Born to Scandal

by Diane Gaston

  ‘Are you ready for planting, then?’ Mr Willis said.

  ‘We are, sir,’ Dory replied.

  The gardener handed each of the children a small shovel. He showed them two wooden bowls.

  Pointing to one, he said, ‘These are the radish seeds.’ He put one seed in each of their hands. ‘See? It is brown and it looks a little like a pebble, does it not?’

  ‘It does look like a tiny pebble!’ Dory cried.

  Cal placed his seed between his fingers and examined it up close.

  Mr Willis put his hand out to collect the seeds, replacing them with two other ones. ‘Now these seeds look a little different. Can you tell what they are?’

  Cal looked at his seed and quickly put a smug expression on his face.

  ‘They look like old peas!’ Dory said.

  The gardener stooped down to her level. ‘That is because that is what they are. The peas you eat are really seeds.’

  Soon Mr Willis had them digging troughs in the dirt with their shovels. Next he showed them how to plant the seeds, starting with one row of peas, alternating with one row of radishes.

  Soon they were happily placing the seeds in the trough and carefully covering them with soil. Anna was pleased that Cal participated in the activity with enthusiasm. She gazed at him, so absorbed in his planting and looking for all the world like a normal boy.

  He needed time, she was convinced. Would his father give him time or would he lock him away in an asylum? Who was she to know better what a boy needed than a trained physician?

  But she did know.

  Would Lord Brentmore see his son as she did? Would he trust her to bring the boy out of his bashfulness? She could do it, she knew. She’d done it for Charlotte.

  Charlotte.

  Sometimes she missed Charlotte so much it hurt. She missed talking to her, confiding in her, laughing with her. There was no one here at Brentmore to talk to. Sometimes at night she wanted to weep out of loneliness.

  And yet worse than the loneliness was the worry that Lord Brentmore would discharge her for being so brazen as to tell him and a physician what they should do. What would she do if she lost this lonely job?

  Suddenly a shadow fell over her and a man’s voice broke into her thoughts. ‘Why are my children digging in the dirt?’

  Mr Willis snapped to attention and the children froze.

  Anna turned and faced an enraged Lord Brentmore.

  ‘My lord.’ She made her voice calm, though her legs trembled. ‘We are engaged in a botany lesson. We are planting peas and radishes.’

  The children dropped their seeds and scampered behind her skirts.

  ‘My children will not dig in dirt.’ His voice shook with an anger that mystified her. What was wrong with planting a garden?

  ‘Let me explain,’ she began in a mollifying tone. ‘We would not wish to frighten the children, would we?’

  His eyes flashed.

  She must take care. ‘This is a botany lesson. Your children are learning how plants grow. We’ve read about it in books and now we are going to see how seeds grow into food we can eat.’

  He looked no less displeased.

  Her own temper rose. ‘Your children are engaged in a useful occupation out of doors, in the fresh air, and are wearing old clothes which can be laundered. How is it you object to this, my lord?’

  From behind her she heard Dory gasp. She felt Cal’s grip on her skirt.

  Lord Brentmore’s eyes held hers for a long moment and she half-feared he was going to strike her.

  Still, she refused to look away. It was imperative that the children not feel that enjoying themselves in useful activity was wrong.

  His eyes still glittered, but he took a step back. ‘Carry on your lesson, then.’ He continued to hold her gaze. ‘Attend me when you are done, Miss Hill.’

  Before she could reply, he turned on his heel and strode back into the house.

  None of them moved until he was out of sight.

  ‘Why is Papa angry?’ Dory cried.

  Anna crouched down and gave the little girl a hug. ‘Oh, I think we surprised him, didn’t we? He probably thought Mr Willis and I were making you and Cal work like field labourers!’ She said this as if it were the funniest joke in the world. ‘Come on, let us finish. Mr Willis has the rest of the gardens to tend to.’

  Luckily they had almost completed the task. Only two lines required seeding. The joy that had been palpable a few minutes ago had fled, however. Their father had made it vanish.

