Scandal's Daughter

by Christine Wells

  “Take him with you, girl,” ordered Hugo.

  “Oh, very well.” Gemma knew she sounded ungracious. “Though I daresay Mrs. Lane will be too busy caring for her mother-in-law to bake currant buns for you, Scovy.”

  Sebastian just grinned.

  INSUFFERABLE! Gemma watched Sebastian eat his third currant bun and wash it down with a glass of cowslip wine. A doting smile deepened the dimples in Edith Lane’s red cheeks as she watched him cut a swath through her provisions. Doubtless, she would have made the buns especially if she’d none to hand.

  Sebastian did nothing practical to help Gemma minister to the invalid, but his laughter and easy charm wound around them all, like the sweet, warm scent of baking. When Gemma moved away from the pallet bed where old Mrs. Lane lay, Sebastian immediately took her place. Heedless of the risk of infection, he clasped the invalid’s hand and spoke softly to her about nothing in particular. The old lady did not smile, she was too deep in the throes of her illness for that, but her eyes brightened at his touch and the low tone of his voice seemed to soothe her.

  Gemma could not quash a foolish glow of pride. He might be doing this to impress her, or because he found it novel, but she could not deny the benefits of his presence. It would have been ridiculous for Sebastian to stand on ceremony with these plain folk who had known him since he was in short coats, but that would not have deterred many men from behaving with new and unbecoming arrogance. After all, the Earl of Carleton was a notable figure. No doubt his London acquaintance would stare to see him eating homemade wine and currant buns and tending to a poor invalid on an estate that was not even his own.

  Eventually, the old woman closed her eyes and Gemma and Sebastian took their leave.

  Edith Lane accompanied them down the stone path to the gate. As they mounted their horses and prepared to depart, she scowled with mock ferocity up at Sebastian. “And don’t you go leaving it another however many years afore you come back, lad, d’ye hear?”

  Sebastian nodded and waved, but his smile soon faded once they moved out of sight. He did not like to be reminded of his long absence from Ware, or of its cause. He turned his head to look at Gemma. “Where now?”

  “The rectory, if you have no objection.”

  Sebastian grimaced. “Old Playstead and I were never the best of friends.”

  “Only because you and the village children used to steal apples from his tree,” said Gemma. “Anyway, Mr. Playstead retired. We have a new rector now, a Mr. Vincent. A pleasant man, and young. He married a local woman.”

  “Oh? Anyone I know?”

  Before Gemma could answer, a tall, loose-limbed man with a thatch of straw-coloured hair straightened from his crouching position among the rhododendrons in the rectory garden and called a greeting.

  He pulled off his gardening gloves and loped towards them. “Miss Maitland! How do you do, this fine afternoon?”

  Gemma edged Tealeaf to the low stone wall that separated them and leaned down to shake hands.

  She presented Mr. Vincent to Sebastian, and the rector smiled up at him, one hand shading his eyes from the sun. “Ah, yes. Welcome, my lord. How do you do? You have been to visit the Lanes, I understand.” His blue eyes twinkled. “News travels like lightning here, as I’m sure you know!”

  The rector tucked his gardening gloves under his arm and gathered his spade and trowel. “Well, Miss Maitland, do let John take your horses round to the stables and go in to Mrs. Vincent. I think you will find she has that receipt for pickled walnuts your housekeeper requested written out for you. I shall be along in a moment when I have put off my dirt.”

  Gemma and Sebastian relinquished their mounts to the waiting servant and a plump housekeeper admitted them to a small parlour.

  Sebastian glanced around him. Comfortably furnished in primrose and white, it was an airy, sunny apartment, perfect for a lady’s sitting room. Its occupant put aside her stitchery and rose to greet them.

  Suddenly, his crisp surroundings faded to nothing. A pulse throbbed deep in his brain.

  Caroline.

  The only woman he had ever asked to be his wife.

  Four

  DIVORCED from the present by some invisible, impenetrable wall, Sebastian watched Gemma’s lips move and Caroline mouth a response, and guessed he was being introduced.

