Summer of Scandal EPB

by James, Syrie

  Hmm. Here was a side to Lord Saunders that Madeleine had never imagined. And, she thought begrudgingly, it spoke well of him. “That was kind and generous of him. He must think very highly of you.”

  “That is what Mama said. The last time I was here, two years ago, Mama was so bold as to ask his intentions. She went up to him and said, ‘Charles, what are your plans for the future? Do you intend to marry my daughter?’”

  Madeleine gasped. It sounded like something her own mother would do. “What did he say?”

  “Mama said he went red in the face and told her that he greatly esteemed me, and did indeed have intentions in that direction, but he was not yet ready to settle down.”

  “Well! That sounds as close to a promise as I’ve ever heard.” Madeleine remembered what Lord Saunders had told her the night before: I want to do my duty. Rake that he was, he might have dozens of affairs with other women before he got around to doing that duty, but hopefully he would eventually make good on his intentions to settle down. Madeleine gave Lady Sophie a smile. “I suppose you must just be patient.”

  “I know. I am trying. But yesterday, he did not seem particularly happy to find me here.” Lady Sophie sighed. “Oh, Miss Atherton! Sometimes I feel as though I am caught in the middle of the sea, forever treading water. My life will not begin until Charles and I are wed.”

  “That is not true.” Madeleine shook her head as they walked, the sand soft beneath her feet.

  “A single woman of twenty-two has no real status,” Lady Sophie countered, “and so little to do.”

  “Surely you have interests and pursuits that you enjoy?”

  Lady Sophie nodded. “I do. Every morning, I play the piano for an hour before breakfast. If the weather is fine I take a long walk or I ride. Every day, I write letters to my mother or my friends back home. After lunch I take a nap. Late afternoons and evenings I devote to needlework, or play cards. Sometimes I read.” She looked at Madeleine. “I suppose that sounds rather dull to you, being a college graduate.”

  “Not at all. I enjoy all those things, too—except for needlework,” Madeleine admitted with a laugh. “Although I admire the finished product, I don’t have the patience or the attention span to stitch anything decorative myself. But! I love nothing better than a good gallop on a fine horse, and a long walk in a beautiful spot like this is paradise to me.” She lifted her face to the warmth of the sun, delighting in the sounds of the crashing waves and squawking gulls.

  Lady Sophie linked one arm through Madeleine’s affectionately. “Someday, when we are both married, you and Lord Oakley must come to visit us, and we can walk here together every day.”

  An image presented itself to Madeleine’s mind: Lady Sophie strolling arm-in-arm with Lord Saunders, and herself similarly positioned with Lord Oakley. For some reason, the idea brought a twinge of discomfort. “I would like that, Lady Sophie,” Madeleine said with a determined smile, as they turned and headed back toward the path leading up to the bluffs.

  Lord Saunders was absent for lunch. Following the meal, while Lady Sophie went upstairs to nap, Madeleine returned to her own room, thinking it would be the ideal time to write.

  Removing her manuscript from the tapestry bag, she grabbed a handful of blank paper from the stash she’d brought and sat down at the escritoire, excited at the prospect of working on her book again. But as she picked up a pen and prepared to dip it into the inkwell, she discovered that her mind was a blank. So much time had passed since she’d last written, she couldn’t remember what had been happening in her story at the point she’d left off.

  She read through a portion of her outline and the last chapter of her manuscript, trying to recapture its essence and flow. But she felt no connection to it. It wasn’t the first time this had happened. She knew what she needed to do—a solution that always worked when there had been too long a gap between writing sessions. She needed to find a quiet place, free of distraction, where she could think, dream, and plan. And take notes. Lots and lots of notes.

  Her gaze drifted to the window, where the blue sky and green gardens beckoned. It was too beautiful a day to spend inside, in any case. What better place to dream and take notes, than in the garden?

