He rode up on a fine piece of horseflesh, leading the other horse beside him at a trot. He looked like a heroic figure from a painting, she thought with no little humor: Gallant Officer Leads the Charge. She had rather forgotten how very attractive a good-looking man on a blooded horse could be, and almost forgot that she was frightened of this meeting. So absorbed was she in the sight of him that she didn't notice Danny riding alongside. As the two reined in close to where she rose from the grass, she suddenly felt horribly provincial. Her hair, her dress...what must he think of her? Her stomach fluttered even as she told herself such concerns were trifling and unworthy.
When she looked up at him, she knew precisely what he thought of her. He was obviously appalled. The corners of his mouth turned down in distaste as he fairly glared, horrified, at her dress. She would not allow herself to be nervous, nor care one whit what he thought of her, no matter how disappointing it was to watch his mouth turn severe. She had half-decided something since last she'd seen him and it would be harder to know what to do with any certainty, if she let her mind be clouded with cares of what he might think. So instead of looking at him, she turned to an extraordinarily pleased Danny, who was calling her name.
"He let me ride the horse, Miss Helen, and I did well, I did! It's a fine horse – as fine as any gentleman would ride, Jack says!"
The boy lost a little enthusiasm when he looked at her. It was terrible that she could not bring herself to laugh for him, or even give him a smile. She seemed unable to move a single muscle in her face when she felt Lord Summerdale's scrutiny of her.
"That's wonderful. You ride well, Danny," she said faintly into the silence. She nodded. "Lord Summerdale."
"Lady Helen," he returned, dismounting fluidly as Danny scrambled off the horse. Probably he had practiced since their last meeting to keep the contempt from his voice. He had succeeded admirably. If she had not felt it so acutely yesterday, she would have thought he thoroughly respected her today.
"I've cut some roses for you to give to your mother, Danny. They'll do much better than the lace, and you can keep your penny for sweets." It was an effort to keep a light tone.
Poor Danny tried quite hard not to show disappointment at this announcement. "Then Miss Maggie don't have none?"
She found a grin somewhere within herself for the boy. "No, and Miss Marie-Anne has only a half-finished bit of it. The flowers are all we can offer just now." She watched Danny shift his feet and fought against doing the same.
"It's a well-known fact that women in every corner of the globe love flowers, Danny." Lord Summerdale's rich voice reached out to them. Danny turned to him with the look of an adoring puppy. "There is nothing better to get a man out of trouble, isn't that right, Lady Helen?"
"Indeed," she replied. "Not that you're in any trouble, at least lately, Danny. And we should get these in water right away. No, I will not take the penny, you'll have need of it one day and they cost me nothing. They provided me a perfect excuse to enjoy the fine weather. Now handle them with care, they're easier than you think to crush." She could not seem to stop herself rambling on as she picked up the roses and fussed over them. "They'll keep for a few days with fresh water, you know. Your mother will know how to care for them. We may even be able to add a few blooms if the weather continues fine, as I think it is likely to do."
She stopped herself from launching into a treatise on the weather. Probably she had become provincial. There was no other reason for her senseless chatter. Living for so many years in Bartle, with only Marie-Anne and a few others who were schooled in the art of conversation, had left her with rust on her words. Perhaps she would be lucky enough to bore the fashionable Lord Summerdale into leaving her alone. If that was indeed what she wished, for she was not sure any more that she wanted him to give up on his mission.
Danny thanked her profusely and turned to go. He did not leave until he had thanked Lord Summerdale for the ride and admired the horse at length. When he finally scampered away, she stood silently in her dirty apron, staring at the soil beneath her cracked fingernails.
"I'd hoped to see you and thank you for your kindness in aiding me yesterday."
She heard him clear his throat when she did not respond. Her heart began to beat faster, thinking that she must find the right words to keep him here. She had determined she must learn more of her brother, of this chance to reconcile through such an unlikely intermediary as Lord Summerdale. The letter to Joyce had been sent off this morning, and she knew she would have no reply for at least ten days or more. Without some notion of who Summerdale was, she was at a loss for safe conversation. It was unthinkable to blurt out that she wished to hear everything he knew about her brother's current attitude toward his ruined sister, or his new wife, or even the state of Alex's beloved Thoroughbreds.
The thought of her brother's horses gave her a mundane topic to cling to. That much she remembered from her season in London – mundane chatter.
"Your horses are most impressive, my lord. It was kind of you to let Danny ride. He'll talk about it for ages."
His grin was like the sun bursting out of the clouds. "I couldn't very well have passed up the opportunity to thrill him. He looked at the horse like a starving man. He has a good seat."
"Yes, he's always loved to ride. He'll find any number of reasons to take the carthorse off the traces and ride over to Hillside." She found herself warming to him, because there was no sign of his earlier disapproval. He was so friendly and easy. With a little laugh, she told him, "One would think there was a social event of monumental proportions every week in that town, to hear Danny tell of it, but really he only rides the nag there for a few minute's talk with the tanner's boy. Then he rides back and turns it into the most fascinating discussion in all the parish."
