Caught in a Cornish Scandal

by Eleanor Webster

  ‘Noah must sleep with me. We cannot be apart,’ Frances said in an anxious rush of words, her hands wrapped about the infant as though fearing someone might physically remove him from her.

  ‘Of course, Lil is just behind us with his bassinet. We are happy to change anything you need to accommodate you.’

  ‘Thank you. And—and you will not allow visitors?’ Frances asked.

  ‘We do not get many visitors,’ Millie said. ‘And we will ensure you are not disturbed.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Frances repeated.

  They entered the bedchamber, and Millie was glad to see that Flora had already lit the fire so that, although bereft of paintings or rugs, the room was not without welcome. The curtains were a pretty blue, matching the bedspread, and Flora had also provided hot water and towels, a cot for the nursemaid and even some flowers from the conservatory.

  ‘I hope you will be comfortable,’ Millie said gently.

  Frances stood, cradling Noah, as her gaze scanned the small room. Millie touched the woman’s arm to guide her further into the room and was startled by her instinctive flinch as she jerked away.

  What had her husband done to her that had made her so frail and frightened? Millie had not liked Jason, but largely because he drank and gambled and always encouraged Tom to do likewise. She had not previously realised that he was a cruel man.

  Lil put the bassinet by the bed and then left to show the nursemaid the way. Still cradling Noah, Frances went to the window, pressing her face to the glass.

  ‘You cannot see the sea,’ she said.

  ‘No, we are further from the coast than Manton Hall, though you can get a tiny glimpse from some of our rooms.’

  ‘I do not know if I am sad or relieved.’

  Millie stood beside her. ‘I have always felt that the sea was the most wonderful, beautiful part of my life here, but also cruel and unpredictable. I felt that particularly...’ she paused ‘...during the last few days.’

  ‘It takes so many lives. I think about them. I think about them all the time, you know, the people that do not come home.’

  The image of Jem and the other men flickered before Millie’s eyes. She pushed it away. ‘I am certain that your husband will be found safe.’

  Frances did not appear to hear her, still staring through the pane. ‘Sometimes, I think I can hear them. Crying and asking for help.’

  ‘It is the sound of the wind and waves, Mrs Ludlow,’ Millie said. ‘I have often thought that the wind sounds like a cry. You will hear it less here. It is more sheltered than Manton Hall.’

  ‘Could you call me Frances? Mrs Ludlow sounds like my mother-in-law.’

  ‘Of course, and I am Millie.’

  Just then, Flora and the nursemaid entered and Noah, likely unimpressed by the delay in his feeding, cried again, his face scrunched up with anger and his tiny fists and feet kicking.

  Millie turned to depart—the time for confidences had passed. She paused at the door. ‘Please, let us know if there is anything you need. We eat quite simply as it is just my mother and sister and I, but even so... I am wondering if you would prefer a tray in your bedchamber? I sometimes find too much socialising tiring.’

  A flicker of gratitude flashed across Frances’s face. ‘Yes, I would prefer to eat here.’

  ‘Then we will make it so. I am afraid it will not be anything fancy. To be quite honest, our financial circumstances are not what we would like. Hence the lack of furniture and pictures.’

  Frances smiled, as though finding this confidence reassuring. ‘Truthfully, my entire circumstances are not what I would like.’

  ‘Then we have much in common.’

  * * *

  Sam got into his carriage with a surge of gratitude. The family had their own challenges, but they had offered hospitality instantly and without question. It had been the right choice and Millie had a strength that reassured him. She would not be easily swayed by the senior Mrs Ludlow.

  Speaking of whom, he realised that he had best get to Manton Hall and collect Marta, who had been packing up more of Frances’s belongings. Besides, there might be some news of Jason.

  * * *

  When Sam exited his carriage at Manton Hall, he had a vague and unrealistic wish to enter and depart without the elder Mrs Ludlow being any the wiser. Unfortunately, his plan was scuttled the moment he saw Northrupt, who announced that Mrs Ludlow had left the sanctuary of her bedchamber.

