Summer of Scandal

by Syrie James

  “Thank you for coming so quickly.”

  “I instructed the nurse in the specifics of your father’s care,” Hancock replied. “I will return tomorrow.”

  After the doctor left, Charles returned to the saloon and sat down. The women were embroiled in a discussion about the marquess, expressing their shared concerns for his welfare. His mother kept questioning what might have caused his father’s illness. Miss Atherton suggested remedies that she had heard of being successful in similar cases.

  Charles found himself tuning them all out. What was the point of all this endless debate? His father was ill. Hancock was in charge. Only time would tell if Father would recover or not. In the meantime, it was best to think about something else. Take one’s mind off the worry.

  Unfortunately, the something else that came to mind was that awful scene at tea.

  Charles had thought today would be the perfect time to deliver the hairpins he had made. They were just a side project, a lark, something to give pleasure to the ladies in his life. The making of them had given him pleasure, as well. He’d had the excuse that he had just been to London, figured he could pass them off as purchased there.

  No such luck. He had been obliged to lie, bald-faced, to his father. Again. So had his mother and sisters. They knew, of course. And knew better than to let on. This time, though, Father hadn’t seemed to believe it.

  Sophie knew about his “tinkering” when they were children. But she was so close to his father, and so practical and principled, Charles hadn’t dared to confide in her about his latest activities. He had let her believe he’d given it all up years ago. She hadn’t seemed to catch on earlier. He wasn’t so sure about Miss Atherton, though, and wondered what she had read into the whole thing.

  Miss Atherton.

  He closed his eyes, recalling the moment he had come upon Miss Atherton that afternoon, by the fountain. The distress on her face had caught at his heart. He was pleased that he had been able to assist with her dilemma, and glad he’d had a chance to tell her the facts about Miss Townsend. She seemed to have rethought her opinion of him, which felt like a good thing. Their walk and talk as they returned to the house had been one of the highlights of his day.

  It intrigued him to discover that she was fond of writing. His own projects took a certain amount of imagination and industry, but he couldn’t begin to envision undertaking a task as complex as writing a novel. It proved she had both a creative mind and a drive to achieve, traits which he found appealing.

  His gaze took her in where she sat a few yards away, chatting away with his mother. A beam of late afternoon sunshine filtered through the window, burnishing the highlights in her hair an even deeper shade of red. Her eyes were a lovely indigo blue, he noticed, like the sky on the verge between dusk and dark. And her skin—

  Don’t think about her skin.

  The woman was all but engaged to Oakley, he reminded himself. Charles had already made the mistake of getting involved with the fiancée of a friend, an episode he would forever regret, and vowed he would never repeat. Not to mention his own obligations. With a dash of guilt, he glanced at Sophie, and caught her looking at him. She quickly refocused her attention on her needlework.

  Best to stop thinking about Miss Atherton. Best to stay away from her entirely.

  In truth, there was no point in sticking around here the next few days. The old man was upstairs, sedated. There was nothing Charles could do for him.

  Work was waiting for him just a few miles away. Work he was itching to get back to.

  The next morning, just as Madeleine was preparing to come downstairs, there came a discreet knock on her bedroom door. It was Woodson returning all her notes, which were now dry and looked to be freshly pressed. To her relief, her pencil scribblings were perfectly legible.

  “Thank you so much, Woodson. I am in your debt.”

  “Think nothing of it, miss.”

  She asked after Lord Trevelyan’s health.

  “Thankfully he did not suffer any more seizures last night,” Woodson told her, “but otherwise he appears to be much the same. He is keeping to his rooms today.”

  Lord Saunders didn’t appear at breakfast. When Madeleine asked where he was, Lady Trevelyan replied indifferently, “I believe he has gone to Truro.”

  “Truro?” Madeleine repeated, as she buttered her toast. “Where is that?”

  “It is a town some miles south of us.”

  “What does Charles do in Truro?” Lady Sophie asked as she cut into her kippered herring.

  “His friend Leonard lives there,” Her Ladyship responded. “He often visits Leonard for days at a time. What they do, I can only suppose. Drink? Ride? Play at billiards and cards? The kinds of things men do.”

