Running from Scandal

by Amanda McCabe

  Melanie closed her eyes and imagined the look on her mother’s face when they drew up to the portico of Rose Hill in a fine carriage. The delight, the joy—the relief that they would never have to struggle again. How wonderful that would be! To have a secure place. To be Lady Marton of Rose Hill.

  And all she would have to do was marry Sir David Marton to get it.

  Melanie’s eyes opened and she felt as if cold water had just been flooded over her delightful dream. Marriage was surely a small price to pay for such a prize? She had been completely ready to marry Captain Whitney. And Sir David was far from unattractive. He was very handsome, indeed, and came with that lovely security.

  But—but why did she feel nothing when she looked at him? When she danced with him? When Captain Whitney led her on to the dance floor at the Bath assembly rooms, it felt as if a wonderful fizz, like champagne, sang through her veins. That giddiness made her long to risk everything just to feel it again. And when it was gone—blackest despair.

  She’d felt the tiniest fizz again when that gloriously gorgeous Philip Carrington lifted her up on to his horse. He was so dashing, like a Galahad rescuing a fair damsel! It was like a dream.

  But she couldn’t afford dreams now. Dreams were what got her packed off to this dull village in the first place. Dreams were why they were so poor, because her mother fell in love with a poor curate who then died young. No, Melanie couldn’t have dreams of great romance right now. She needed this house. Maybe some day, when she was established, she could find someone...

  She just had to find a way to get all that.

  The drawing-room door opened, interrupting Mrs Smythe’s flow of chatter, and Melanie looked up to see Sir David come into the room. He had changed into a fresh coat and his dark hair was damp and combed back neatly from his face.

  Something inside her perked to a new attention. Yes, he was good looking. Surely once they were married she could do something to make him more fun? More impulsive, more laughing. More like...

  More like Philip Carrington.

  No, Melanie told herself sternly. She wouldn’t think again about Mr Carrington, no matter how beautiful or exciting he was.

  ‘Sir David,’ she said brightly. ‘Your home is so lovely, I am quite, quite overwhelmed by it all.’

  Then she saw the little girl who held his hand and she froze. She had met Miss Beatrice Marton before, of course, at Mrs Smythe’s house. She was a pretty child, but so quiet and so strangely old for her age. It was a bit—spooky.

  And Melanie had quite forgotten that Sir David and his lovely house came with a strange little fairy-child who seemed to see right through Melanie with her weird grey eyes.

  ‘Say good day to your aunt and Miss Harding, Beatrice,’ Sir David said.

  Melanie made herself smile and rose to her feet to hurry toward them. ‘Such a charming little girl, Sir David!’ she cried. ‘You must be so very proud.’

  If this was to be her life—and she was grimly determined that it would be—she knew she might as well start now.

  * * *

  From the diary of Arabella Bancroft

  I hardly know how to write this, but it seems my darling Sir William is not all that he appears. The king does invite him to court for his handsome looks and charming conversation, but his family has long been penniless. He is here to seek an heiress to marry, or failing that...

  He must return to highway robbery as he did during the wars. My poor William. How desperate his life must have been, must still be.

  And I am no heiress.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘And this is galgan,’ Emma said as she pulled the spiky little plant from the damp ground. ‘It’s very useful for fevers, but it looks a bit like venich, which has no good use and shouldn’t be eaten.’

  Beatrice carefully studied the plant and compared it to the drawing in the book she held. ‘I don’t think I can ever remember so much, Mrs Carrington.’

  Emma laughed and added the new specimen to their basket. ‘That’s what I’m here for, Miss Marton, to help you learn.’

  ‘May I try to find one on my own?’ Beatrice asked.

  ‘Of course. Just don’t go too far.’

  As Beatrice scampered away, her botany guide in hand, Emma straightened and stretched her back. She laughed as Beatrice happily dug in the dirt, the sun shining on her red-gold hair. They had only been out for an hour, and already the girl was glowing with the brisk, bright air of the outdoors.

