Читать книгу Scandal with a Sinful Scot - Karyn Gerrard - Страница 11

Chapter 3

Abbie had spent the rest of the afternoon penning a lengthy and honest letter to Alberta. It had helped to calm her turbulent mind. She revealed her shock over Garrett’s appearance, and the complicated and powerful emotions that had reignited at the mere sight of him. Since Abbie had a standing invitation, she informed Alberta that she would visit as soon as she could arrange it. At four pages, the newsy letter was thick when folded and would require extra postage.

When Mrs. Jones arrived to do the housekeeping, Abbie slipped a shilling in her hand and sent her along to the post, then to Gethin’s to relay that she was unwell and would not be able to attend to her volunteer duties today. Once the woman departed, Abbie took to her room and curled up on her bed, burrowing under her quilt. Confronting Garrett today was not feasible, not while she remained in this current mood of uncertainty and turmoil. Abbie had to be in complete control when she faced him. Also, she needed to decide whether to mention Megan or not.

One glance at the fourteen-year-old girl, with her tall, slender form, reddish-blond hair, and profusion of freckles, made it clear Garrett was the father. When Megan was first born, she and Elwyn had decided they would tell her about her real father when she turned sixteen, an age when she would be mature enough to absorb the news. Does she tell Megan now, or wait as she and Elwyn had originally planned? For Megan believed Elwyn her father. To tell her otherwise would be upsetting indeed. For more years than Abbie cared to count, she’d been hurt and angry over Garrett. When at last it had dissipated enough for her to think rationally, she had struggled with the decision of letting him know that he had a daughter. But she had respected her husband too much to bring the whirlwind that was Garrett into their lives.

For her own self-preservation and fearing her response, Abbie had not wanted to face him. If today was any indication, she had been wise to avoid Garrett in the past, because—damn it all!—she still desired him, and she would have never allowed Elwyn to see it, for it would have hurt him.

Besides, Elwyn had been Megan’s father in every way that counted. He brought her up, loved her unconditionally. The years flew by, and Garrett had slowly disappeared into the haze of memories. Why upend their quiet, content lives?

And what would be the impact on Megan? She was at an emotionally tender age; how would she take the news? Not well. Abbie had gone back and forth the past two years arguing with herself over what to do and how to proceed. Now, with Garrett’s appearance, the decision had been made on its own accord.

After a fitful sleep, Abbie rose the next morning determined to see Garrett and at least renew their acquaintance. She could not put it off any longer, regardless of her trepidations. Perhaps he wouldn’t care to see her again one way or the other. No doubt he’d moved beyond their brief, intense encounter; he could even be married. Though Alberta had mentioned in one of her recent letters that Garrett’s nephew, Riordan, had taken a bride, the rest of the occupants of Wollstonecraft Hall remained unattached. It was best to meet with him before bringing Megan into the picture.

Once she managed to eat a late breakfast, Abbie donned her heavy wool cloak and her hat and gloves and made her way toward the village. Steeling her spine, she entered the sanatorium. The carriage was nowhere in sight, but the driver could be staying in the village proper.

Cristyn stepped out of a patient’s room and closed the door. “Feeling much recovered today, Abbie?”

Not really, but she gave Gethin’s pretty daughter a polite smile. “Yes, thank you. A new patient?”

She nodded. “Mr. Aidan Black. His uncle brought him in yesterday. Opium addiction.”

Aidan? She remembered the twins; they were twelve that summer, following behind Garrett like a pair of adoring devotees, especially Aidan. He often had to put the run to them so that she and Garrett could be alone. Heavens, they would be twenty-six now. Opium? How horrible. Abbie removed her cloak and bonnet and hung them on the hook. “How can I assist?”

Abbie followed Cristyn to the kitchen area to the left of the entrance. “I will need your help in encouraging him to take some broth. Last night he knocked it out of my hand. I fetched Dad to help and we managed to coax him to take a few spoonfuls, but Aidan promptly brought it back up.”

Volunteering here the past fourteen months had given Abbie an eyewitness account of what a person suffering from addiction goes through. Elwyn had often spoken of it in detail through the years, but to see it firsthand was shocking indeed. “A rough night, I take it?”

Cristyn nodded. “We had to tie his hands to the bed rails, as he thrashed about constantly. We took turns sitting with him.” Her expression took on a sad look. “Between the bouts of cursing, then crying, and the tremors and vomiting, it was quite an ordeal.”

Once they gathered the broth and fresh water, they headed to the room. Abbie opened the door. In the bed lay a shirtless young man, emaciated, sweating, his hands tied and his eyes unseeing.

