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

in one’s right mind limits creativity. And it is a bit far-fetched, I’ll grant you. However, the fanciful tale will be believed long enough for dear sweet little Frances to have a nervous breakdown. At this point, I will step in, as the doting grandmother, and look after dear Noah. I have already been working on my grandmotherly looks—less glamorous, you will note.

‘Naturally, I will feel the need of a warmer clime and leave, with Noah, for Italy. I am not particularly fond of children, but I am fond of trust funds. Jason will join us and we will be comfortably settled in a delightful villa before anyone questions—’

‘No!’ The one syllable shattered the night, silencing the older woman.

A dark shadowed shape exploded from the shrubbery, catapulting on to the woman with a primal force. For a confused moment, Sam thought a wild animal had attacked as Mrs Ludlow buckled, falling to the shale beach.

Acting with pure instinct, Sam rammed his body against Jason, despite his bound legs. The man crumpled, striking his head against a boulder and then lying quite still.

Sam turned. Two dark figures struggled on the beach, silhouetted against the moon’s white disc. The pistol had fallen from Mrs Ludlow’s hand and in a blur of movement, he saw hands outstretched, fingers scrabbling over the shale, reaching and grabbing for it. Then, for a split second, he saw Frances’s white face.

She grasped the pistol.

The two figures disentangled. Frances reared up and swung the pistol wildly, striking Mrs Ludlow so that she collapsed to the ground.

There was a moment of silence, broken only by the waves and the sound of Frances’s panting breath.

‘How did you get here?’ Sam gasped.

His sister did not answer. Instead, she weighed the pistol in her hand, cupping the handle almost lovingly and staring at it with apparent fascination.

‘Fran, untie me and give me the pistol! We’ll use these ropes to bind them. Where is Cartwell?’ Sam asked.

‘Ran away!’ Millie shouted. She was kneeling beside Jason. ‘He did not even leave us the lamp. Jason is still out cold, but we’d best tie him up, just to be sure. Frances, could you untie Sam so we can use the ropes?’

Frances still made no response. Instead, she walked quite slowly over the shale to where Jason lay, as though pulled by an inexorable force. Her footsteps made a rattling sound as the shale settled under her weight. She stopped with her feet inches from the man’s body. Lifting her foot, she prodded him, her movement almost delicate. He groaned.

‘He is not dead,’ she said.

‘We’ll tie him up,’ Sam said.

‘You would have killed my brother and taken my child,’ she spoke to the unconscious man, still cradling the pistol.

‘Fran, untie me.’ Sam felt cold apprehension. It tightened his throat, drying his mouth and making his breathing uneven.

Frances seemed disconnected from the scene, oblivious to their words with her entire concentration focused on the pistol in her hand.

‘And now, I will take your life, Jason. That seems fair. You have taken so many lives. Men, women, children even. I still see them. They haunt me. Do they haunt you? Do they haunt your dreams? Do you see their dead faces ravaged by the sea? I see them all the time. I see them when I sleep. I see them when I wake. I see them when I walk along the shore.’

Very slowly, she lifted up the pistol, smiling slightly and almost caressing the barrel, as her finger reached for the trigger.

‘Fran, no!’ Sam said. ‘Please, you cannot be judge and jury.’

‘I can, actually.’

Slowly and carefully, Frances took aim.

Chapter Thirteen

‘Frances, do not. Please,’ Sam repeated.

Millie’s heart pounded and her thoughts bounced about her head as she watched the woman’s slow, almost drugged, motions. It was as though she was powered by a force outside herself.

There must be something she could say or do that would help.

Something...something...something...

Millie was on the ground, quite close to Jason. Looking up, she could see both the pistol and Frances’s pale face, visible in the moonlight. ‘Please,’ she whispered. ‘Please, I know it feels as though we have no choice or control. But we do. We can control who we are. That is the only thing we can control.’

For a moment, Frances seemed oblvious to her words but then she spoke in slow rhythmic tones.

‘He was cruel. He is cruel.’

‘I know he is cruel. But you are not. You are kind.’

Frances glanced to her.

It was the first time her focus was moved from the man or weapon and Millie felt both hope and sick fear. ‘Please,’ she said, scared of saying the wrong word and desperate to prolong the tenuous connection. ‘Please give Sam the pistol. Your son needs a mother and Sam needs a sister. He has lost so much. Please, please, do not take that from him.’

The moment felt long, endless. Everything stilled. The lapping of the waves, the rustling leaves, the crackling branches, singing crickets, everything became muted...subdued...slowed. Millie dared not exhale, fearful even of the sound of her breath. Thoughts and words filled her mind, but she squashed them. She’d said enough.

Very slowly, Frances lowered the pistol and walked to Sam, placing it into his hand.

‘Thank you,’ he said.

He turned his gaze to Millie. ‘Thank you.’

It was Millie who saw Mrs Ludlow move to the water’s edge.

Sam was bent forward, binding Jason’s arms while Frances sat on a boulder, curved in upon herself, as though spent of every last resource.

Mrs Ludlow rose. Millie tensed, fearful of attack, but Mrs Ludlow did not turn to them. Instead, she gathered her skirts, stepping to the water’s edge, her movement oddly graceful.

‘Sam! Mrs Ludlow—she is going into the water,’ Millie said.

Sam glanced up. ‘She cannot go anywhere.’

‘There is a boat out there. In the distance.’

‘It’s heading away. I’ll use those ropes for her hands, when she gives up on the notion of walking to France.’

Millie watched as Mrs Ludlow stepped forward with a steadiness of purpose, moving with neither speed nor