His smile made her forget to mistrust him. "And what do they speak of?"
Such a silly and simple miss she was, to stand here with a man like him and talk of a farm boy's exploits. To wish she had her straw bonnet, so that she could peek from behind the brim to take in more of his delicious grin. It transformed his face, mischief breaking out of a marble sculpture, as if a stone Apollo had decided to become a puckish boy.
"It usually has to do with some vital technique of farming, but the dear boy can never quite explain how a tanner's boy should know so much about spreading manure."
He let out a laugh, the sound of it curling around her toes. "It sounds like they are both quite practiced in the art of manure-spreading. Never doubt that young boys are all expert at it, of necessity."
She could not resist smiling back at him, until he raised his brows and asked, "Would you care to ride with me?"
She had a thrilling vision of the countryside speeding by as the wind whipped through her hair. But she had no sidesaddle. Nor any riding habit. Her hands, twisted in the grubby apron, itched with dirt and leaves and tiny scratches.
"I do not ride," she said, and felt her heart close up like a crocus faced with a sudden nightfall.
She stared resolutely at his boot in the stirrup, feeling the distance of the worlds that stood between them. That quickly, she no longer wanted him there, in front of her little home. It was plain he did not belong here.
"In that case, I shall tether the horses," he said. Before she could think of a reason to protest, he said, "It's a pleasant day for a walk, and I should enjoy seeing the village."
She could feel him staring at her, the top of her head fairly afire under his gaze. The returning memory of a favorite straw bonnet with the wide blue ribbon, abandoned so many years ago, tied her tongue into a knot. She could not think past the way the smooth silk of it had pressed under her chin on warm days like this.
She reprimanded herself. He was waiting for an indication of where he should tie the horses, and she could only obsess over a silly bonnet. She could not imagine it, a walk with him.
"I've put a spot of tea on to boil, milady."
Maggie's voice behind snapped her fully back into the mom
ent. She glanced back at her apparently shy and docile maid (an excellent act, indeed) and then looked back at the earl, unable to speak just yet. It was visually arresting to look so quickly from Maggie's blazing red hair and round freckled face to Lord Summerdale's quietly handsome features, arranged into a polite and patient inquiry.
He raised his eyebrows and spoke as if he were inviting her to refreshment in his own home. "Or perhaps something to drink, Lady Helen?" It was the slowness with which he spoke, as if she were a dimwitted child, that prompted her to nod quickly and indicate the post where he should tether the horses, when she was not even sure that she still wanted to speak with him.
Maggie bobbed a curtsy at him and led the way into the house. It was because of Maggie that she had decided to at least try to speak to the earl. The small but fierce Irishwoman had not sympathized with Helen's recalcitrance when she'd heard of this chance to have some sort of contact with Alex. "He's your only family, and if he's come to see he's been a cruel idiot, what more could you be wanting?" she had asked last night. "It's a sorrow to you, not having his love. I see it every day, there's no use pretending."
From the servile manner Maggie affected in front of Lord Summerdale, one would never guess at her complete lack of feudal obedience. Helen had never felt any desire to treat her as other than a dear friend, not from the moment Maggie had taken her out of Ireland and stayed with her throughout her unceremonious banishment. A fist of fear closed briefly around her heart when she thought of Maggie's impending departure. Back to her family, back to Ireland, where Helen would never go again.
She shook off the thought as they stepped into the house. Looking at the walls around her, she acknowledged once again how lucky she had been to find Maggie on that most horrible of days. Sunlight poured in through the windows and bounced off each gleaming surface. The furniture was simple, taken from the servant's quarters at the dower house, but it was solid and in good condition for the most part. Helen had not known what to do with this house when she rented it; Maggie called it "grand" and had set to work tidying and beautifying everything that fell under her hands. Now, it was a cheery little home.
Out of long habit, she looked down at her feet to see that she did not trail dirt across the polished pine floors, and noticed that she still wore the rag of an apron. Hastily, she untied the strings behind her waist and pulled it off. Maggie's hand was there immediately to take it, which she did with another quick bob. She had not seen such humility since Maggie had come into her employ years ago. The illusion of the humble servant was shattered when Helen glimpsed the stern look in the girl's eye. If she did not go through with the effort to speak civilly to Lord Summerdale, she had no doubt that Maggie would make her feel like a wretch before the day was done.
"Are you enjoying the ruminations of Marcus Aurelius, Lady Helen?" At his question, she turned around to see him looking at the slim volumes on the table.
Books. She could talk about books, yes. "Indeed, my lord. I find his writings to be fascinating, and not a little bit humbling."
"'Look at the yawning void of the future, and at that other limitless space, the past,'" he quoted. Of course he would know the most suitable quote for her situation.
"'Look beneath the surface; let not the several quality of a thing nor its worth escape thee.'" But she said it mildly. It would gain her little, to engage in such a battle with him. "His writings are intriguing," she finished lamely.
"Not nearly so intriguing as the writing of Mr. Franklin," he answered, holding up the other book. "Wherever did you manage to procure his account of the American negotiations with England?"
