That Scandalous Summer

by Meredith Duran

  As though his thoughts called to her, Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder. Perhaps it was a trick of the light that made her expression look troubled. When their eyes met across the dim interior of the church, he felt a smile break over him, and after a brief beat, she returned it before turning again toward the font.

  The crown of her bonnet riveted him. It looked so . . . typical. Exactly the kind of hat that should be worn by a demure matron, a staid and passionless widow. What fantastical camouflage! And in a few hours’ time—perhaps less—he would be unpinning that bonnet. Loosening her hair.

  By God, he could already feel it through his fingers. The morning of their first meeting, he’d viewed it in its glory. It had seemed a cruelty then to be unable to touch her. He had not anticipated how much harder that act of restraint would become.

  Not long, now. Luncheon at the Browards’, and then . . .

  The ceremony concluded. Those around him stayed seated to let others exit. First came the Broward children, and then Mr. Broward, his arm around Mary, who was still weak but walking well. She clutched her child to her chest, and when her glance grazed over Michael, she looked back immediately, beaming at him. He nodded to her.

  Now came the gentry, Elizabeth at their head, retreating down the narrow central aisle in a single line.

  Foreboding touched him. She did not so much as glance in his direction.

  • • •

  Liza stepped out of the church, blinking in the noonday sun. People streamed past her, dressed in their Sunday finest, laughing and chattering. The christening concluded, the celebrations would continue now at the Browards’. But Liza did not fall into step toward the road. She had an appointment with Michael . . . though her mood had rather turned. She feared he would not find her good company.

  Discreetly wiping her eyes, she took a breath and made herself face the place that had occupied her thoughts during the baptism.

  The graveyard lay a short walk down the gravel path. It had stormed the day they’d buried her mother there. Amid the gloom and the gale, with rain beating into her face like needles of ice, Liza had felt the wrongness of it so sharply that she had wanted to scream.

  But from this vantage, the graveyard looked shockingly peaceful, even cheerful—the grass thick and green, the headstones awash in roses.

  She could no more approach it than she could the moon.

  Passersby threw her smiles, curious glances, nods. She was accustomed to such interest, though the variety here felt more benign than in London. Nevertheless, and not for the first time, she wished the fashion were for veils. Everywhere she went, people stared and whispered. She was tired of always smiling for them.

  She lifted her face to the sky, making the pretty array of clouds an excuse for her sudden detention.

  A hand closed on her elbow. She ripped free and spun around, appalled even as she did so by the gracelessness of her response.

  Michael stepped back from her, palms up and out, the ancient gesture to show no harm was intended. “Forgive me,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  She had the most appalling impulse to seize his hand—fall into his arms—put her face into his shoulder to block out the sight beyond him. As though that would solve anything.

  Instead, stupidly, she said, “You came.”

  He frowned—rightly so. They had seen each other inside. “Of course. Did you imagine I would miss it?” He laughed softly. “God, what would that have taken? Some natural disaster, I promise you.”

  Yes, of course. No man would have turned down the harlot’s invitation she’d extended yesterday.

  No. That was not right; her ill temper was unfair. She had wanted this meeting as much as he had. Only, after the ceremony . . . now it seemed somehow wrong.

  Without love, it is wrong.

  Her mother’s voice echoed so much more loudly here, so close to where they had put her into the ground.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  She pulled up a smile, lest he think her a lunatic for this strange mood. “I’m quite well,” she said. “And you?” And to herself, she said, Then it will be wrong. So be it. For love could not enter this equation. For her own sake, there would be no love between them. But she was owed . . . something before she committed herself again to the staid path of the marriage-seeking woman.

  “Oh, I find myself remarkably cheerful,” he said, his tone playfully suggestive. “And may I say, what a very fine choice they made for the child’s godmother.”

  The afternoon light revealed the creases that bracketed his mouth and radiated from the corners of his eyes. They spoke of a man who smiled often and easily, without the grudging hesitation she so often felt, the tired sense of obligation.