  ‘She asked if you would see her in the parlour, sir, on your return.’

  ‘Of course,’ Sam said, as he could hardly refuse. It would be rude and, more practically, she had attended the dinner prior to Jason’s disappearance and conversing with her might stimulate his memories.

  Before his recent trip to Cornwall, he had met Mrs Ludlow at the wedding and a few times in London. She had been known as having a clever wit and a glamourous sophistication that even middle age had not fully eclipsed. However, with her husband’s death a few years previous, her influence had lessened and she had spent more and more time away from the capital.

  The butler led him into a well-appointed room which seemed too full of items and had a new shininess that was discordant with the house’s older exterior. The paint was fresh. The windows were large, the ceilings high and decorated with rubicund cupids and ornate gold filigree. A fire burned brightly, providing considerable warmth, and Mrs Ludlow sat near it in a comfortable wing chair.

  He remembered her dimly from the dinner two nights previous, but he was struck again at how changed she seemed from the sophisticated woman he remembered from London. Her hair was simply arranged, her clothes circumspect to the point of dullness and her forehead puckered into a frown. Only the rings glittering in the firelight spoke of wealth or glamour.

  She looked up quickly and he wondered if she might be hoping that he was Jason. She must be on tenterhooks, desperate for news.

  However, if disappointed, she covered it well, her expression softening into a smile. ‘Sam, I am pleased to see you. Everything is so incredibly worrying.’

  Sam took her outstretched hand. ‘Northrupt says there is still no news of Jason.’

  ‘No. Do you know anything?’

  He shook his head. She slumped into the seat as though some integral strength had been lost to her.

  ‘I wish I could remember something that would help,’ Sam said, weighing his words with care. ‘I must have drunk too much. I do not remember much of anything from that night.’

  ‘You do not remember the evening?’

  ‘I remember bits about dinner, but nothing later,’ Sam said, sitting in the chair beside her.

  ‘You went to bed early.’

  Except he had not...or he had gone to his room and had then gone out for a seaside stroll during a bloody storm.

  He wondered if he should explain, at least what he knew. It might serve to exonerate Frances. Except, any mention of smuggling or his rescue would then implicate Millie, damaging not only her reputation but possibly jeopardising her physical safety.

  ‘And did you hear that Sir Anthony is questioning dear Frances? Have you spoken to him? Are you able to bring Frances and Noah home?’

  ‘No,’ he said. He knew the one word was inadequate and that he should clarify, but did not know what to say or how to explain Frances’s aversion to coming home.

  ‘They are with Sir Anthony, I presume. He is a dear man. I know he will do his best, but I am still concerned.’ Her anxiety appeared genuine, her eyes glazed with tears.

  ‘You mustn’t worry. They are...’ He hesitated. It seemed unkind to delude her. ‘Quite safe.’

  ‘Sam,’ Mrs Ludlow reached again for his hand. ‘Frances and Noah need to come home. She needs familiar objects and care at such a time. Please help Sir Anthony to understand.’

  Her hand was cold and slightly clammy, and he had to ignore
the instinct to snatch his own hand away.

  ‘I am certain Sir Anthony would understand and doubtless Frances would be more eager to return if you did not suspect her of wrongdoing,’ he said, more sharply than he had intended.

  ‘Is that what she said?’ Mrs Ludlow tightened her grip on him, shaking her head to emphasise her denial. ‘She misunderstands. I know she would not hurt a fly in her right mind. But, well, you must see that Frances is different.’

  ‘Her changes are not sufficient to enable her to emotionally or physically hurt a man twice her size.’

  ‘Not on purpose. And truly I hope you are right. Gracious, do you think I want to suspect my own daughter-in-law of hurting my son? And I know Jason is no angel, but...’

  The words trailed away as she let his hand go, finishing the sentence with a mute shrug.

  ‘What exactly do you suspect?’ he asked.

  She clasped her hands together. ‘I am uncertain. We know they fought. They do quite often. The servants heard them. Jason’s fault, no doubt. He can be...unkind. But Frances has become obsessed with the sea. I think she ran out into the storm and he followed her and...and some dreadful accident occurred. I do not mean that she did anything on purpose, but she knows more than she is admitting.’

