Running from Scandal

by Amanda McCabe

  ‘But why?’ she had wailed in despair as she watched her mother toss gowns and slippers into a trunk at their small house in Bath. ‘Why must I go there?’

  ‘You know very well why,’ her mother had said, never pausing an instant in her odious task. ‘Because no one there will ever have heard of Captain Whitney and your unfortunate behaviour. Your uncle will keep a close eye on you.’

  The Captain Whitney thing had been unfortunate, but surely that was his fault, not hers. She had only believed him when he said his pretty words of love and devotion and sent her such darling poems. How could she have known they were copied from a dusty old book by someone named Marlowe—or that Captain Whitney’s promises were just as false?

  Captain Whitney, as well as looking splendid in his red coat, had a good income and respectable connections to a viscount’s family. If all had gone as Melanie hoped, as he promised, her mother would have been in ecstasy. She would have congratulated Melanie on her fine catch. But she had been deceived and now she was being punished for it.

  ‘Why can I not go to Aunt Mary in London, then, if I must be sent away?’ she had sobbed to her hard-hearted mother.

  ‘Because London is certainly no place for you,’ her mother said, still packing away all of Melanie’s worldly possessions. ‘There is too much scope for trouble there. No, you will stay with your uncle until you learn to behave. This family has never had a scandal on its name and we won’t start now.’

  So here she was. In hell. Bath was a dull enough place, full of old invalids and retired parsons, but at least once in a while someone interesting came along. But here—here there was nothing at all.

  Her uncle snored even louder, shifting in his chair. Melanie knew this was the way it would be until teatime, then he would expect her to read to him from some book of sermons or naval reports or a history of the Armada.

  The only people besides her uncle and his servants she had even met in the village were shopkeepers, old Mrs Browning and Mrs Louisa Smythe, who at least had some interesting conversation on the few times they had met. Mrs Smythe knew lots of gossip, even from London as well as of local worthies Melanie hadn’t met yet. Mrs Smythe had invited her to an assembly, which seemed like the only bright spot on Melanie’s horizon.

  As she stared out the window, kicking her feet under her hem, she saw a carriage rolling past. It was the first she’d seen in over an hour and she leaned forwards eagerly to see who it was.

  She glimpsed a man she hadn’t met before, and from what she could see beneath his hat he was rather handsome. And not old. Plus the curricle seemed to be an expensive one, if painted a rather dull dark-green colour rather than a fashionable yellow. She stood and watched until the equipage was out of sight, her spirits considerably raised.

  At least there was one handsome gentleman somewhere in the vicinity! Now she just had to find out who he was. And she knew just who could tell her more about him—her new friend, Mrs Louisa Smythe.

  Chapter Five

  Emma turned her face up to the sky and closed her eyes as the warmth of the sun touched her skin. After the grey, rainy days, it felt like heaven.

  She pulled the door of her cottage closed behind her and hurried up the narrow path of her little garden. She wasn’t sure where she was going, she just knew she had to move. She tied her shawl around her shoulders and pushed up the sleeves of her old yellow muslin gown, the first thing not in black she’d worn for weeks. The warm breeze brushed against her skin, drawing her out into the world again.

  She ran up the gentle slope of a small hill and spun around to look at Barton spread out all before her. Jane had just sent her a letter that morning saying the baby hadn’t arrived yet, so they would be in London for a while longer. So the house was still shut up, but Emma could see the gardeners scurrying around the grounds getting them ready for summer and the new life that would soon fill them. New flowers, new trees—new babies.

  Emma felt the stirrings of something new inside herself, too. Some hint of her old restlessness that stirred up what she had thought were cold, dead embers of life.

  She turned in a slow circle, taking in the old maze, the outline of her own cottage, where she had left Murray snoring by the fire in his dog dreams. It was her own home, the first she had ever had, and though it was small and quiet it felt like a place where she could be herself. Where she could hide. But maybe, just maybe, she didn’t want to hide any more.

  Emma took out a letter she had tucked into the folds of her shawl. It had arrived most unexpectedly with that morning’s post, from a man named Mr Charles Sansom at Sansom House. When she got the direction from Mr Lorne, she hadn’t really expected to hear back. After all, Mr Sansom had already said he wouldn’t yet sell any of his extensive library to Mr Lorne, so why should he sell it to her?

  But here it was. Emma unfolded it and read it again.

  To Mrs Carrington—such a delightful surprise to hear from you, and to know that such a valuable business as Mr Lorne’s will go on as before. I have placed many an order with him and he found me some rare volumes in our younger days. Also, though you will not remember it, I knew your late father, who was an excellent authority on local architecture and history. I do not go out into society a great deal now, but you must come and inspect my library at any time that is convenient. I have a few volumes on Barton Park itself you might find of interest.

  Yours very sincerely,

  Charles Sansom.

  Volumes on Barton Park. Emma found herself most curious to see what those could be. Once, before she married, she had found a diary belonging to a lady who lived at Barton in the seventeenth century. It sent her off on an ill-fated treasure hunt, yet another reminder that she had to learn caution.

