Stephen felt awkward, standing beside her. He should say something. Instead, he held the reins in his hands, looking at the cracked and worn leather as if it were the most absorbing thing he'd ever encountered.
She turned back toward him, her expression unreadable. "I shall leave you now. Your concern for my brother is laudable, but this is a misguided gesture, sir. Mr. Black will be happy to help you on your way."
He would not be dismissed so easily.
"Have you nothing to say to your brother, then?" He searched her face, but it was no use. She gave nothing away. Whether this cost her at all, he would never know. "Anything that might make him more... inclined to... attempt a resumption of his affections?" He could think of no less clumsy way to ask if she wished to alter her account of her fall from grace.
She was looking down at her hands, presenting him with a picture of demure simplicity. She thought a moment, and then replied. "If he wishes to know anything further of my actions or my choices, you may tell him that he is already in possession of the relevant facts." She looked him in the face again. "If I am to be given his regard once more, it must be on the strength of what he knows of me."
She turned to leave. Before he could think of a way to stop her, she had already paused. Turning her head over her shoulder, she spoke again.
"And if he is concerned for my welfare here, you may tell him that I do quite well without him. He need not bestir himself, or anyone else, on my account."
And then she was gone, walking across a field in the opposite direction from which they'd come. Before she disappeared into a small copse of trees, the sun reflected once more off her tightly bound hair, sending the light back to him.
Chapter 2
He would be back. Helen half-ran to the door of her cottage, thinking of nothing else but his return. He would come again with his eyes that saw too much and his all-too-friendly demeanor; he had said so. In a week. She knew, no matter how dismissive and final her words to him had been, that he was not going to give up so easily.
Her hands shook as she reached for the door. It was good that Maggie was not yet returned from her work at the Brandens' house. The jobs Maggie took as help in others' homes often kept them from growing exasperated with each other's company. Now, as she pulled off her tattered gloves in the entryway, she was glad for a moment alone to compose herself. She could not explain her agitation to Maggie any more than she could explain it to herself, so she was relieved to go upstairs to her comfortable little room and sit on the edge of the bed. There she put her mind to sorting it all out.
It wasn't as if she'd forgotten her brother, or that he was never spoken of. His presence was everywhere in her life, like a ghost in the house. It was because of him that she was here. It was because of him that she lived the way she did, hiding from the larger world and searching for some meaning in a meaningless existence. But she'd never thought he would reach out to her again in her lifetime.
Was that what this was – an attempt at apology? He'd chosen a safe enough way to do it, sending someone else in order to preserve his precious pride. Someone else to decide if she was worth the effort of forgiveness.
She could still feel Lord Summerdale's eyes on her, green like the soft moss that grew in shaded places. They looked quite harmless, even warm and kind, but they never ceased assessing her every movement and word. It almost felt as if he could look all the way through her and compel her to speak when she did not wish to. She admonished herself to take care in not speaking too freely around him. Her brother had chosen well, if he had truly wanted the man to come. Summerdale was friendly, and it was a constant task to remain cold toward him. His mouth smiled easily, his voice was rich and kind when he wanted it to be, his face open and handsome.
She clenched her jaw, slightly, almost angry at this last point. He was far too handsome, with his dark hair and green eyes, his fine broad shoulders. He looked like the kind of man that women fairly swooned over on a regular basis. That he seemed utterly unaware of it only made one more likely to swoon. She must not allow herself to let down her guard, but the truth was that he made her feel as if she'd like very much to dance again. In a dress of ice blue silk, with chandeliers of a thousand candles overhead.
