Love and Other Scandals (9 page)

Chapter 9

T
he morning Joan had agreed to walk with the Weston sisters in the park, she lay abed late, trying to construct a tale that would satisfy Abigail and Penelope without revealing too much. It was important to stick fairly near the truth, she had learned, in order to avoid tripping herself up later. Obviously she would have to tell them about the kiss. Not only was it monumental news, it was delicious enough—and the man who gave it was infuriating enough—to require extensive analysis. Should things grow uncomfortable, though, she must have a diversion at hand. With some regret, she decided
50 Ways to Sin
must be sacrificed.

But when she finally went downstairs, she forgot all about that. Servants were hurrying past her, and Smythe, the butler, looked even more somber than usual. She paused in the hall and wondered what was going on. To her astonishment, her father came down the stairs dressed for travel and escorting Dr. Samuels, the physician who had been here just the other morning to see Mother.

“What’s wrong, Papa?” she asked as soon as the physician had left.

“I’m taking Mother to Cornwall,” he said. “For her health.”

Joan gaped at him. “Oh—Oh dear! But then, she’s not well, is she?” Mother had coughed a great deal yesterday, and gone to bed earlier than usual, but no one had suggested it was this serious.

“No,” he said grimly, “she isn’t. She grew worse overnight and I got Samuels up before dawn.”

“What did he say she’s got?”

“Something is inflaming her lungs, and London air is making her sicker.” Joan had never seen her father look so grave. “Janet is finishing the packing right now; we leave as soon as she’s ready.”

“Poor Mother,” she cried. “Papa, she’s going to recover, isn’t she?”

“I trust so.” His smile was real, though strained. “I intend to do everything possible to see that she does.”

“Of course.” For a few frightening moments Joan considered her mother dying. She squeezed her father’s hand. “You should have woken me—I’d no idea! I’ll have Polly pack my things at once. It won’t take but half an hour—”

“No,” he said at once. “You’re not coming—you
may
not come,” he added as she opened her mouth to protest. “The physician isn’t sure what’s made her ill, and even if you wished to come to Cornwall, neither your mother nor I will allow it. Neither of us wants you to become ill with the same disease.”

“But you’re going,” she protested. “Papa, I can help—”

“I know you would, my darling girl.” He put his arm around her. “But you aren’t coming, and that is all there is to it.”

“All right.” Joan was silent for a moment, trying to take it in. “Am I to stay with the Westons?”

“No.” Papa hesitated. “I’ve no idea how long we may be away from town, and don’t like to impose on Mrs. Weston so abruptly. I’ve asked Aunt Evangeline to come stay with you.”

“Aunt Evangeline!” Her mouth dropped open again. Evangeline, Countess of Courtenay, was her father’s sister, twice widowed and nearing fifty. Any presumption that her age and status might make her sober and respectable, however, was sadly mistaken. Evangeline was high-spirited, unconventional, and undaunted by anything like social censure or public disapproval. In Joan’s first Season, Evangeline had caused a minor scandal by carrying on with the much-younger Sir Richard Campion, the noted explorer. They had eventually left London for Chelsea, where Sir Richard managed to procure an estate that bordered Evangeline’s, which caused Lady Bennet to strike them both from her guest lists. Joan had even heard her mother call Evangeline fast, which was one of the worst things Mother called any lady. Aunt Evangeline called herself the black sheep of the Bennets, and seemed to revel in it.

And now Aunt Evangeline was coming to chaperone her? “Er . . .” She cleared her throat. “That will be lovely, I’m sure. How is Aunt Evangeline?”

“In good form,” said her father, with a warning look. “Don’t encourage her, Joan.”

She blushed a little in spite of herself. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

Papa snorted. “You know very well what I mean. If Evangeline offers you brandy, you must refuse.”

“Yes, Papa.”

“And the same applies to whiskey, port, and any other spirit stronger than a glass of wine, my sly girl. Remember your mother.”

She pursed her lips. “Surely Mother wouldn’t want me to be rude to Aunt Evangeline.”