“He is not wearing a nightshirt for the time being. He ruined two yesterday from sickness and perspiration,” Cristyn said.

Underneath the horror of opium withdrawal was a handsome face with light blue eyes and black hair. She could see the resemblance from the gangly twelve-year-old of years past. This was Garrett’s nephew. Her heart ached at the sight of him.

Obviously they were using a false name, and Abbie would not reveal their secret. Would he recognize her? It would be fifteen years this summer since they had last laid eyes on each other. Aidan pulled at the restraints, grunting and snarling like a wild animal. Perhaps not, for he was glassy-eyed and not aware of his surroundings. As soon as Cristyn approached and wiped his fevered bow, he quieted. “There, cariad,” Cristyn whispered. “Be at peace.”

My goodness. There had been a development during the past twenty-four hours. Abbie had not witnessed Cristyn being quite this familiar with previous young male patients. Calling Aidan “love”? Yes, it was often used as a general term, as in “Hello, love. How are you?” but the way she gazed at him led Abbie to believe that there were more emotions at play. How interesting.

Sitting the tray on the table near the bed, Abbie asked, “What of his uncle, is he still about?”

“No, Dad insisted he return home to Kent. There was nothing he could do here. Mr. Black left this morning with his friend, Mr. Seward.”

Blast it. Now she would have to travel to Kent and confront Garrett there. Or should she? Writing him a letter informing him that he had a daughter was rather impersonal and craven on her part. Did she really wish to stir up this hornet’s nest of emotions? It was too late on her end, for the hornets were already buzzing about, stinging her with heated memories and giving her no relief. Abbie understood that she would not find respite until she met with Garrett in person.

But first she would have to speak to Megan. Tell her the truth. And ask if she even wanted to meet Garrett. Regardless, he would be told of their daughter. What Abbie needed to hear more than anything? An apology. She also wanted Garrett to admit that he’d been wrong when he cruelly turned her away, for whatever reason. Surely it couldn’t be because of that family curse he had told her about.

Regardless, it became rather important that she heard those words from him.

* * * *

Oliver Wollstonecraft, the Earl of Carnstone, had not been looking forward to saying goodbye to Riordan. He’d enjoyed having his grandson at the hall the past six weeks. As much as he had enjoyed it, and becoming acquainted with Riordan’s bride, Sabrina, it was Mary Tuttle, former lady’s maid, who had held his full attention at this moment.

Since she’d discarded her servant title and the plain outfits, a mature attractiveness had emerged. She wore colorful day dresses and styled her chestnut brown hair differently. She also had a well-rounded and luscious figure. But it wasn’t her looks or figure that made him give her a second look. Mary Tuttle was honest and humorous, with no counterfeit emotions or sly machinations. She had a ready smile and a full-throated laugh that made his insides heat. They were of a like age, and had much in common.

Now they must say goodbye, at least temporarily. Riordan and Sabrina had already said their goodbyes and were outside, seeing to the new carriage and horses that Riordan had bought and making sure the trunks were well secured before their imminent departure.

Oliver only had Mary alone for a few minutes. She gazed at him, unblinking, waiting for him to speak. Damn it all, tongue-tied at sixty-four.

“My lord—”

He clasped her gloved hand. “I’ve asked you to call me Oliver when we’re alone. Carnstone when we’re not. You agreed.” He smiled.

“Yes, I did agree. It feels strange to use your first name. I must be still thinking with my servant’s mind…Oliver.”

His eyelids lowered briefly, savoring the way her voice deepened when she said his name. “I will miss you, Mary.” He opened his eyes and caught her gaze. Let her see the heat simmering in them.

“As I will miss you,” she replied, her voice soft.

“Then will you allow me to start a correspondence with you, until we meet again in June?” he asked hopefully.

Mary pulled her hand out of his. “To what purpose? I’m merely the daughter of a sailor. Not fit for the proper company for an earl.”

“I believe that is for me to decide. Besides, you said that your father was a sailing master on a sixty-gun frigate. An important position. You were not poor.”

She scoffed. “Until he died at sea and left us with nothing and I had no choice but to head into service.” Mary smoothed her skirt. “At age fifty-five, I’ve seen plenty. Though I have not been intimate with a man in decades, I recognize…I…” Mary stammered. “Oh, blast. I’ve tried to hide how flustered I am when I’m with you, but it’s to no avail.”

Oliver stepped closer. “Only flustered?”

Mary smiled. “No, blast your beautiful blue eyes. Much more than that.”