  By the basin and ewer, Madeleine found a wicker basket filled with soaps, lotions, and small towels. She emptied it and replaced its contents with a book, several pencils, and a stack of writing paper. Then she pinned on her hat and ventured out into the gardens, where she wandered for a while, looking for a good spot to work. In time, she found it: a stone bench on the edge of a wooded area in the shade of a giant tree, overlooking a stone fountain.

  The fountain was large, a good twenty feet across, embellished by stone dolphins and a statue of Neptune spouting water from its center.

  Madeleine sat on the bench, balanced a fresh piece of paper on a book on her lap, and took out a pencil. The rustle of the breeze in the nearby trees and the sounds of the splashing fountain were a soothing backdrop as she focused on her novel-in-progress. It was slow going at first, but the ideas soon began to come so fast and furiously that she could barely keep up. Her pencil flew, filling page after page with thoughts, notes, imagined scenes, and dialogue, until her pencil grew dull and she had to replace it with another.

  She’d worn down the second pencil, and was reaching into the basket to retrieve yet another, when a sudden gust of wind blew up, flinging her stack of papers up into the air.

  “No!” Madeleine leapt to her feet, watching in distress as all her notes danced and whirled on the breeze, and then plunged into the fountain. “No!” she cried again.

  Bending over the edge of the fountain, Madeleine tried to grab one of the pages, but they were all too far away. She was tempted to take off her shoes and wade into the fountain, but realized that was impossible. The water looked to be at least four feet deep. She’d get soaked completely and ruin her clothes.

  A voice broke the stillness. “Miss Atherton!”

  She turned to find Lord Saunders appearing from around a bend, carrying his folded coat as he busily rolled down his shirt-sleeves. He hurried forth, surprised to see her, taking in the dozens of pages floating in the fountain. “What on earth? Has it been raining paper?”

  “It has,” Madeleine replied with a sigh, “and strangely only in this small hemisphere.”

  “What are they?”

  “My notes.”

  “Notes? For what?”

  “Something I’m . . . planning,” she said, unwilling to go into more detail.

  “That is a lot of notes. What are you planning? Your schedule of appointments for the next five years?”

  Madeleine felt a smile tugging at her lips. “I couldn’t plan that far ahead if I tried.”

  “Your itinerary for a trip around the world?”

  Now she laughed. “Sorry, nothing quite so exciting or glamorous.”

  He looked at her. “I take it these notes are important to you?”

  “Yes. I’ve been working on them for hours.”

  “Did you write in ink?”

  “Pencil.”

  “Then they might be salvageable.” Setting his coat on the bench, he glanced around, as if seeking inspiration. His gaze landed on the basket she’d brought. “Empty that basket for me, will you?” He picked up a stone about the size of a baseball and handed it to her. “You might use this to weigh down the rest of those pages. I will be back in a moment.”

  “What do you mean to do?” she asked.

  “I mean to construct a device,” he answered, “to rescue drowning notes which have floated out of reach.”

  Chapter Six

  From the nearby woods, Charles secured a long, slender branch from which he snapped off extraneous twigs and leaves. After removing one of his shoelaces, he used it to snugly tie the handle of the basket Miss Atherton had brought to the far end of the branch.

  She watched with apparent fascination as Charles extended his newly fashioned apparatus over the surface of the water
in the fountain and then, with careful aim, scooped up one of the half-drowned notes.

  “How clever,” Miss Atherton said.

  “One down. Twenty or thirty to go,” Saunders replied.

  “Thank you for doing this.”

  “I am glad to be of service.”

  They said nothing more for some minutes as Charles dipped the makeshift scoop in and out of the water, rescuing the pages. He had no idea what the notes were about, but they mattered to her and were therefore worthy of retrieval.

  His focus, as he worked, kept shifting from his activity to Miss Atherton herself. Was it chance or fate that had brought them both to this spot at the exact same moment? From his first glimpse of her, leaning over the edge of the fountain, the raspberry hue of her gown reflected in the sparkling water like some exotic flower, he’d felt another frisson of attraction. He felt it still.