  Loneliness leached through her, a cold and blue feeling like twilight. She would look for such lines on the faces of her eligible bachelors tomorrow. She would want a husband who laughed. “Yes,” she said, “I was quite honored.”

  He hesitated, studying her. When he smiled again, she sensed the effort behind it, his puzzlement at her manner. “I was sitting at the back and couldn’t make out their remarks. What did they name the child?”

  She could do better than this. She took a ragged breath. “Rosemary,” she said thickly. “Rosemary Adele.”

  He took a step toward her, briefly touching her arm. It was a casual, courteous gesture, nothing that would stir onlookers’ suspicious. “Are you certain you’re well?” he asked softly.

  The light was temperamental at present, and a sudden wind tossed the branches of the trees around them. The shadows of these branches danced and slid over the bold, square planes of his face, lending him the illusion of perfect stillness: all else moved, but he did not. He seemed . . . solid in a way that contrasted with the fuss and prettiness of men of her class. She would not find anyone like him.

  She could not bear to think on that. Something had lodged in her throat; she tried to swallow it. “Rosemary was my mother’s name.” Mary Broward had no doubt assumed that it would be a welcome surprise for the godmother. Any normal woman, any decent woman, would certainly find it so.

  Any decent woman might have visited her mother’s grave by now, too. But Liza had never gone. Like a coward, she dispatched footmen with roses and wreaths.

  “My mother is buried here,” she blurted.

  “Oh.” His expression seemed to soften, the skin around his eyes relaxing visibly. “I’m sorry. How long ago did she pass?”

  “A year, now.” Her throat felt tight. “Long enough, I suppose, to . . . recover.”

  To recover? Sometimes she feared that she had recovered; that this was normalcy. She was alone. Nello was marrying Miss Lister. She, too, would have to marry. And this man before her, whom she meant to take to bed . . . he was a stranger, in truth. He knew nothing of her real life, of the friends she kept, the things she had done . . . He was an honest, bourgeois gentleman, guaranteed to find such truths shocking. Her drunken brawls with Nello; collapsing from too much drink in the middle of a ball . . .

  She felt ancient beside him.

  “One tells oneself that such losses are commonplace,” he said gently. “Inevitable. As though that does not make them all the more terrible.”

  Her indrawn breath stabbed like a knife in her throat. She absolutely would not weep. She would not think on it at all. This was not a conversation to be held in public.

  “You—” Her voice was clogged. She cleared her throat and curled her fingernails into her palms. “Forgive me. It was ill bred to speak of these things on such a day. I am very happy—”

  “No one will blame you if you don’t go to the Browards’,” he murmured. Such compassion in his face now; it hurt to look on him. “And as for our meeting . . . well. There will always be another day.”

  No, there wouldn’t. He had no idea that her opportunities to go where she pleased, do as she pleased, were about to narrow. An aging woman on a husband hunt could not behave as a reckless, wealthy widow could.


  But until tomorrow, she was free.

  She called up the most dazzling smile she possessed. Its effect registered, as it always did with men, in the slightly dazed blink he gave, as though to bring her back into focus after suffering a hard knock to his head. “The gamekeeper’s cottage,” she said. “I’ve had it fitted out for us.” She’d left a bottle of brandy there. She could almost taste it; could feel the nerves throughout her body thrilling in anticipation of the giddy indifference it would impart. She would feel better once she’d drunk a little.

  “Perhaps,” she said as she took his arm, “we can skip the Browards’ luncheon together.”

  • • •

  In silence they walked for several long minutes, Michael stealing occasional glances at her profile. She was lost in thought, stepping absently around the stones and dung that dotted the road. Not the most promising prelude to passion. But no matter what transpired—or did not transpire—at their destination, he would not have let her go off alone with such a look on her face.

  It being market day, carts of produce and flocks of sheep choked the road into Bosbrea. Several times they paused on the embankment to allow passage to an overburdened vehicle. Once, as the traffic moved onward, the driver of one pony cart slowed and doffed his hat, revealing a shock of white hair.

