Lady Sarah's Redemption

by Beverley Eikli

  “So, Cecily, more than two months have elapsed, and yet your countenance and good humour remain quite unchanged,” Roland marvelled with an irony completely undetected by his sister-in-law.

  “I’m surprised, considering the trials I’ve had to endure since you left me so abruptly with the entire management of this house and estate upon my shoulders,” she sniffed. “Thank goodness we found Miss Morecroft – and I mean poor Godby’s daughter – lodging with Mr Hollingsworth’s mother so she was able to take up her rightful post. I’ve a mind to call on the good widow when I’m in London and thank her for her care; though I think that son of hers needs talking to for allowing Caro’s tears to overrule his judgment. I daresay he was flattered by Caro’s attention.” She ran a careworn hand across her brow. “That aside, Harriet and Augusta have been sorely trying. I’ve threatened to box their ears if they so much as mention Lady Sarah’s name. You can’t image the difficulty I’ve had explaining to them events in such a manner as will not damage their delicate sensibilities by putting ideas into their heads, or poisoning the high esteem in which they hold their cousin. Not that I intend ever referring to this again, Caro. What’s done is done. You’ve learned your lesson and you’ve been lucky. You still have your reputation intact … unlike that insinuating little baggage Lady Sarah, or whatever name she currently chooses to go by. Well, she’s had her public come-uppance. The scandal! Exposed at Lady Mettling’s house party for consorting with persons of ill repute!” she hissed before adding, complacently, “I daresay a nunnery might accept her if her father has deep enough pockets. Though it’ll sit ill with her pleasure-loving disposition.”

  “Lady Sarah has been publicly shamed?”

  “Oh, don’t you start, Caro,” said Cecily, irritated. “I’ve had enough to put up with without Harriet and Augusta snivelling at the news. I’d thought to instil in them a healthy dose of terror rather than touch their tender little hearts. It’s exactly as I said. She was an insinuating little baggage, a trollop, and there’s no kinder way to put it.”

  “How … dare … you?”

  Shocked into silence, Cecily gaped at her brother-in-law. Then the gloating expression returned as she said, “You always fancied yourself in love with her, didn’t you, Roland? Well, I hear she is no longer received in any respectable drawing room, and that only yesterday she’d been given the cut direct by Lady Jersey.”

  Hope flickered like a flame suddenly come to life in the cold cavernous regions of Roland’ heart.

  Lady Sarah needed rescuing.

  He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry as he recalled the dutiful, formal letter he had written her from Switzerland. His thanks for her bravery and subsequent care of him had sounded so trite. The words that followed were worse; a pompous-sounding death knell to all his hopes of what might have been: It is my wish not to be distracted by life’s frivolities so that I may devote my energy and passion towards furthering those worthy causes which remain the chief object of my life.’

  What he meant was that Sarah deserved to be happy and the kindest service he could render was to relinquish her.

  What greater betrayal was there than to be discarded upon the roll of a dice? In the midst of the drama she had argued otherwise, but Roland knew that when normality returned, Sarah would come to despise him and his lack of heroism.

  He looked beyond Cecily’s shoulder. “Ah, Miss Morecroft,” he greeted the serious, brown-haired young woman who entered the room flanked by her young charges, Augusta and Harriet. They were trying hard to contain their enthusiasm at seeing Caro.

  “I trust you have not been overwhelmed by your duties.” To his surprise he felt a pang as the little girls rushed to embrace his daughter. He’d missed his nieces.

  “Not in the slightest,” she said with her usual calm. “Harriet and Augusta have proved apt and diligent pupils while Mrs Hawthorne has been nothing but kindness itself.”

  Roland glanced from the demure governess in whose manner he could detect no irony, to Cecily whose lips were pursed in a prim, complacent little smile.

  Good, it appeared he would not be required to arbitrate in order to keep a tenuous peace.

  “Roland, where are you going?”

  Roland had barely drained his tea cup before he was rising, inclining his head towards the three women.

