Somewhat Scandalous (Brambridge Novel 1)

by Pearl Darling

  Agatha fell into the dark hallway of the house. The large man who had opened the door continued to look at her silently.

  “Where is the house owner?” Agatha asked.

  The man shrugged, his gaze flicking up and down her stained dress. “In the back.”

  “William! William! Where are you?” A rotund lady with a merry face bustled into the hallway, immediately filling it with warmth. “There you are!” she said. “It’s lovely of you to come back and visit.”

  Agatha coughed to gain the woman’s attention. The lady stared at her with large eyes. Unsure what to say, Agatha withdrew the scrap of fabric the magistrate had given her and showed it to her.

  “My name is Agatha Beauregard. Thomas Patrick gave me this scrap of material,” she said simply.

  The woman’s face creased in a smile, “Thank the Lord, one of our orphans has family! We thought that you wouldn’t be found. Poor mite. Let me just fetch the record book to match the material.”

  Agatha shifted from foot to foot. “I was in London. Patrick found me only two days ago. I came at once…”

  “Such a tragedy.” The woman shook her head.

  Agatha gulped. Tears threatened in her eyes. Realizing what she had said, the woman looked at Agatha directly.

  “I’m so sorry, where is my head? That must have been your brother.” She paused and took a breath for a second. “Come through for some tea. William, get Mary would you love? And I will get the record book.”

  Agatha opened her mouth. She was pronouncing her niece’s name wrongly. But the stout woman incongruously pushed the large man laughingly down the corridor and then opened a door on the left which led into a sunshine-filled room.

  “I am Mrs. Cooper,” she said over her shoulder as she left a dazed Agatha in the room before bustling out. Whilst the room was lovely, it was noticeable that it needed attention. The furniture was threadbare. There was a large damp patch on the wall. Regret filled Agatha that her niece had been left here for ten days. She would have been there for longer if the magistrate hadn’t found her.

  Mrs. Cooper returned with a large portfolio under arm and a tray which held an enormous pot and two cups. Setting down the portfolio, she poured a generous portion of water into each cup, the hot water running almost clear. Mrs. Cooper looked rueful as she saw Agatha watching the pot.

  “We haven’t much money, least of all for tea. It’s a luxury. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

  Agatha nodded vigorously. She did not want to appear rude. As Mrs. Cooper set the cups down on a low table, the door to the room creaked open again and a small figure crept in. Agatha said nothing, taking in the curly red mop of hair and sad, hazel eyes. Mrs. Cooper placed her finger to her lips and turned to Agatha.

  “She’s afraid of strangers,” she whispered. “I’m not sure when you last saw her, better give her some space. She’s a very shy girl still.”

  Agatha sat back and tried to concentrate on the cup of tea in her hand. All her senses cried out to enfold the girl in her arms. She was dressed in a pinafore dress, her hair scraped back, a bruise on her temple. She looked much younger than her thirteen years. As Mrs. Cooper started to talk loudly about the weather, her niece moved slowly closer, from chair to chair, evincing a great deal of interest in the floor.

  Then it seemed as though she had made a decision. She crossed to where Agatha sat and hauled herself onto the low sofa. She placed one hand lightly on Agatha’s dress and with the other thrust her thumb into her mouth.

  Mrs. Cooper and Agatha continued their desultory conversation. Mrs. Cooper took Agatha’s piece of material and matched it successfully with the other scrap that was held in the portfolio.

  The small girl leaned in to Agatha and murmured softly, “Auntie.”

  Agatha’s heart clenched. She gathered the girl to her and kissed her brow. She was only a few years younger than herself. Whatever happened from now on, her niece would always have her.

  “Who is the man that greeted me at the door?” she said softly, changing the subject now that the small girl sat quietly beside her. Mrs. Cooper dropped her cheerfulness.