  “Mrs. Chudderley.” Mr. Morris looked down on them, unsmiling. His sunken face put Michael in mind of caricatures of Scrooge. Before the sag of his flesh had disguised it, the set of his jaw had no doubt announced his stubbornness. His idiocy, alas, did not announce itself so plainly. “I hope you are well today,” the man went on. “I would be glad to drive you to your destination.”

  Michael laughed beneath his breath. It seemed he had a competitor for Elizabeth’s attentions, for that pony cart did not seat more than two.

  “Thank you,” she said, “I am very well, sir. But Mr. Grey will escort me.”

  A wave of vivid color washed through Morris’s waxy complexion. It occurred to Michael that time might quickly resolve the dilemma posed by this man’s ignorance. That cast to Morris’s skin rarely foretold longevity. “Hmph,” he said, and slapped his reins. The pony trotted off, carrying his buggy rapidly down the road.

  “I don’t believe he likes me,” Michael said.

  A strange little smile flitted over her mouth. “You mustn’t take Mr. Morris’s words to heart.” Her eyes wandered over his shoulder, lingering on some object that did not appear to interest her much. “He is accustomed to being our local hero. With the Browards singing your praises, his vanity must sting.”

  He bit his tongue. But—no. She needed to know this. “It isn’t his vanity that concerns me,” he said. “He is incompetent to practice medicine.” She cast him an appalled glance, which he ignored, pressing onward. “I understand your family sponsored him in his studies. That would have been your grandfather, I assume, for the last half century of medical advancements are unknown to the man. He must kill as many as he saves—if he’s lucky.”

  “That’s not true.” She sounded strangely shaken. “Perhaps you were right to argue against his method for childbirth, but otherwise he is an excellent doctor. I have that on authority from Her Majesty’s own physicians.”

  This ludicrous news made a laugh catch in his throat. “Is that so? I can’t imagine where Morris found the money to purchase such a verdict.”

  She hissed out a breath. “What effrontery! Mr. Morris has been my family’s doctor since before my birth!”

  So it was like that, was it? The family’s pet would be protected, and be damned to those he slaughtered. “The man is a butcher. To suggest otherwise is to place your allegiance above the welfare of every person in this district.”

  Her palm cracked across his face.

  Such was his amazement that he took a step back. She glared at him, her mouth twisting—and then spun on her heel and stalked away. Ahead lay the hedgerow that opened onto the path to the lake. She slipped through it and out of sight.

  His hand rose to his cheek. By God, she had a wallop in her palm! Or perhaps he underestimated women’s strength. To his recollection, none had ever struck him before—though he had certainly done far more to deserve it.

  “God damn it.” No one hit him. Not even a woman. He turned on his heel—then came to a hard stop, staring blindly down the road.

  Christ! He had no idea what ailed her. But the sting in his cheek left no doubt that she was badly distraught.

  Friendship was not all he wanted. But he had agreed to be her friend. And friends did not abandon each other in times of need, no matter the provocation.

  On a deep breath, he pivoted and started after her.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The old gamekeeper’s cottage was clean and well swept, and freshly stocked with water and victuals. Cradling the brandy bottle, Liza took a seat on the single chair at the window, a relic of Mr. Pagett’s tenancy. He had liked to sit here and gaze out at the lake. To watch out for her, he’d joked. He had not been of much use to her parents, who rarely hunted. Instead, Mr. Pagett had served as a sort of forest spirit, a kindly creature ever ready to entertain a curious young girl who often visited his cottage, thirsty for lemonade, after a long morning spent wandering the woods.

  He had been gone for years now. The room held nothing of him.

  Like so many ghosts, people passed through life. And the memory of them faded so quickly. But she remembered Mr. Pagett, even if no one else did.

  A footstep came at the door. She looked up to behold Michael, crouched awkwardly in a doorway built to accommodate a shorter generation of men.