  Anna put her hand to her stomach, trying to calm herself. Here she wanted Lord Brentmore to be her ally in helping Cal, and now she had offended him for planting a garden.

  Would she lose her position over a botany lesson, over finding an excuse to take the poor reclusive children out in the fine June air?

  Chapter Four

  As soon as Brent entered the house, Mrs Tippen was waiting for him. He’d already had an earful from her when he arrived just a few minutes before.

  ‘Do you see what I mean, sir?’ the housekeeper said. ‘She gives the children free rein over the house, the garden, everywhere! Allows them to get dirty—’

  This he did not need. Tippen and her husband had come from Eunice’s father’s estate and had been Eunice’s abettors. He’d never liked either of them.

  He leaned down, bringing them face to face. ‘Tend to the house, woman, and keep your nose out of what does not concern you!’

  She gasped and backed away.

  He pushed past her and made his way to the hall where her husband was in attendance. ‘Bring me some brandy!’ he ordered. ‘In the library.’

  The library was about the only room in this house he could stomach. Eunice had possessed little desire to inhabit it, so the only ghost that lingered there was his grandfather’s.

  A footman soon appeared at the door with a bottle of brandy and a glass. Brent did not recognise him, but then he’d come to the house so rarely, he did not know half the servants. Eunice had replaced all his grandfather’s old retainers.

  Brent grabbed the bottle and glass from the man. ‘Bring me another,’ he ordered. ‘Make that two. While I am here I want a bottle of brandy in the cabinet at all times.’

  ‘Yes, m’lord,’ the man said.

  Brent poured himself a glassful and downed it in one gulp. He poured another.

  * * *

  An hour passed and still Miss Hill had not shown herself. Was the chit defying him? She would regret it if she were.

  Brent paced the room, still attempting to calm himself. The sight of his son crouched down on the tilled soil had set him off.

  He closed his eyes as memories washed over him. Digging hole after hole after hole, his stomach rumbling with hunger, his bare feet cold from the damp earth. He could still smell the soil, potatoes and manure. He rubbed his arms, his muscles again aching from the work.

  By God, his son had looked exactly like him.

  He poured another glass of brandy.

  Where the devil was Miss Hill? He needed to have this out with her.

  * * *

  One more hour and two more glasses of brandy later, Miss Hill knocked at the door. ‘My lord?’

  He’d achieved a semblance of calm, but now his head swam from the drink.

  She’d changed from the plain frock she’d worn in the garden to something soft and pink. Wisps of her auburn hair escaped from under a lace cap that framed her face and only made it appear more lovely.

  By God, he did not want to be aroused by her! He was angry at her. What had he been thinking to come to this hated place?

  He shook himself. His son. He’d come for his son.

  ‘Come in, Miss Hill.’ He straightened and hoped he would not sway.

  She approached him, a wary smile on her face. ‘Forgive my delay, sir. We finished the planting and a great deal of cleaning up was required.’

  He narrowed his eyes. ‘Because you allowed the children to wallow in dirt.’

  Her chin
rose. ‘Getting dirty is all a part of planting, my lord.’

  He closed the distance between them, coming so close the scent of her soap filled his nostrils. ‘I know all about planting, Miss Hill.’

  His first ten years of life had taught him.

  She stepped back. ‘Yes, well, perhaps then you can explain to me why planting peas and radishes in the kitchen garden made you so angry.’

  She was questioning him? She needed to answer to him. ‘Heed me, Miss Hill.’ He glared at her. ‘My son, my—children, are to be reared as a gentleman and lady, not as common serfs.’

  She did not back down. ‘It was a botany lesson.’

  He held her gaze. ‘It was demeaning.’

  She looked incredulous. ‘I do not think planting a garden and watching the plants grow could even remotely be demeaning.’

  He slashed his hand through the air. ‘My son does not need to know how to dig holes in order to become a gentleman.’

