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

Perhaps it might help him to make sense out of the clogged confusion which was his brain.

‘I came to Cornwall to see my sister, Frances. I arrived in the afternoon. I went directly to Manton Hall.’ He paused.

‘You must have been happy to see her and her baby?’

‘Yes.’ He spoke, slowly, remembering both Frances’s surprise but also her apprehension. It was as though she was coiled too tight, her movements jerky and her gaze unable to linger on any one object. ‘But I was worried. I should have come sooner. She had changed.’

‘How?’

‘She seemed nervous and her maid said that she seldom went out.’

‘That much is true, but she was in the family way. Had you been close before she came here?’

‘She was four years older than me and I was sent away to Harrow to study. We were as close as circumstances allowed. Frances helped me, during the difficult time after my father died.’ He was almost surprised by his words, he seldom mentioned or even allowed himself to think about that time. His father’s death, swiftly followed by Annie’s decision to marry the duke had led to too many drunken nights.

‘I’m sorry,’ Millie said. ‘About your father.’

‘I thought you weren’t comfortable with condolences.’ He glanced towards her.

‘I’m better when they’re not directed towards me.’

‘It was some time ago.’

‘And does time make it better, like they say?’ she asked, almost wistfully.

‘Yes.’ He paused. It felt, suddenly, that whatever was said in this isolated hut and on this isolated moor could not be the usual platitudes. ‘There are some days when it still hurts...a lot. When it feels raw, but those days become fewer. With Mother...’

He stopped himself. With his mother it had hurt so much worse because he had not known she was so ill. Logically, he should have known. Even at eight, he should have known. But he hadn’t, so the pain had been mixed with shock, anger and a feeling of stupidity. Even now, he wondered if people had sought to keep the truth from him or merely assumed he already knew it.

‘What was she like? Your mother?’

He smiled into the darkness. ‘Brilliant. Rude. She did not like fools which was unfortunate given her social strata. She could read many languages. Loved music. She was translating Thesmophoriazusae from Ancient Greek into English.’

‘Thesmo—what? You’ll have to enlighten me.’

‘Written by Aristophanes. She talked to me a lot about its meaning. I did not listen as much as I should have done. She would also tell me the most wonderful stories and had a Greek or Latin quote for almost every situation.’

‘You were close.’

‘Yes.’ In those last months she’d spent a lot of time with him. Frances was usually with her governess, but he only took lessons in the morning. During the afternoons he would sit with his mother as she told him story after story: myths, legends and make-believe. It was as though she wanted to pack a life time of books and music into a few weeks.

It had been a wonderful time, followed by a pain so harsh it had crippled. His world imploded and he lost not only his mother but his trust. He distrusted happiness. He distrusted people. His distrusted his own intelligence.

‘People always want to help, but they never know what to say. They only want you to eat. Just when one wants to eat nothing,’ Millie said softly.

‘It’s true.’ He remembered cook making his favourite meal on the day after Mother died. He had eaten little and had felt the guilt of her disappointment. Then his father had shouted at the poor woman and told her not to ‘mollycoddle’ the boy, which seemed to layer further guilt on him.

‘Your sister must have provided some comfort.’

‘She wrote often. She cheered me up and helped me to be strong. Maybe that was why I never thought of her as vulnerable. If I had, perhaps I would have come sooner.’

‘You came now. That is what is most important.’

Millie glanced at Sam’s silhouette, the straight nose and strong jawline, now shadowed with stubble. There was an intimacy in talking like this. She’d read somewhere that it is easier to talk to a stranger. Or perhaps it was the darkness which lessened social restraint or the comfort of being dry and almost warm within this tiny cottage protected from the wind and storm outside.

‘I got the feeling you do not like him. What do you know of him?’

‘Who?’ Millie was momentarily confused because something about his silhouette was distracting. ‘Ludlow?’

‘Yes.’

Millie thought back to when Ludlow and his mother had first taken the lease on Manton Hall. Indeed, her own mother had been excited. After Father had lost so much money, poor Mother felt banished to Cornwall and hoped the Ludlows would infuse it with sophistication. In this she was disappointed. Mrs Ludlow, known as an arbiter of fashion and good taste in London, eschewed local society.

Unfortunately, Jason Ludlow was not similarly reclusive. After Father had quietly died of a poor heart, Mother had succumbed further to her nerves while Ludlow became Tom’s antidote to the sadness of his home. He accompanied Tom often, going to Manton, London or some country house party. Ludlow had encouraged Tom to take risks but, truthfully, Tom needed little encouragement.

Indeed, Millie was always trying to reason with him and save him from his own demons.

‘He was not a good influence on Tom. He emboldened him to seek danger, drink and gamble, but Tom’s death was not Ludlow’s fault,’ she said.

‘What happened?’

She stared at the criss-crossing beams and felt the sting of tears. She hadn’t wanted him to go. ‘Do you believe in premonition?’

‘Like having a bad feeling about something?’

‘Yes. I asked him not to go. It was a country house party in Devon.’

Truthfully, there was no reason to suspect that it would be any different than any of the other social events Tom attended. Maybe it was no different, he was just less lucky.

‘He did not listen?’

‘He bet he could jump a hedge.