  He cleared his throat and said something, he didn’t know what. Paying no heed to his awkwardness, the ladies sat down on chintz-covered chairs and launched into conversation. Something about sewing new vestments, he gathered, though the details eluded him.

  While the women talked about matters domestic, Sebastian’s frozen brain slowly thawed to life. He studied his first love. She looked . . . different from the way he remembered her. Older, but that was not surprising. She was five years his senior, and the liaison they had enjoyed ended six years before.

  He had enjoyed it. Raw as he had been, he supposed he had done little to make sure she found pleasure in it, too. Even after all this time, he winced at the memory of that eager, callow youth.

  But married to the rector! He had assumed she’d used Hugo’s money to set herself up in London or Bath and snare a man with better prospects than he, a younger son at that time, had possessed. Her treachery had pained him, but he realised now it was far better than knowing her reasons had not been quite so cynical, that she had rejected him in return for five thousand pounds and this modest, cheerful respectability.

  And she was cheerful, he noticed. Cheerful and calm, her once glorious golden hair faded to ash and swept up beneath a plain white cap, her lithe figure now fuller at the breast and rounder at the hips.

  This life seemed to suit her. Far more, he guessed, than the position of Countess of Carleton would have done.

  Strange, she actually seemed to care about the process of pickling walnuts.

  Sebastian realised he was gripping the arms of his chair, so he relaxed his fingers and crossed one leg over the other, feigning a nonchalance he did not feel. Now and then he made some brief comment so as not to appear rude, but he had little knowledge and less interest in the feminine concerns under discussion, so he lapsed once more into silence.

  Yes, all things considered, it appeared Caroline had chosen wisely. If the manner in which she had informed him of her choice had been kinder, he might not have hated her so much or for so long.

  Looking at her now, he found it difficult to believe this rather commonplace woman had taken him to such heights of joy and depths of torment. What had been so special about her? Merely that she was the first woman he had been intimate with?

  Delving into memories he’d worked so hard to bury, Sebastian fell deeper into the past, until Gemma’s sharpened tone cut through his brooding.

  “Isn’t that right, Sebastian?”

  He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  Gemma frowned at him. “I was telling Mrs. Vincent you are fond of Alexander Pope.”

  When had they moved from pickled walnuts to poetry? “Oh, ah. Yes.”

  Poetry. With an effort, he stopped his eyes seeking Caroline’s. She possessed firsthand experience of his talents in that direction. His ardent verses praising her beauty had been flung in the fire long ago, but not before she had read them. Not before she had laughed.

  “Do you still write, Sebastian?” Gemma turned to Caroline. “I always think poets must be terribly clever, don’t you?”

  Sebastian managed a strained smile. “Oh, I don’t know about that. Just look at that Byron fellow.”

  Gemma chuckled. “You are jealous because he makes all the ladies swoon.”

  “I don’t need poetry to do that, m’dear.”

  He spoke flippantly, without thinking, but Gemma choked, pink tingeing her cheeks. When Caroline glanced curiously from her to him, Sebastian knew he must get out of there.

  He stood, just as Vincent bounded in.

  “Come and see the church!” The rector spread his arms wide as if to shepherd them along, his extended frame too large
for the tiny parlour. “Miss Maitland is already acquainted with our new addition, but I cannot pass up an opportunity to command your admiration, Lord Carleton. I think you will find it a marvel, indeed I do.” He looked at his wife. “Will you join us, my dear?”

  Caroline smiled and shook her head. “No, Henry. Baby Jack is teething and I promised Nurse a rest. She has been up all night and is worn to the bone, poor soul.” She turned to Gemma. “You will excuse me?”

  She has a baby, thought Sebastian. They have a baby. Probably several of them tucked away somewhere.

  “Of course,” said Gemma, rising. “You will be anxious to go to him. Sebastian, you must come and be suitably impressed by our new treasure, if you please. Good afternoon, Mrs. Vincent.”

  Caroline curtseyed and finally, finally, a look came into her eyes that signified something more than the polite interest of a hostess in her guest. Not regret, of course, never that. Not even wistfulness. Nostalgia, perhaps?

