no worse than having a bit of a lark. And to be fair, coming to London and meeting Rosalind, and going to see the sights, and attending a few routs, and balls, even if they weren’t in the homes of people from the very best circles, had all been tremendous fun.

  Until Colonel Fairfax had come storming over, accusing her of all sorts of bad things. Of being a siren, for heaven’s sake!

  She paused to check her rather dishevelled reflection in the mirror before leaving the room, to make sure nothing about her appearance would offend the servants. She was no siren! She had nice hair, she supposed. Or at least, it would look passable once she’d run a brush over it. The hairdresser Godmama had hired had raved about it, actually, saying what a pleasure it was to style, since it had a bit of a curl to it. And Godmama had declared that her lashes were long enough and dark enough that she would have no need to employ cosmetics to make her eyes stand out. But nobody had said anything about her mouth. Well, they couldn’t, could they? Her lips were too full and the top one stuck out a bit, making it look as though she might have buck teeth.

  She stuck her tongue out at her reflection and opened her bedroom door. She was no siren! She was no saint, either, or she would not have got herself tangled up in Godmama’s schemes. She was just a girl. A girl who’d been punished enough for stepping out of line. A girl who, she decided, clutching her ewer to her chest like a shield, was never, ever, going to let some...man...some buffle-headed delusional man...spoil things for her again.

  Chapter Five

  Nathaniel slept little better than Cassandra for the first part of the night. But instead of pulling the blankets close round himself, he kicked most of them to the floor as he tossed and turned.

  The subsequent chill permeated right through to his dreams, taking him back to the worst of his memories, memories he refused to visit when he was awake.

  He was back in the mountains of northern Spain. But, unlike the reality, there was a wall of frozen corpses right in front of him. To get to safety, he was going to have to clamber over them all, the men, the women, the children and Lieutenant Gilbey. Who, though just as dead as the rest of them, was watching his struggles with reproachful eyes. And then, in the manner of dreams, the dead soldier spoke.

  ‘You might have let me have those few months with her,’ Gilbey complained. ‘But you didn’t want to let anyone else have her, did you, if you couldn’t? That was why you sent her away...’

  ‘No!’ It wasn’t true. Was it?

  No. Anyway, if he’d let her marry Gilbey, she might have ended up here, in this pile of frozen, half-naked, ragged bodies.

  ‘No, she wouldn’t,’ said Gilbey, even though Nathaniel had not voiced his excuse out loud. ‘I would have taken care of her. You would have taken care of her...’

  ‘I couldn’t,’ Nate protested. ‘I couldn’t even take care of my men, or the horses, or these children... I couldn’t take care of anyone...’

  And then he heard the boom of a cannon and, in spite of his revulsion, he was scrambling up the mound of dead, desperate to save his own skin, only he couldn’t get a purchase and the mound was tumbling all around him, then his foot slid and he was falling, falling, down the mountainside to the very edge of an abyss...

  His foot met with empty air and jerked him awake. It took a moment for him to understand that his leg really had jerked and it was that movement that had woken him.

  His mouth was dry, the way it so often was after one of these hellish dreams. He sat up and reached for the water jug he kept beside the bed every night, just in case it turned out like this. His hands shook so much, as he reached for it, that he thought he’d better sit up and place his feet on solid ground.

  The floor was cool beneath his bare feet. But at least the wooden floorboards felt better than the horrid, frozen mass he’d been treading in a few moments before. Not that any of it was real, not exactly. He took hold of the jug with both hands, reminding himself, as he always did, that he hadn’t clambered over anyone in order to save himself. That on the contrary, his unit had retreated in good order, fighting a rearguard action against pursuing French troops practically the whole way across the mountains. That it had been the collapse of discipline in other units that had resulted in so many of the needless casualties from cold and starvation.

  He splashed some water into a glass as well as over the dresser top before setting the jug back down with a thump. Gilbey had certainly never, at any time, accused him of wanting Miss Furnival for himself. Because he hadn’t. Not back then. She’d been too young for a man like him, or so he’d thought. Too innocent. The way she’d wandered out into the stable yard, he’d thought at the time, had been the act of a green girl. He’d wanted to protect her. From himself as much as any other of the men who’d been watching her with hungry eyes that night.

  It was only after she’d shown up on Gilbey’s arm that he’d wondered if she’d deliberately lured him out there. What did he know of women, really? he reflected, lifting the water glass to his lips. He lived in a man’s world, for the most part. The only thing he knew about women he’d learned from his sister, Isabella...

  He drained the glass, wondering if there was any truth in Gilbey’s accusation. Had he put a stop to the marriage because he’d wanted her himself? Was he that kind of man?

  He didn’t know. Not any more. He’d always prided himself on being fair and just, and honourable. But there was nothing honourable about waging war on a woman. No matter what she’d done.

  He rolled the empty glass between his hands, forcing his mind back to that day on the quayside. He’d been angry, certainly. Had given Gilbey a stern dressing down. But then, wouldn’t he have done the same if any officer had turned up with any other girl that young?

  Eloping was wrong. It was not acceptable behaviour for an officer.

  But in this particular case, hadn’t he also wanted to show the girl the difference between the brash impulsive behaviour of a lad and that of a mature man? Hadn’t he wanted her to think he was dependable, yet dashing? Two completely contrary characteristics!

  He shook his head at the folly of a man trying to impress a woman.

  And began to get the glimmer of an idea as to why, in his dream, Gilbey had accused him of wanting her for himself.

  It was because he’d seen her earlier that night and had been so attracted to her, just as she was now, and he’d fallen asleep comparing her to the way she’d seemed b
ack then and wishing, wishing...

  He slammed the empty glass back down on the dresser. Nothing altered the fact that Gilbey had died feeling cheated. Had died with a belly full of regrets. And that he, Nathaniel, had played a part in it.

  He leaned over, his shoulders aching with the weight of guilt pressing down on them, and buried his face in his hands.

  * * *

  In order to come out of her next encounter with the Colonel with her head held high, Cassandra decided, as she made her way back to her room with her jug of steaming hot water, she was going to have to shore up her confidence. She wanted to be able to snap her fingers under his nose and tell him he was welcome to do his worst. To inform him that she had friends now, loyal friends, who would stand by her and defend her right to be in London making the most of everything on offer. And one of the easiest ways a woman could make herself feel good, she knew, from her years with her aunts, was to dress well.

  So far she hadn’t been choosing her clothes with that in mind. She’d been considering the expense and how well each item would fit into her life when she returned to Market Gooding and took up her occupation as a seamstress. She pursed her lips as she flung open the door of her wardrobe and surveyed the meagre selection she had allowed Godmama and Rosalind to purchase for her so far. Her walking dress was dowdy, her carriage dress looked like something a governess would wear on the stage to her latest posting and as for her ballgowns... She sighed. Insipid, that was the best she could say for them. She didn’t even bother looking at her bonnets. Practical to the point of being ugly, every one of them.

  If the Colonel confronted her in the park, or walking along the streets, he wouldn’t credit her for trying to be economical with other people’s money. He’d take one look at her and think she was doing penance. Which, she realised, she had been doing. Even though Godmama had kept urging her to try to look the part of a wealthy young debutante and Rosalind had kept assuring her that her papa wouldn’t care about the expense, she hadn’t felt as if she deserved such treats as pretty clothes.