  She countered, ‘But as marquess some day, does he not need to know what effort goes into the crops his lands produce? What labour? What science? That was the intent of the lesson, my lord.’

  He had no answer for that. He could only think of the back-breaking work of his childhood. ‘He can read that in books.’

  She bowed her head and fell silent, as if thinking how to proceed. He hoped she discovered it, because his brain felt too fuddled for conversation and his emotions too disordered to be trusted.

  She walked over to the window and gazed out. The sun was near its brightest and it illuminated the air around her.

  He swallowed.

  She turned back to him, her arms crossed over her chest—her high, round breasts. ‘We waste our time talking of this. I am so grateful you have come, and so quickly, too. You received my letter?’

  ‘Yes.’ He’d dropped everything to come to his son.

  Her expression was earnest. ‘Believe me, my lord, Lord Calmount is not demented. He is a normal little boy who is very timid and who has been very unhappy. He cannot be placed in an asylum. He cannot!’

  No one would place his son in an asylum, of that Brent was resolved.

  ‘He does not speak.’ How could he, the boy’s father, not know that the boy was mute? He knew the answer to that. He’d not been around long enough to notice. His brief visits had not included conversation.

  ‘That is no reason for an asylum!’ she cried. ‘He is able to speak. He talks to his sister, but only to her. Doctor Stoke thinks this is some sort of insanity, but it is not, my lord. It is most assuredly not.’

  It would be too cruel for the boy to suffer insanity on top of all the other strife he’d endured. From his mother. And his father. ‘You contradict the expertise of the doctor, Miss Hill?’

  ‘I do. I know Calmount can improve in time.’ She leaned closer. ‘I told you that I was Lady Charlotte’s companion. When she was Calmount’s age, she was not terribly unlike him. Charlotte was excessively timid. Starting when I was a child myself, I became her companion to help bring her out of her shell. I am convinced that your son is merely timid, as well. I know he can be helped.’ She spoke earnestly. ‘But not by sending him away!’

  He glanced away. ‘How am I to believe you?’ God knew he wanted to believe her.

  She lifted her chin and her blue eyes glittered with anger. ‘Perhaps if you spent some time with your son, you would see for yourself. It has not helped him that neither of his parents troubled themselves very much about his welfare.’

  His attention snapped back to her. ‘I was compelled to be away.’

  ‘Because of the war?’ She shook her head. ‘The war has been over a year.’

  The truth of that stung. He’d stayed away as much as possible this last year.

  But he refused to be scolded by a mere governess.

  He rose to his fullest height and glared down at her. ‘Do you presume to judge me, Miss Hill?’

  A look of anxiety filled her eyes. She put a hand on her forehead. ‘Forgive me, my lord. I spoke too plainly.’

  He sank into a chair, feeling suddenly weary. ‘Sit, Miss Hill. Tell me about my son.’

  She lowered herself in a chair facing him. ‘I have heard him talking to his sister, so there is no disorder of speech. But he will not speak to anyone else. In fact, Dory will speak for him every chance she gets. He hears well and is alert to everything. He is very clever, actually. He reads. He can write sentences, but he never writes to communicate. Instead, he nods or shakes his head or uses gestures.’

  The poor boy. ‘Why is this?’

  What had happened to him, to cause him not to speak?

  She hesitated. ‘I must speak plainly again.’

  He waved a hand. ‘Proceed.’

  She took a breath. ‘The noise and commotion of children has been unwanted in this household. I am given to understand that your wife insisted the children remain in the nursery wing and later, after her death, the policy was unchanged and might have suited the governess because by then she was in ill health.’ She paused. ‘I do not know if that is precisely true. I only know for certain that...some...some members of the staff dislike having the children out and about.’

  Mrs Tippen, no doubt.

  She continued and her tone was accusatory, ‘I do not believe that is healthy for children. That is why I plan as many activities outside as I can contrive. Like planting a garden.’

  Undoubtedly she blamed him for not countering his wife’s excesses, not realising the governess could no longer do her job, not paying enough attention to how his servants attended to his children’s care and well-being.