  It was something, and he knew it was all he would get.

  The next instant, Caroline straightened and the cheerful, calm expression fell back in place.

  So that was that. With an ironic bow in her direction, Sebastian turned on his heel and left.

  Gemma took Mr. Vincent’s arm and chattered to him as they walked the short distance to St. Margaret’s Church. Sebastian strolled alone through the avenue of red-berried yew trees, past the mossy headstones of parishioners long dead and forgotten. The newer graveyard lay on the west side of the church. Morbidly, he wondered whether anyone he knew rested there. After all, death could have come as easily as new life to those he had left behind.

  He would ask Gemma about it. But not today, not yet.

  When they reached the church door, Gemma turned to Sebastian, her face radiant with anticipation. She looked just as she had as a girl when she had made him shut his eyes and hold out his hand for something precious, like a robin’s egg or a smooth, flat pebble, perfect for skimming on the lake.

  Ever so slightly, the darkness around his heart receded. He felt his own mouth lift at the corners in response, even though he could not imagine what might be so wonderful about the interior of a church.

  The rector flung the church door wide open and Sebastian had his answer.

  She soared high above the altar, serene and invincible, a figure of astonishing, unearthly beauty rendered in stained glass. She wore a pearl-studded coronet and held a crucifix aloft in her right hand. The green palm leaf of the martyr hung in the air beside her head, its hue echoing the emerald robes that fell about her in graceful folds and disappeared into the split belly of a prone, vermilion dragon. Strangely, the dragon gazed up at the human it had just disgorged with adoring eyes, reminding Sebastian of nothing so much as a friendly spaniel.

  But her face . . . Her face was fascinating. Dark blond hair clustered in tight, fat curls around her head, the odd ringlet lifted sideways by an imaginary wind. The day had turned cloudy, but even without the benefit of strong sunlight, the figure’s oval face glowed, as if lit by some intrinsic, mystical power.

  “Do you know who it is?” Gemma’s lowered voice thrilled through the empty church.

  “St. Margaret? Extraordinary.” Sebastian dragged his gaze from the martyr and looked at Gemma. “Where on earth . . . ? Never tell me this was the original window?”

  She nodded, beaming back at him. “We found her buried behind the stable yard at Ware, of all places. Mr. Vincent thinks the villagers probably removed her for safe-keeping when Cromwell’s soldiers rampaged through the district during the Civil War. The soldiers stabled their horses in churches, you know, and vandalised the buildings shamefully.”

  Sebastian walked farther up the aisle and craned his head back to look at the martyr. He wanted to be closer to the image, to touch it, though he knew the window was best viewed at a distance. “But this must date back centuries. It’s medieval isn’t it?”

  Vincent came up and hovered behind him, his excitement almost palpable. “Yes, we think it is probably the work of a craftsman known as the Master of Exeter Cathedral. We cannot be certain, of course, but she does have the distinctive hair, a thick mass of curls, and those heavy-lidded eyes and full lips bear a close similarity to known examples of his work. A pity we cannot see her feet—he usually made them triangular.”

  The rector overtook Sebastian, sprang up the altar steps, and bounded over to the window. “Just observe the detail here!”

  As Vincent reached up to run his fingers over the vivid dragon scales, Sebastian wondered if there were some merit in the Protestant prohibition of idolatry. This glorious creature must surely distract the congregation from proper worship.

  Without taking his eyes from her, he sat down in a nearby pew. “St. Margaret. What was her story again? Something about being swallowed by a dragon? I remember that much.”

  It was Gemma who answered him. “Margaret was the daughter of a pagan priest, but her nurse was Christian and she raised Margaret as a Christian, too. The local Roman prefect saw Margaret and fell in love with her beauty, but she refused to become his wife—or concubine—we are not certain exactly what he proposed. He cajoled and threatened her, but she preferred to dedicate her virginity to God.”

  Gemma moved to stand next to Sebastian, her hand resting on top of the pew at his back. Immediately, he became conscious of the hard wood of the pew connecting them. An odd sensation crept over him, a tingle of awareness mixed with a curious sense of peace. Had it only been ten minutes ago that he fought for air in Caroline’s sunny parlour?