  Not bad for a first lesson, Emma thought happily. Surely David Marton would be content that she was the proper person to teach his daughter.

  Not that she cared about what David thought about her, of course. Not at all.

  To distract herself, she snatched up the basket of plants she had gathered with Beatrice and turned to follow the girl. It really was a lovely day, the spring sun bright and warm in a cloudless sky, the rich smell of green growing things on the breeze. Back in nature, which she had once loved so much and had lost for so long, she could almost feel like she had come back to herself again. Her true self.

  It was too bad her true self still insisted on thinking about David Marton and the way it felt when he touched her.

  ‘Mrs Carrington! Look at this,’ Beatrice called.

  Emma started to follow her, when suddenly she heard the rumble of wheels coming along the lane over the hill. She turned and saw it was Sir David himself, driving his curricle. He looked as if he had been visiting tenants, for he was casually dressed in a dark-blue coat and fine doeskin breeches that clung to his strong legs. A wide-brimmed hat shadowed his face.

  ‘How goes the lesson, Mrs Carrington?’ he asked as he drew in the horse.

  Emma walked slowly toward him, still caught between her daydreams of him and the reality of his sudden appearance before her. She was unsure how to react to him.

  ‘Very well, I think,’ she said. ‘Botany seems a good subject to begin with.’ Emma felt a blush touch her cheeks when she remembered how disapproving his sister once was of her muddied hems. ‘Although I haven’t had the chance to study it in a long time, I fear.’

  ‘Papa!’ Beatrice cried. ‘Look at what I found.’

  His smile widened, transforming his already-handsome face to something truly wondrous. He climbed down from his curricle and quickly tied up the horse before he strode towards his daughter. Emma hurried after him, holding on to her straw hat as the wind tried to snatch it away.

  Beatrice’s little face and pink muslin dress were streaked with dirt as she held up a clump of mud-trailing plants, and her own hat fell from her head. Emma remembered how beautifully turned-out the child always was and felt a jolt of alarm that David would upbraid her for letting Beatrice get into such a state.

  But he knelt beside Beatrice and carefully examined the leaves she held out to him. He swept his hat off and let it dangle in his hand, and the wind caught at his dark hair and tousled it over his brow.

  ‘Very nice, Bea,’ he said. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s a—a...’ A frown flickered over Beatrice’s little face. ‘What was it called, Mrs Carrington?’

  ‘Galgan,’ Emma said.

  ‘It’s good for a fever,’ Beatrice said earnestly.

  ‘Fascinating,’ David said. ‘What else have you learned today?’

  Emma couldn’t help but smile as she watched them there together, the tall, strong, handsome man and the adorable child. The sunlight shimmered on their hair, dark and bright. It was such a tiny, perfect moment, so unlike anything she could ever have imagined in her life before. If she could only freeze time and keep it for ever, she thought wistfully.

  ‘Mrs Carrington?’ Beatrice said, and the moment jolted into full light-filled motion again.

  Emma smiled and went to kneel down next to them. She told Beatrice more
about the plants, concentrating on the little girl even as she felt David’s gaze on her, studying her. She felt a flutter deep down in her stomach, a nervous self-consciousness she didn’t know what to do with.

  Eventually Beatrice scampered off to examine something on the slope of the hill, her hat bouncing by its ribbons on her shoulders. David held out his hand to help Emma to her feet and she smiled up at him.

  ‘Miss Beatrice is very curious about the world,’ she said as they strolled along the road behind Beatrice, side by side.

  David laughed. Like his daughter, he seemed lighter outdoors, more natural. He made Emma feel more comfortable too. ‘Too curious sometimes, I fear. It’s kind of you to share your knowledge of botany with her.’

  ‘I’ve forgotten so much of what I once learned. I’ve enjoyed rediscovering it today,’ Emma said. ‘I think—

  Her words were once again interrupted by the clatter of wheels on the dusty road. Emma glanced back over her shoulder to see an extraordinary scene, a fine open carriage painted a bright, glossy red, driven by a coachman clad in red-and-gold livery. It looked like no other equipage in the area.