  His own conscience battered him for the same reasons.

  ‘What would you have me do?’ he snapped in defensiveness, even though there was no defense for his neglect.

  ‘Do not allow Lord Calmount to be placed in an asylum!’

  He averted his gaze.

  Her voice quieted, but still trembled with emotion. ‘I realise you are considering discharging me, but I beg you not to. Please give me a chance, for your children’s sake. Do not listen to Dr Stoke. Give me a chance—’ She broke off for a moment. ‘Spend a little time with the children, at least? See for yourself. Observe your son for yourself. You will see what I see in him. I am certain of it.’

  Her passionate defence of his son shook him to his depths. He was not considering discharging her. Quite the contrary. He thought her the children’s salvation.

  ‘How would I observe him?’ he asked, his voice still sharper than he intended. ‘I will not have him paraded before me.’

  ‘I agree.’ She leaned closer. ‘Go to him. Join him in the nursery. Spend time with him. The children will be served dinner soon. Come share the meal with them.’

  Share a meal with children? It was not something a marquess would do, at least not until children turned twelve or thirteen.

  With the excess of brandy inside him, with his emotions so raw, could he even trust himself to sit with his children? It was hard enough to sit with Miss Hill.

  But he’d dropped all his obligations in London to come to his son, to learn what had happened to the boy to make a physician declare him insane. To move heaven and earth to fix it.

  He clenched his fist. ‘Very well.’

  She rose, walked to the door and waited for him.

  He hoped he could cross the room without listing to one side or the other. When he managed to reach the doorway, the scent of lavender filled his nostrils and he remembered that first glimpse of her in the square outside his town house. She was no less beautiful now. No less passionate.

  And he was no less aroused by her.

  God help him.

  * * *

  Brent climbed the stairs behind Miss Hill. Her hips swayed seductively, while she kept up a discourse about the children, explaining the structure of their days. He hoped she would not ask him to recite the list back to her. At the moment there was not much staying in his brain beyond a reminder to keep his hands to himself.
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  When they approached the nursery door, Brent had a sudden attack of nerves. Ridiculous. These were children. They must respect and obey him.

  Good God. Now he sounded like the old marquess, the English grandfather who’d despised him.

  ‘Look who has come to eat dinner with us!’ Miss Hill said brightly as she entered the room.

  The two children were seated adjacent to each other at a small table upon which were four place settings.

  ‘Papa!’ Dory cried, jumping from her seat. ‘Cal said it would be you. I said it would be Eppy.’

  Cal stood as well, but, after sending an angry look at his sister, appeared as if he were facing the gallows.

  ‘Oops!’ The little girl covered her mouth with her hand. ‘I must not speak unless spoken to.’

  She was the image of Eunice, all bright blue eyes and blonde curls. It pained him to look upon her.

  He approached one of the chairs. ‘Well, then I must speak and say good afternoon. And thank you for inviting me to dinner.’

  Those blues eyes grew wider. ‘But we did not invite you!’

  He had an impulse to leave.

  She giggled. ‘I suspect Miss Hill invited you, did she not?’

  He glanced at Miss Hill. ‘She did indeed invite me.’

  ‘I did.’ She smiled, but tossed him an uncertain look.

  He noticed an extra place was set at the table. She had apparently been confident he would accept.

  Brent also noticed that Cal’s forehead was furrowed as if he was not believing any of this conviviality.

  Brent cleared his throat. ‘We may be seated.’

  He waited for Miss Hill to sit and noticed Cal waited as well. At least someone had taught him manners.

  ‘Sit down, Miss Hill!’ Dory commanded as she flopped into her seat.

  Miss Hill lowered herself more gracefully. ‘I do hope you children kept the covers on the dishes.’

  Dory sent a very guilty look in Cal’s direction. Cal, whose seat was directly across from Brent’s, was too busy trying not to look at his father. He slipped into his chair, as if wishing he could disappear.