He pulled her into his arms and kissed her soundly. Mary froze, but for only a moment. Then, as if remembering what to do, she met his kiss with decided enthusiasm. Oliver deepened it, plunging his tongue into her sweet, hot mouth and taking complete possession.

A soft moan escaped the corner of her mouth as the exploration continued. Mary rubbed against him, turning up the heat sizzling between them. Slowly and reluctantly, Oliver ended it. She had to leave. Someone could walk in on them. He cradled her cheeks with his hands, gazing into her eyes. “We are too far along in years to play games. I want you, but I can be patient. We will write each other. Deepen the friendship that already exists…you agree one exists?”

She nodded, her eyes glistening with emotion.

“Come June, the school term ends and you will all return here. By then we should be certain of what we both want.” He stepped back. “Goodbye, Mary.”

She blinked, her lower lip trembling. “Goodbye…Oliver.”

With a swish of her skirts she was gone, leaving an alluring scent of vanilla lingering in the air. Like a lovesick schoolboy, he moved to the large window and watched as the footman assisted Mary into the carriage. Before she entered it, she paused, looked up, and caught his gaze. Her warm smile made his heart stutter in his chest as it hadn’t done since he first met the love of his life, his second wife and Garrett’s mother, Moira, so long ago.

Once the door closed, the driver gave a command and the horses whickered in response. The carriage was off. Oliver stood at the window and watched until, at the bottom of the long drive, the carriage made its turn and disappeared.

He’d made his peace with the fact that he would never have deep feelings toward a woman again. Never imagined that he would experience it at this late stage of his life. He had no right to pursue the lovely Miss Tuttle. He already had three wives and a baby daughter buried in the family cemetery. Why place another woman in harm’s way? The curse had played a huge part in his life—how could it not? Caution would be needed. Even though Riordan had decided love would triumph over all, Oliver knew it had not been enough to save his true love.

Well, he had the next several months to decide how to proceed with Miss Mary Tuttle. Taking a seat by the fire, he stretched out his long legs and started to nod off. Forgive me, Moira.

“Da, wake up.”

Oliver woke with a start. God, he’d fallen asleep. Rubbing his eyes, he looked up. “Garrett. I did not expect you for at least a couple of days. What is it?”

His younger son had spent a large segment of his life tucking away outward emotions, but they often broke free when least expected. Or they blazed in his hazel-green eyes, as they did now. Oliver knew how to read his son’s often shuttered expressions.

“I’ve sent Gordon along to collect Julian. I have news on Aidan. Did I miss Riordan?”

Oliver glanced at the mantel clock. Three hours had passed. Well, he did not get much sleep the previous night. No wonder he was exhausted. “He left hours ago; he must be close to home.” Oliver stood and stretched his back. “What about Aidan?”

“Damn,” Garrett said softly. “I should’ve returned sooner.” He shook his head. “Let us head to the main library. I instructed Martin to pour us generous tumblers of whiskey.”

“That bad?”

“Yes. Come. Julian is no doubt awaiting us.”

As they headed to the library, Oliver found it strange that the footman, Gordon, was not standing in his usual place. Was he still looking for Julian?

Yet when they stepped in the room Julian was already seated, whiskey in hand. Martin, their venerable butler, efficiently served their drinks, stirred the fire to life, then left them alone. Oliver had a terrible feeling of foreboding. Glancing at Julian, he could see his oldest son felt the same.

“Edwin Seward contacted me, stating he’d located Aidan. It is why I journeyed to London,” Garrett said. “Well, that and Durning’s court hearing.”

Julian’s face turned thunderous. “And you thought not to inform us? He’s my son.”

“Hold in your anger and hear me out,” Garrett replied. “Edwin suggested that we not descend on Aidan. Once I arrived and found where he had been holed up for the past several months, I agreed with Edwin’s assessment.”

Garrett, not one for long, drawn-out conversation, proceeded to paint a horror-filled narrative of invading a St. Giles rookery in the early morning and finding Aidan with a group of thieves, prostitutes, and other deviants in a filthy doss-house. How, along with Edwin’s men and a few hired toughs, they had snatched him up and made their escape.

To Hertfordshire, of all places. As he described the clinic and the Welsh doctor who ran it, Julian’s face crumbled and all anger vanished. “Opium? Gin? How…how did he look?”

“Ghastly.” Garrett answered in a quiet voice. “He’s lost weight; the doctor claimed that it could be two stone or more. His skin is an unhealthy gray shade. He’s malnourished, dehydrated, and sick to his very core.”

Oliver’s insides twisted at the news, but in shrewdly watching Garrett he had the feeling that there was more to Aidan’s injuries than his younger son let on.