  But surely whatever books Mr Sansom had could do no harm? He had said he knew her father, who had also been fascinated by the legend of the Barton treasure. She really did want to get a glimpse of that library.

  And she had certainly not forgotten that Mr Sansom was David Marton’s uncle. Not that she thought she could catch a glimpse of Sir David at Sansom House. She hadn’t seen him since that first day she ventured into the village and that was all for the best.

  She tucked the letter away again and twirled around to study the long, snaking grey line of stone wall that divided Barton from Rose Hill. All she could see of that estate from her perch atop the hill was rolling green fields and a few white dots of sheep, but she knew it was there. In the distance she could see the tumbling stone ruins of the old medieval castle. Who knew what went on behind Rose Hill’s serene pale-grey walls? It was like a book in a language she didn’t yet know.

  The wind suddenly swirled around her, catching at her skirts and hair. It tugged strands from their pins and tossed them around. Emma laughed and twirled with it. She took off running down the hill, letting the bright day carry her.

  She hadn’t run in so very long. Life had been small and confined for so many months. Now, just for a moment, she felt free. Faster and faster she went down the hill, the momentum of her movement carrying her until she almost flew over the ground.

  She knew there was no one to see her there, no one to judge, and she had almost forgotten how that felt. She ran all the way to the stone wall and twirled around in a little dance step. Maybe life would be well after all. Maybe she could redeem herself, find her place. Maybe...

  ‘I fear I’ve quite misplaced my dancing pumps,’ someone suddenly said.

  Emma gave a startled shriek and spun to a sudden halt. But her skirts didn’t quite stop with her. They wrapped tightly around her legs and made her stumble against the rough stone
of the wall.

  For an instant she thought she must have been imagining things, because she couldn’t see anyone nearby but two indifferent sheep. Then she glanced up and saw David Marton perched up in a tree beyond the border of the wall, watching her as she ran and twirled and generally behaved like a hoyden.

  He did have a great talent for catching her unawares.

  She held on to the wall and wished that the ground would just swallow her up. The sense of delicious freedom she had felt just a moment before drifted away like a curl of smoke and the coldness of shame she remembered too well from her time with Henry took over.

  But then she pushed the coldness away and realised something amazing. David Marton was in a tree.

  Mystified by the strangeness of the moment, she watched as he climbed down, branch to branch, and leaped to the ground. His lean body moved with a fluid, powerful grace, much like a troupe of Russian acrobats Emma had once seen perform. They had amazed her with the deceptive power of their elegant movements and Sir David could easily have been one of them, tumbling and twirling along thin wires. Rescuing fair damsels from thorny towers.

  You have been reading too many novels, Emma told herself sternly. Imagining David Marton as a rescuer of fair ladies, slayer of dragons...

  Oh, dear heavens, but he wore no coat. Emma stared at him, hoping she wouldn’t go slack-jawed like some country milkmaid, as he reached for a blue coat slung across a low branch. His shirt was very white in the sunshine and the breeze moulded the thin linen to his back and shoulders as he stretched for the coat.

  Obviously, he did not spend all his time poring over estate ledgers in the library, or carousing and gambling as Henry and his friends had. The strong muscles she had felt as he caught her in his arms were no illusion. His broad shoulders and powerful arms tapered to narrow hips and long legs encased in tight doeskin breeches.

  Emma turned sharply away before she could gawk at his tight backside.

  ‘Out enjoying the fine day, Mrs Carrington?’ he asked.

  She heard the rustle of fabric as he slid into his coat and only then did she look at him again. The coat concealed his torso, but he wore no cravat and the throat of his shirt was open to reveal the tanned skin of his neck. The wind caught at his glossy dark hair, tousling it over his brow.

  In such dishabille, with his hair dishevelled, he almost looked like a different person. Just as handsome as ever, but younger, freer, wilder. More at home here, under the sun and sky, on his own land, than he was in an assembly room.

  Perhaps, just perhaps, she had judged Sir David too hastily? Perhaps there was more to him than the serious and responsible estate owner?

  Then he slid his spectacles from the pocket of his coat and covered his beautiful grey eyes with them again. A faint frown flickered over his lips as he looked at her and her instant of wild hope was gone.

  ‘Yes,’ she said brightly, suddenly remembering that he had spoken to her. ‘I was just out for a walk. I hadn’t realised I was so near to the edge of your estate.’

  ‘Shall I have you arrested for trespassing, Mrs Carrington?’

  For an instant, Emma was shocked, sure he was serious. Then she saw his frown whisper into a smile and her shock grew. Had he made a joke?

  ‘Only if I cross the wall,’ she said. ‘And I shall be very careful not to.’

  He laughed and it sounded startled and a bit rusty, as if he didn’t do that very often. ‘Fair enough. Then I will stay here and we can talk at a safe distance.’

  Yes, that would surely be best if she stayed at a safe distance. Especially since she had seen what he looked like without his coat. ‘Were you climbing trees?’ she asked, unable to contain her curiosity any longer. ‘I wouldn’t have thought it of you, Sir David.’