“No, she will expect you to decline gracefully and charmingly, as you do so well.” His mouth twitched as though he was trying not to smile. “It will make Mother worry if you don’t give your promise on this, and I won’t have her worried.”

“No, of course not.” Joan grew sober again. “How long do you expect to be gone?”

“Two months, perhaps three.”

That was a long time—far longer than she had been apart from both her parents in years, in fact. It hit her hard how worried her father must be for Mother’s health, for him to leave London on less than a day’s notice for several weeks. “You will write to us, won’t you? To let me and Douglas know how Mother is?”

“Douglas won’t be in London,” said her father, a new line of worry appearing in his forehead. “I had planned to go to Ashwood House next month, to see to the work there. Someone needs to oversee the rebuilding after the floods. Since I can’t go, I am sending Douglas.”

“Douglas?” Joan goggled at him, shocked all over again. “You’re sending Douglas to build something?” First Evangeline, now this. It was as if the world had toppled onto its side, upending years of expectations.

“He doesn’t have to build anything. He merely has to supervise the work and keep me apprised of it.” Papa paused. “It will be rather good for him. He’s only got up to trouble in town this year.”

“I know, but . . . goodness.” Joan didn’t feel even the slightest tremor of regret for falsely impugning her brother over her waltz with Lord Burke. Not only did he deserve it, she was certain he’d done much, much worse that her parents had never learned about. “How did he take the news?”

“Well enough.” The butler came up and murmured a word to Papa, who nodded and turned to Joan again. “You’ll get on with Evangeline, won’t you? I trust you, you know.”

“More than you trust her.”

“I trust her, too,” he said without blinking an eye. “It’s the combination that worries me.”

A flutter of motion on the stairs caught her eye before Joan could reply. Janet was coming down the stairs, buttoning her traveling coat with one hand and her other arm filled with cushions and throw rugs. Behind her, moving far more slowly and gingerly, came two footmen supporting Lady Bennet between them. Far from protesting, Mother looked pale and tired, and she winced with each step. She looked ill, truly ill, and fear squeezed Joan’s heart. “I’ll be good, Papa,” she promised in a rush. “I’ll mind Aunt Evangeline and make Mother proud of me.”

“I knew you would.” He flashed her a quick smile before striding across the hall and taking the stairs two at a time to his wife’s side. Lady Bennet gave him a weak but grateful smile as he waved aside one of the footmen and put his own arm around her.

Joan felt tears prickle the back of her eyes as her father gently lifted her mother into his arms at the foot of the stairs, handling her as if she were made of glass. All her life, Mother had been the strong one, with a will of iron and an indomitable spirit. Papa was the easygoing parent, able to wink at Joan’s minor sins and willing to slip her a biscuit or treat her to a new bonnet when she’d been scolded and reprimanded by her mother. She’d never thought her father was weak—not physically, not mentally—but it was shocking to see him overrule Mother’s protest that she could walk without blinking an eye, dictating every last detail to the servants, walking away from all his duties and responsibilities without hesitation.

She followed him out to the waiting carriage, and hurried to help Janet arrange the cushions under her mother’s feet and at her back. Twice Lady Bennet was taken with a fit of coughing, and Joan saw the blood-spotted handkerchief before Janet whisked it away and tucked a fresh one into her mistress’s hand. She sent a worried glance at her father, whose grim face indicated he’d seen the blood as well. She ducked her head and smoothed the throw rug over her mother’s feet. Mother looked as if she’d shrunk, and her fingers were almost as white as the handkerchief she clutched. When Joan looked up, Mother gave her a weak smile.

“Thank you, dear,” she said. Her voice was soft and raspy.

Gently Joan took her hand. “Get well again, Mother. I’ve already told Papa he must write to me every week and tell me how you are.”

Lady Bennet smiled. “I shall do my best. And you—” She glanced at Janet. “Your father spoke to you?”

She nodded. “I gave him my promise,” she said quietly. “You’re not to worry about me.”

Her mother’s fingers tightened on hers. “I won’t.” Joan leaned into the carriage and kissed her mother’s cheek in farewell, then stepped down.