Perhaps Alex thought she might respond to the combination of good looks and breeding in the man. But as an ambassador from the land of the civilized, Lord Summerdale was unable to entirely conceal his distaste for her. She rather doubted there was a speck of mud on his name, the way he wore his propriety like a perfectly tailored waistcoat. She smiled to herself, recalling his scandalized expression when she'd implied that he had come here to seduce Marie-Anne. It was a natural enough assumption on her part, even if it was indecorous to give voice to it. Marie-Anne's virtue was as questionable as her own, after all, and an easy and obvious target for a man's lust. But Summerdale seemed the kind of aristocrat who would rather starve than use the wrong fork at the dinner table, so she doubted he would be here at all if he had not been compelled by her brother.
Then again, perhaps Alex had not compelled him. He had not said he'd been sent. He might have come of his own accord because he wished to effect a reconciliation for the sake of her brother, or her new sister-in-law. How stupid of her, really, to think Alex would go to the trouble. It gave him too much credit. This ridiculous softening in her heart toward her brother must end, for he was probably still quite glad to be rid of her. She was in ruin, after all. And her brother had no place for ruined relations.
Her hand pressed against her mouth. She would not cry over him again. In six years, she had made a life for herself here, asking nothing of her brother in all that time. The letters he had sent in the beginning were at first scathing, then terse. They had always been brief, and she had scorned to answer them. She instructed Thompkins to answer, should Alex ever ask after her, that she was well and would trouble him no more. After a couple of years, the letters had stopped. She had cried then, a little, when she realized that no more would come. Then she had vowed not to shed another tear at her brother's disaffection. He obviously had shed none for her.
But now he was married. Six months ago, Thompkins had handed her a note. She still had it in her desk drawer downstairs, tucked far back and away from the pens and paper so that she would not be tempted to answer it. She knew every word by heart, short as it was.
My Dear Lady Helen, it read. The script was cramped but still graceful, unmistakably a woman's hand. I wish to offer my warmest greetings to you as your new sister, or soon to be. I understand that it has been some years since you have had contact with Alex, but I would like to extend my most heartfelt invitation to you and hope that you will attend our wedding. I shall pray that you come, as I believe Alex will be very moved by your presence.
Foolish woman, Helen thought, our dear Alex would be appalled if he even knew you'd been bird-witted enough to invite me. He'd be moved to boot me out of the church. The new Lady Whitemarsh seemed either very bold or else simpleminded.
An image came to her of her brother when he was fifteen and full of himself. (But then, she snorted to herself, he'd never stopped being full of himself.) He was lecturing her seven-year-old self on how to be a Perfect Lady in order to catch a Suitable Husband.
"You must never be too bold or outspoken, gentlemen don't like that," he said. When she asked him if a woman must always remain quiet to please a man, he'd pulled back his shoulders and said, "I would only marry a woman who did as I told her. She'll have to listen to me and do as I wish."
She gave a sad smile at the memory, wishing she could tell his new wife about that conversation. And she would also tell how, afterward, she'd refused to put on her boots for her riding lesson, and Alex had reasoned with their parents to let her go barefoot. He'd told them she was young, and would not always be able to do as she wished, so why not indulge her this once? He was forever doing that sort of thing - lecturing her on propriety and then allowing for her unladylike, childish whims. He had trusted her to outgrow them, and she had.
It looked as if his new wife was not the woman he'd predicted for himself all those years ago. Helen had not even considered going to the wedding for an instant, certain that the invitation was unknown to her brother. If he knew that his bride – Elizabeth Cabot, read the signature – had even written of the nuptials, he would probably have ridden any number of horses to collapse in order to intercept the note. She decided the new Lady Whitemarsh showed admirable spirit in defying her brother. Yes, it would make sense that Alex would marry someone strong-willed, and not lacking in wit.
Helen longed to know her. An excellent woman, Lord Summerdale had said of her.
Lord Summerdale. He had come here, but perhaps not at her brother's request, just as Lady Whitemarsh had written her without her brother's knowledge. She must know more about the man: whether she could trust him, why he had come, if he was truly her brother's confidante. When standing under his penetrating gaze, she felt defenseless. He knew everything of importance about her. She knew nothing about him at all. She had thought the heir to Summerdale was named Edward, and that she had danced with him once at a ball, a hundred years ago. She could only vaguely recall what the man looked like, but it was not this same Lord Summerdale.