  ‘Frances is not obsessed with the sea. We grew up in London, so she likely finds this place desolate, but you make her sound unhinged.’

  Mrs Ludlow stood. He stood also. She turned so that they faced each other. ‘She doesn’t leave the house except to walk down by the ocean. She paces back and forth across the shale. And she takes the child everywhere, even out into the bleakest of weather.’

  He said nothing, going across to the window. He remembered Frances’s jerky movements as she rocked the bassinet and her near desperation at any threat of separation from the infant.

  ‘Women can become out of sorts after the birth of a child. It is likely nothing more than that,’ he said.

  ‘Indeed, Jason has not been the best husband. I know that all too well. I just want Frances to tell us anything that might help us determine what may have happened. I—I fear the worst. I worry for Noah’s safety. I cannot lose both my child and grandchild.’

  ‘Noah is quite safe.’ Sam looked across the bleak grey ocean, pressing his fingers against the sill as though the hard pressure against the wood might help him remember or ground him into some sort of reality. The window opened on to a terrace of red brick. Beyond this, the green lawn stretched towards the grey waters. I hate the sea. He remembered the way she had spoken the words, her eyes and her distracted movements. I hate the sea.

  ‘I am worried for my son,’ Mrs Ludlow said softly. ‘And terrified for my grandchild.’

  ‘Frances adores that child. She would protect him with her life. She would never, ever hurt him or allow anyone to do so.’

  He heard the movement of her gown, the rustle of cloth as she approached the window, standing beside him so they both stared out at the grey day. She smelled of lavender. Lifting her hand, she pressed her finger to the glass so that it covered the shoal beach. Slowly she moved her finger back and forth against the pane, with the slight squeak of flesh against glass.

  ‘I counted once. Frances paced that beach at least one hundred times. One hundred times, back and forth, back and forth. Are you really willing to stake your nephew’s life on her sanity?’

  Her hand dropped to the sill, the gems glinting in the dying daylight.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  * * *

  Sam stood by the fire at Lansdowne. The room was small, ill-furnished and the chimney did not draw properly, making the atmosphere smoky. Yet, he had never in his life felt more thankful to be somewhere. It felt safe. It felt wholesome. It felt, ironically, like a breath of fresh air away from the chill sophistication of Manton Hall. He’d stayed there longer than anticipated. Mrs Ludlow had asked him to dinner and he could not refuse. Besides, he still hoped something might jar his reluctant recollection.

  But his memory remained blank as ever. To do her justice, Mrs Ludlow tried to make the repast as pleasant as possible, given the situation. They dined quietly and, by mutual consent, did not talk about Jason or Frances, instead sharing recollections about opera and theatre productions in London.

  She had, he realised once again, circulated in high circles. Her husband had been many years her senior, apparently doting on her, and for some years she had reigned in political and fashionable circles. It seemed that this power had diminished with her husband’s death, her fading looks and a son who lacked the political acumen of his father.

  Sam did not rush dinner, despite his impatience to return and see Frances was settled, as he knew Mrs Ludlow must find company a welcome break from worry about her son. Indeed, he felt a sympathy for her. She must always be straining to hear the knock which might bring news, her emotions perilously balanced between hope and fear.

  Therefore, it was quite late by the time he and Marta arrived with the remainder of Frances’s belongings. Flora answered the door and stated that Mrs Frances Ludlow, Mrs Lansdowne and Miss Lillian had retired to bed. However, Miss Lansdowne was still up if he wished to speak to her. Her tone did not sound as though she encouraged this option.

  Despite the maid’s sour looks, he’d accepted. He needed to thank Millie for her hospitality and the thought of seeing her held appeal. He trusted Millie. At times, he doubted his own mind, his sister’s sanity and whether Mrs Ludlow was friend or foe, but his trust in Millie remained constant. She was a source of sanity in a world gone mad.

  He stood close to the fire, warming his hands. The mantel was made of sturdy wood, its centre darkened by the smoke accumulated over the centuries. The wallpaper was yellowed, except for a square where a portrait had likely once hung.

