Lady Sarah's Redemption (26 page)

It was not the hostile grilling her overwrought nerves had
envisioned. People were naturally curious about her ordeal and after a while
she found it cathartic to answer questions like how cold had the water been and
about the Belgian fishermen who had bravely swum out to rescue her.

“Many thanks for your brave answers,” Lord Stokes told her at the
end of her ten questions, indicating she could now rise her from her chair on
the centre of the stage.

Smiling, Sarah inclined her head as she prepared to return to the
audience amidst more applause.

“I … have a question.”

She turned at the interruption.

“Miss Bassingthwaite, why did you not speak up before?” Lord Stokes,
still in his role as Master of Ceremonies stayed Sarah with a hand. “Lady
Sarah, will you permit our shyest houseguest one final question?”

Frozen, Sarah stared at the girl, unable to answer. Millicent looked
as plain in her blue round dress as she had the night Sarah had seen her at the
London inn before walking into the trap laid for her by Archie Hollingsworth.
There was a greenish tinge to her normally sallow complexion and her terror was
apparent at commanding the attention of so many people.

Almost wearily, Sarah accepted her fate. It was clear enough. Lady
Bassingthwaite had bullied her daughter into asking the question and Millicent,
too frightened to disobey, had only now got up the courage to lay the
foundations of a damning exposé. Naturally Millicent’s veiled accusation would
be given credence because of the kind of girl she was.

“What would you like to ask, Miss Bassingthwaite?” Lord Stokes
prompted. His manner was expansive and congenial, like a master coaxing a
nervous schoolroom miss. Sarah drew herself up proudly, smoothing down her
sequin-encrusted crimson net skirts; a colour and picture she was sure the
audience would always remember as Millicent blurted out, “It’s my mother who wants
to know, actually, and I am so sorry, Lady Sarah” — she swallowed, then
stammered — “but she asks why you—”

She faltered, apparently unable to continue until Lord Stokes
chivvied her in a friendly, encouraging fashion, “Lady Sarah is not an ogre,
Miss Bassingthwaite. I’m sure she’d be delighted to answer your question.”

Millicent swallowed and cast her eyes downwards as she continued in
a voice that could barely carry across the room, but which certainly managed to
be heard judging by the tumultuous response when she finally asked, “She wants
to know why you were alone at the Crown and Anchor when you said you were being
looked after at Larchfield and … and why you then went unchaperoned to Sally
Hollingsworth’s address in Marylebone?”
 

“WELL, YOU
MIGHT have sent word more than two days ahead for there’s been such a to-do
getting the house prepared and matters just as you would like them Roland… Not
that, inconvenience aside, it isn’t wonderful to see you back again. And you,
Caro, in
such
rude health. Really, I
don’t know what your father was thinking, assuming your heart was so tender it
could not withstand a simple rejection. As if it isn’t something most of us
have to bear at least once in our lifetimes. My dear, there are far worthier
gentlemen than Mr Hollingsworth and you’d do well to bear in mind what you have
to offer a gentleman disposed to taking a wife. You may not be endowed with
such a pretty face and figure as my Augusta and Harriet but, unlike my poor
girls, you have a handsome dowry to entice the most discerning gentleman-”

“I hope we need not wait too long for refreshment, Cecily,” Roland
interrupted, stilling her words with a cursory peck on the cheek as he pushed
his daughter out of her path. “It’s been a long journey.”

“I was hardly craning my neck out of the window for the first sign
of your arrival, Roland,” said Cecily, tartly, preceding him into to the
drawing room and pulling on the embroidered bell rope. “Bessie knows to expect
you. I’m sure if you can be patient a little longer we can all sit down and
enjoy a pleasant chat while we wait for tea.”

 
“So, Cecily, more than
two months have elapsed, and yet your countenance and good humour remain quite
unchanged,” Roland marvelled with an irony completely undetected by his
sister-in-law.