  She was entrancing. He reminded himself yet again that he had no business being entranced. She was the opposite of what his parents wanted for him, the opposite of what he wanted for himself. She was very nearly promised to a friend of his. And more importantly, Charles had given his promise to his father that he would ask Sophie to marry him before the summer was over. What choice did he have? After a lifetime of trying and failing to please his father, this was the one thing Charles could do to make him happy, and he must do it before it was too late. Before the old man died.

  Which meant he had only a few short months in which to immerse himself in his work and try to make some real progress, unencumbered by the expectations and demands of a fiancée or wife.

  As he retrieved the notes from the fountain, he glanced again at Miss Atherton, who was trailing her hand in the water. Although she was off limits in any romantic sense, that didn’t mean he couldn’t befriend her. She had never been far from his mind since the previous afternoon, when he had brought her home from the train station.

  The accusation she had thrown at him in the carriage haunted him.

  How could you betray your best friend?

  Despite her apology the evening before, Charles sensed that Miss Atherton still thought less of him due to that episode. He had never expected to have an opportunity to discuss it with her again. Yet here they were, alone together. She seemed to be a modern woman, who wouldn’t be squeamish about such things. It was the perfect moment to set the record straight.

  Charles cleared his throat. “Miss Atherton. I am pleased that I ran into you.”

  “As am I. I so appreciate your help with this.”

  “Yes, well. Apart from the satisfaction I derive from demonstrating my paper-rescuing skills . . . in fact, I have been hoping for an opportunity to speak to you.”

  “Have you?”

  “I have been thinking about our conversation yesterday in the coach. A topic was brought up. Do you recall it?”

  Miss Atherton sat down on the rim of the fountain and looked at him. “We discussed a great many things.”

  “We did. But it troubles me to think that your opinion of me has been tainted by a . . . particular matter.”

  From her expression, he deduced that she had guessed what this was about. “Do you really care so much about my opinion, my lord?”

  “I do. You asked me how I could have ever stooped so low as to betray my best friend.”

  She flushed slightly. “I don’t believe I used those precise words—”

  “The implication was there. Perhaps aptly so. But I cannot help but wonder if you have heard the whole story. I wish to rectify that, if I may.”

  “All right. I’m listening.”

  “I am not sure what Longford or the countess may have told you on the subject?”

  “It only came up once, to be honest. Thomas refused to talk about it, except to say that he’d forgiven you. My sister wouldn’t say much, either. But I got the gist of it. Alexandra said that Miss Townsend, although affianced to Thomas, apparently set her sights higher. She was determined to be a marchioness. So she . . . she . . .” Her cheeks grew almost as pink as her dress, and she seemed reluctant to say more.

  “Forgive me. Perhaps I should not have brought up the subject. I realize it is a delicate one.”

  “No,” she said, recovering her composure. “It is I who originally asked the question. I’d really like to hear what you have to say.” With more confidence, she went on, “I am aware of the facts, Lord Saunders. About what happened between you and Miss Townsend during a party at the manor house. But that is no excuse. You could, and should, have refused her advances.”

  “You are absolutely right. I should have. I know what I did was wrong. Admittedly, alcohol had compromised my judgment that evening, but I fully shoulder the blame and do not wish to make excuses for myself.” He scooped more notes from the fountain, then turned to her. “It is what happened afterward that I wish to explain.”

  “Afterward?”

  “After . . . what happened, I felt my obligation to Miss Townsend overruled any loyalty I had to Thomas. That is why I offered to marry her.”

  “So you’re saying you sailed to America with her, basically, to protect her reputation?”

  “Yes. To make the situation more . . . palatable, I suppose, I convinced myself that I felt something for her. But it soon became clear to both of us that our regard was unfounded, and we were unsuited. Thankfully, there were no . . . lasting repercussions from our one evening together. Even so, I waited until that had been definitively proven, before breaking things off amicably and returning home.”

