His Compromised Countess. Deborah Hale

If Wyn had not been with her, she might have sunk to the floor and wept in despair. As it was, it took every scrap of pluck she could muster to shore up her faltering composure.

      ‘We cannot stay here tonight.’ She shook her head. ‘Everything will need to be cleaned and aired before we take up residence.’

      ‘Not by me.’ Parker crossed her arms in front of her flat chest. ‘I’m a lady’s maid, not a charwoman. I’d sooner swim back to Penzance than scrub all this.’

      Caroline was too tired and cold to argue the matter just then. She cast the carter a pleading look. ‘Is there anywhere we can find lodging for the night? Did you say Tresco has an inn?’

      ‘Aye, ma’am. T’other side of the island.’

      Parker and Albert groaned.

      ‘We can be there in half an hour,’ added the carter, ‘if we step lively.’

      Though Caroline welcomed the news that the inn was not far away, it disheartened her to realise how tiny this island must be if it took such a short time to cross from one coast to the other. Tresco would be her remote, rustic prison—as different as it could possibly be from the luxurious, stimulating life she’d enjoyed in London.

      How long would she be obliged to stay here? she asked herself as her small party trudged through the dark windy night to the inn. Just until the tattle about her and Fitz Astley died down? Or would she be stranded here for the rest of her life once Bennett divorced her?

      Somehow she managed to keep going for another two hours, hiring them rooms for the night, ordering a modest supper and finally putting Wyn to bed. Once he had dropped off to sleep, she slipped out of the room. In the narrow hallway she encountered the innkeeper’s wife, a small, neat woman with a ruddy complexion and dark-brown hair, grizzled at the temples.

      ‘Are you ailing, my lady?’ the woman asked in a kindly tone. ‘Tell me your trouble and perhaps I can brew you a remedy.’

      ‘I’m not ill, Mrs Pender, only tired.’ Caroline contrived a poor substitute for a smile. ‘It has been a long journey from London and I have not slept well.’

      ‘I see,’ replied Mrs Pender. ‘Well, if it’s nothing worse than that, I reckon a cup of camomile tea would do you a power of good. Would you care to join me in my parlour?’

      Caroline hesitated for an instant. What would her friends in London say if they knew she was keeping company with a rural innkeeper’s wife? Some of them might think worse of her for that than for being caught kissing Mr Astley at Almack’s.

      But she was a vast distance from London now. And none of those friends were here to comfort or divert her. Indeed, she doubted any of them would have come to visit her if she’d still been back in London. They seemed to view scandal as some sort of contagious malady that might infect them if they ventured too near.

      This woman was the first to have shown her any kindness since that awful night her world had come crashing down. Until this moment, she had not realised how starved she was for a bit of agreeable company.

      ‘That is most obliging of you.’ Despite her fatigue and all her worries, Caroline found herself able to smile more sincerely. ‘I would enjoy a little refreshment and someone to share it. I don’t believe I’ve ever had camomile tea.’

      ‘It’s fine stuff, my lady.’ Mrs Pender started down the stairs and Caroline followed her. ‘It has a mild flavour and calms the mind to help you sleep. I pick the flowers early in the summer from the meadows around Great Pool.’

      There were meadows of wildflowers on this island? Caroline found it hard to believe after what she’d seen of Tresco’s rugged, inhospitable landscape so far.

      ‘It’s an honour to have you and your son staying here, my lady.’ The landlady beckoned Caroline into a snug little parlour, then called a servant to fetch hot water from the kitchen. ‘It does my heart good to think of family living in the Maitland house again after all these years. I mind your husband used to come here with his mother when he was about the age of your little fellow.’

      ‘Did he?’ Caroline sank on to an armchair by the hearth, gratefully soaking up the warmth of the fire. ‘I had no idea.’

      ‘Yes, indeed, ma’am.’ Her hostess beamed. ‘My auntie cooked for them and I used to help her out. The countess was such a kind lady and Master Bennett… I mean… his lordship was the picture of your son.’

      ‘Was he?’ Because Bennett never spoke of his mother, Caroline had always assumed she must have died when he was very young, as hers had. If he’d been old enough to remember, why had he never mentioned her? ‘Was my husband close to his mother in those days?’

      ‘Quite devoted, ma’am. And he was all the world to her. She was for ever taking him for walks and picnics. When the weather was bad, she’d play cards with him and read to him by the hour.’

      Those were all things Caroline wanted to do with Wyn. But first she would have to get that deserted house cleaned so it would be fit to live in.

      ‘What sort of woman was my husband’s mother? I never had the pleasure of knowing her.’ Would Mrs Pender think it strange that Bennett had not told her about his mother?

      ‘Well…’ The landlady thought back. ‘I recall she was always polite to folks, no matter what their station.’

      Caroline wondered if that was how Bennett had come by his political principles—his admirable concern for the enslaved and the working poor.

      ‘She was pretty as a picture,’ Mrs Pender continued, ‘though never very strong, poor soul. She always came here for the climate in the autumn while her husband was hunting.’

      The maid returned then with a teapot, cups and a steaming kettle. Caroline watched as Mrs Pender brewed up their tea.

      While it steeped, she continued to pump the landlady for information to appease her curiosity. ‘I suppose it has been quite a long while since they last came to the island?’

      ‘Laws, yes, my lady. It must be every day of two dozen years.’

      ‘That must have been when his mother died,’ Caroline murmured to herself.

      In the process of lifting the teapot, Mrs Pender froze. ‘No, my lady. She came back once, a few years later, without him. Not to stay, but just for a few days to pack up some things from the house to take away.’

      The woman looked as if she meant to say something else, then suddenly changed her mind. Instead she fussed with the tea, pouring it through a tiny strainer.

      ‘Is there something else?’ Caroline fixed the woman with a searching gaze as she took the offered cup. ‘Whatever it is, I should very much like to know.’

      The landlady wavered. ‘I don’t like to gossip, ma’am. Especially not about her ladyship. She was always good to me.’

      The woman’s evasive answer only intrigued Caroline more. What manner of gossip could she know about Bennett’s mother?

      Taking a sip from her cup, she savoured the wholesome, mellow sweetness. The fragrance alone seemed to soothe her. ‘I appreciate your discretion, Mrs Pender, in not talking over the private matters of my family with strangers. However, since I am a member of the family, perhaps you could make an exception?’

      The landlady sipped her tea in silence, clearly mulling over Caroline’s request. ‘Perhaps it’s no great matter, after all, ma’am. It’s just that when her ladyship came back that last time, she brought a gentleman with her. Fine looking, he was, and very agreeable. I can’t recall his name, now, but he… wasn’t her husband.’

      Those last few words, Mrs Pender spoke in a scandalised whisper.

      Caroline nearly choked on a mouthful of her tea. Had Bennett’s parents been divorced? He had never said so, but then again he’d never spoken of them at all. Could this be the reason—because