A Fallen Lady

by Elizabeth Kingston

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  A FALLEN LADY

  First edition. December 30, 2015.

  Copyright © 2015 Elizabeth Kingston.

  All rights reserved.

  For all the Helens I have known, and all the Stephens who have loved them.

  Prologue

  It was a simple story, really. But somehow it was never easy to tell. Whenever she tried to recite it to anyone (not that there were above a very few who ever heard it), her tongue would become paralyzed. Her eyes would seek out the corners of the room, looking anywhere but at the listener, searching for any sign that she was not the girl speaking. Her ears would shrink from hearing the sounds forced out of her. It was as though a massive hand pressed on her chest as on a bellows, and the words came out full of breath and scant of timbre.

  And so the story of her ruin was little more than a rarely heard cluster of breathy syllables that made no sense, not even to herself. There was a dark wood and an innocent-looking shaving kit. There was blood and blue eyes and shouting – and ribbons, a token for an orphan child. She knew it was an incoherent tale, the way she told it. Years later, it remained a disjointed blur of images and sounds.

  She should have run. She should not have been there at all. Silly girl. Mostly, she remembered the warmth of his neck on her forearm, his pounding pulse against her wrist, the words that she had spoken, and the running, running, running.

  A simple story with a simple outcome. It perfectly explained why she came home from Ireland three weeks early with no husband, an Irish maid, a thoroughly ruined reputation, and a tangle of cheap ribbons. It was her own difficulty in telling it that complicated things and rendered it – and her – powerless.

  Chapter 1

  September, 1820

  The Earl of Whitemarsh

  Baird House

  London

  Dear Whitemarsh,

  I am now installed at my home in Herefordshire, not more than an hour's ride from the village of Bartle-on-the-Glen. Having arrived only a week hence, I have not made great progress in that Task which I have undertaken at your request and to the benefit of our mutual interests. It is true that the dower house is indeed without a boarder, much as Lady Helen's solicitor warned. Failing any sudden breakthrough with the clannish villagers, I fear my Investigation may proceed rather slowly.

  However, it has come to my attention that a certain Mme de Vauteuil resides in the village and is described with some respect by frequenters of the local public house as "real Society" – which phrase I can only assume to mean that she is not averse to receiving callers and, one hopes, is as enamoured of gossip as any member of Society. I have said that the villagers are not forthcoming. In particular, their responses to inquiries concerning your sister are uniform. They invariably become hostile and suspicious of any motive in seeking her out, while simultaneously refusing to admit they know or have even heard of her. The information of Mme de Vauteuil I obtained myself, my servants having now gained a reputation in the village as intrusive outsiders who ask far too many questions.

  I hope you will send word immediately if you have any knowledge of Mme de Vauteuil for her name seems familiar to me, though I cannot place it. She may be the only route by which Lady Helen may be found.

  As I have no other pressing matters to attend to in the coming months and my affairs can easily be managed from this location, I am prepared to stay for the whole of Autumn. The manor here wants improvements which I am now at leisure to oversee.

  I shall keep you informed regularly of my progress in pursuit of your sister.

  Your Servant,

  Summerdale

  The knock came just moments before afternoon tea. Marie-Anne was in high humor, laughing at Helen's attempts with the bobbins.

  "No, no, mademoiselle, you must always keep them in order!" It was a laughing scold.

  Marie-Anne leaned over her as they both giggled. Her practiced hands moved the bobbins to their proper positions on the pillow and tried to untangle the mess of threads laced around the pins.

  Helen wailed, "I shall never learn! I am more like to make a proper nesting place for mice." She dissolved into woeful laughter at the sight of her handiwork. Really, it was awful. "And a rodent's nest need not waste so much of my time and effort. Nor your thread!"

  Marie-Anne plucked the whole contraption of pillow, frame, and dangling bobbins out of Helen's lap. Her fingers began to work among the threads. It looked rather a hopeless task to Helen.

