The Summer of Wine and Scandal: A Novella by Shana Galen

I would argue our pinot noir is as good as, if not better than, any other you’ve tasted.”
    “That was rather forcefully stated.”
    “I have strong opinions about wine.”
    “A promising quality in a woman. Be careful, Miss Martin. I just might fall in love with you.” He’d been teasing her, but as soon as the words left his mouth, he realized his mistake. This wasn’t some courtesan who could laugh about love. This was a country miss who probably fantasized about marrying the man of her dreams.
    To his surprise, she laughed. “Oh, I have no fear you will ever fall in love with me, Mr. Lochley. Or I you, for that matter.”
    To his further surprise, her words annoyed him. Of course, he would never fall in love with her, but why wouldn’t she fall in love with him? Wasn’t he handsome enough? Wasn’t he charming? Hadn’t he made her laugh?
    “I do think you might fall in love with our wine,” she went on, unaware of his thoughts. “I’d bring you a bottle, but I don’t want to influence the wine-tasting outcome. It’s a very important event for the vintners in the region.”
    He hadn’t thought of the tasting in those terms. Of course it was important to these people, whose livelihood partially depended on the sale of wine.
    “I shall endeavor to do my best to judge,” he said, solemnly—only mentally adding the worst of the worst .
    “Would you like to taste one of our ales?”
    “You brew ale?”
    “Of course. Many people in this area do. In fact, my father’s family has been brewing ale since the days of my great-great-grandfather. The family has only been making wine for a hundred years or so.”
    The wine must be tolerable if people had bought it for the last hundred years. Of course, he’d tasted awful wines from vineyards even older.
    “I’m no great judge of ale, but I’d be honored to taste your family’s. Shall I call on you and your father?”
    “No!” She cut her hand across her body, her face draining of all color. “You cannot.”
    “I haven’t been in Hemshawe long, but I wasn’t aware calling on a lady was a scandalous tradition in this part of England.”
    She sighed. “It’s not. I-it wouldn’t be a good idea. I’ll bring the ale here. Will you meet me again?”
    She was arranging a rendezvous with him in the woods and eschewing a traditional visit? What could he say? He’d never enjoyed the ritual of the drawing room. On the other hand, he had the feeling she hid something. Was she wretchedly poor? Did they have a mad old aunt hidden in the cellar?
    “I’ll come tomorrow.”
    “Not tomorrow,” she said. “I have to go into Tunbridge Wells with my mother. The day after.”
    He inclined his head. “I am yours to command.”
    “I should return.” She bobbed a curtsey that looked out of place among the trees and beside the stream bank. “Good day, Mr. Lochley.”
    “Good day.”
    And then she was gone, and she hadn’t even tried to kiss him.
    ***
    S he hated summer. It seemed half of London poured into the countryside, and those who didn’t venture to Brighton or Bath came to Tunbridge Wells. The shops and streets were busy with tourists, and she and her mother had to fight through the crowds. Her mother’s shopping had taken longer than expected as a result, and it was almost time for dinner when they reached their last stop.
    It was the apothecary’s shop, where her mother often stopped to buy salves and tonics for her husband’s weak knee. It often pained him when there had been more rain than usual or when he’d been on his feet too much.
    “If you don’t mind, Mama, I will wait out here.”
    Her mother opened her mouth to protest and then gave an understanding nod. The apothecary’s wife was one of those nosy women who always asked pointed questions about the time Caro had been away. Caro was well aware most of the people who knew her believed she had gone away to birth a bastard. How she wished that were the truth of it. The apothecary’s