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

wife was one of those who probably started the rumor, and she was always looking to add fuel to the speculation.
    Caro didn’t understand why, after three years, the people in the village could not find anyone or anything else to gossip about. She supposed that was the curse of the country—nothing very exciting or different ever happened. Until a cow birthed a calf with two heads or the Americans invaded, she was destined to be the topic of discussion.
    Her mother opened the door to the shop, and the bell tinkled. Caro positioned herself and her basket off to the side so as not to impede anyone walking by. Across the street was a small shop that sold ices and other confections. She used to go there with her friends when they met in Tunbridge Wells or before attending a public assembly.
    Looking across, she saw many ladies in fine gowns milling about outside. She knew Miss Peterson and Miss Rogers and had once called them friends. She’d heard there would be an assembly tonight, and she supposed the ladies were meeting beforehand to discuss the festivities. Most of the other ladies were a few years younger than she, the younger sisters of her friends. Her friends had married by now and had babies or moved away.
    Not that they were her friends any longer. Miss Peterson and Miss Rogers and every other friend had abandoned her when she’d returned from London and the rumors began. She spotted Miss Gage and her companion, but the young woman was entering the shop and didn’t see her. Probably for the best, else Miss Gage would be called to task by the matrons who charged themselves with keeping the social order.
    A group of gentlemen dressed in their finest passed by her, chatting loudly. From their swaggers and the slight slur of their speech, they’d obviously been drinking. They weren’t too deep in their cups yet, but she stepped back and out of their way. To her dismay, the group of five or so paused in front of the apothecary, where they spoke in hushed tones.
    She could imagine the topic of their conversation—they probably hoped to acquire French letters—and she lifted her baskets and moved around the side of the building so as not to be embarrassed if they realized she might have overheard.
    She’d just set her baskets on the ground again when two men rounded the building and stopped before her. They were both in their early twenties and wore evening dress with beaver hats perched atop their heads. They were clean-shaven, though one of them had a set of curly mutton chops decorating his cheeks. The other was fair-haired with a tight mouth that seemed to sneer.
    “I told you it was her,” Mutton Chops said in an upper-class accent. He pointed his walking stick at her. “You probably don’t recognize her with her clothes on.”
    An icy blade seemed to cut into her lungs, making it almost impossible to breathe.
    “She was one of Rosie’s?” the one with the sneer asked.
    “No, she was at the Den.”
    No , Caro thought. No , please, no.
    “ Oh ,” the blond let the word drag out. “What’s your name, gel? Seems it was something like Carlotta or Charlotte.”
    Caro shook her head, trying to look past them and hoping against hope her mother had emerged from the shop. But she knew it was futile. The apothecary’s wife loved to talk, and she would keep her mother inside at least a quarter of an hour.
    “Can’t you speak?” Mutton Chops asked, poking her with the walking stick. Caro shoved it away.
    “Oh, this one has claws,” the blond said with a sneer. “It must be one of the girls from the Den. Why don’t you come with us and show us your claws in private?”
    Her throat felt as if it had closed up, but she managed to squeeze out two words. “Go away.”
    “Go away?” Mutton Chops asked. “Why would we do that when we’ve just found a bit of fun?”
    She cleared her throat and tried to swallow. “You are mistaken. I don’t know you.”
    But she did know them. She couldn’t remember them