  “Well,” Lady Sophie commented with a smile, “he is a man. And men do require such outlets.”

  Madeleine studied the ladies seated across from her. Lady Sophie didn’t appear to suspect that anything unusual was going on with Lord Saunders. Madeleine had the distinct impression, however, that Lady Trevelyan did, and was lying. This Truro story seemed to be a cover-up for wherever Lord Saunders had gone, and whatever he was really doing.

  Madeleine had a suspicion what that might be. Useless tinkering, Lord Trevelyan had called it.

  She would bet good money that Saunders had made those copper hairpins with his own hands. He was certainly clever enough. She couldn’t forget how quickly he’d created a device to rescue her notes from the fountain. Her attention was drawn to the copper bracelet Lady Sophie was wearing, a gift she said he’d given her many years ago. Had Saunders made that, too? Was he a jewelry artisan?

  How could I? You destroyed my workshop years ago.

  The statement Saunders had made proved that, at one time, he did have a workshop and did make such things. He must have another workshop now, Madeleine decided. A secret workshop. But where? For obvious reasons, it couldn’t be in the house.

  She recalled his sudden appearance the day before at the fountain. She now realized what had seemed out of place about that moment. Saunders’s coat had been folded over his arm, and he’d been in the act of rolling down his shirt-sleeves. He’d said he’d come from the stables, that he’d been visiting a tenant. But if that were true, would he have been so casually dressed? She doubted it.

  They had walked straight from the fountain to the house for tea, where he had presented the hairpins as gifts. They’d been stowed in his coat pockets, ready to deliver. If he’d bought the hairpins in London, why would he have taken them on an errand to visit a tenant? No, Madeleine decided. He must have been returning from his workshop at the time.

  She was curious about where said workshop was. Lady Trevelyan had mentioned a town called Truro. But if Truro was miles away, it seemed unlikely that he would have had time to ride there and back again and return in time for tea. Something told her that if he had a workshop, it was closer than that, perhaps somewhere on the property.

  That afternoon, while Lady Sophie took her customary nap, Madeleine headed outside to investigate. She began by returning to the fountain and heading off in the direction from which he’d come. This, however, only led to the stables.

  There was nothing suspicious about the stables. All the rooms were used for the care and maintenance of horses.

  Madeleine struck out on a long walk around the estate, visiting parts she hadn’t yet seen. It was a large property with many outbuildings, ancient barns, and sheds. To her disappointment, although she explored every structure she came upon, everything was either in use for some legitimate purpose or abandoned. On the outer rim of the estate she found a quaint, cozy-looking redbrick house and wondered if it might be the place she sought. But when she peered in the unshuttered windows, she saw the place was empty and uninhabited.

  After three hours at her quest, with no sign whatsoever of an artisan’s workshop, Madeleine gave up in defeat. On her way back to the house, though, she passed the stables again, and had an idea.


  One of the grooms was brushing down a handsome stallion. Stopping to affectionately stroke the beast’s velvety nose, Madeleine said hello to the stable boy, who tipped his hat in response. “Can you show me which horse belongs to Lord Saunders?” she asked.

  “His horse not be here, miss,” the lad replied.

  “Oh? Where is it?”

  “Lord Saunders rode off early this morning, miss.”

  “Do you know where he went?”

  “Dunno, miss. I ’spect he went off to Truro, like always.”

  Truro, again. Madeleine thanked him and returned to the house, mulling over what she’d learned. If Saunders had a workshop, she was pretty sure it wasn’t on the Trevelyan estate. He’d ridden off that morning. Maybe, Madeleine thought, she was just imagining things. Maybe he really had gone to Truro to see a friend.

  Or maybe his workshop was in Truro. In which case, she was never going to find it.

  Madeleine rose early the next morning, took out her manuscript, and sat down at her desk to write, grateful to have her notes in her possession. The thoughts and ideas she’d jotted down proved to be incredibly helpful. Next thing she knew, two hours had sped by and Martin was entering the room, surprised to find her awake.

  Lord Saunders was still away. At breakfast, Woodson gave Madeleine a newly arrived telegram. She tore open the envelope, hoping it was from Alexandra. But it was from her mother.