  As she watched, astonished, the carriage lurched to a halt and a lady’s face peeked over its gilded edge. Like her vehicle, she was—different. Bright blonde hair sparkled under a copiously feathered hat and her beautiful heart-shaped face was set off by a marabou-trimmed pink spencer.

  ‘By Jove,’ she cried, her voice caught by the breeze like the toll of a silver bell. ‘It is David Marton. My, but it’s been an age, hasn’t it?’

  Next to Emma, David stiffened. She studied him out of the corner of her eye and saw that his earlier easygoing, smiling demeanour, the casual warmth that had drawn her closer, was quite vanished. A small frown curled his mouth downwards and his eyes were narrowed as he looked at the beautiful woman in the carriage.

  ‘Mrs Dunstable,’ he said, his quite deep voice giving nothing away. ‘It has been a long time.’

  She laughed again. ‘It’s Betsy, remember? You used to call me that, anyway.’

  ‘You are a very long way from London,’ David said. Emma felt as if she watched a theatre scene she had come to late and couldn’t follow.

  ‘I was just giving a ride to a friend who needed to come to your quaint little village,’ Mrs Dunstable—Betsy—said. ‘I quite forgot you had come to live in this funny little place. After your marriage, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ David said shortly, still so quiet.

  ‘Yes,’ Betsy echoed, her sparkle dimming just a bit. ‘It really has been too long. It’s good to see you again.’

  ‘And you, Mrs Dunstable. You look very well, as always.’

  The fine carriage went on its way and David led Emma back towards where Beatrice was digging in the dirt again. ‘An old acquaintance,’ he said briefly.

  ‘Of course,’ Emma murmured. Yet inside she was afire with curiosity, and a tinge of what felt ridiculously like—jealousy...

  * * *

  ‘How are you settling back at Barton, ma’am?’ Mary the housemaid said as she brought the tea tray into Emma’s little cottage sitting room.

  ‘Very well, I think,’ Emma answered, pulling herself away from wondering who Betsy might be. ‘It’s a bit strange coming back to the places I knew as a girl and trying to reacquaint myself with everyone.’

  ‘You’ll make new friends, surely, ma’am,’ Mary said. The china clattered as she laid it out.

  Emma thought about that one sunny moment as she watched David and Beatrice, of how perfect it all seemed. How quickly it vanished. ‘I hope so. I shall have to go into the village more often, I suspect.’

  ‘Or call on more neighbours, ma’am?’

  Emma laughed. ‘I don’t think we have many of those, Mary.’

  ‘There is Rose Hill, ma’am. My sister worked in the kitchen there, ’til she went off to Bath.’

  ‘Did she?’ Emma asked in interest. Servants so often knew everything that went on in a house. ‘I just saw Sir David Marton and his daughter today.’

  ‘My sister said it was a lovely place to work and Sir David is very generous to all the servants,’ Mary said approvingly. ‘When he was there. He used to live in London, you know, when Lady Marton was alive.’

  ‘I had heard that. It does seem strange, considering how much he seems to care about his estate.’

  ‘So he does, ma’am, everyone says so. But...’ Mary paused and bit her lip.

  Emma was intrigued. ‘But?’

  ‘Well, Mrs Carrington, I did hear that once, a long time ago, when Sir David was young, he got into some trouble in London.’

  ‘Trouble?’

  ‘I’m not sure what exactly. Drink, maybe, or an unsuitable woman,’ Mary whispered. ‘But then his father almost let the estate go to ruin while he was gone and he came back. That’s all I know. Just a bit of gossip, ma’am.’

  ‘Yes,’ Emma murmured. It was clear the maid would know no more. ‘Thank you, Mary.’

  As the maid hurried away, Emma sipped at her tea and turned those intriguing titbits of gossip over in her mind. So, once upon a time, the responsible Sir David had had a wild streak. Perhaps that was when he knew Betsy. But Rose Hill had brought him back, just as Barton Park had for her.

  Most intriguing....

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘So, is young Miss Marton to join us today?’ Mr Lorne said.