He would be back. She had thought so often of writing her new sister-in-law that for a moment this seemed the perfect excuse for it. Surely Lady Whitemarsh would know her husband's friends, and she seemed eager enough to hear from Helen.
Hardly thinking further than that, she flew down the stairs and to her desk. It was opening the drawer where she kept the writing paper that reminded her what a daft notion it was. Behind the neat, white sheets was a tangle of carefully preserved ribbons that had belonged to a dead woman, a woman she had watched die. It hit her like cold water, this reminder of everything her brother had refused to hear. There was too much that lay between them, the estrangement too complete.
What could she possibly write to her sister-in-law? Though we have never met, and I have no reason to offer for my curiosity in the local Lord Bountiful, please tell me everything you know of the man? It would sound like the pathetic plea of a moon-struck backwater miss. Or worse, like a hopeful courtesan looking for tidbits to help land a new benefactor.
She accepted the bitter truth of that. After all, she was a fallen woman, and her new sister was firmly in place atop Society's pedestal. As was Lord Summerdale. They had every reason, to their own thinking, to believe the worst of her. She stared at the blank page, tasting bile at the back of her throat.
But she still had one friend in London who would tell her whatever she knew. She picked up her pen and began to write to the Baroness, Joyce Huntingdon. A friend. One who would not think ill of her, she hoped.
It was hardly, he thought with a sinking heart, a rousing success.
As he jolted down the road in Daniel Black's sturdy cart, he wondered if any good had come of meeting her. A good bit of time alone with the girl, and what had he learned? Precisely nothing, except that he was not likely to learn anything at all.
He was not in the habit of failing in this arena. In his life, he had been used to learning people's secrets. It was all he had been good for before Edward's death. As a younger son he'd been obliged to acquire some kind of usefulness, so he had made himself an invaluable friend to several important people. Gossip ran like wildfire through every level of society, and was so often wielded as a weapon by those who professed themselves in the know. But Stephen had observed early on that the truth behind the gossip could prove even more valuable.
For years he had kept his ears open and his mouth shut, and found himself in a position of relative power, advising dukes and counseling the king. When a gentleman had sensitive matters to discuss, and no one he trusted with whom to discuss them, he quite often found himself turning to Stephen Hampton. For years, he had been known as the one to consult when in need of a map of the terrain, so to speak. In a few words, he could tell someone – if he wished – that a split in the High Tory vote was probable, or that the youngest son of the Duke of Heatherleigh was not to be trusted with a prime naval appointment. How he knew these things, no one asked. And no one cared, so long as he was right.
He only paid attention, dodged and danced on the peripheries of others' deepest feelings and thoughts, their fears and ambitions. Then he slipped away with the truth and used the knowledge he gained. Discreetly, of course. Always discreetly, or else he would no longer be trusted.
Two years ago, Edward had died of the influenza. The shock of losing his elder brother and realizing that he was to inherit the title, much to the everlasting chagrin of his family, had barely worn off before his father passed on earlier this year. Now Stephen, who had grown to hate tawdry secrets and intrigue and subtle fluctuations of influence, had become an earl. It was laughable: he was in a better position than ever to use his knowledge for his own benefit, but he had no wish to do so. He only wanted out of London and away from the whispers that kept it all going.
Instead, he found himself here. He had known it would be impossible to avoid such games altogether if he was to manage his business affairs. Secrets and inside information were unavoidable, but he was used to the secrets of men. Women, he knew with bitter certainty, were quite another matter.
Helen Dehaven and her friend were different from the women he had known, though. Hardly accustomed to the company of ruined ladies, he had not known what he would find. But he had never expected the hostility he had found from either of them. Suddenly he realized that he had thought they would want to please him, because they were less than respectable and he was… well, what he was: nobility, society, the world that had rejected them. Instead, it seemed as if they had rejected his world, and him.
