Scandal's Daughter

by Christine Wells

  “I needed to get out. That place is suffocating me.” Sebastian concentrated on the road. A deer bounding out, a vehicle coming the other way—anything could happen and they’d end up smashed to pieces if he did not react in time.

  Damn her. Why was she always right? An annoying trait in anyone, but in Gemma, infuriating. If he behaved badly, everyone else just shrugged and said, well, what would you expect from a rakehell like Carleton? But Gemma gave him no quarter. She expected as much from him as she expected from herself.

  She expected too much.

  He had squirmed under her reproachful gaze when he’d refused to go to the crying of the neck. Bright memories of harvest feasts at Ware filled his mind, but he blocked them out. At Laidley, it wouldn’t be the same.

  They would not welcome him, anyway. His parents had never attended such festivities. His father, the old earl, had thought them beneath his dignity. His father . . .

  Sebastian let out an oath. He had too much regard for his horses to yank on the reins, but he slowed them and brought them to a halt. He looked at Romney. “I have to go back.”

  “Eh? But we’re halfway there!” Romney stared at him as if he’d run mad.

  Perhaps he had. He gave a crack of laughter and slowly backed the curricle to the crossroads, where there was enough space to turn it.

  “Sorry, old man. There’s something I have to do.”

  INSTEAD of whirling past in a flurry of dancing and good cheer, the evening crawled by. Gemma had no patience with silly children’s games, charades, jackstraws, and the like. They seemed pointless to her, a way of eking out an evening doing nothing to the purpose.

  She realised that many ladies spent all their lives in futile pursuits like these. Not for the first time, she reflected that at least her work made a difference to the people of Ware.

  She longed to be transported back there, if only by proxy, joining in with the celebrations in the village.

  And why not? she thought. What is stopping me, besides dreary convention and Sebastian’s pig-headed disapproval? Gemma looked around at the other guests, all preoccupied with lottery tickets, speculation, and whist. No one would even notice if she slipped away.

  Gemma found her aunt sitting in the music room listening to Miss Taylor play the harp. In a low voice, she said, “I shall retire, I think. It has been a long day.”

  Matilda clutched at her hand. “Oh, my dear! You are not sickening for something, I hope . . .”

  “Just a touch of the headache, ma’am. You know I am never ill. A good rest and I shall be well by morning.”

  Matilda made as if to rise. “Shall I come up with you?”

  “No, no, Aunt. Please don’t trouble yourself. I shall go straight to bed. Good night.” She patted Matilda’s hand and left before she could make more fuss.

  Gemma hurried up to her bedchamber to change. Dressed in a plain blue round gown, a light merino cloak, and sturdy boots, she glanced in the looking glass. The rigid restraint of her hairstyle struck a discordant note with her reckless mood. With the thrill of rebellion skittering up her spine, she ripped out the pins that held the coil of braids twisted in a knot atop her head, and raked her fingers through her hair until it clouded about her face. She smiled in delight. She felt like a girl again.

  Crossing to the secret door Fanny had shown her, Gemma pushed the panel sharply to open it. She crept along the corridor by the light of her bedside lamp and set it down on the landing, before picking her way down the stairs. She let herself out a small side door covered with trailing ivy, and stole into the night.

  LADY Carleton stared out her window as shadows lengthened over the landscape in the wake of the setting sun. She had dined in her room the past few evenings. With the best will in the world, she could not make herself go down and face them all.

  But the cloaked figure with bright gold hair flitting along the side of the house and on towards the stables caught her eye. She wondered, at first.

  Then she remembered. The crying of the neck. A lovely old tradition celebrating the end of the harvest. And feasting and dancing afterwards.

  What fun.

  WHEN Sebastian arrived at the harvest feast, the celebrations were well under way. At first, his tenants looked at him askance. They greeted him politely enough, but turned away and muttered amongst themselves, their teeth clamped over small, clay pipes.

  Sebastian gave a cynical smile and stared into the snapping inferno of the bonfire. He had known it would not be easy. A just punishment for his neglect.