  “To London,” he said, equably. “You’ve run the household so efficiently in my absence, Cecily, I’ve no doubt you’ll not miss my company another three days or so.”

  “M’lady?”

  Sarah, reclining on the Gothic sofa in her friend’s small drawing room, glanced up from her deep introspection of the dancing flames as her maid put her head around the door.

  “A gentleman to see you.”

  James. Shame and embarrassment curdled in her belly. He’d written the moment he’d heard news of the uproar at Middlebrook.

  She sighed. “Show him in.”

  Dear Lord, she’d never forget standing on the top step that led to the stage while the audience buzzed with excitement and Millicent wept, “I’m so sorry, Lady Sarah.” Though if she really had been, and not such a wet-goose to boot, she’d hardly have continued in imploring tones, “Mother thought she recognised you at the inn and though I tried to stop her she went after the publican with some excuse and read the note you’d given him.”

  Drawing her green Pomona shawl more closely round her, Sarah dragged herself off the sofa, wishing she had the freedom to fly abroad and escape the nightmare her life had become.

  After a cursory inspection of her appearance in the looking glass above the chiffoniere, and a weary adjustment to a flattened curl, she was ready.

  She’d thought nothing had the power to rouse her from her from her lethargy, but the sound of his boots in the corridor outside the door made her feel suddenly ill. Not at what she’d done but at what he must be thinking.

  She tensed, preparing herself for the moment James would thrust open the door and gaze upon her with reproach and disappointment.

  “Gad’s teeth, Sarah! You look like you’ve been sleeping in a haystack.” Striding to the footstool she’d migrated to, he crouched down to grip her shoulder.

  It was all she could do, not to cry. Instead, she took refuge in brittle pride. “I do not need a lecture from you, James,” she said, turning away from him. “I hoped you would not come.”

  “That I’d give up on you at last?” he asked, rising and striding to the fire to warm his hands. “Don’t think you can ruin yourself without more than a murmur from me.” He twisted his head to look at her, dominating the room with his massive shoulders and red hair. But it was his look of puzzlement she found so hard to bear. Did he really think she was guilty, as charged?

  “Say your piece and then leave me alone,” she muttered, drawing her shawl close.

  “Do you know what the gossips are saying? Not to mention the wags—? A house of ill repute in Marylebone, Sarah?” He shook his darling shaggy head. “Obviously there is some rational explanation. I, for one, do not believe you were enticed into the flesh trade. I’m sure most others who know you don’t, either. So what I can’t for the life of me fathom is why you don’t defend yourself with the simple truth.”

  For a moment she considered confessing everything. But that would mean revealing too much: her rash stupidity in venturing forth alone, her subsequent humiliation and her undying loyalty to Roland. If James learned of Roland’s role in all this and the passion he continued to inspire in her, he’d belittle it all with demands like why he wasn’t here? He might even resort to anger and seek Roland out.

  Well, Roland just needed time. His duty was to ensure Caro could survive without him before he came courting Sarah. And as Roland was doing all in his power to protect Caro, so must Sarah.

  “I was looking for someone about whose safety I was concerned.” She sighed. “I’m sorry James but I have vowed to say no more. The truth would only damage her reputation.”

  James narrowed his eyes at her, h
is disgust plain as he said slowly, “You believe it worthwhile to sacrifice your reputation for someone who remains silent in the face of your ruin?”

  Sarah stared mutinously into the flames.

  “It’s that Hawthorne girl, isn’t it?” he asked suddenly. “She ran away, or slipped up, and you went after her. That’s it, isn’t it? Now you’re facing the music and she says nothing.”

  Sarah held herself rigid. She would remain silent.

  “Good Lord, and her father, that damned Whig Hawthorne, the Devil rot him, is happy to let the wolves devour you with nary a murmur in case it hurts his darling daughter or reflects badly on him, more like it.”

  “James, please!” Finally roused, Sarah jumped up and gripped the lapels of his coat as she looked into his eyes. “Terrible things happened that night at this house in” — she swallowed — “in Marylebone. Mr Hawthorne took his daughter abroad to recover. You really must not judge what you can’t understand—”

  “I understand that knave Hawthorne is letting you suffer the consequences of his daughter’s mistakes. What I’d like to know is, where is he when you really need him?”

