Page 85 of Scandalous

Well, that didn’t bear thinking about.

Chapter Twenty-Six

It was no exaggeration to say Olivia and Octavia Manton saved Sarah’s life—or at least her sanity. Other than Daphne and Lady Exley, the two spinsters seemed to be the only women in ton circles who had interests other than gossip.

Sarah had not realized how much she missed her old life until a dinner party her uncles gave shortly before her birthday ball. She’d been seated between two handsome young men, one of whom had been uttering some rubbish about British policy in Africa. When he confused Cape Town with Freetown, Sarah had opened her mouth to correct him and then stopped. Not only would he not attend to anything she told him, but he would most likely feel insulted by the correction.

So, she’d bitten her tongue and let him continue.

That was the moment she realized that spending time in London—as enjoyable as parts of it had been—was not something she would want to do again.

That was the moment she realized that she missed Africa. Terribly.

It was not the grinding hardship or poverty she missed, of course, but the sense of purpose and, oddly, the sense of belonging. She’d always believed she was an outsider in N’goe. Not until coming to London did she realize what being an outsider truly meant.

She now understood that what she’d yearned for all those years was a sense of who she was—where she came from.

What a shame she’d had to go halfway around the world to find out she never should have left. Still, the journey had not been without its benefits. She’d made many new friends and also learned about herself. Not only had she learned that she belonged in Africa, but she’d also learned what it was like to be in love. Of course she’d also learned what it was like to have her heart broken.

She told herself—over and over—that it was better Bouchard didn’t love her. What would she have done if he’d asked her to marry him?—not that she’d really believed such a thing possible. Could she have stayed in England? Would she have been satisfied in her life as mistress of Oak Park?

No, she couldn’t live the life of an English gentlewoman even if she was married to the man she loved.

Again, not that it mattered. The arrogant captain had shown no more interest in marrying her than he did in dancing naked in the streets of Mayfair.

She shoved the painful, unprofitable topic of Martín Bouchard from her mind.

No matter how little she enjoyed the social whirl, she’d determined to last through the remainder of the Season before telling her uncles she wanted to return to Africa.

So she’d continued to go to parties, wear lovely gowns, and make pleasant conversation. But she spent all her free time making plans and helping the Manton sisters at their Home for Displaced Women.

The Mantons had also introduced her to the network of people working for those who had no voice of their own in Parliament: slaves. Men like Paul Cuffe, a wealthy, mixed-race Quaker businessman who was organizing a journey to the coast of West Africa and joining the party as its captain.

Cuffe was primarily concerned with settling freed slaves in Freetown, but he’d been supportive of Sarah’s plan to return to Africa and reestablish her parents’ school. In fact, it had been Cuffe who’d given her the idea of the orphanage.

“A school is necessary, but many children will need someplace to live while they learn. Thousands have been orphaned during the slave raids, Miss Fisher,” Mr. Cuffe had said one night at a dinner at the Mantons’. “They are, without a doubt, the most powerless and victimized group in Africa.”

Cuffe’s ship was set to sail only a few days after Sarah met him, so joining the Quaker’s mission was not an option. But Sarah had donated her largely unspent quarterly allowance to his cause.

Sarah was ashamed to admit it, but she’d not been entirely disappointed that she wasn’t leaving on the Quaker’s ship. Not because she would miss the last part of the Season, but because of Martín. The handsome captain had emerged from wherever he’d been keeping himself and had begun to attend more and more functions.

A week after they’d ridden in the park, he’d shown up at a lively soiree at the Mantons’ home. It had been fortunate that Mies, who’d become intolerably proprietary—offering for her hand not once, but twice—had not been invited. Martín, who’d been frustratingly scarce, had been seated beside her.

“I understand the upcoming ball your uncles are hosting is in honor of your birthday, mademoiselle?” Martín asked, ignoring the heated argument that raged across the table regarding a piece of labor legislation.

“Yes, it is, although my birthday is actually a day earlier.”

“And what will be your age?”

“That is a rude question, Captain Bouchard.”

“Only when the lady is older, or so I understand.”

“But I am older. At four and twenty I am on the shelf.”

“Shelf?” A line formed between his beautiful eyes. “What shelf?”

Sarah laughed. He spoke English so well that she often forgot it was not his first language.