Caught in a Cornish Scandal Eleanor Webster (new books to read .TXT) 📖

He wondered if he should explain, at least what he knew. It might serve to exonerate Frances. Except, any mention of smuggling or his rescue would then implicate Millie, damaging not only her reputation but possibly jeopardising her physical safety.

‘And did you hear that Sir Anthony is questioning dear Frances? Have you spoken to him? Are you able to bring Frances and Noah home?’

‘No,’ he said. He knew the one word was inadequate and that he should clarify, but did not know what to say or how to explain Frances’s aversion to coming home.

‘They are with Sir Anthony, I presume. He is a dear man. I know he will do his best, but I am still concerned.’ Her anxiety appeared genuine, her eyes glazed with tears.

‘You mustn’t worry. They are...’ He hesitated. It seemed unkind to delude her. ‘Quite safe.’

‘Sam,’ Mrs Ludlow reached again for his hand. ‘Frances and Noah need to come home. She needs familiar objects and care at such a time. Please help Sir Anthony to understand.’

Her hand was cold and slightly clammy, and he had to ignore the instinct to snatch his own hand away.

‘I am certain Sir Anthony would understand and doubtless Frances would be more eager to return if you did not suspect her of wrongdoing,’ he said, more sharply than he had intended.

‘Is that what she said?’ Mrs Ludlow tightened her grip on him, shaking her head to emphasise her denial. ‘She misunderstands. I know she would not hurt a fly in her right mind. But, well, you must see that Frances is different.’

‘Her changes are not sufficient to enable her to emotionally or physically hurt a man twice her size.’

‘Not on purpose. And truly I hope you are right. Gracious, do you think I want to suspect my own daughter-in-law of hurting my son? And I know Jason is no angel, but...’

The words trailed away as she let his hand go, finishing the sentence with a mute shrug.

‘What exactly do you suspect?’ he asked.

She clasped her hands together. ‘I am uncertain. We know they fought. They do quite often. The servants heard them. Jason’s fault, no doubt. He can be...unkind. But Frances has become obsessed with the sea. I think she ran out into the storm and he followed her and...and some dreadful accident occurred. I do not mean that she did anything on purpose, but she knows more than she is admitting.’

‘Frances is not obsessed with the sea. We grew up in London, so she likely finds this place desolate, but you make her sound unhinged.’

Mrs Ludlow stood. He stood also. She turned so that they faced each other. ‘She doesn’t leave the house except to walk down by the ocean. She paces back and forth across the shale. And she takes the child everywhere, even out into the bleakest of weather.’

He said nothing, going across to the window. He remembered Frances’s jerky movements as she rocked the bassinet and her near desperation at any threat of separation from the infant.

‘Women can become out of sorts after the birth of a child. It is likely nothing more than that,’ he said.

‘Indeed, Jason has not been the best husband. I know that all too well. I just want Frances to tell us anything that might help us determine what may have happened. I—I fear the worst. I worry for Noah’s safety. I cannot lose both my child and grandchild.’

‘Noah is quite safe.’ Sam looked across the bleak grey ocean, pressing his fingers against the sill as though the hard pressure against the wood might help him remember or ground him into some sort of reality. The window opened on to a terrace of red brick. Beyond this, the green lawn stretched towards the grey waters. I hate the sea. He remembered the way she had spoken the words, her eyes and her distracted movements. I hate the sea.

‘I am worried for my son,’ Mrs Ludlow said softly. ‘And terrified for my grandchild.’

‘Frances adores that child. She would protect him with her life. She would never, ever hurt him or allow anyone to do so.’

He heard the movement of her gown, the rustle of cloth as she approached the window, standing beside him so they both stared out at the grey day. She smelled of lavender. Lifting her hand, she pressed her finger to the glass so that it covered the shoal beach. Slowly she moved her finger back and forth against the pane, with the slight squeak of flesh against glass.

‘I counted once. Frances paced that beach at least one hundred times. One hundred times, back and forth, back and forth. Are you really willing to stake your nephew’s life on her sanity?’

Her hand dropped to the sill, the gems glinting in the dying daylight.

‘Yes,’ he said.

Sam stood by the fire at Lansdowne. The room was small, ill-furnished and the chimney did not draw properly, making the atmosphere smoky. Yet, he had never in his life felt more thankful to be somewhere. It felt safe. It felt wholesome. It felt, ironically, like a breath of fresh air away from the chill sophistication of Manton Hall. He’d stayed there longer than anticipated. Mrs Ludlow had asked him to dinner and he could not refuse. Besides, he still hoped something might jar his reluctant recollection.

But his memory remained blank as ever. To do her justice, Mrs Ludlow tried to make the repast as pleasant as possible, given the situation. They dined quietly and, by mutual consent, did not talk about Jason or Frances, instead sharing recollections about opera and theatre productions in London.

She had, he realised once again, circulated in high circles. Her husband had been many years her senior, apparently doting on her, and for some years she had reigned in political and fashionable circles. It seemed that this power had diminished with her husband’s death, her fading looks and a son who lacked the political acumen of his father.

Sam did not rush dinner, despite his impatience to return and see Frances