by Jada Turner
Blair didn’t like to rehash bad memories.
One day in late spring, she was frying eggs and trying not to splatter herself with grease when a strange man came into the diner. He was dressed like an undertaker. She didn’t think anything of it. Most of the customers were strange. Al barked the man’s order of a medium rare burger without onions and Blair was the one crying.
“What’s wrong with you?” Al yelled, snatching the plate and shoving it in front of the customer. “Cry later.”
“It’s the onions,” Blair lied.
“Well, splash some water on your face and hurry back.”
“Okay.”
She fled to the bathroom and washed her eyes out. It didn’t help.
The diner was packed full with tourists and a busload of cheerleaders on their way to a football game in Phoenix. Blair was on her feet all day, and limped to the trailer when her shift ended. She thought of soaking her swollen members but was too tired to do anything but kick off her sneakers and fling herself across the bed.
When sleep came there was no Seth. Blair had given up on ever seeing him again. She did have a dream about Pennhalow. Randall and Heather were laughing and counting Eugenia’s money.
A frightful pounding roused her from a fitful slumber, and Blair turned over and covered her head with a pillow. “Go away,” she groaned. “Come back another day.”
“Blair!” Al cried. “Open this door. The police want to talk to you.”
That did it. Blair sat up too quickly and fell on the floor. She crawled on all fours and cracked open the door. Two grumpy-looking officers stood next to Al. “Whatever it is, I didn’t do it.”
One of the officers stepped forward. “Can you come outside, Miss?”
“Sure,” Blair mumbled, getting to her feet and climbing down in her socks. She stifled a yawn. “What is this about, officer?”
“Do you know a Randall Montague and his wife, Heather?”’
“In what capacity?”
“Annie!” Al hissed. “Behave.”
She shot him a baleful glare and said, “He was a distant cousin. Why?”
The officers exchanged knowing glances. “We’re sorry to have to tell you this, but they’re dead.”
“Come again?” Blair was sure she hadn’t heard him correctly. “Did you say they were dead?”
“Yes, Miss.” The officer pulled out a notepad and tore off a sheet. “You’ll need to call this number.” He handed her the piece of paper. “Scotland Yard will have all the information you need.”
“How did they die?”
“They were stabbed to death. Some junkie broke into the house they were renovating and attacked them in their sleep.” The officer grimaced. “It’s all over the Net. I’m surprised no one notified you.”
“I’m not.” Blair folded the piece of paper and tucked it into her jean pocket. “I don’t have family I’m close to.”
“Sorry to hear that.” The officer nodded and tipped his hat to her. The other did the same and then they were gone. Al patted her on the back.
“Tough break, kid.”
“You’re telling me.” Blair reached into her pocket and took out the slip of paper with an address and phone number on it. She tore it up.
“What did you do that for?” Al cried.
“What’s it to me?” Blair cried. “They took my house and the money. They died for nothing and left me with nothing and I’m supposed to grieve for them? Not on your life.” She turned and headed back to the trailer.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Back to bed!” Blair snapped. “I’ve got work in the morning. Remember?”
“I ought to fire you!” Al shouted. “That’ll knock some sense into you.”
“Whatever.”
Blair crawled back to bed and pulled the comforter over her head. She didn’t feel bad about Randall and Heather.
She kind of felt they got what they deserved.
****
Summer brought with it stifling heat and troupes of tourists passing through old Route 66. Blair flipped so many burgers her hands bled. During a lull in orders for fried chicken and mash, Al tossed her a letter.
“That came for you yesterday.”
“Why’d you wait until today?”
“I forgot.”
Blair rolled her eyes at him and examined the envelope. It was postmarked in London. “Shit,” she muttered. She didn’t want to open it.
“What’s wrong?” Al said, noticing her frown. “What’s it say?”
“I don’t know.” Blair handed him the envelope. “You open it.”
He shrugged and tore it open. His beady eyes quickly scanned the missive. “You’re not going to believe this,” he grinned. “You’re rich!”
“Not that again,” Blair groaned. “I went through that before and looked what happened.”
“It says here that you’re the sole beneficiary to your grandmother’s will. You own a house, land, and some cottage in Dublin.”
“Cottage?” Blair repeated, snatching the letter. Her eyes skimmed over the legal stuff until she came to the nitty-gritty. “No one mentioned a cottage.”
“Maybe it’s from that solicitor.”
“No, someone else sent this.” She glanced at envelope. “I think Mr. Haines was in league with Randall. But it backfired on him.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Don’t I?”
Al took the letter to a booth and read it. “What are you going to do now that you’re a heiress?”
“I don’t know,” she laughed. “The cottage sounds great.”
“Well, you ought to go and check it out. Can’t live in my trailer forever you know.”
“Are you kicking me out?”
Al grinned. “I’m raising your rent. You can’t afford to stay in my trailer.”
“I’m giving my notice.”
A week later, Blair set foot on Irish soil. Everything was a lovely shade of green and the cottage a small piece of heaven. With the money Eugenia left for her, Blair was able to quit her job at the diner and live permanently in Ireland. She updated the kitchen and paid for a new roof. It would last for years.