  "You only need more practice, and when you have learned, you can make the finest lace nest for that family of mice in your cellar, if you like."

  They spoke in French. Marie-Anne often missed her native language, and found it easier to communicate the details of lacemaking when she could be certain of her vocabulary. Helen was glad to have a chance to use the language at all. There were few enough calls for French in Bartle-on-the-Glen, and it was pleasant to hear the lovely, exotic tones of it while knowing she brought some comfort to her friend.

  Poor Marie-Anne seemed baffled at the profusion of loops and knots in front of her. "Perhaps Maggie knows a simpler design, though Irish lace is just as lovely."

  And no doubt just as complicated, thought Helen wearily as she reached for the letter in her pocket. Her solicitor had given it to her at their last meeting, only a week ago.

  "The Huntingdons will not be coming this autumn. Joyce says the baron is unwell." She scanned the page as she had a hundred times in the last week, searching for any sign of Joyce's displeasure. Her friend was normally quite straightforward, and Helen had no reason to doubt the baron's illness. Still, one could hardly expect a friend to write that it was impossible to visit because one was an embarrassment.

  Marie-Anne looked up from her lap in dismay. "But that is too bad! I hope it is not serious?"

  "I suspect it is his gout, though she does not specify. She writes of it as if he is most tiresome. Her tone would be more serious if the illness were grave." Helen attempted a smile. "We shall have to make do with each other's company, it seems."

  The visit would be sorely missed. Joyce Huntingdon always brought with her an air of gaiety, sharing the gossip from Town and insisting to them that they were most fortunate to be well out of marriage. The baron was not an ideal mate, and being a wife was not nearly as pleasant as one might think, she would tell them. Helen knew her friend always took a risk to socialize with her, and her efforts to keep The Fallen (as they referred to themselves with laughter) entertained were most appreciated. Thinking of the chance she took even in writing to them, Helen was ashamed at her obsessive reading of the letter. Joyce was a good friend.

  Marie-Anne looked worried. "Will this not reduce your income this quarter?"

  "Indeed," answered Helen, re-folding the letter and carefully slipping it into the pocket of her brown homespun dress. "But it is by no means disaster. All our plans are well laid. I have discussed it with Thompkins and I shall manage, so long as there are no unforeseen expenses."

  In truth, it was worrisome. When were there not unforeseen expenses? A lady, whether fallen or not, was entirely confined to her quarterly income unless she had an easily influenced husband with deep pockets.

  In the absence of such, Helen depended on the rent from the dower house to add a bit to her income against any small expenses. The Huntingdons had rented it at least three months out of the year for the last six years. It was a small sum, but welcome nonetheless. In any case, she saved money simply by closing up the dower house. The very thought of heating it throughout the winter made her blanch. No, she did very well in her small lodgings on the edge of the village. If her situation became unbearable, it was her right to
sell the dower house, as it had come to her directly through her mother and was independent of her brother's estate. She would not sell it unless forced to do so.

  Trying to turn her thoughts away from such a grim alternative, she lightened her expression and adopted a bright tone. "Which means I shall have to stop wasting thread on this pitiful excuse for Bruges lace."

  Marie-Anne looked at her for a bare instant before returning her eyes to the mess of thread in her lap and matching Helen's tone. "Another noble pursuit abandoned, with a single visit to the solicitor. I wonder if they know how well they can depress us, these solicitors."

  "Well, as long as they don't confiscate the tea from our cupboards, I shall not stoop to cursing them." Helen stood up. "After all, Mr. Thompkins is an excellent man. And I should hardly call that noble," she said with a nod toward the lace pillow. "Perhaps a valiant attempt, at best. Now, shall I include the berries Maggie found on our tray?"

  "I had Mrs. Gibbons turn them into the most delightful-looking tartlets. You'll find them in the larder." Marie-Anne spoke as her friend headed into the kitchen. "You are quite sure all will be well, ma chère?"