  “You should not have followed me,” she said, but even as she spoke, she realized how relieved she was not to be alone. And that realization brought its own grief. How lonely she was, to be grateful for the company of someone with whom she’d just behaved abominably.

  He hesitated. “May I enter?”

  She nodded, watching as he ducked under the door frame. He moved with an easy strength—too masculine to be graceful, but pleasing all the same. Competence, she thought. That was what marked his every gesture.

  She could not bear to think that he had spoken truly about Mr. Morris.

  He looked around the space. She did, too. This place had always been called a cottage, but in truth it was a single room, the enlargement of which Mr. Pagett had always resisted. I like simple things, he had grumbled. A bed, a stove, and a desk, that’s all a man rightfully needs.

  When Michael’s attention returned to hers, she saw the faint redness on his cheek where she had struck him. In her lap, her hand curled into a damp ball, a fist so tight that her knuckles ached. Until now, she had only hit Nello—a single time, when he had tried to shove and pull her out of a party at which she’d wished to stay. They’d been quarreling. She’d been drunk. She had no such excuses now.

  The brandy bottle felt very heavy, suddenly.

  She set it carefully at her feet. Perhaps the ugliness with Nello had irreparably altered her. Filled her with poison. Would she spread it now into the rest of her life?

  Straightening, she took a deep breath. “I’m sorry for slapping you. It was quite wrong of me.”

  He studied her a moment. “You were distressed, I think.”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me why, and we’ll consider it forgotten.”

  It startled her that he would demand so little before accepting her apology. She supposed she’d known once that all men were not like Nello, sensitive and prone to grudges. But she’d forgotten, somehow.

  Still, she did not deserve such easy forgiveness. She did not want to be the sort of woman from whom such behavior was expected or even imaginable. “It was quite wrong,” she repeated. “But Mr. Morris—” She swallowed. “Mr. Morris tended my mother when she was ill. And I can’t bear to think . . .”

  Curious, how hard it was to share a simple truth; to trust that it did not somehow diminish her to admit her private fears. But he deserved honesty. She had str
uck him, yet he had followed her to make sure she was all right. “I can’t bear to think that another doctor might have saved her,” she said in a rush.

  His face grew somber. “Oh,” he said. “That is . . .” With a heavy sigh, he scrubbed his hand over his face, into his dark hair. It stuck up wildly, this way and that; a raffish effect, that became him greatly. “That is quite another matter, then. It is I who must apologize. Most humbly. I was . . . wrong to bring up the issue like that.”

  “You needn’t apologize.” As he glanced toward the door as if rethinking his presence, she added quickly, “It’s all right, really. Please, do sit down.”

  He looked around, and as the faintest twitch of humor crossed his face, she realized there really was nowhere for him to sit but the bed.

  “It’s clean,” she said. How stilted she sounded! How formal! “The sheets—sometimes I hire a gamekeeper temporarily, in case the guests wish to hunt. And I told the staff—well, that they should be changed this morning.”

  Her face warmed as she said it. After what had just transpired, she felt very awkward alluding to their original intentions for this meeting.

  She had ruined everything. She had a talent for it, she feared.

  He sat down on the narrow pallet. Propping his elbows on knees, lacing his hands loosely between them, he looked at her. “How did your mother die?”

  She physically recoiled. “No.” She did not want to do this. That was not why she had told him of it. “That’s a cruel question!” For what if the answer revealed that someone else—that someone like him—could have saved Mama? She would not be able to bear it.

  “You needn’t answer me,” he said gently. “But perhaps I could put an end to your fear.”

  Fear? She took a shaking breath, for suddenly she recognized he was right, and not just about Mama. Fears seemed to hem her in on all sides these days. Maybe they were all of a piece—her cowardice now, and the other one that kept her from visiting her mother’s grave, and the fear that kept her with Nello so long—months, really—after she’d first glimpsed the ugliness in him.