Page 7 of Scandal with a Sinful Scot

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.”