“I’m surprised, considering the trials I’ve had to endure since you
left me so abruptly with the entire management of this house and estate upon my
shoulders,” she sniffed. “Thank goodness we found Miss Morecroft – and I
mean poor Godby’s daughter – lodging with Mr Hollingsworth’s mother so
she was able to take up her rightful post. I’ve a mind to call on the good
widow when I’m in London and thank her for her care; though I think that son of
hers needs talking to for allowing Caro’s tears to overrule his judgment. I
daresay he was flattered by Caro’s attention.” She ran a careworn hand across
her brow. “That aside, Harriet and Augusta have been sorely trying. I’ve
threatened to box their ears if they so much as mention Lady Sarah’s name. You
can’t image the difficulty I’ve had explaining to them events in such a manner
as will not damage their delicate sensibilities by putting ideas into their
heads, or poisoning the high esteem in which they hold their cousin. Not that I
intend ever referring to this again, Caro. What’s done is done. You’ve learned
your lesson and you’ve been lucky. You still have your reputation intact …
unlike that insinuating little baggage Lady Sarah, or whatever name she
currently chooses to go by. Well, she’s had her public come-uppance. The
scandal! Exposed at Lady Mettling’s house party for consorting with persons of
ill repute!” she hissed before adding, complacently, “I daresay a nunnery might
accept her if her father has deep enough pockets. Though it’ll sit ill with her
pleasure-loving disposition.”

“Lady Sarah has been publicly shamed?”

“Oh, don’t you start, Caro,” said Cecily, irritated. “I’ve had
enough to put up with without Harriet and Augusta snivelling at the news. I’d thought
to instil in them a healthy dose of terror rather than touch their tender
little hearts. It’s exactly as I said. She was an insinuating little baggage, a
trollop, and there’s no kinder way to put it.”

“How … dare … you?”

Shocked into silence, Cecily gaped at her brother-in-law. Then the
gloating expression returned as she said, “You always fancied yourself in love
with her, didn’t you, Roland? Well, I hear she is no longer received in any
respectable drawing room, and that only yesterday she’d been given the cut
direct by Lady Jersey.”

Hope flickered like a flame suddenly come to life in the cold
cavernous regions of Roland’ heart.

Lady Sarah needed rescuing.

He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry as he recalled the dutiful,
formal letter he had written her from Switzerland. His thanks for her bravery
and subsequent care of him had sounded so trite. The words that followed were
worse; a pompous-sounding death knell to all his hopes of what might have been:
It is my wish not to be distracted by
life’s frivolities so that I may devote my energy and passion towards
furthering those worthy causes which remain the chief object of my life.’

What he meant was that Sarah deserved to be happy and the kindest
service he could render was to relinquish her.

What greater betrayal was there than to be discarded upon the roll
of a dice? In the midst of the drama she had argued otherwise, but Roland knew
that when normality returned, Sarah would come to despise him and his lack of
heroism.

He looked beyond Cecily’s shoulder. “Ah, Miss Morecroft,” he greeted
the serious, brown-haired young woman who entered the room flanked by her young
charges, Augusta and Harriet. They were trying hard to contain their enthusiasm
at seeing Caro.

“I trust you have not been overwhelmed by your duties.” To his
surprise he felt a pang as the little girls rushed to embrace his daughter.
He’d missed his nieces.

“Not in the slightest,” she said with her usual calm. “Harriet and
Augusta have proved apt and diligent pupils while Mrs Hawthorne has been
nothing but kindness itself.”

Roland glanced from the demure governess in whose manner he could
detect no irony, to Cecily whose lips were pursed in a prim, complacent little
smile.

Good, it appeared he would not be required to arbitrate in order to
keep a tenuous peace.

“Roland, where are you going?”

Roland had barely drained his tea cup before he was rising,
inclining his head towards the three women.

“To London,” he said, equably. “You’ve run the household so
efficiently in my absence, Cecily, I’ve no doubt you’ll not miss my company
another three days or so.”

“M’lady?”