“It will take months for him to recover, weeks to come out of the worst of the withdrawal. And before you demand that we head to Hertfordshire, Dr. Bevan recommended we all stay well clear until Aidan wishes to see us. The doctor said that his recovery will move ahead at a more rapid pace if family is not around to add to his guilt and shame.”

“I would never admonish Aidan, not in this condition. He’s ill,” Julian said, his voice shaking.

“Yes, precisely. He is ill. The doctor suggested that we not blame ourselves for how low Aidan has sunk,” Garrett replied.

“And how does this damned doctor propose we do it?” Julian snapped. “All I did was reprimand and lecture him. It never even crossed my mind that his behavior was a call for help.”

Oliver stood and laid a hand on his oldest son’s shoulder. “None of us recognized the signs. Why would we? He was always a little wild. Never liked being told what to do. Bucking us at every turn. I thought him merely rebellious, as many young heirs are. I believed that he would grow out of it. There is enough blame to go around, but I agree that it is best we avoid such self-indulgence.”

Julian glanced at Garrett. “I am his father. You should have told me. I should have been there when you extracted him. I will not forget this.”

“Julian,” Oliver said. “Enough. I know you are upset…”

“Upset? Try devastated. I have failed my son. Failed as a parent,” Julian barked.

“You are not thinking clearly,” Oliver replied, his voice gentle. “Garrett did as Edwin instructed, and hearing the circumstances, it was for the best. Think how distressed Aidan would have been if you had seen him in such a condition. It would not help his recovery. I truly believe this.” He squeezed Julian’s shoulder. “We wait for word. The doctor will be keeping us apprised?”

Garrett nodded. “Regular updates. He promised.”

“Julian, you are the farthest thing from a failure as a parent. When Fiona died, when the twins were four years old, I observed how you bravely hid your grief from them and focused all your attention and love on them. Instilled in them a sense of honor, of service to one’s fellow man, and deep down, I believe Aidan embodies all that and more. He will prove it to you someday soon; I know it in my heart.” Oliver gave his son’s shoulder another affectionate squeeze.

Because of the many tragedies in their lives, the Wollstonecraft men shared an unshakeable and solid bond. Much like soldiers in a field of battle. They were trusted allies, confidants, brothers-in-arms, bound by the curse but more importantly by blood and mutual respect. They were close friends, and they supported each other no matter the crisis. More than anything, however, love cemented the connection. Enriched it. Enhanced it. Hearing of Aidan’s fate and witnessing Julian’s anguish reminded Oliver of how devoted they were to each other.

Julian buried his face in his hands, his shoulders heaving. Good God, he was crying. Oliver’s heart twisted with pain at seeing his son’s desolate grief. Oliver was about to comfort him when Gordon, the footman, appeared at the door.

“Master Garrett, Mrs. Eaton has arrived.”

Alberta Eaton stepped into the room, her gaze falling to Julian. “Tensbridge.” Without hesitating, she ran to his side, fell to her knees, and embraced him. Julian held her close, his face buried in her neck. She smoothed his hair, whispering what Oliver supposed was words of comfort, though he could not make them out.

Garrett took Oliver’s elbow and they both left them alone. Gordon closed the door and resumed his position in the hallway.

“Very shrewd, Garrett. For a man who claims women are nothing but a complication in a man’s life, you’ve showed acute instincts. Well done,” Oliver said, proud of the way his younger son handled this difficult situation.

They strolled toward Oliver’s study. “It’s obvious he has a tendre for her. And since I’ve been helping with her renovations, I’ve come to know her. I believe that she is what Julian needs at this moment.”

Oliver arched an eyebrow. “And the curse?”

“Oh, I still believe in it, and Julian would be wise to avoid anything long term.”

A short bark of laughter left Oliver’s throat. “By God, you are as stubborn as your mother ever was. Have you even entertained the possibility that you are wrong about it all?”

Garrett shook his head. “Never. The proof is clear, as well you know, Da.”

Oliver frowned. He didn’t like being reminded that he had suffered more losses than any man in the family. But a part of him still hoped there was a way to end the blasted curse.

“Riordan wouldn’t listen, and if Julian wants to take another chance at possible tragedy, that’s his decision,” Garrett continued. “I plan on staying clear of any emotional or romantic attachments.”

Oliver nearly snorted aloud in disbelief. Yes, his son was obstinate and unmovable on this subject. This was not the life that he had wished for Garrett, or for any of them for that matter. His youngest son had lots of love to give, like his late mother. What a complete shame to waste it. Only an extraordinary woman would be able to pull down the persistent and protective wall Garrett had constructed around his heart.