"A friend on the continent delights in presenting me with scandalous literature, and I have a certain affection for the subject. It is outdated, and surely written with a sympathy for the colonies, but I confess to the same sympathy."
"Do you really?" He looked at her with an expression that was amused, impressed, and somewhat surprised. The grin did not reappear, for which she was enormously thankful, but laugh lines formed faintly around his eyes. He had such a friendly, open face, as though he were eager to smile. She realized with a shock that he was seeking to find some point of interest between them, a common ground, and she thought with trepidation that she might come to enjoy the sight of those fine lines radiating out from his eyes. "So do I, in fact. My late father met Mr. Franklin many years ago, but was not impressed by the man. Do you follow their politics, then?"
A discussion of politics was odd, but infinitely preferable to so many other topics. She answered honestly. "I do, yes. As a child, I was fascinated with their President Washington. Such an admirable man, I've always thought."
She waved the earl to a seat and sat on a chair across from him as Maggie glided soundlessly from the room to fetch tea. Once they were seated, he looked about the room and said, "I confess myself curious as to why you have chosen to settle in Bartle. Your grandmother's home was not far from here, I gather?"
"Just a few miles east of the village."
"You must prefer your lodgings here?"
She refrained from voicing the reply that came immediately to her lips. "It is more agreeable to me to remain in the village. I have made many friends here. In any case, the dower house is far too large for only myself."
In the eternal silence that seemed to punctuate their every conversation, his fingers smoothed over his breeches repeatedly in what she optimistically thought might be a nervous gesture. But if he was nervous, he was certainly good at hiding it. Helen herself felt flushed and breathless as she desperately wondered how much she should tell him.
"Lady Helen, I wish to apologize for my rudeness toward you yesterday. It was uncalled for, and has only served to hamper any friendship that we might have found." His sudden shift in topic startled her, and she stared at his fingers, pressed now into the soft cloth near his knee. "As I said, I know your brother has been disturbed by the lack of news of you. If I can assure him that you are well, and well-provided for, I shall feel as if I have eased his mind greatly."
It had the ring of a practiced speech, which only made her resent that she did not have words at the ready. She looked up sharply. "You must permit me to be skeptical, my lord. My brother has only to ask my solicitor, or indeed even to write to me, which he has not done these four years past."
The dark eyebrows pulled together. "He told me you did not answer his letters."
"His notes – for I would hardly call them letters – did not invite response, and after a short while they stopped entirely." The indignity of Alex's words in those missives would likely never cease to annoy her. He had written of honor, of how he was working to restore the family name, how she should take at least some of the money he had put aside for her dowry to live a quiet but dignified life as far from London as possible. Every word from him was an accusation: it was her fault he had to work so hard to restore what she had ruined, and to live in anything other than the circumscribed manner he deemed appropriate was further insult.
But she had decided that she could not bear to take anything from him, nor live according to his comfort. If he thought her worthless, then she would not cost him a single shilling. She had taken the amount her grandmother had put into Thompkins' hands for her, only a tiny portion of her dowry sum, and found the solicitor very willing to act on her behalf. Like her ball gowns and silk slippers and bonnets, it was relatively easy to give up the whole of that life. She was different now and, she thought, infinitely less vapid. It was the one point she prided herself on, that she took care of herself and those around her as best she could. The girl she had been would have found it more vital to visit the couterière than a sick or needful neighbor.
Maggie came into the room once again, bearing the tray. "I'll serve, Maggie, thank you." She watched her friend take up the chair at a discreet distance, a move that had been calculated to serve both propriety and Helen's own anxieties.
Now Helen looked to Lord Summerdale as she set the cup in front of him. He had
an air about him as though this were a business meeting of sorts, and she wished to know his agenda, so that she could touch upon the topics and have done with it.
"I know there are things you wish to ask me, but I cannot help but remember that you carry my words to my brother. And though I should like there to be some sort of contact with him, I" – here she paused and took a steadying breath – "I would not wish him to believe that I regret my past actions, or that I have waited all these years for a chance to ask his forgiveness."
A taut silence followed these words. She had an absurd desire to laugh at the way he carefully sipped before speaking, acutely aware of how they both considered each word as if a secretary stood by transcribing every statement for posterity. Suddenly Summerdale looked up at her as though he had had the same thought, and a look of frankness came into his features at last.
"I don't wish to report your every word to him. I should only like..." He paused, his eyes straying to her hands. "I should like to be able to tell him, generally, how you manage without his support. And why it is you do not regret your actions, as you have said. I should like, if it is possible and if you do not object to it, to help the two of you to be a family again."
To be a family again. How her heart leapt up at the idea of it. She took a deep breath and prepared herself to return his apparent honesty.
"As for my not being sorry for" – she cast about for a term other than The Odious Henley and rushed through saying it – "for the circumstances that ended my betrothal, I have never felt that there was any call for me to regret anything I did, or at least those actions which led to my current situation. I will not speak of those events again in my life, sir. Not to you or anyone." There, that had come out firmly, and well. "But as to how I manage without my brother's support, the answer is quite simple."
A Fallen Lady Page 4