  “William Standish? His mother was killed in a mill accident. Never knew who his father was. William’s was here for three years. Barely speaks. Probably because I do most of the talking for him. Somehow I seem to tell him everything. He’s back for a visit—he was apprenticed out to the blacksmith in Brambridge. Now he’s the master smith there.” She looked at her hands for a while. “Although I run this place, I see what it does to the children. I can’t give them love like a parent, and many come here with horrific stories, but I do what I can. Enough of that. Where are you going to go now?”

  Agatha trusted Mrs. Cooper. She was kind, but if the people who had killed her brother and sister-in-law knew where she was, then life would become worse for Agatha and her niece.

  “I’m not sure,” she said guardedly. “We need to find somewhere to live.”

  “You had best pick up your brother’s belongings first, then. We have them all in the outhouse. Thomas Patrick told me that within two days of your brother’s death, the landlord that held Peter’s mortgage had packed up his belongings and set them on the roadside for people to take away. Thomas Patrick felt bad he hadn’t taken in Mary, see, so brought everything here. We haven’t touched anything.”

  Agatha hadn’t thought of her brother’s belongings. She had assumed that the house would be available for them both to go to whilst they looked to move elsewhere. The callousness of the owner was cruel but not unusual.

  “Thomas Patrick will sort you out. I’m sorry though, love, you can’t stay here. We have no money to feed you.”

  “I don’t want any food, but please could I stay in the outhouse overnight? I need time to sort out accommodation. I will pay you…” Agatha looked hopefully at Mrs. Cooper. Although she had slept on the first leg of the journey in the coach, her muscles ached from being cramped all the time.

  Seeing Mrs. Cooper’s doubtful face, she reached into her bodice and felt around. She extracted two gold coins and held them outstretched, nodding at her niece. “For Mary’s keep, and for a night in the outhouse.” Agatha knew that she had paid more that this was worth, but the sad condition of the orphanage and the kindness of Mrs. Cooper to her niece were obvious.

  Mrs. Cooper was stunned. Grasping the gold coins, she danced around the room. “We can repair the roof with this, and fix the damp patch. Thank you, thank you!”

  As Agatha lay down beneath the leaky thatch in the outhouse, she stared at the midnight blue sky. Even the stars had hidden themselves. For the first time the weight of responsibility clutched heavily at her chest. Responsibility for another person. Rolling over, she arranged the sacking she lay on more closely to her body. She’d only ever thought of herself, her freedom, her wishes. And yet the thought of another’s needs crushed all of her paltry wants. Was this how Henry felt, day in day out, as he had yet again told her how to behave, of her influence on Victoria?

  Ma… no she would no longer call her niece that. She would change her name to Harriet. If someone was setting out to find them, then hopefully they would dismiss the small young family. And there would be no more of her scientific nonsense. She would do her best by Harriet.

  God willing.

  CHAPTER 18

  He’d finally found her. Staring in through the window, Henry watched as Agatha moved the quill across the paper, balled it up and started again. The vicar in Honiton had recognized his description of a small woman towing a child and sent him in the direction of Brambridge, a small village not ten miles away by the sea. Henry pushed down a cough. Brambridge, a place he never thought he would come back to, never wanted to come back to even.

  He’d spent the day watching Agatha’s movements as she cleaned the Brambridge Vicarage and heard the barbed comments about the parentage of Agatha’s niece dropped by Mrs. Madely the vicar’s wife. Holding his breath, he had waited as Agatha’s skin turned pale but she turned not a
hair from the odious woman.

  When had her spirit been broken? His heart had ached as he followed Agatha and her niece from the vicarage to a small damp cottage. It was obvious that Agatha had tried to make the musty place a home, hanging paintings on the wall, dishes over the sink and an ornate knife behind the door for unwanted intruders.

  Agatha’s candle guttered as a particularly strong gust of wind banged the window casements and rustled the thatch. A large banging sound from the window above him erupted after the gust of wind. Cursing, Henry slid along the side of the cottage and knocked lightly at the front door.

  She didn’t answer. Moving back to the window, he looked in. Agatha had disappeared. The hunting knife he had seen on the back of the door had also gone. Stifling a groan, he flattened himself against the wall and moved back to the front door. He knocked on it again.