 
Sarah, reclining on the
Gothic sofa in her friend’s small drawing room, glanced up from her deep
introspection of the dancing flames as her maid put her head around the door.

“A gentleman to see you.”

James. Shame and embarrassment curdled in her belly. He’d written
the moment he’d heard news of the uproar at Middlebrook.

She sighed. “Show him in.”

Dear Lord, she’d never forget standing on the top step that led to
the stage while the audience buzzed with excitement and Millicent wept, “I’m so
sorry, Lady Sarah.” Though if she really had been, and not such a wet-goose to
boot, she’d hardly have continued in imploring tones, “Mother thought she
recognised you at the inn and though I tried to stop her she went after the
publican with some excuse and read the note you’d given him.”

Drawing her green Pomona shawl more closely round her, Sarah dragged
herself off the sofa, wishing she had the freedom to fly abroad and escape the
nightmare her life had become.

After a cursory inspection of her appearance in the looking glass
above the chiffoniere, and a weary adjustment to a flattened curl, she was
ready.

She’d thought nothing had the power to rouse her from her from her
lethargy, but the sound of his boots in the corridor outside the door made her
feel suddenly ill. Not at what she’d done but at what he must be thinking.

She tensed, preparing herself for the moment James would thrust open
the door and gaze upon her with reproach and disappointment.

“Gad’s teeth, Sarah! You look like you’ve been sleeping in a
haystack.” Striding to the footstool she’d migrated to, he crouched down to
grip her shoulder.

It was all she could do, not to cry. Instead, she took refuge in brittle
pride. “I do not need a lecture from you, James,” she said, turning away from
him. “I hoped you would not come.”

“That I’d give up on you at last?” he asked, rising and striding to
the fire to warm his hands. “Don’t think you can ruin yourself without more
than a murmur from me.” He twisted his head to look at her, dominating the room
with his massive shoulders and red hair. But it was his look of puzzlement she
found so hard to bear. Did he really think she was guilty, as charged?

“Say your piece and then leave me alone,” she muttered, drawing her
shawl close.

“Do you know what the gossips are saying? Not to mention the
wags—? A house of ill repute in Marylebone, Sarah?” He shook his darling
shaggy head. “Obviously there is some rational explanation. I, for one, do not
believe you were enticed into the flesh trade. I’m sure most others who know
you don’t, either. So what I can’t for the life of me fathom is why you don’t
defend yourself with the simple truth.”

For a moment she considered confessing everything. But that would
mean revealing too much: her rash stupidity in venturing forth alone, her
subsequent humiliation and her undying loyalty to Roland. If James learned of
Roland’s role in all this and the passion he continued to inspire in her, he’d
belittle it all with demands like why he wasn’t here? He might even resort to
anger and seek Roland out.

Well, Roland just needed time. His duty was to ensure Caro could
survive without him before he came courting Sarah. And as Roland was doing all
in his power to protect Caro, so must Sarah.

“I was looking for someone about whose safety I was concerned.” She
sighed. “I’m sorry James but I have vowed to say no more. The truth would only
damage her reputation.”

James narrowed his eyes at her, his disgust plain as he said slowly,
“You believe it worthwhile to sacrifice your reputation for someone who remains
silent in the face of your ruin?”

Sarah stared mutinously into the flames.

“It’s that Hawthorne girl, isn’t it?” he asked suddenly. “She ran
away, or slipped up, and you went after her. That’s it, isn’t it? Now you’re
facing the music and she says nothing.”

Sarah held herself rigid. She would remain silent.

“Good Lord, and her father, that damned Whig Hawthorne, the Devil
rot him, is happy to let the wolves devour you with nary a murmur in case it
hurts his darling daughter or reflects badly on him, more like it.”

“James, please!” Finally roused, Sarah jumped up and gripped the
lapels of his coat as she looked into his eyes. “Terrible things happened that
night at this house in” — she swallowed — “in Marylebone. Mr
Hawthorne took his daughter abroad to recover. You really must not judge what
you can’t understand—”