  TO: MISS MADELEINE ATHERTON

  TREVELYAN MANOR, CORNWALL

  OUTRAGED BY YOUR DEPARTURE. HAVE YOU LOST YOUR SENSES? WRITE TO LORD OAKLEY AT HATFIELD PARK AND ACCEPT HIM. THE DUCHESS CAN FORWARD YOUR LETTER TO HIM IN ITALY. RETURN TO LONDON AT ONCE.

  MOTHER

  Madeleine sighed and shoved the message back into its envelope.

  “Is it bad news?” Lady Sophie asked with concern.

  “It’s exactly what I expected. My mother is upset. She wants me to write and accept Lord Oakley and return to town.”

  “I understand her completely,” Lady Trevelyan commented. “She is your mother. She wishes to see you happily settled.”

  “I don’t know if happiness has anything to do with Mother’s wishes,” Madeleine replied. “But it’s certainly paramount in mine.”

  Would marriage to Lord Oakley make her happy? Could she make him happy? Madeleine still wasn’t sure. Her need to speak to her sister was growing more urgent by the day. But all she could do was wait.

  After breakfast, Madeleine filled out a telegram form in reply to her mother, which Woodson promised to have sent from the local post office.

  TO: MRS. JOSEPHINE ATHERTON

  BROWN’S HOTEL, LONDON

  CORNWALL IS LOVELY. STAYING HERE. WILL GIVE OAKLEY MY ANSWER WHEN HE RETURNS END OF SUMMER.

  MADELEINE

  Having completed this task, Madeleine found herself anxious to get outdoors again. “Lady Sophie, what would you say to a ride this morning?”

  “I should like nothing better,” the young lady admitted.

  They borrowed horses from the Trevelyan stables and rode along the beach. Madeleine had spent summers riding in her youth, and in preparation for their London debuts, her mother had insisted she and her sisters receive additional riding instruction. Lady Sophie was an equally experienced horsewoman. They enjoyed the refreshing sea air, exchanging memories about their youth, how different it had been for Lady Sophie growing up as an only child, taught by a governess, whereas Madeleine and her sisters had gone to school, and only (briefly) had a finishing governess many years later.

  When they returned to the stables and dismounted, Madeleine said, “I really enjoyed that.”

  “So did I.” Lady Sophie brushed back an errant lock of blond hair from her forehead. “Miss Atherton,” she added, as they headed for the house, “I must tell you, even though we have only been acquainted a few days, I feel as if I have known you for years. You have become very dear to me.”

  “I feel the same way, Lady Sophie,” Madeleine admitted with feeling.

  “In the spirit of friendship, then—I hope you will not think this too bold—would you be open to the idea of dispensing with the formality of my lady and addressing each other by our given names?”

  “I would like that.”

  Lady Sophie stopped and, smiling, held out a hand. “Please call me Sophie henceforth.”

  Madeleine took her hand and clasped it. “I will. And you must call me Maddie, as my sisters do.”

  After dinner that evening, after Sophie played the piano, Lady Trevelyan announced that she wished to play cards. In order to make up a foursome, Helen was invited to stay up past her usual bedtime and join them. Anna insisted that she must be among the party as well.

  The small parlor rocked with laughter as Madeleine, Sophie, Helen, and Lady Trevelyan battled it out in a game of Hearts, while Anna sat nearby, looking at pictures on her stereoscope. The jolly gathering reminded Madeleine of similar, delightful evenings she’d spent with her mother and sisters in her youth. Even Helen got caught up in the competitive spirit of the game, at which she so excelled that she maintained the winning score all evening long.

  Madeleine noticed that Lady Trevelyan and Sophie were both wearing the hairpins Lord Saunders had given them. Still wondering about their origin, she decided to fish for a little information.

  After one particularly boisterous hand, Madeleine complimented them on the ornaments, and said, “It was sweet of Lord Saunders to present you with such lovely gifts.”

  “He is so thoughtful,” Sophie agreed.

  “I am only sorry that His Lordship disapproves,” Madeleine observed.

  Lady Trevelyan paused and glanced at her, as if carefully considering her reply. At length, she said discreetly, “Lord Trevelyan has high expectations for Charles, and he expects things to be done his way.”