  Still no answer. A window banged at the back of the cottage. The rustle of the bushes was audible even above the sound of the howling wind. With a small laugh, Henry detached himself from the wall and sauntered back to his original hiding place.

  “Bloody hell.”

  His smile widened. Agatha bent away from him, the large hunting knife clutched in her hands, sawing away at the bushes beneath the window. Her skirts were caught in the prickly thorns.

  She was so intent on what she was doing that she did not notice him until he was upon her.

  “First rule of espionage, Agatha,” he growled in her ear, stealing his hands around her waist. “Don’t wear light-colored clothing on a moonlit night when spying on someone. You are so very easy to see.”

  Agatha tensed. He could feel her heart beating through her chest, although her body seemed to sink into his strong hands.

  “Henry… Lord Anglethorpe?” Her voice came out hoarse and breathy. She tried to turn. “I… I’m trapped.”

  Slowly Henry let go of her waist, the heat from her body leaching quickly away from his hands. He knelt and deftly freed the skirt from the plant, plucking the torn cotton away from the thorns. As he stood again, his great coat fluttered in the wind. She stared at him, wide eyed.

  He couldn’t stop himself. Bending his head towards her, he raised his hand to the delicate arch of her neck. Slowly he drew her towards him, tipping her head back into the moonlight, and dropping his chin down towards hers. Her mouth, seemingly of its own volition, parted.

  Slowly he drew his fingers underneath her eyes.

  “You look tired, Agatha.” He stepped away. Control, he needed control. “Let’s go inside. I want to know where you have been.”

  Agatha stared at him and narrowed her eyes. He dropped his gaze and followed her as she silently led him inside. A candle still guttered in a small pewter dish, although it was getting low.

  “Sit here,” she said as she pointed to the only chair. “I’ll get you some water.”

  “Thank you.” Henry sighed as he slid into the old wing backed chair next to the banked fire. He had ridden all the way from London, barely stopping to find food. His thighs burnt from the constant thrust of the saddle and his back ached from the jolting gallop.

  Agatha stepped into a small room beyond where he sat. Henry gazed upwards at the only ornament on the mantelpiece, Agatha’s experimental jar of jam, his jam. Standing, he put out a tentative hand and pulled the solid glass jar towards him. Weighing it in his hand, he resumed sitting, tapping at its lid as he waited.

  Agatha reappeared and held out a glass of water. “I’m sorry.” She cleared her throat and tried again. “I’m sorry that I left so quickly. I hope Patrick told you what had happened… when I heard my niece was in an orphanage, I…”

  “I would have done the same.” Henry turned his gaze to her. The glints of the flames lit her eyes. “Although I might have asked for some help before I left.”

  Agatha handed him the water and folded her arms across her chest.

  “Do you know how worried Victoria is for you?” Henry took the glass and put it on the floor.

  “I did not mean to cause any problems, I just had to get here as quickly as I could.”

  “Where is the child now?”

  “Upstairs in the bedroom, she’s fine now. She was quiet when I first found her. But she has already made a friend, Lord Stanton’s son.” Agatha coughed. “He’s a little older than her, but you could say they share a taste for the dramatic.”

  Henry raised his eyebrows. Stanton’s son. Granwich had mentioned him. “Why didn’t you come straight back to London?”

  Agatha hung her head. “We have no money,” she mumbled. “With Peter’s death there is nothing left. I am as I was before, a penniless woman.”

  “But if you are as you were before, I repeat, why did not you come back?”

  Agatha stared at the floor. “Because with Peter’s death, my links to you and your sister fall only to my friendship with Victoria. I would be living in your house, and with the scandal that has befallen me with Fashington, no man will want to marry me. I would effectively be living on your coin.”

  “That would not matter to m… us.”

  “And if I came back to London with a small child, what would the ton think? No matter how much I denied it, and despite the ludicrous age difference they would believe that she was illegitimate. Peter never came to town. No one would support me.”

  “I would,” Henry said quietly. “I would support you. Nobody would dare contradict me.”