  Perhaps it had been of Millie’s father. Mr Lansdowne had been a pleasant enough fellow. Sam had met him several times with Tom during that wild year when he’d thought his heart shattered following his broken engagement with Miss Whistler.

  Mr Lansdowne and Tom had similar personalities. Both had been individuals of impulsivity and extreme moods. Often Mr Lansdowne had been wildly elated about an investment, only to be cast into deep despair following the scheme’s failure.

  ‘Sam? Sorry I took so long. You wanted to see me?’

  Millie’s soft tone startled him and he turned quickly. She stood in the doorway.

  ‘I wanted to thank you,’ he said.

  ‘I am glad I could help.’

  ‘I did not know where else to turn. She doesn’t seem to know anyone locally.’

  ‘She seldom left her house,’ Millie explained, stepping further into the room.

  He sighed. ‘She used to be quite outgoing. She has changed. Very much. Anyway, thank you.’

  ‘Umm—did you want to stay here?’ She looked up, flushing, as if uncharacteristically unsure. ‘I mean to talk. I mean...if you need...to talk?’

  ‘Thank you.’ He was in no hurry to return to Manton.

  She nodded, sitting on the chair and inviting him to sit opposite with a wave of her hand.

  ‘We seem to spend a lot of time sitting around fire,’ he said.

  She smiled. ‘At least we are no longer walking. I do not think my feet will ever recover. Besides it is somewhat warmer here than in that cabin.’

  Her words made him remember the intimacy of the cottage, their shared confidences and kiss. Maybe she thought of it, too. She glanced down, her lashes forming fans against her cheeks. The fire crackled. There was no other sound, not even the ticking of a clock.

  ‘You still do not remember what happened that night? I—I mean, the night of your accident?’ she asked jerkily, the colour in her cheeks deepening.

  ‘No. I’d hoped being at Manton Hall would help, but...nothing.’ He rubbed his temples. He must ask Banks if he’d found out anything to do with his fabricat
ed dawn ride.

  ‘He must have encountered an accident. I am certain that Frances would not have done anything to her husband on purpose. I have only met her briefly but I find that quite impossible.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Her words comforted. It was wonderful to hear someone else, an unbiased source, affirm his sister’s goodness. His conversations with Mrs Ludlow had shaken him more than he cared admit. ‘Mrs Ludlow feels she has become unstable. She even suggested that Fran might hurt the baby.’ He pushed out the last words with effort.

  ‘She wouldn’t,’ Millie said.

  Again, her firm, confident words reassured. There was no wavering, no ‘buts’ or hesitation, just a firm statement of fact.

  ‘That is the most comforting thing I have heard all day.’

  She reached forward, clasping his hand. There was strength to her grip and reassurance. ‘I know Frances would not hurt anyone and certainly not her child.’

  ‘I know it, too.’ He pushed his hand through his hair, rubbing his temples. ‘It is just—she is so much changed and Mrs Ludlow was describing her behaviour and, even to me, she sounded...erratic.’

  The word did not seem entirely sufficient to describe a woman pacing a deserted beach in Cornwall in January.

  ‘I think your sister is vulnerable and not entirely well, but I do not believe she would have the capacity to hurt anyone and certainly not Noah. Why do not you tell the authorities about the smugglers and our experience? Surely it would deflect suspicion from Frances.’

  ‘I’d sooner confess myself. I will not ruin your reputation or put you at physical risk.’

  ‘I do not need your protection.’ She stood, as if to emphasise her point.

  He stood also so that they were facing each other. He saw the stubborn lift of her chin. It reminded him of those moments in the cabin. Indeed, everything in this moment—the soft flickering firelight, the rain outside, the solitude—reminded him of those moments. Her hair was now almost entirely undone. Her lips were parted, softly pink and with a glean of moisture. The neckline of her gown was demure, but even so he could see the swell of her breasts. The lace trimming made a tiny, delicate, intricate shadow against her pale skin. A loose curl had fallen forward.