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

‘Garrett,’ Sam provided helpfully.

‘Yes, I... I feel I should question you on the specifics, don’t you know.’

‘I quite agree,’ Sam said. ‘I will accompany you now. You have your own carriage? I can direct my groom to take Mrs Ludlow back to Manton Hall while I travel with you for any interrogation you would like, if that is convenient to all.’

Millie felt her own jaw slacken. Good lord, the man had just confessed to murder or manslaughter...and he was organising transportation as though co-ordinating an excursion to a village fête.

‘This cannot be true,’ Mrs Ludlow said, her tone almost accusatory. ‘You said you had no memory of that night.’

‘A temporary disability.’

At that moment, with the timing a playwright might have envied, Millie’s mother appeared at the top of the stairs, holding a candle. This low flickering light oddly shadowed her features while her voluminous white dressing gown and nightcap provided a sharp contrast to the dim corridor. Rather like a poorly dressed ghost, Millie thought. She felt a giggle bubble in her throat and wondered if she was slipping towards hysteria.

‘Flora? Millie? Dear Sir Anthony, is that you? And Mr Garrett? Good gracious, what is happening? Is there an emergency? An accident? My poor nerves!’

‘Mother.’ Millie stepped forward, shaking off the numbness and pushing away her rising hysteria. ‘I will explain everything tomorrow. Everyone will leave as soon as the vehicles are brought to the front, so you have no need to worry.’

Her mother descended the stairs, still somewhat dazed. ‘But what happened? I am sorry to be in dishabille.’

‘A risk people must take if they visit at odd hours,’ Millie said. ‘Let us invite Sir Anthony and Mrs Ludlow into the parlour while they wait for the horses? Flora, if you could ensure that the carriages are requested?’

Flora nodded and hurried towards the back of the house while Millie’s mother, surprisingly rising to the occasion, stepped down the stairs, ushering her guests into the parlour.

‘Would anyone like tea? I am sure it could be arranged,’ she said with admirable aplomb.

‘A brandy would be most welcome,’ Sir Anthony muttered, following in his hostess.

As quickly as possible, Millie shut the door behind them, grabbing Sam’s arm and urging him down the narrow, dingy hallway so that they were positioned midway between the parlour and kitchen.

‘You remember that night? Your memory has come back?’ she asked.

‘No,’ he said.

She stared at him, stunned into silence. ‘You just confessed to murder for a lark?’

‘I confessed to a fight which is not the same as murder and is, indeed, the most likely explanation of events.’

‘Most likely explanation? But you do not know what happened? You still cannot remember?’

‘No.’

‘You cannot confess to something you do not remember. I mean, if you do that, the die is cast. It becomes fact and no one will believe you even if you later recall events,’ she hissed in a harsh whisper.

‘Very theatrical.’

‘Except it isn’t theatre. It is real life and could get you hanged,’ Millie retorted.

‘And what if they’d returned with a warrant for Frances?’ he asked with sudden intensity. He stood close to her, his dark greenish-grey gaze catching her own. The limited lamplight somehow emphasised the squareness of his jaw and the angry determination of his countenance.

Millie took an involuntary step back. ‘She would be questioned again and you could still investigate and help—’

‘Do not you see? There would be no help for Frances. Separation from her child, even for a moment, would destroy her. You can see how vulnerable she is. She would likely confess to a murder she did not commit.’

‘A characteristic which seems to run in the family,’ Millie said.

‘Millie, I let her down. I stayed away too long. I am afraid for her.’ He took a step nearer, again standing so close that she could hear his breathing and the rustle of his shirt.

‘I understand, but you cannot pretend to remember something you do not.’

‘And I cannot let her take responsibility for something I may have done. Isn’t it more likely that I physically fought with Jason than that Frances did?’

‘Or neither of you fought and you are obscuring the truth,’ she said.

‘Since when have you been so keen on the truth?’

Millie stepped away from him. ‘I have always adhered to the truth. Are you referring to my possible engagement? Nothing is official. And the situation is entirely different.’

‘Really? How can you claim to adhere to the truth when you went on some crazy smuggling expedition without telling your family and kissed me without telling your fiancé?’

‘He isn’t my fiancé yet. And as for kissing you, that mistake will not happen again,’ she snapped.

‘I am relieved to hear it. However, I would suggest that you are still not in a position to lecture me on the truth.’

The door of the parlour opened and Millie and Sam swung quickly about as light spilled into the front entrance way. Her mother exited, followed by Mrs Ludlow and Sir Anthony.

‘It would seem the carriages are out front,’ Millie said to him, stepping towards the front entrance.

‘Millie?’

‘I do not think we have anything more to say,’ she said, glancing back.

‘Thank you for providing my sister accommodation.’

Of course,’ she said stiffly as she turned to walk briskly towards the front door.

Millie flung herself on her bed. She felt the sting of tears. She was angry with herself, with Sam, with Tom, with her father, her mother, society.

Why did men always make foolish choices? Obfuscating fact with fancy? Her father had misled her mother, stringing tales about fortunes made. Tom had misled them all, promising to drink and gamble less.

And why did women lack choices?

Truthfully, she was equally angry with herself. Why had she allowed Sam Garrett such liberties? She condemned her brother and father for taking risks, but she was a hypocrite. She was as foolish as the heroines who proliferated Lil’s favourite reading, but with no kind author to mandate a happy ending.

Had she wanted to experience desire before marrying the dull Mr