  “I see.” Miss Atherton seemed to be processing that. “And what about your cousin?”

  “Do you mean Sophie?”

  She nodded.

  “I had made no promise to Sophie yet, nor have I since.”

  “But you have an understanding, don’t you? She and your parents have hoped, expected you to wed her for many years.”

  He nodded. “True.” Letting go a sigh, he added, “I regret any pain which I may have caused my cousin over that affair. I have beaten myself up over it more times than I can count, Miss Atherton. If I could take it all back, I would.”

  Madeleine fell silent, thinking about what Lord Saunders had told her. It was the first time she’d ever held such a frank discussion with a man, on a topic so intimate. On any topic, for that matter. She felt special that he’d chosen to confide in her.

  “Thank you for sharing that, Lord Saunders. It doesn’t forgive everything you did. But it does put a somewhat different light on things.”

  “I am relieved to hear you say so.”

  Madeleine didn’t know why her opinion mattered to him, but was flattered that it did. She felt, now, as though she’d rushed to a judgment about him without knowing all the facts. “I guess I can understand now why Thomas forgave you.”

  Saunders scooped up the last of the notes from the fountain. She was impressed by the device he’d created. It was simple, yet ingenious. As he untied the dripping basket from the branch, she found herself admiring his hands. They were strong, manly hands, dusted with brown hair. An idle thought crossed her mind. What would it feel like to touch those hands, or to have them touch her? She suddenly grew hot under her collar. What am I doing thinking about his hands?

  “Longford refused to speak to me for three years,” he was saying. “It was only at your sister’s insistence that he listened to my side of the story. So you see, I am in your family’s debt.”

  “And I am in your debt, my lord.” She cleared her throat and accepted the basket from him. “Thank you again for rescuing these.”

  “It was my pleasure.” Sitting down on the nearby bench, he began rethreading his shoelace into his shoe. “I hope it was worth it.”

  “Oh, it was.” Madeleine examined a few of the sodden pages. “Thank goodness, they’re still readable.” Even so, it was going to take great effort to dry them all out.

  “What are the notes for, if I may ask?”

  Madeleine considered making something up. She rarely discussed
this with anyone. But after what he’d done for her, and the personal revelation he’d just made, she felt he deserved to know the truth. “If I tell you, will you promise not to say anything to anyone?”

  “You have my solemn vow of secrecy.”

  “They’re for a book I’m writing.” She braced herself for the remark that would surely follow. Why on earth would you, a woman and an heiress, waste your time writing a book? It’s what everyone always said.

  “A book?” He looked at her, astonished. “You are writing a book?”

  “I am. A novel.”

  “Indeed? But that is remarkable.” He finished tying his shoe and stood. Then he slid his arms into his coat and buttoned it up, eyeing her with undisguised amazement. “I have never met anyone who has written a novel. Have you always been fond of writing?”

  “Yes, ever since I was a child.”

  “I wish you much luck with it.”

  “Thank you.” The fact that he hadn’t made a negative comment about her endeavor—in fact, seemed to see it as a positive undertaking—came as a pleasant surprise.

  “What is your book about?”

  Again, Madeleine wanted to evade the question. The story was far too personal, and she dreaded being ridiculed. But he had just bared his soul to her, after all. “It’s about two American women whose father becomes obscenely rich overnight. This thrusts them into a level of social prominence that they must learn to navigate, while still trying to stay true to themselves.” Saying it aloud, Madeleine felt embarrassed, and wished she’d kept the information to herself.

  “Interesting. I imagine it would be a very popular book.”

  “Do you?”

  “I think most people imagine that wealth and social prominence guarantees a life of ease. They have no conception that these same privileges can be challenges as well. To some, rather than bringing one happiness, they can be a burden.” His observation seemed to be deeply felt, a subject about which he held a keen and personal connection.