Running from Scandal. Amanda McCabe
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face and red-gold waves of hair peeking from beneath a very stylish straw bonnet. She was very still, very proper, and if her demeanour hadn’t convinced Emma this was Sir David’s daughter her grey eyes would have.
Emma walked toward her slowly. She was never entirely sure how to behave toward small children. The only ones she really knew were William and Eleanor, and the rambunctious twins seemed as different from this girl as it was possible to be. Once, when she first married Henry, she’d longed for a child of her own. But later, when she saw his true nature, she knew it was a blessing she had never had a baby.
Yet this girl drew Emma to her by her very stillness. ‘Yes, I knew her, though not very well, I’m afraid. I saw her at dances and parties, and she was always the prettiest lady there. Just as I suspect you will be one day.’
The little girl bit her lip. ‘I’m not sure I would want to be.’
Sir David hurried over to lay his hand protectively on the girl’s shoulder. ‘Mrs Carrington, may I present my daughter, Miss Beatrice Marton? Bea, this is Mrs Carrington. She’s Lady Ramsay’s sister from Barton Park.’
Miss Beatrice dropped a perfect little curtsy. ‘How do you do, Mrs Carrington? I’m very sorry we haven’t seen you at Barton Park before. I like it when we visit there.’
Emma gave her a smile. There was something about the child, something so sad and still, that made her want to give her a hug. But she was sure the preternaturally polite Miss Beatrice Marton would be appalled by such a move.
Much like her father.
‘I’ve been living abroad and have only just returned to Barton,’ Emma said. ‘I fear my sister and her family have gone to London for a while, but you may call on me any time you like, Miss Marton. I am quite lonely there by myself.’
‘So what brings you to my shop today, Sir David?’ Mr Lorne interrupted. ‘Has your uncle, Mr Sansom, finally decided to sell me his library?’
‘I’ve just come to find Beatrice a new book. She’s already read the last ones you sent to Rose Hill,’ David said. ‘As for my uncle, you would have to ask him yourself. I fear he never leaves his estate now, though you are certainly quite right—his library is exceedingly fine.’
‘Such a pity.’ Mr Lorne sighed. ‘I am quite sure I would find buyers for his volumes right away. Books should have loving homes.’
As Mr Lorne and Sir David talked about the library, Emma watched Beatrice sort through stacks of volumes on the floor. She came back not with children’s picture books, but with titles like The Environs of Venice and A Voyage Through the Lands of India.
‘Do you wish to travel yourself, Miss Marton?’ Emma asked, quite sure such volumes should be too weighty for such a little girl.
Beatrice shook her head, hiding shyly behind the brim of her bonnet. ‘I like to stay at home the best. But I like looking at the pictures of other places and when Papa reads me the stories. It’s like getting to be somewhere else without actually having to leave.’
‘Yes, that’s exactly what books are,’ Emma said. ‘Like trying on a different life.’
‘Have you been to these places, Mrs Carrington?’
‘A few of them.’
Beatrice hesitated for a moment, then said quickly, ‘Perhaps you would tell me about them one day?’
Emma’s heart ached at the girl’s shy words. She heard so much in them that she tried to hide in herself: that uncertainty, that need for life, but the fear of it at the same time. ‘I would enjoy that very much, Miss Marton.’
‘Beatrice, we should be going soon,’ Sir David said. ‘Have you found something you like?’
Once everyone’s purchases were paid for, Emma left the shop with Sir David and his daughter. As it was nearing teatime, the street was not as crowded and there was no one to stare at her. But she did notice Mrs Browning, the old widow who lived in the cottage across the street, peering at her through the lace curtains at her windows. Mrs Browning had always known everything that happened in the village.
‘Did you bring your carriage from Barton, Mrs Carrington?’ Sir David asked.
‘No, I walked. The exercise was quite nice after the last few rainy days.’
‘But it looks as if it might rain again,’ he said. ‘Let us drive you back.’
Against her will, Emma was very tempted. Her old intrigue with Sir David Marton, formed when she was no more than a naïve young girl, was still there, stronger than ever. When she looked into his beautiful, inscrutable grey eyes, there was so much she wanted to know. If she did sit beside him on a narrow carriage seat, all the way back to Barton, surely he could not always maintain his maddening mystery?
Yet she was no longer that girl. She had seen far more of the world than her old, curious self could ever have wanted. And she knew that men like Sir David—respectable, attractive—could not be for her. No matter how tempted she might be.
She saw the curtains twitch at the house across the street again and could almost feel the burn of avid eyes. In the cosmopolitan, sophisticated environs of Continental spa towns, where everyone was escaping from something and no one was what they appeared, she had forgotten what it was like to live in a place where everyone knew everyone else’s business. Where they knew one’s family—and one’s past.
Emma had vowed to atone, both for the sake of herself and especially for Jane and her family. She couldn’t let her sister come home to Barton to find fresh gossip, which was surely what would happen if she drove off now with the eligible David Marton. Nor did she want Sir David and his lovely little daughter to face that, only because he was being polite.
And she knew politeness could surely be all it was for him.
The curtain twitched again.
‘You are so kind, Sir David,’ she said. ‘But I do enjoy the walk.’
‘Just as you like, Mrs Carrington,’ he said, still so polite. He put on his hat and the shadow of its brim hid him from her even more than he had been before. ‘I hope we shall see you more often, since you have returned home.’
‘Perhaps so,’ Emma answered carefully. ‘It was good to see you again, Sir David, and know that you are well. And very good to meet you, Miss Marton. I always love meeting other great readers.’
Little Miss Beatrice gave another of her perfect curtsies before she took her father’s hand and the two of them made their way down the lane. Once they were gone from sight, the curtain fell back into place and Emma was alone on the path.
She looked up and down the street, suddenly feeling lost and rather lonely. She’d grown rather used to such a feeling with Henry. After all, he usually left her in their lodgings while he went off to find a card game. But even there she could usually find a few people to talk to, or a task to set herself. Here, she wasn’t sure what she should do.
And being with David Marton made her feel all the more alone, now that he was gone.
She glanced back at the window of the bookshop behind her, at its dusty glass and empty display shelves. Like her, it seemed to be waiting for something to fill it. Suddenly a thought struck her, as improbable as it was exciting.
Maybe, just maybe, there was a way she could find her path back into the life of this place once more. A way she could redeem herself.
She spun around and pushed open the door, moving resolutely inside. Mr Lorne, who was bent over an open volume, looked up with wide, startled eyes under his bushy grey brows.
‘Mr Lorne,’ Emma blurted before she could change her mind. ‘How much might you ask as the purchase price for your shop?’
* * *
‘Mrs Carrington is very pretty.’
David glanced down at Bea, startled by the sudden