  Gemma continued, and the keen sense of drama he remembered so well stole into her voice. “When Margaret would not agree to his wishes, the prefect threw her into prison. It is said Satan appeared to her there, first as a handsome young man, to tempt her astray. When she refused to renounce her faith, Satan came to her in the form of a dragon and devoured her whole. She still held her crucifix, however, and its presence irritated the dragon’s belly so much, it split open and disgorged her.”

  Vincent nodded. “There is another variation of the story, in which Margaret overpowered the dragon with her crucifix and used her girdle to lead the tamed beast where she willed.”

  Gemma chuckled. “The former version is more dramatic, of course, but I confess I prefer the latter.”

  Sebastian glanced up. At the sparkle in her eyes, he began to sympathise with the dragon. “So how did she become a martyr, then?”

  “Oh, the prefect tortured her for a bit, then tried various means of killing her—all unsuccessful—and ended by chopping her head off,” said Gemma. “Charming man, wasn’t he? I think she was about fifteen at the time.”

  The door to the south porch opened, catching Gemma’s attention. Sebastian looked around to see two ladies enter the church, each with a large wicker basket of chrysanthemums, lilies, and assorted greenery in hand.

  On catching sight of the present occupants, the ladies stopped short. The thread of their conversation snapped, as if sliced by a knife.

  They appeared discomfited, and Sebastian could only assume it was his presence that affected them. Of course they guessed who he was—everyone in the village would know what he had eaten at breakfast by now. He repressed an exasperated sigh. Even at Ware he could not escape his wicked reputation.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Whitton, Mrs. Briggs.” Vincent’s lively good cheer smoothed over the awkward moment. “Have you come to arrange the altar flowers? Lovely!” The rector’s smile embraced Sebastian. “We are fortunate, my lord, to have two such talented ladies among us.”

  Neither the tall, dark woman nor the plump one with pale blond ringlets seemed familiar. Sebastian rose and bowed and hoped that they were, indeed, strangers and he had not simply forgotten them. The rector made the introductions, relieving him of that concern. Both ladies had settled in the district upon their respective marriages, well after his time.

  His initial impression turned out to be incorrect, however. Far from holding themselves
aloof from such a notorious rake, the ladies were all flattering attention. But as they inquired politely about the length of his stay and where his own home was situated, Sebastian sensed Gemma’s subtle withdrawal and wondered at the cause.

  Did she dislike them? But Gemma liked everyone. And they seemed pleasant enough women. They were young, elegant, and well-bred. Lacking in spice or any sort of natural vibrancy or charm, but inoffensive enough, surely.

  The rector soon excused himself, pleading parish business. Gemma bade him a warm farewell, then pressed her lips together and did not speak again. Mrs. Whitton and Mrs. Briggs barely acknowledged Vincent’s departure, and continued to watch Sebastian like sparrows expecting a crumb.

  He smiled and threw them one. “I have been admiring the new arrival.” He gestured to St. Margaret. “Magnificent, is she not?”

  Mrs. Whitton pursed her lips and exchanged a sideways glance with Mrs. Briggs. “Indeed.”

  The cool response puzzled him. How could anyone remain unaffected by such transcendent beauty?

  Surprise must have shown in his face. Mrs. Briggs raised her fine, dark brows and answered his unspoken question. “You do not think the window a trifle vulgar, my lord? So . . . so colourful. I am afraid it is not at all to my taste. And quite out of keeping with the traditions of our unpretentious little church, if I may say so.”

  Sebastian wondered if the woman knew it was the original window. Or, indeed, if she knew anything at all about church traditions. In earlier times, the walls of this church would have been covered with brightly coloured murals from floor to vaulted ceiling.

  Mrs. Whitton nodded her agreement. “We—Mrs. Whitton and I, and the other ladies of the parish—had grave reservations about the propriety of restoring the window.” Her gaze flicked to Gemma, then returned to fix earnestly on Sebastian. “Indeed, we wonder that the bishop allowed such a thing.”