It was more galling than he liked to admit to himself. He thought of Lady Helen's tightly bound hair and simple dress, her cold speech. How well and thoroughly she shut him out. The moment when he had mentioned her brother came back to him vividly. She'd wanted to believe, for a moment, that her brother cared for her still.
He was acutely aware that she stirred a sympathy in him, despite his rational understanding that she was everything he considered selfish, ill-bred, and unthinking. But her brother seemed willing to consider a rapprochement, which indicated there was doubt about what had happened with Henley so long ago. Instinctively, he knew that to find the truth he must continue to act as if he were there only to bring brother and sister to an understanding. Perhaps she was suspicious, but she missed her only family. If he could play to that emotion, he might have a chance of gaining her trust.
If he could not soon manage to meet again with her, he would learn whatever possible from her friends. Marie-Anne de Vauteuil might be charmed, and Daniel Black had thus far treated him with less suspicion than either woman. As the cart bumped along, he turned to the spindly man at his side.
"I had hoped to return for my horse tomorrow and thank Miss Dehaven for her help. She is a neighbor of yours?"
"Aye, that she is, and a better neighbor I'd not have looked for in a young miss." For the first time since their meeting, the man gave him a doubtful look. "You din't know her afore today, then, your lordship?"
"I am a friend to her family. I did not know until today that she lived in the village."
"When my Barbara was down sick with the childbed fever, that was Miss Helen's first year here in Bartle. She come over and looked after the boy, brought us dinner each night and herbs for the wife," he smiled. "Didn't hardly know what to make of such a fine lady treating us like that, but it's only that she has a good heart."
They rumbled along in silence as Stephen digested this. The other man shot him a critical look.
"Miss Helen's never mentioned her family much. Been right happy just where she is, away from all the fine lords and ladies." He kept his eyes on the horse's backside. Obviously he didn't shy from implying that Lord Summerdale was entirely unnecessary in this town.
Stephen took his chance to establish his motive. "I think her famil
y has missed her," he said pointedly. "I believe they'd like to know that she is well."
Daniel Black's expression turned sour. "They'll not be coming out here, I'm sure, and she won't be leavin' for no London, neither, if that's what you mean. If she wants nothing to do with a family then there's no cause for you to pester her with it. Beggin' your pardon, lordship." His face closed like a trap.
"You think it's your place to tell me I should not call on her again?" He was careful to use a neutral tone, though he was torn between outrage and humor at the man's impudence.
"It's not my place to tell you nothin', your lordship," he grumbled. "But I know her and you don't. Never asked her why she come nor why she stayed, but I know enough that she's only gotten grief from your kind. Like I said," he finished, "best leave her be."
So much for the opinion of the common man. This morning, he might have taken the advice. But now, seeing the loyalty she inspired in those around her and knowing of her lurid past, he did not wish to leave her be. Outside of his original purpose here, Helen Dehaven intrigued him. She could not hide forever, no matter the walls she had built around herself. And no matter what her neighbor advised, he would be back to see her again.
Chapter 3
The fine weather could not continue much longer. Already, there had been a number of unseasonably mild days filled with sunlight and soft breezes. The late-blooming flowers would replace the ruinous lace as a gift for Danny's mother, if only she could manage to cut them free without gashing herself.
The dress she wore was a plain homespun, one of three she kept on hand. All of her old dresses had been sold or packed away or, more often, cut up and salvaged for the expensive material and trim. It had caused her no anxiety to be rid of them. In the purge after her banishment from high society, it had been a welcome task to re-define her wardrobe and, as a consequence, her entire persona. She almost enjoyed looking ghastly in the threadbare gown, the dirty apron. She laid the cut blossoms on the grass next to her and was looking for any more that might be presentable when she heard the beat of approaching hooves.
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