Caught in a Cornish Scandal by Eleanor Webster (top novels of all time .txt) 📗

She paused. ‘It is not...’ she said, after a moment’s contemplation. ‘It is not that I dislike London. I have only been there twice and it was very foreign to me. I felt as though I was always pretending, trying to impress people about things I did not think important.’

‘Like what?’

‘The latest fashion. An acquaintance of my mother’s once wore a collection of fruit on her bonnet because she thought it fashionable. And everyone complimented her on it.’

‘And did the bonnet impress?’ he asked.

‘Only the flies.’ She stretched, smothering a yawn.

He smiled. It was true. Life was about pretending, although he doubted that was limited to London. At school, he’d pretended a love of sports and to have only average intelligence.

His father had married his mother and pretended he did not care that she had a child from a previous marriage, was almost middle-aged, no great beauty, with a vast knowledge of scholarly works and a complete inability to utter a single witticism. None of it mattered because she was rich.

His mother had married his father and pretended to care about the domestic challenges of retaining servants with a mind so brilliant she could read Greek, Latin, astronomy and play several musical instruments.

Even with Annie, there had been pretence. He’d changed to be the person she wanted him to be. It had worked until the duke came along with the title and the lands and then all his pretty play-acting was for nought.

Socrates had said that the greatest way to live with honour is to be what we pretend. What would it be, not to pretend?

Millie gave another yawn and he pushed his thoughts aside, starting to collect some of the straw. ‘We should get some rest. I’ll stuff some straw under the door jamb. Cut down the draught.’

‘My mother calls it a door sausage.’

He glanced at her profile. ‘She must be very worried.’

‘Yes,’ she said in a tone that did not invite further question.

Frances must also be worried. He did not like to think of it. She had seemed so fragile and he hated to think that he was adding to her anxiety. Frances had always been his anchor. Even from a distance, she had helped during those first awful months at school. She’d written long letters with funny anecdotes about cook, nanny, the housekeeper’s cat who had somehow landed in the coal scuttle. He remembered her saying that she’d got the maid to post them as his father disapproved, saying that Sam was too much mollycoddled by the women in his life.

Frances had been the strong one, pulling Sam from the brink when he had been set on self-destruct.

‘We will get back to them tomorrow,’ he said, as though saying it made it the more likely. ‘Let’s get some rest. I will lie in the small alcove and give you the fire.’

‘You will freeze. Stay near the fire.’

He hesitated. ‘It hardly seems appropriate for us to be so close.’

She laughed, a wonderful gurgling laugh which lit up the room. ‘I doubt being kidnapped by smugglers, escaping a sinking ship and almost drowning was appropriate either.’

He grinned back with sudden lightness of heart. ‘You are unusual, brave and with a sense of humour. I cannot think of any other individual who could have endured what you have.’

She gave a breathy gasp. ‘Then you really must expand your acquaintances.’

‘Here, my jacket is dry at last.’ He lay it over her.

‘Thank you.’ She curled into it and he lay close, making sure that his body blocked the draught which, despite the straw, still whistled under the door jamb.

The wind rattled the shutter while rain drummed on the roof.

‘Tell me again...what is it that you like about Cornwall?’ he muttered.

‘It is beautiful and wild and free and independent.’

‘It is that,’ he said. ‘Goodnight, Miss Lansdowne.’

‘Might I suggest, Mr Garrett, that you call me Millie, given the experiences of the day?’

‘If you will call me Sam?’

‘Sam it is,’ she said softly. ‘Goodnight, Sam.’

Jason’s face was close to his own: so close Sam could see the spittle leave his lips; so close that he could see the pores and broken blood vessels threading his nose; so close that he could see the bloodshot red suffusing his eyes.

Except he couldn’t breathe. His throat had constricted. He couldn’t see or hear. It was black and cold.

He was drowning, unable to breathe, unable to move.

Fear pounded though him.

A scream shattered the night...

‘Shh, you’re having a nightmare.’

The words came from outside his dream. Sam bolted upright. It was dark. He felt a confused disorientation and raised his fists to ward off an unseen enemy.

‘Mr Garrett... Sam...wake up. It’s me.’

‘Miss Lansdowne.’ He lowered his hands. ‘I apologise.’

They were at the hut, of course. The memories from the day previous tumbled back.

‘You just had a bad dream.’

‘Yes... Jason...’ Images flickered through his mind but even as he tried to grasp them, they slipped away, ephemeral as mist.

Millie was sitting up with her back to him, prodding the fire into reluctant life. It fizzled and she added more peat, cupping her hands and blowing gently. He shivered, his body cold and clammy with sweat.

‘Was it a memory or just a dream?’ she asked.

‘I do not know. I was with Jason. We were fighting. I was outside.’

‘Is that how you ended in the water?’

‘I... I do not know.’ He shook his head. ‘It cannot be. Jason is my sister’s husband. I wouldn’t fight him. It must be a dream.’

‘Maybe someone attacked you both?’

Sam lay back, staring at the plume of tiny sparks twisting towards the ceiling. ‘If only I could remember. Sometimes, it is almost there, like when you see something from the corner of your eye but it disappears the moment you look at it.’

She nodded, also lying down. ‘So maybe tell me what you do remember? Any detail might help. Just talk about the day. Why you came here.’

He was silent for a moment. It couldn’t hurt. He did not feel sleepy and it was still dark.