  Madeleine decided to try a more direct approach. “I got the impression the other day,” she said conversationally, as she shuffled the cards, “that Lord Saunders used to make things like those hairpins when he was younger.”

  Helen darted her mother a look, then lowered her eyes. Anna glanced up from her stereoscope, but said nothing.

  “Charles has always been a clever boy,” Lady Trevelyan answered. “He used to make all sorts of things.”

  “He fixed things, as well,” Sophie remarked. “I remember once, when I was a girl, he repaired his own pocket watch.”

  “Of course, being a grown man and an earl,” Lady Trevelyan pointed out quickly, “he can no longer indulge in such activities.”

  “Of course,” Madeleine said, believing nothing of the kind.

  “He does love to browse through street fairs and antique shops, though.” Lady Trevelyan touched the pin which ornamented her upswept hair, then gestured to a nearby chiffonier, upon which rested a small metal sculpture of a tree. “He got that for me for Christmas a few years ago.”

  Madeleine had spotted the sculpture upon entering the room, and thought it beautiful. Now, knowing that it had been a gift—or perhaps more than a gift—from Lord Saunders, her curiosity was piqued. “May I take a look?”

  “By all means.”

  Madeleine rose and crossed to the sideboard. The tree sculpture stood about eight inches high. Made of copper wire, it was both elegant and delicate, with branches that appeared to be moving in the wind, and tiny seashells and gemstones in the place of leaves. “What a lovely work of art,” Madeleine enthused.

  “It is not half as nice as my clockwork raven,” Anna commented.

  “Clockwork raven?” Madeleine was intrigued.

  Anna nodded vigorously. “Charles . . . gave it to me on my tenth birthday.”

  “He gave me a clockwork giraffe,” Helen announced proudly.

  “May we show them to her, Mother?” Anna asked, hope in her eyes.

  “I am certain Miss Atherton has no interest in your toys,” Lady Trevelyan objected.

  “I am most interested, I assure you,” Madeleine insisted. “I have never seen a clock
work raven or giraffe.”

  Lady Trevelyan hesitated. “Well then. Go on, girls.”

  Helen and Anna raced out of the room. Several minutes later, they breathlessly returned, each carrying a small sculpture about the size of her hand. The girls allowed Madeleine to hold and study their treasures in turn.

  “My giraffe is called Frederick,” Helen explained.

  “Mine is just Raven,” Anna stated happily.

  “What fine names.” Madeleine had been impressed by the hairpins and the sculpture of the tree, but these were even more intricate works of art. They had been fashioned from tiny pieces of metal of different sizes, shapes, and colors, as well as what looked like the parts of a watch or clock. Anna’s raven had tiny wheels for feet and wing and tail feathers created from fragments of old metal rulers. Helen’s giraffe was particularly clever, with articulating legs and neck.

  “See how it moves?” Helen demonstrated the giraffe’s working parts. “You can bend its head so it looks like it’s drinking from a stream.”

  “Raven and Frederick are truly marvelous,” Madeleine exclaimed. To think that Lord Saunders might have made these! And yet, if that were true, how sad it was that his family couldn’t openly admit to his accomplishments. “How lucky you are to have such a thoughtful and generous brother.”

  And such a clever brother.

  But Madeleine didn’t say that aloud.

  Chapter Eight

  The following afternoon, Lady Trevelyan took Sophie to a dressmaker in the village to be measured for a new gown, and Madeleine walked out again on her own.

  It was a cloudy day, but the sun peeked out at intervals. Madeleine was in a sunny mood herself. By her mother’s decree, she must have fancy dresses, and this was one of her favorites: a pale yellow cotton lawn creation featuring numerous tucks and lace embellishments and a full twelve inches of pleated hem. Her shoes had been dyed to match, and her hat was fashionably small, adorned with ribbons and silk daisies.

  Madeleine struck out from the house with anticipation, intending to keep to the gravel paths in the garden and revisit some of the favorite places she’d encountered on her earlier walks. But the cries of the seagulls and the salt tang in the air beckoned, and she soon found herself at the point where the property met the cliff overlooking the coastline.