  Helen paused at the doorway. Marie-Anne's income was more than her own, though still just enough to keep her comfortably situated.

  "Quite well, my friend," she answered quietly. She clenched her lower lip between her teeth and conjured a mischievous smile. "And if not, then perhaps I can interest Thompkins in a lovely new style of trim for his cuffs." She nodded again at the mess of thread in Marie-Anne's lap. She began to giggle at the image that formed in her mind of dear, sweet Thompkins tangling his fingers in a profusion of confused threads. "I could tell him it's all the rage"

  She'd managed to set Marie-Anne to giggling by now.

  "Without doubt, we could start a new fashion. We shall spread it about that a man is judged in a moment by his skill in keeping the trim out of his soup," said Marie-Anne with a wide smile.

  Helen laughed her way into the kitchen. They really should not make fun of dear old Thompkins, but he was most ignorant of fashion. The thought of his spindly fingers catching in the knotted loops of thread set her to laughing again as she warmed the pot and measured out tea leaves. Well, the notion of selling a travesty of lace to a gullible old solicitor was certainly more appealing than asking money of Marie-Anne. Both of those options were infinitely more palatable than going to her brother.

  And then she heard the knock at Marie-Anne's front door.

  Not for the first time in his life, the present Earl of Summerdale asked himself what he could possibly have done to avoid the strange situation in which he found himself.

  He stood at the door of a small home at the edge of a quaint village and listened to the charming laughter of unseen women inside, and knocked. He was probably disturbing them in gossiping over their needlework. He would much rather have caught Madame de Vauteuil at tea as he had designed, preferably alone. Having never made her acquaintance – and by everything he knew of the village, he was not likely to happen upon an obliging neighbor – the best ruse he could think of to approach her involved acting the dimwit.

  His horse stood at the gatepost, looking perfectly fit and docile. Anyone who cast a discerning eye would doubt the beast was impaired in any way. It must be Stephen alone who would employ his scarce acting abilities and more abundant powers of persuasion to gain entrance into the Frenchwoman's home. Deceiving ladies, he knew, was not his forte. But in his experience, they did often seem to thrive on assumptions and rejoiced in leaping to conclusions. The thought gave him some hope that, with just the right approach, he might succeed here.

  Before he had time to dream up a sound reason for actually entering the perfectly nondescript little house in the perfectly nondescript little village, the door opened. A lovely, petite woman with honey-colored hair stood at the threshold. It was impossible that she was the maid.

  Looking into her expectant face, he felt a complete fool. He decided to be every inch the nobleman, in hopes of inspiring some feeling of obligation from the woman.

  "Madame, I beg your pardon for disturbing your afternoon. It seems my horse has been so unobliging as to lose a shoe in a place unfamiliar to me." Thus did he launch into his inadequately prepared plea for aid. He made sure to mention the dustiness of the road and to interrupt himself with a dry cough, in hopes of being invited in to a cup of tea.

  "I seem to have ridden quite a bit farther from my home than I intended." He began to falter under her pointed gaze. He had the most distinct impression that she knew exactly who he was, and he sensed a slight hostility whose origins he could not fathom. At the same time, she seemed to be laughing at him. It was a most uncomfortable feeling. "I thought perhaps…" What the devil had he meant to say? "Pardon me, madame, but have we been introduced?"

  She seemed highly amused at that, but only smiled pleasantly. "I do not believe so, sir."

  He should have expected her to have an accent. There seemed to be a thousand things he should have expected at this meeting, but he never expected the strong impression that she had sized him up and summarily dismissed him at a glance. She stood there, looking at him out of those dazzling blue eyes as if she knew precisely who he was and why he was there, and yet she took him to be a colossal joke. He found it maddening.

  He chose to play the haughty aristocrat, curious to see what effect it might have on her demeanor. It was easy enough to raise his brows and look down his nose at her. "Permit me to introduce myself, in that case. I am Stephen Hampton."