Papa was drawing on his gloves; the butler stood behind him with his hat. “I expect it will take several days for the journey,” he said. “I won’t jostle her more than necessary.”

“No, no, of course not.” Joan blinked several times, overwhelmed by the upheaval. “When should I expect Aunt Evangeline?”

His mouth thinned and he glanced down the street. “At any moment. I sent her word this morning we were leaving as soon as possible. I’m sure she’ll be here within an hour.” He paused. “If she doesn’t arrive today, you must go to Doncaster House.”

The Countess of Doncaster was her mother’s sister. Joan would have happily gone to stay at Doncaster House if her cousin Mariah were in residence, but she was not. In fact, she suspected that only the earl was in residence now; Aunt Cassandra had gone to tend Mariah for the birth of her child. Joan wasn’t precisely frightened of the Earl of Doncaster, but she was mightily intimidated by him.

“Er . . . perhaps it would be best if I went to the Westons,” she said, adding quickly, “just until Aunt Evangeline arrives, of course.”

From within the carriage came the sound of Mother coughing again. A spasm of worry flickered over Papa’s face. “Yes, the Westons, if you like,” he said distractedly. “Very good. We must be going now.”

Joan gave a vigorous nod. Yes, let them be off, carrying Mother to healthier air. The sound of that coughing frightened her near out of her wits. “Good-bye, Papa. Take care of her.”

“The very best care I can.” He pressed a quick kiss on her forehead. “Write to us. It will keep up Mother’s spirits to hear of you.”

“I will, Papa, every week.”

He stepped into the carriage and the footman closed the door behind him. Mother herself leaned forward to raise her hand in farewell. Joan forced a bright smile and waved back, remaining on the pavement until the traveling coach had vanished around the end of the street.

Slowly she turned and went back into the house. It seemed so large and empty suddenly, as if losing Papa’s booming laugh and Mother’s energy had cast a funereal pall over the whole house. She shivered and tucked her shawl more closely around her. Perhaps she should go to the Westons until Aunt Evangeline arrived; she wasn’t sure she wanted to stay in this empty, echoing house.

But then, she really wasn’t in the mood for gossip and laughing, either. The Weston house was always filled with both. Abigail would understand and leave her in peace, but Penelope couldn’t hold her tongue to save her life. Normally Joan enjoyed every minute she spent with the Weston girls, but . . . not today.

“Shall I send for some tea, Miss Bennet?” asked the butler quietly.

She rubbed her elbows and nodded. “Thank you, Smythe.”

He bowed and left her standing in the hall alone. Joan couldn’t recall the last time she had been completely alone in the house. She wandered into the morning room, feeling utterly adrift. What would she do, without Mother to supervise her? Would Evangeline allow her to go out, or had Papa given her strict instructions? What would Aunt Evangeline be like?

In spite of her worries, her spirits began to lift as she thought about her renegade aunt. She hadn’t seen Evangeline since Mother refused to have her in the house, but she’d heard such rumors . . . not that one could trust them, of course. Joan could believe Evangeline indulged in spirits and wore more daring gowns than Mother thought proper. She’d also seen Sir Richard Campion from across the Mall once and had no trouble believing Evangeline would throw over society’s approval for such a man. But surely the rest was exaggeration. Surely a countess wouldn’t attend boxing matches and wager on them. Surely a lady wouldn’t ride her estate in buckskin breeches and help mend fences. And of course the stories about Evangeline driving a stage on a dare must be pure fabrication.

As if summoned by those thoughts, a carriage rattled up the street and stopped in front of the still open door. Joan went out to welcome her infamous aunt with no small amount of curiosity.

Evangeline, Lady Courtenay, stepped down from her open barouche and swept Joan into her arms. “You dear girl,” she exclaimed. “Are your parents already away? I came as soon as I got your father’s note but there was a problem with the carriage wheel. Are you well?” She drew back to inspect Joan’s face critically. “No tears—a good sign. You’re as sturdy as the rest of the Bennets, I see.”