  He could simply walk away. But he would be master here for the rest of his sorry life. If he did not make amends now, with Gemma’s cheerful support bolstering his courage, he never would.

  He stood there alone, considering his strategy, until someone clapped him on the shoulder and thrust a tankard of home-brewed ale into his hand. The foam slopped over the lip of the tankard as he turned around, to see a tall, lanky man with sandy hair and a tanned face beaming at him.

  “Pendargon, you old devil!” Sebastian laughed and shook hands with his gamekeeper, the man who had taught him to track deer and tickle trout in the stream. “How are you?”

  “Oh, none so bad.” Pendargon’s eyes crinkled at the corners. His face was a map of wrinkles, but he glowed with health from the outdoors. “Come and meet everyone, lad.” He winked. “They’re a dour lot, but they won’t bite.”

  After that, the evening progressed at a rollicking rate. Sebastian listened to the men’s observations on life and drink and women, and spun a few yarns and told bawdy jokes of his own. The dancing was in full swing inside the barn, with lively music and much laughter and clapping and stamping of feet. He supposed he should go and do his duty by the local women—they would be easier nuts to crack than the men. But . . . he sighed. He wished Gemma was there.

  And then, as if he had conjured her from his thoughts, she appeared.

  For an instant, he thought he’d imagined it, for she seemed a creature of the flames, her cloak whirling around her as the sparks showered from the bonfire and warm lights flickered in her unbound hair.

  But her eyes were only for him, dark as midnight, large and stark against her pale, moonlit skin. Cream and brandied peaches, he thought, and stepped involuntarily towards her.

  “You came!” She smiled up at him, her joy vibrant, unclouded by that awareness that seemed to rise between them like a Hydra in the preceding days.

  Still stunned by her presence, it was a moment before he replied. “Yes. I did not think to see you here.” He pitched the end of his cigarillo into the bonfire.

  She looked around, her face alight with interest. “Isn’t it wonderful? I am sorry to have missed the crying of the neck, but I could not slip away until now.”

  “No one knows where you are?”

  Gemma shook her head. “But why concern ourselves with that? I have ample chaperonage in all these good people.”

  He took a deep breath. “Your trust in me is . . . humbling. Particularly after what has passed between us in recent days.”

  Her gaze slid away. “Why should I not trust you? You would never do anything to hurt me.”

  With a bitter twist to his mouth, he held out his hand. “Come. Dance with me, then.”

  It amazed him, though he knew it shouldn’t, how rapidly Gemma had made friends with the people of Laidley. As they moved into the barn where the feasting and dancing took place, Sebastian marvelled at the warmth in the greetings she received.

  “Good evening, miss, and happy we are to welcome you to our party.” Trengarry, the carpenter, a burly man with a wiry curl to his hair offered her his place on the rough wooden bench that ran along an enormous trestle table.

  Gemma dipped a curtsey. “Thank you, Mr. Trengarry, but we thought we might join the dancing. You will save me a dance, won’t you?”

  Shyly, the man ducked his head. “Aye, miss, thank you. That I will.”

  “You have made the poor fellow blush,” remarked Sebastian as he le
d her to the floor. “I was hoping you’d save all your dances for me.”

  She smiled, but said nothing and they took their places in the set.

  This company danced with far more vigour and less restraint than might be seen at the sedate balls of the gentry, but Gemma seemed to enjoy herself. She laughed and clapped and jigged about with verve, yet her every movement retained that innate grace that was peculiarly her own.

  Sebastian could not take his eyes from her. The rosy cheeks and flying, burnished hair; her plain blue gown swirling about her voluptuous figure as she moved. The country dances did not allow partners to remain together for long, and he resented every separation, though he smiled and exchanged greetings with the wives and daughters of his neighbours and tenants as he went.

  They ate hot pasties and drank ale and cider. Trengarry even reenacted the crying of the neck for Gemma’s benefit.