She didn’t care for Pennhalow and told the solicitor to sell it for what the market would bear, which wasn’t much. It did pay for the roof and new stove. It took about three months before she was settled completely and she spent a good amount of money on a bed and decorating the cottage
Blair sat in her kitchen sipping tea and smiled as rain drummed lightly on the roof. She passed the day washing dishes and doing light housekeeping before taking a long soak in a cast-iron tub. She slipped on a flannel nightgown to ward off the chill and climbed into bed.
Seth was waiting and hugged her tightly to him. “I’ve missed you, woman,” he breathed. “I thought I’d never see you again.”
She buried her face against his neck. “Where were you?”
“I couldn’t come. Randall and that bitch had the house cleansed.”
“Cleansed?”
“They had a priest say a blessing.”
“Oh.”
He kissed her wildly and lifted her into his arms. “We can be together now.”
“But how did you get here?” Another thought occurred to her. “Seth, did you…”
“Of course not. But don’t tell me you’re sorry.”
“I am. A little.”
“What happened after the priest?”
“I didn’t know where to go until I heard the solicitor talking about the cottage. I figured you show up eventually.”
Blair giggled and kissed his cheek. “I’ve missed you.”
Seth carried her to bed and undressed her tenderly. “We’re going to be very happy, you and I.”
“Do you think so? Won’t you miss Pennhalow?”
Seth slid in beside her and cradled her to him. “Never.” He bent and kissed her lovingly. “Think you can live with an incubus?”
“Good, because I’m not leaving. Ever.”
“That’s good because I won’t let you go. Ever.”
He made love to her tenderly and kissed her tears away. “Didn’t you recognize me at the diner?” he asked.
Blair sat up. “That was you? The creepy undertaker?”
“Creepy?” Seth repeated in dismay. “I wasn’t creepy. It was the only body I could find. I had to see you.”
“I was too miserable to notice.”
Seth brushed her hair away from her face. “And now?”
She slid her arms about his neck and pulled him down to her. “And now I’m happy,” she said, laughing and crying at the same time. “I’m happy!”
“I’m glad.” Seth buried his face in her hair and held her tightly against him. “I’ll never let you go, Blair. Never.”
“You better not.”
“Or what?”
Blair giggled. “I don’t know. I’ll figure it out.”
“Silly girl,” he whispered and kissed her again.
They slept entwined and when Blair opened her eyes, he was still there.
****
END
The Scoundrel
Chapter 1
Diana looked up at the burgundy canopy over her four poster bed while Sir Reginald continued to plough away. She looked down on his bald head illuminated by the flickering candles that also sent dancing shadows like demented phantoms across the flock wallpaper. His wig on its stand crouched like a white rabbit.
Four years of marriage to this man had not endeared him to her. How she longed for a man who at least knew how to make love and one taller than her five feet four inches would be good too. At least he was wealthy, connected and not tight with his money. The marriage of convenience meant her parents were no longer financially embarrassed.
She imagined he was a dashing Captain from Wellington’s army who had cornered her in a hay field and took her virtue while the sun beat down. It was her only way of dealing with this Thursday night conjugal obligation. Before she went to bed on Thursdays, Diana never forgot to take the potion the gypsy Carlotta gave her to make sure she bore her husband no children. The thought of giving birth to something that would have his traits sickened her. At least it was only Thursdays. And he only did it to her because he needed a son. He had other outlets for his vile peccadillos rather than his unresponsive genteel wife.
He grunted and rolled off. She could breathe properly now that his fat belly wasn’t pinning her to the mattress. The mantelpiece clock; clear enough in the dim light, confirmed the usual. Two and a half minutes.
Her hand slid under the linen sheet and pulled down her silk nightdress. She turned on her side, away from Sir Reginald, smoothed back her blond hair wrapped in cotton ties and let a little tear escape from her blue eyes. As she teetered on the edge of sleep, thinking about her fantasy captain, she resolved to find him or a substitute.
***
Sir Reginald sat munching his devilled kidneys with grease escaping from the side of his mouth. Diana nibbled at her toast trying to avert his eyes from his disgusting table manners.
She looked into a large mirror over a black and ebony sideboard that bore scenes of Japanese eroticism. Her blue dress with its high daytime collar set off her complexion in the morning light that shone through the French windows of the wood panelled dining room. Diana knew she looked good. The mirror confirmed it. She felt so sad that nobody appreciated her beauty. To Sir Reginald, she knew she was just a wife-to-be, the bearer of his children and someone to run the house while he philandered his life away.
He was already dressed for his trip to town in his navy blue frock coat and white silk cravat. His expensive clothes could not overcome the image of being a squat pig with eyes to match.
“So what are your plans for the weekend Diana?”
“I thought I would go over to Tunbridge Wells to see Mariah.”
“Good idea. Don’t want you moping around here missing me while I’m up in London. Damned shame I have to go; but duty calls. They need my help at the Royal Society again; such a bind. It’s going to take all weekend.”