  Raw pain tore through her. She’d like to know, too. Wilting against James’s chest misery settled upon her shoulders like a mantle.

  James put his forefinger beneath Sarah’s chin and raised her head to look at him. “Can’t you see what you’re doing?” he asked, more gently now. “To yourself? To those who love you? Your father was beyond comfort when he thought you dead. Now this! Sarah,” he pleaded, “go back to Lord Miles, now. I’ll escort you. We’ll call the banns. Do what we’d all agreed was in everyone’s best interests before your” — he exhaled on a disapproving grunt — “escapade under Hawthorne’s roof.” He gave her a bracing shake. “You know you’ll be much happier at home with people who care for you than here” — he indicated the room with its common, ugly furniture — “accepting the charity of fawning little Mrs Hargreaves, hoping your dissolute friends will invite you back into the fold. They won’t, you know.”

  “You’re asking me to marry you?” she asked slowly, pulling out of his embrace to stand close to the fire. So it had come to this, after all.

  “Well, no one else has offered, have they?” he asked, pointedly.

  She didn’t know whether to laugh or scream. Instead, she gave him a long, considering look. “Do you love me, James? Do you adore me? Does your heart beat faster when I enter the same room?”

  “What nonsense you talk sometimes,” he said, smiling down at her with fond exasperation. “You know it doesn’t and nor would I want it to. It would be like—” He struggled for an analogy.

  Sarah returned to her footstool where she waited with interest. James was not one to wax lyrical at the best of times and he did not disappoint her, now.

  “I suppose it would be like having to mince around in diamond-spangled high-heeled slippers which pinched like the Devil.” He patted the top of her head and Sarah was reminded of the fondness he had for his cocker spaniel, Bessie. “Give me a pair of comfortable leather slippers any day. Though, Sarah, you should do something about your hair. It’s not like you to look so untidy.”

  She let out a hysteria-tinged laugh. “Well, how can I possibly say no to what must be the most romantic marriage proposal I’ve ever received?”

  “Glad you think it’s a good idea. I’m warming to it by the minute.” Rubbing his hands vigorously before the fire he fixed her with one of his bluff, pleased-with-himself grins she remembered from childhood days after he’d winged a goose or shot a bulls-eye. “We’ll deal well together, Sarah. No inconvenient passion and bruised hearts, eh?”

  It was hard to hold back the tears. His generosity was so undeserved. She rose and crossed the carpet. Taking his wrists she gazed at him with affection. “That wasn’t an outright yes. There’s a caveat, James.” She paused. “I cannot, in good conscience, agree to marry you when my heart is engaged elsewhere.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say?” He sounded more put out than heartbroken.

  Sarah hesitated. “Because I didn’t think you’d approve. Papa doesn’t, that’s certain.”

  “Good God! Hawthorne?” he blustered. “After all that’s happened and all he’s done? Or rather not done since he’s the one who should be fronting up with an offer, though Lord knows what your father would say!” He shook his head, scowling as he repeated Roland’s name with derision. “Hawthorne! First he says nothing to defend you when he knows the truth, now he won’t marry you when you’re far and away more than the ungrateful blackguard ever deserved.”

  Sarah hedged. “James, perhaps he’s not even heard the news. He’s in Switzerland, still, I think.”

  “Well, you must tell him. Write to him. He deserves to know.”

  She hesitated, unsure whether to elaborate, then added reluctantly, “Before any of this drama at the Mettlings happened he wrote telling me he was disinclined ever to marry again as he wished to direct all his energies towards his political career.”

  “I told you — Damned Whig!” spat James, staring over her shoulder at the window as he digested her words. “Well, there’s nothing more to be said, then. Regardless of your feelings for Hawthorne, the very man who should be rescuing you from this debacle, though I daresay your father would rather see a bullet through his heart than his ring on your finger, he’s not here. And clearly, someone’s got to save you for I’ll not stand by and see you ruined.”