  He mimed cutting the last sheaf of corn in the field and tying the bundle with twine. “Then he raises it in the air and holds it to the east, the south, and then the west, and cries, ‘I have’n, I have’n, I have’n.’ ”

  “What have ’ee, what have ’ee, what have ’ee?” the others called in reply.

  “A neck, a neck, a neck.”

  “Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!”

  Gemma clapped her hands. “Oh, very good. Thank you, Mr. Trengarry. That was wonderful.”

  They danced again many times, together and with other partners. At the end of another set, someone tapped Sebastian on the shoulder.

  It was a footman from Laidley. “My lord, you must come quick! Mr. Wilks has had a nasty turn.”

  Sebastian frowned. He had not set eyes on his steward all evening. “What sort of turn? Where is he?”

  “In his cottage, my lord. He felt poorly so he did not come tonight. The doctor’s been sent for, and Mrs. Wilks asked that you come, too.”

  “Of course.” He looked at Gemma. “Will you be all right here?”

  She shook her head. “I’m coming with you.”

  He should have protested, but he was too grateful. He knew next to nothing about tending the sick, but Gemma was skilled at such work.

  They fetched their cloaks and hurried out to their horses.

  Outside, Sebastian saw a familiar figure hovering by the bonfire. He pulled up short. “Mama.”

  His mother started and whipped around. In an instant, she regained her poise and inclined her head. “Good evening, Sebastian. I am surprised to find you here.”

  Icily, he replied, “I thought it was about time someone showed our people we are not merely their overlords, to be feared and obeyed.”

  Gemma put her hand on his arm. “Scovy.”

  He shook her off. “No, Gemma. I won’t apologise for speaking the truth. My father’s despotism will take time to erase, but I’m determined to do it. And I won’t have you come here and question my actions, ma’am.”

  His mother’s face remained expressionless, but her hands fidgeted with her cloak. “Sebastian, my dear—”

  “I don’t have time for this.” He turned and strode to the rail where the horses were tethered.

  “Scovy!” Gemma hurried after him.

  “Just leave it, Gemma.”

  As soon as he spoke the words, he cringed and lifted his gaze to the darkening skies. Why did he have to bite her head off like that? But he couldn’t talk about it now. “We must get to Wilks.”

  They rode the short way to the steward’s cottage, a handsome house built from the same grey stone as Laidley.

  The housekeeper let them in and took them straight up to Wilks’s bedchamber. The room was dark but for the pale circle of light cast by a lantern on a table set apart from the bed where Wilks lay. Sebastian could hardly discern the figure lying strangely still under the covers, but Wilks’s laboured breathing filled the room.

  Mrs. Wilks, a tall, thin woman with salt-and-pepper hair, rose and hurried to meet them at the door. “He is sleeping,” she murmured, her grey eyes shadowed and anxious. “Will you come into the sitting room, my lord?”

  They followed her into the small parlour. Sebastian said, “I am deeply sorry, Mrs. Wilks. Has the doctor been?”

  “Yes, he has just left. It is my husband’s heart, of course. The doctor told him months ago he must not work himself to the bone as he does, but he would not listen.” Her gaze flickered to Sebastian. “I do not know if he will ever be well enough to take up his duties again as your steward, my lord. I fear Mr. Wilks is no longer suited to such heavy responsibility.”

  A responsibility that was partly his master’s. Shame crashed into him like a wave. It was all his fault. If he hadn’t been so determined to turn his back on Laidley, he might have noticed what Gemma had seen as soon as she arrived. Wilks had not been coping.

  Gemma murmured words of comfort. Mrs. Wilks dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, her thin shoulders shaking.

  More grateful than ever for Gemma’s presence, Sebastian remained silent, remorse lashing his conscience. As steward, it was Wilks’s job to run the estate, but he should never have had to bear the burden of making every decision. He had tried to involve Sebastian in the process, but Sebastian had not wanted to know. Wilks must have been bewildered by this laissez-faire approach after the controlling attitude of the late earl. And now, his very life hung in the balance because of Sebastian’s neglect.

