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

‘I do not know.’ He sat heavily in the chair opposite.

The tears brimmed over, tracking down her cheeks. ‘I was hoping you would know. You weren’t with him that last evening?’ She lowered her voice to a whisper, although they were quite alone within the chamber.

‘I do not know. I had an accident and my memory is gone.’

‘Gone? What sort of accident?’ She reached forward, clutching his hand once more, her grip tight.

‘I am fine. And I remember everything except for a few hours in the evening. My hope is that if you tell me everything that happened after dinner, it might help.’

She released his hand, her fingers twisting nervously in the cloth of her dress. Her eyes again scanned the room. Her foot moved the bassinet in a rocking motion too quick for comfort. ‘We had dinner. You and Jason drank port. Then Jason and I fought—after dinner—in our bedchamber. And he went out. That is the last I saw of him.’

‘What did you fight about?’

She shrugged, the rocking movement of her foot increasing. Her gaze jumped between the furniture as if uncomfortable with looking at any one object for too long.

‘I—I angered him frequently. We fought a lot. He said I had not looked sufficiently happy at dinner. Over port you had asked him about me and why I was unhappy. You wanted me to go back to London. Do you remember?’ She spoke quickly, the words jerky.

‘No. I do not remember that conversation. I am sorry if I caused a fight between you. I have a fuzzy recollection of dinner, but nothing more. I only know that I ended up almost drowning in the sea.’

‘Drowning?’ she gasped.

‘I was rescued.’

‘You were in the sea? With Jason?’

‘No. At least he was not there when I was rescued.’

‘I hate the sea,’ she said, rather oddly. Her gaze had briefly stopped moving between objects, but now focused on him with too much intensity.

‘Yes, well, I cannot say that I am an enthusiast either. What happened after you fought?’

‘He went out. He often goes out. But his mother thinks that...that...she thinks...that I followed him...and hurt him.’ Her voiced dropped so low on these last syllables that he could scarcely hear them.

‘That is nonsense. You would never hurt anyone. I do not care what his mother—’

‘Shhh.’ She placed her fingertips to her lips. Her breathing had quickened, her fear palpable, her eyes wide and taking on an odd appearance. ‘Do you think they listen at doors?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Sir Anthony would see it as a breach of manners.’

It was the right response. She blinked, her expression softening with a tiny half-smile. She dropped her hand and took a tiny inhalation, as if suddenly remembering to breathe.

‘Sir Anthony is not a bad man, although he does enjoy his brandy,’ she said.

‘He said you need not stay here. I have my carriage. Perhaps we should get you both home?’ He nodded to the sleeping child.

This was not the right response. Her eyes widened again and she pressed her spine back into the chair, as though expecting a physical attack. Two bright spots of colour appeared on her thin white cheeks and she shook her head too quickly. ‘No. I cannot go back. I cannot. She will take Noah. I know she will. You...you cannot make me.’

Her distress frightened him and he understood now why the doctor had been called. He also knew that this behaviour was, or would be seen as, irrational.

‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘I would never make you go somewhere you did not want to go.’

She stared at him as though trying to discern if he might be lying before allowing herself to relax into the chair.

He was silent for a moment, looking at his sister, noting the movement of her foot and the nervous rubbing of her fingers against the cloth of her dress. This was a dilemma. Obviously, she could not go back to a place which caused her so much fear, but she also could not stay here. Sir Anthony had been kind and accommodating, but he was a bachelor and would not want Frances, Marta, a nursemaid and the rector’s wife imposed upon him for ever. As magistrate, he might decide that Frances, or at least Noah, must return to Manton Hall, where there was a grandparent eager to provide care.

‘Frances.’ He reached for her hand, again conscious of its fragility and the movement of the thin bones under dry, papery skin. ‘You must have a female friend? A local family of good repute. Someone you could stay with?’

She shook her head, again the movement jerky and too swift. ‘I do not know many people here. Jason did not encourage me to go out.’

‘The rector’s wife?’

‘No. No. She wants to get home and is well acquainted with Mrs Ludlow. She says I am unstable and that it is likely the influence of the devil. The devil is very active in her world.’ These last words ended with a stifled sob.

‘Then London? We have Aunt Tilly. She is quite lovely, if a bit eccentric. A change would do you good. You and Noah will go up to her. Sir Anthony will allow it, I am certain, if he has the address. I will stay here, but follow as soon as possible. I am quite sure that a change in scene will help.’

‘No. No. No. Mrs Ludlow—she said that I mustn’t. It would look as though I do not care about Jason. She would say that I am fleeing the country and she might take Noah and I couldn’t bear that.’

‘London is still England and, as far as I know, Mrs Ludlow is not the law of the land.’ But his curt response evoked no smile or flicker of relief, only the continued shaking of her head with such energy that he feared she would give herself a headache.

‘No. No, I cannot. She will say I am trying to run. This will make me look guilty. I am afraid she