  Agatha clenched her fists. “It’s not the case that they wouldn’t contradict you. But they would still discuss us. And we would still be penniless, living at your largesse.”

  “You could marry me.”

  Agatha stared at him. “And for what reason would you do that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why would you want to marry me, Henry? You’ve never cared for me. Don’t do this, don’t do that. You couldn’t wait to marry me off to Fashington. What do you really want?”

  The words stuck in his throat. He couldn’t tell her about his need to marry to disguise his activities. His need to marry someone that would never love him.

  His desperate realization that perhaps he cared for her more than he cared for himself.

  “It seems like a good idea.”

  Taking the jar of jam gently from Henry’s hand, Agatha placed it back on the mantelpiece. She stared at it intently. He watched as her eyes flickered over its form.

  “No,” she whispered. “Not anymore.”

  PART II

  CHAPTER 19

  5 years later, Brambridge 1813

  Where was she? Agatha raced up the stairs to the small bedroom that Harriet slept in. The bed covers lay cleanly pulled over Harriet’s bed. They hadn’t been slept in at all. Oh dear god. What had she done now? Cramming a hand in her mouth, Agatha bit back a silent scream.

  Outside, Isabelle, their decrepit pony, let out a large neigh. Agatha had left her tied to the cart, in her desperation to find out where Harriet had gone. She had driven the pony hard down the dusty tracks from Ottery St Mary, blearily swearing all the cant phrases she could remember. Harriet was meant to have been visiting Mrs. Denys.

  Mrs. Denys hadn’t seen her for several months.

  Clattering back down the stairs, Agatha glanced from side to side in the room. Her brother’s paintings hung around the walls, the hearth was dead. Her eyes came to rest on the jam jar on the mantel piece, its insides now completely white.

  “I promised myself,” she whispered. Shouting, she swept the jar to the floor. “I’ve done everything properly.” The jar bounced on the hearth rug but did not shatter. Not even a shard broke from it. She fell to her knees and gathered up the cold glass. “I’ve still ruined everything.”

  She knew where Harriet had gone. She was on that blasted smuggling boat the Rocket with him, the newly returned prodigal Lord Stanton. How many times had she told Harriet that he wasn’t going to come back? That the wanted man could not return whilst his father was alive?

  Scrabbling at a box on
the hearthside, she unearthed a piece of paper. They needed to leave Brambridge. Nothing good would come of Harriet’s experience.

  Dipping her quill in a small well of ink, Agatha paused. Henry or Victoria? She shuddered. The last time she had seen Henry he had been standing outside the Prince of Wales Inn, smugly linked arm in arm with Celine, Celine the courtesan who had helped her escape from Charles Fashington.

  Her heart still said Henry. Damn her heart.

  Laying her quill on the table, Agatha rested her cheeks on her knuckles. Five years it had been. Five long years of looking after her niece. It had been hard. Hard not to try and clip Harriet’s wings, wanting to keep her safe, unnoticed, away from harm.

  For the first year she had held her head high, completing whatever work the vicar’s wife set her, scraping together the money to educate Harriet, to keep the clothes on their backs. Each time that an object or thought reminded her of London she had pushed it back. She had made the right decision; there had been no more trouble. Life was quiet, she didn’t put a foot wrong.

  Agatha closed her eyes and grimaced. But then she’d started to really listen to herself as she spoke to Harriet. It had been after James Stanton had dragged Harriet to the cottage and informed Agatha that she had been climbing the apple trees again. Heart in her mouth with fear, she hadn’t been able to contain herself. No more of this theatre nonsense, she’d said, confine it to our home. And then she’d stopped, a feeling of déjà vu sweeping over her.

  She was telling her niece to stop doing everything she liked most in the world, because she feared for her safety. She cared for Harriet deeply.

  Henry had said just the same thing. No more of these experiments, confine it to my home. She’d hated him for it. Made up names for him. Blamed him when her behavior had finally cost her her freedom, the very thing that she was trying to protect.