“I’ll get by Reginald. Don’t worry.” She knew he wouldn’t. He’d be too busy with that actress and wouldn’t be going near the Royal Society. Not that she cared one jot for his infidelity. It saved her from having to satisfy his lust. When he wasn’t ploughing the London actress, he was in one of the bordellos in Tunbridge Wells made famous by the visits of the Prince Regent.
Diana gazed out of the window, across the terrace and gardens so neat and green. She loved this part of Kent with its narrow lanes, high banks and most of all the smell of the wild flowers and garlic in the hedgerows.
“Take the barouche, it’s going to be a fine summer’s day. I’m going up by mail coach.”
Diana still gazed out of the window, her mind as distant as the far hills.
“I said take the barouche.”
“What, oh, yes sorry. Of course. Thank you.”
“I hope you’re not daydreaming Diana again; it’s not good for you.”
“No… yes… you’re right…sorry. I was just looking at the hills and thinking how lovely they are at this time of the year.”
“When I get back I want Doctor Hargreaves to come and take another look at you. It’s about time you produced a son. I know there’s nothing wrong with me in that department.”
I’m sure you do. They’re all running around London. “Is that really necessary Reginald? I mean… perhaps I just need some rest, maybe even a change of air. We could go to Bath.”
“Why should we go to Bath? What’s wrong with Tunbridge Wells? It’s good enough for the Prince Regent.”
“Yes Reginald. Sorry. Whatever you say.” She lowered her eyes in apparent submission but inside her defiance made her heart beat so fast she feared he would hear it.
***
Diana waited by the barouche for Miller to lower the step. She liked Miller. His toothless smile always gladdened her heart and, though only a servant, she’d come to think of him as a sort of uncle, perhaps even the grandfather she never knew. He was certainly old enough to fill that role. She sensed that he felt it too; though neither would speak of it; that would not do at all. She was the Mistress of Eylebourn Hall, and he was the gardener and occasional driver.
He held his gnarled hand out for her to climb into the carriage. It was a beautiful summer’s day, so the roof was down. She settled into the left side leather seat facing forward and put up her parasol. It would never do to get sunburn. She was a Lady, not a farmer.
Miller climbed up to the driver’s seat and with a gentle touch of the whip, set the grey mare, Penelope, and her chestnut partner off along the gravel drive. They passed the marble fountain of Venus pouring water into her bath and out to the open double iron gates with their ornate bars topped with golden spearheads.
Diana sat back and looked at the passing bucolic scene. Out in the fields, labourers, men, women and children, worked hard in the sun that had climbed high in the cloudless sky. She felt a little uncomfortable. Not because of the carriage; no this barouche had four leather seats, cushions for her back and a stool for her feet. It was the thought of her good fortune and their hard life that unsettled her every time she saw such a scene.
Diana’s life was comfortable apart from the Thursday night chore. Sir Reginald owned several thousand acres of Kent, plantations in Virginia and Jamaica, a fleet of trading ships and had investments in scientific studies hence his membership of the Royal Society. Since the British government nine years previously in 1807 had outlawed transporting slaves from West Africa across the Atlantic, he had branched out into other lucrative trades but she suspected he might still be running slaves illegally. There was little she could do about that. She had no evidence, and she knew that if he were, and discovered, he would be ruined and therefore so would she. Yes, Lady Diana Charlotte Elizabeth Burke
nee Winchester had what so many other women could only dream of; she could buy almost anything she wanted. But Diana knew that many other women had something more, love, and real love could not be bought.
The gentle clip clop of the horses, the warm summer air filled with the fragrance of the hedgerows and the swaying of the carriage brought on heavy eyes and then sleep.
***
She woke to a confusion. They were on the road near the Pantiles in Tunbridge Wells. The carriage, stationary, with no Miller on the driver’s seat. Quickly she sat up and then stood up. Out in front of the horses lay a small boy in the road. His leg was at a terrible angle to his body. Miller and a stranger seemed to be trying to help him.
She jumped down from the barouche and walked quickly, remembering that Ladies don’t run, to the casualty.
“What’s the problem Miller?”
“This ‘ere boy Ma’am. Been hit by a carriage Ma’am.”
“Where’s the carriage?”
“Didn’t stop. Just drove away. Just what you would expect from the likes of them,” said the stranger.
Diana looked down at him as he tended the boy. His rough jacket, collarless shirt and worn trousers suggested to her that he was a workman of some sort, but his voice, deep and strong had the edge of an education. His hair looked an unruly mess of dark brown curls, but his eyes were alert and a deep brown that hinted at the soul dwelling within. This was an unusual man make no mistake, thought Diana.
“Is he your’s?” she said looking at the poorly clothed boy and putting his age at about nine years.
“No, he’s from the orphanage,” said the stranger.
Diana felt there was something insolent in this man’s voice. Nothing she could take immediate offence to, but there was something about him that said he was not a man to bully or treat as inferior.
“Make yourself useful, go over to that shop there, that one with the jam and honey in the window. Ask the woman there to give you two of the slats from the trunk and some cord. She’ll know what you mean.”