  He shook his head ruefully. ‘It’s not my usual pastime, I confess. Not since I was about Bea’s age, anyway.’

  ‘I find it hard to imagine you as a child,’ Emma blurted out. Somehow Sir David seemed the sort of person who would spring into the world, Athena-like, fully grown and ready to take care of business.

  ‘We all must come from somewhere, Mrs Carrington. I gave up the tree-climbing after I was caught as a boy by an exceptionally stern tutor, though.’

  ‘Then what drove you back to it today?’

  ‘All of this...’ He gestured toward a wide swathe of flat-grounded meadow, from the cluster of trees near the wall to a small, open-sided shelter in the distance. ‘This used to be an orchard and quite a productive one. Until my grandfather took the trees out to try and make a more picturesque vista. These few trees are all that is left and they’ve given us a good apple crop every year until now. My gardener suggested I take a look, but I know little of such things. I’d like to see them restored, though; I was hoping to expand the orchard again.’

  Emma peered up at the tree. ‘I can see little sign of disease from here. You should read James Lee’s volume, it is very helpful in such matters.’

  ‘Ah, yes. I had forgotten your interest in botany.’

  ‘I haven’t studied it in a long time, but I do remember Mr Lee. I wanted to use some of the information to make some improvements on the gardens here at Barton.’ She glanced back at the house, all peaceful and shimmering in the sun. ‘There wasn’t much use for such things after I left and my interests turned to other matters.’

  ‘Your sister said you have been living on the Continent,’ he said, in that maddeningly neutral tone of his.

  ‘Yes.’ Emma started strolling slowly along the wall and Sir David fell in step with her on his side of the divide.

  ‘Barton Park must seem dull to you now.’

  ‘It’s not dull at all,’ Emma protested. ‘I get to be close to my sister again, to be at home. I’ve missed it.’

  ‘And you don’t miss things like balls and routs? Meeting new people and seeing new sights? The village bears little resemblance to Paris or Rome, I fear.’

  Emma laughed, remembering the crowded, smelly streets of Paris, the hordes of people jostling together between the tall, close-packed buildings and the glittering shop windows. ‘No, it’s not like Paris. I confess I do miss the great scope for people-watching there. But the village does have its own pleasures.’

  ‘You enjoy people-watching?’ he asked, sounding doubtful, as if such a pastime was not quite...correct.

  ‘Of course. Doesn’t everyone? People do such endlessly fascinating and strange things. I suppose that’s the only thing I miss in being by myself at Barton, though I do have the characters in the books I read.’

  ‘You should come to the assembly next week, then. The crowds won’t be as fashionable as Paris, but they ought to supply you with conversation enough.’

  Emma had moved a few steps ahead of Sir David, but now she stopped and turned to look at him. Had he really said she should come to the village assembly? ‘I haven’t been to a gathering there in a long time.’ Not since the party where she watched him dance with Maude Cole, the two of them so beautiful, so perfect-looking together. As if they belonged there, in that very place with those very people, with each other.

  Suddenly she felt terribly selfish for ever thinking Sir David only cold and aloof. He had lost his wife, the mother of his adorable daughter. She, too, had lost her husband, and even though Henry had proved to not be what she had hoped for in the end, she had mourned him. Mourned the possibility of what he might have been. How much worse it must be for Sir David.

  She didn’t know qu
ite what to say to him and for once she held herself back from blurting out commiserations he surely did not want, not from her. Instead she just smiled at him and said, ‘I remember how enjoyable events at the assembly rooms were. But I’m not sure I should go.’

  His head tilted a bit to one side and he gave her a narrow-eyed, quizzical look, as if he was confused by her sudden smile. Emma resolved to be friendlier in the future, to not always leap to conclusions about people.

  ‘Because you are still in mourning?’ he said.

  ‘Actually I should be in half-mourning now,’ Emma answered. She just didn’t have the money to replace her black with greys and lilacs, not until her inheritance from her mother came through. And then most of that would go to buying Mr Lorne’s shop and replenishing its stock. But Sir David didn’t have to know that. ‘Appearing at an assembly shouldn’t cause much comment, unless I become completely foxed and dance about wildly on the refreshment tables.’

  David laughed again. Twice in one day. Emma was sure it had to be a milestone. ‘Do you do that often?’

  ‘Only when the mood strikes me,’ Emma said breezily. ‘But here at home I’m sure I would be a pattern-card of propriety. I’m just not sure many people would be happy to see me there. Not after...’

  After the scandal she caused by eloping. The infamy would surely follow her always. Emma felt her cheeks turn warm and she turned away to sit down on the edge of the wall, busying herself with arranging her skirts around her.

  ‘You have more friends here than you realise, Mrs Carrington,’ David said gently. ‘They would all be glad to see you again, dancing wildly or not. And if you plan to run the bookshop...’

  Emma looked up at him in surprise. ‘You know about that?’

  ‘I was in the village again yesterday and Mr Lorne mentioned it.’