  Another surge of affection for her friend enveloped Sarah, but it was not love and it was so different from what she felt for Roland. She gazed at James, torn by shame and confusion. If she accepted him she’d be using him ruthlessly and shamelessly to save herself from a public disgrace which barred her from society forever. Yet without a timely marriage to save her, she’d never see another familiar drawing room or sip tea with a respectable matron again. The friends she’d once gossiped with would cross the road to avoid speaking with her. But worse than all that would be her father’s hurt and humiliation. She didn’t think she could do it to him.

  “For Goodness sake, stop snivelling, Sarah.” There was little sympathy in James’s tone. “It’s time to face the truth. Hawthorne doesn’t look like he’s about to play the gentleman, in which case you really don’t have much choice for I can tell you now, I’ll not see my dearest friend pay for a crime for which she’s blameless.” Picking an imaginary piece of lint from his coat sleeve he added, with a grin, “You’ll make an excellent housekeeper and hostess at any rate and if you pay more attention to your hair than you obviously did today, you’re a diamond of the first water.”

  Half an hour after James’ momentous visit, Sarah stood at the window of the shabby drawing room wracked with indecision as to whether she was doing the right thing.

  Though she wasn’t sure she endorsed James’s declaration that love was nothing but a load of codswallop invented to sell books and tickets to the theatre she had all but convinced herself that theirs would be a comfortable union. She’d had to remind herself it was she who had pursued Roland so if he held to his original stance that marriage was not on his agenda she had no one to blame but herself.

  Swallowing past the great lump in her throat she traced his name on the fogged-up window pane.

  Her father would be happy, James was pleased enough, so now there was only her inconvenient passion for Roland to overcome. Surely, after the dramas of the past few months, a comfortable arrangement such as marriage with James promised, was to be commended.

  She wrinkled her nose at the faux Gothic furniture and tasteless artworks of Mrs. Hargreaves’ drawing room. Suddenly she longed for the tasteful interiors of her childhood home. With a determined effort she banished the reflection that Larchfield had been just as beautiful.

  “Darling Roland,” she said to the stuffed hamster in its glass box upon a table near her, “where are you?”

  She had attempted something with her untidy hair after James’ criticism, but it still looked like a
bird’s nest.

  The overloud rap on the door startled her and Betty Hargreaves’s useless parlour maid put her head round. “Gentleman to see you, M’lady?”

  Sarah looked enquiringly at her.

  “Can’t say as I remember his name, m’lady, but he didn’t have red hair.”

  Life surged back, filling the aching void, sweeping away her lethargy and snapping Sarah’s backbone and lazy posture to attention.

  It had to be Roland. No one else would call on her.

  “Keep him waiting,” she ordered, flying to the door. “I’ll be down in five minutes.”

  Heart beating furiously she doused herself with orange flower water, enlisted the maid’s help to button her into her best gold flecked muslin, and swept her curls into the most stylish à la Meduse coiffure she could manage in the seconds available.

  Surely this meant he had finally heard, or come to his senses or whatever the reason was for his silence? He’d only have to reflect on the eternal alchemy between them to realise he had no alternative.

  Nerves jangling, she ran to the parlour. Her mind whirled with possibilities, but at the root of all was the knowledge that the only man she would ever love had returned. At the door she stopped to bite her lips and pinch colour into her cheeks, gathering her courage before signalling to the parlour maid to announce her.

  “My dear Mr Hawthorne.” She swept into the room with as much regal dignity as she could manage, extending her hand, smiling. “Welcome back.”

  He took her fingertips and bowed, but it did not escape her that his lips kissed the air, and his expression as he straightened was one she remembered well: wary, reluctant admiration, a throwback to the early days of her tenure at Larchfield.

  “Lady Sarah,” he had said, his smile strained, “I came the moment I heard news of your predicament.”

  Predicament? It sounded as if she’d contracted some nasty disease. Then it struck her that perhaps he truly believed her fall from grace was in more than name only. That it was something unconnected from the night at the Hollingsworths.