  Sebastian cleared his throat and addressed the overwrought woman. “When you judge Mr. Wilks is well enough, send me word and I will return to speak with him about the future. In the meantime, tell him he must not worry. I will do all that needs to be done until a replacement can be found.”

  Gemma glanced at him and rose. “If circumstances change, or if there is anything we can do, you will send word to the house, won’t you?”

  Mrs. Wilks stood, gripping a fold of her apron in her hands. She raised a fearful gaze to Sebastian’s. He managed to smile at her and take her hands in his. “Do not fret, Mrs. Wilks. I shall see your husband gets the best possible care.”

  She clung to him and her lips quivered. “He will worry so. About the estate, I mean.”

  Sebastian saw doubt in her eyes. She did not believe him competent to take over her husband’s duties. Well, she might be right, but for all their sakes, he would do his utmost to prove her wrong.

  Gently, he said, “Tell him he need not worry about anything, save getting well.” He paused, trying to find the right phrasing, knowing how important it was to preserve the Wilkses’ pride. “I shall speak with him myself about what will happen after that, but you may be sure I shall not forget your husband’s many years of faithful service to our family.”

  The gratitude in the woman’s eyes made his stomach twist. “Thank you, my lord. Indeed, I will tell him.”

  He and Gemma left the cottage and rode away in silence.

  Quietly, Gemma said, “You must not blame yourself.”

  He did not answer her. Somehow, her absolution made it worse, but beneath the shame at the damage his past behaviour had wrought ran a determination to rectify it for the future. That was the only thing that could ease his guilt. He would do better now.

  Then he remembered: By righting that wrong, he would break a promise to someone he loved.

  Andy.

  The pain of it stopped his breath, as if a hundred-weight had slammed into his chest.

  A sudden need gripped him. Instead of taking the road back to the house, he wheeled his gelding and headed towards the cliffs.

  “Where are you going, Scovy?” Gemma sounded apprehensive as she urged Black Dancer into a trot to catch up.

  “I’ve remembered somewhere,” he said, looking across at her in the half-light of the moon. “Somewhere I used to be happy. Will you come?”

  Gemma did not hesitate. “Yes, Scovy. Of course.”

  CRUSHED to her soul, Lady Carleton slowly turned away from the barn. She watched the bonfire, the men sitting around drinking and smoking their pipes, the children running wild an
d free and happy.

  She had never been one of them. Foolish to come here. Doubly foolish to let Sebastian go before she could explain her presence. Soon, he would have retreated far beyond her reach.

  “My lady? Is it you?” Betty Grimes, the midwife who had delivered all three of Elisabeth’s children, peered into her face. “It is! Oh, do come in, my lady, and have summat to wet your whistle.”

  Her first impulse was to decline. But then a fiddle struck up a lively jig and the music called to her, and she thought of warmth and fun and people and she said, “Why, thank you, Martha. I’d love to.”

  She whirled in the dance with half a dozen partners, and knew the flush in their cheeks and the bright light in their eyes were reflected in her own. How wonderful it felt to be alive and dancing!

  But in the midst of her delight, she knew her people could not really give themselves up to frank enjoyment while she was by. They were on their best behaviour. One evening would not change the fact she was their mistress. So after an hour of freedom, she reluctantly said her farewells and made her way back to the house.

  As she walked alone in the moonlight, through cricket song and the rustle of stirring leaves and scurrying night-creatures, she thought of how her lord, the earl, would have despised her actions this night.

  And she hummed an air, and performed a light step-dance along the winding path.

  THEY came to a tiny cottage at the top of a cliff overlooking a small, protected cove and the deep, glassy darkness of the sea.

  “Here?” Gemma brushed her wind-blown hair from her eyes and searched Sebastian’s face. She could not make out the slightest nuance of expression. The clean lines of his nose and jaw seemed fashioned of marble, pure and stark in the moonlight.

  They tethered their horses to a rail outside. He opened the door for her and she went in. As Sebastian located a lamp and a branch of candles and lit them with brisk efficiency, Gemma looked around.