  She did not miss a beat. Beaming at him and offering her hand, she said, "A pleasure! And I am Marie-Anne de Vauteuil, scandal of high society, four seasons past."

  How she expected him to respond to that, he couldn't dream. Numbly, he took her hand and made a bow over it. He instinctively felt that gaining her respect would be much easier if he stopped pretending and simply told her immediately that he'd come looking for her. Besides, he found himself amused at her brazen ownership of her scandalous reputation. Her humor was infectious.

  The answering smile that spread across his face was genuine. "How very fortunate, madame. It was in the hopes of making your acquaintance that I came this way."

  He had gained some ground with that, he saw, and something else. She looked somewhat suspicious of him.

  "And who told you to come looking for me, monsieur?" she inquired politely, though nervously.

  Suddenly realizing how it must sound to a fallen woman to hear that a man was seeking her out, he hastened to explain. "I came of my own accord, I assure you. I had hoped to see how you were. I counted the late Mr. Shipley as a friend, you see." That appeared to reassure her somewhat. "I was aware of his very great affection for you. His loss was a tragedy."

  A sweet, wistful sadness came over her face. Shipley, he had recently been reminded, had been her lover. The story of their affaire had been the talk of London four years ago and was still told, he was sure, to young girls at their coming out. A more effective cautionary tale against giving in to fleshly temptations was hard to come by. Shipley had died of a terrible fever quite suddenly, before they could marry. And this lovely woman – who couldn't be above 28 years old – had been left pregnant, disgraced and alone, with no legal claim for herself or her child.

  She had miscarried, he understood, shortly after Shipley's death. His family of unrepentant snobs had never approved of her, but it seemed she had some means of income. Undoubtedly, she'd come to England because of the war in France. Why she would choose to live out her days in Bartle-on-the-Glen was a mystery to him, until he noticed how her smile had become almost forced, an effort. Perhaps she had had enough of living in society.

  "Well," she said warmly, "it is a pleasure to meet a friend of Richard. You said your name is Hampton?" She looked into his eyes and suddenly opened her own wide in recognition. "Oh, then you must be the Earl of Summerdale?"

  He smiled, enjoying the hint of the throaty r's, the full vowels, the slight nasal tone. "My tit
le is most lovely when graced with the proper French accent, I find."

  "Mais vous devez parler français, non? Chez moi, on parle français quand possible."

  Good God, not French.

  Grimacing, he made sure his horrible French was instantly established, despite his embarrassment. "Oui, madame, mais je ne parle pas...le parle, that is." True enough that he didn't speak it. He said nothing about understanding it. "My lamentable tongue is purely English, madame. My tutors often despaired of me, I assure you."

  She looked slightly taken aback by his shameful accent. His inability to properly pronounce even the simplest words was far from an act. He could not pretend to speak it as badly as it naturally fell from his mouth.

  "Bien," she managed to recover from her horror, "then by all means we shall speak English."

  "Please," he gave his most charming grin by way of apology.

  She seemed transfixed for a moment. "Ah! Yes! Your horse." Snapping to attentiveness, she turned away from the door and called down the hall behind her. "Hélène! Is Jack in the forge today, if you know?"

  A voice – the other source of the earlier laughter, he assumed – called back, "No. He's helping the newlyweds with their roof thatch today. Why do you ask?"

  Mme de Vauteuil looked back at him for a moment, calculating. "It seems you may be stranded for a time." As though deciding something, she nodded briefly and called back to the house's other occupant. "We shall be three for tea, mon amie. A guest!"

  He supposed one could not expect a woman who flaunted her ruined social status to care that such exuberant shouting was unmannerly. He consciously lightened his features against their natural tendency to show his shocked displeasure at this display. Any lack of polished manners could easily be overlooked in light of the fact that he had just, he assumed, been invited to tea.