  Emma glanced up from her book, blinking and startled to find herself in the dusty, quiet bookshop and not in the colour and chaos of Restoration England. She had been immersed in Arabella’s diary for what felt like hours now. It was a welcome distraction from thoughts of David and all that had happened between them. Of the gossip she had heard from Mary.

  She smiled at Mr Lorne and said, ‘I believe so. That is what Sir David’s letter said.’

  She’d been most surprised to get his message after their day outdoors. And, she was ashamed to think of it now, excited too, when she had seen it came from Rose Hill. She hadn’t seen him since that day, and she was sure he regretted that he asked her to help Miss Beatrice. She avoided the village, afraid she might see him there and become quite tongue-tied and ridiculous when forced to make polite greetings to him and pretend nothing had happened.

  But that didn’t mean she ceased to think about him. Unfortunately, that was not the case at all. At night, she laid wide awake in her bed, remembering his kisses. The wondrous, soaring delight, and how she never wanted them to end.

  And the way David looked when he saw her in Philip’s arms. So cold, so remote—as if they hadn’t just been so very close. And when Mary told her the tale of Sir David’s youth, it was as if she didn’t know him at all.

  Emma wanted to cry when she thought about it all. Everything was so tangled up and upside down. She was mooning over David Marton like a silly schoolgirl and she hated it. Like the silly schoolgirl she herself had once been, in fact, fancying herself in love with the handsome dance master, Mr Milne. She’d been a fool then and she felt a fool now.

  David was no Mr Milne, preying on a girl’s fancies, she knew that very well. He was no Henry Carrington, either, living only for the moment and the desires of that one instant. David was a respectable man, as well as a devilishly attractive one. But that made him not for her and her dreams of his kisses were a hopeless waste of time.

  But then again—he had asked if he could send Beatrice to her today. Surely that meant something? Feeling silly, Emma carefully laid aside the old diary.

  ‘Sir David says he intends to hire a proper governess for his daughter and wishes for her to have some lessons to catch up first,’ she said. ‘I agreed to help if I can, but I fear Miss Marton may be too smart for me.’

  Mr Lorne chuckled. ‘She is a clever one, that child. The quietest ones often are. Sir David is quite ri
ght to keep her mind occupied so she won’t get into mischief. But I wouldn’t worry, Mrs Carrington, you are quite equipped to teach any child. Did you not go to school yourself?’

  Emma shook her head, thinking of her school. There had been little education there, among the worldly, gossipy daughters of fashionable families. And the too-handsome, deceitful dancing teachers. ‘A finishing school for stylish young ladies with dancing and a little music and French. And Jane and I never had a proper governess. I learned haphazardly from my father’s library. At least he never cared what we read, we had free rein among his books.’

  ‘Books contain every answer, if we know where to look for them,’ Mr Lorne said as he shelved a new shipment of poetry volumes from London. ‘I understand you visited my friend Mr Sansom?’

  ‘I did. He was most charming. He gave me these old diaries from Barton Park. I’m finding myself quite fascinated by them.’

  ‘Did you have any luck in getting him to sell us his collection?’

  Emma smiled at his use of the word ‘us’. It made her feel as if maybe she was finding her place at last, even if it was behind the counter of a bookshop. ‘Not yet. But I am sure he will let us have at least some of them soon. In the meantime, I feel as if I have made a new friend here.’

  ‘Friends are a good thing to have.’ Mr Lorne gave her a sly smile over a stack of volumes. ‘I hear that another one of yours has recently arrived in the village.’

  Puzzled and disconcerted by his words, Emma said, ‘I don’t know what you mean, Mr Lorne.’

  ‘I heard that a relation of your late husband was lodging at the Rose and Crown.’

  Emma almost groaned aloud. If even Mr Lorne knew of Philip’s presence, surely that meant everyone did. And she had come home to Barton hoping to escape gossip! Philip had sent her notes asking for another meeting since that day of his sudden arrival, but she wasn’t yet prepared to talk to him and find out his true reason for coming.