Now she could think more clearly and breathe normally, but the sick anger did not abate, not even when the footman came to clear her plate. She leaned away from the servant, stiff in every limb, and concentrated fiercely on the clean white linen of the tablecloth before her. She did not belong here, among the crystal and silver and silk chintz. She wanted to go home, right now, even if only nightmares awaited her.
But the evening continued relentlessly, and they were in the drawing room as Marie-Anne played the pianoforte with the frail old woman listening intently and Summerdale scribbling with Emily in a corner. It was all going according to plan, and they would be on their way home soon. She listened to him affect a tone of surprise, saying that he knew Tisby. She watched as he promised to call on the Marquess soon. She was glad when he paid her no more attention than he did the other women.
When finally it was time to leave, he handed them into the carriage himself. Maggie was praised for carrying off her role and Marie-Anne was thanked for her ability to twist a conversation any which way. As he took Helen's hand, he asked if she felt quite well, and she murmured that she had a touch of the headache. He did not inquire further, only silently pressed a book into her hands and closed the door of the carriage. They rode off into the night, an elegant coach full of fraudulent ladies, she chief among them.
Chapter 6
They spoke of books. Of political trends on the continent and faraway places and anything else the conversation turned to, but never of London. A thousand times he steered the discussion away from the past, hers or his own. The doings, inclinations and thoughts of the upper classes were of no interest to him, as long as he was with her. She never asked what the current rage was, nor even gave him a hint that she cared to know the talk of the town.
In that, she reminded him a bit of Clara. Ridiculous, really, to associate the two women. Clara the fair, so lively and stylish and a delightful addition to any garden party or soirée. Helen, named for the face that launched a thousand ships, only to be left shipwrecked and stranded in Bartle-on-the-Glen. He could not imagine Clara here any more than he could imagine Helen at her ease in a London ballroom. He could certainly never have dreamed of spending an entire afternoon with Clara discussing economics without ever once hearing mention of who was at Lady Carrington's most recent ridotto.
Not that Clara was empty-headed. Far from it. She had never been one to gossip in his presence, most likely because she knew as much as anyone else about the latest scandals. She never burned to know who had designed the Princess of Wales' gown, because she herself was modishly outfitted by the best of couturiers. She was tasteful, elegant, knew when to be reserved and how to be coy. There was nothing at all outrageous about her, except for her beauty. She was a perfect lady. And she was married. Quite perfectly married.
Helen was none of those things: not coy, not flirtatious, not stylish. Not a perfect lady.
But he turned his thoughts away from that, determined to do nothing to jeopardize his continued welcome. He could not shake the feeling that the time spent with her was enchanted. She wove a spell about him simply by virtue of being far removed from the self-importance of the city. He had come to think of her home as something of a refuge, where he could find respite from his thoughts of Clara, the scorn of his family, and the secret machinations of the social whirl. Carefully, at each meeting, he paid out bits of information about her brother like a rope, slowly letting go another measured length and waiting for a slight tug from her before feeding the line again. He knew he should be gathering information about her, trying to uncover her past. But she resisted each tentative inquiry and he could never seem to remind himself that he had been sent to discover the reason behind her actions so long ago.
She stood now in front of him, only half an arm's length away, aiming the arrow at a target hung from a branch.
"I'll have to re-fletch some old arrows if we are to continue this exercise in future. It's not my greatest talent, and I'll have to send Danny searching for feathers, but there's little else to be done," she said, before letting go the bowstring. As ever, she found her mark.
"I had almost forgotten," he said. "I've brought some new ones for you."
He had not yet recovered from the lunacy that had driven him to transport his books from London, only for the sake of putting a library at her disposal, before he had searched out the best arrows for her sport. She seemed about to protest, but he forestalled her with a grimace. "It's the least I can do, after I have put so many into the tree."
She smiled easily, and he thrilled once again to see it. How comfortable she was with him, sometimes.
"In that case, I shall accept them as reparation. But your aim has improved greatly since last week, and one can hardly call it a fault that you are possessed of such a very strong arm."
A fetching blush and downward sweep of the eyes followed, a heartbeat behind this last statement. It was not practiced or artful. She was truly embarrassed to have said it. There was no time to question her on it, or even to put her at her ease with an offhand comment on the weather, for Maggie came around the corner of the house and drew her away with no more than a wave of her hand.
"Pray excuse me, my lord. That will be the post. I'll not be long."
When she had gone, he mused over her apparent fascination with correspondence as he shot the last few arrows into the target. Twice before on his visits, he had been present when the post arrived, and both times she had excused herself to peruse whatever had come. She was only ever absent for a minute, but today she was gone for much longer. He waited outside, noting the unmistakable onset of winter. He had stayed away from London, from his life, for as long as he had originally planned to do. He had written Whitemarsh only that he'd made contact with Lady Helen, and hoped to further gain her trust. He should mention something about Henley, at least, as a decision on that must be reached before spring. There was no reason he should not urge Alex to attempt a reconciliation already, except that it was really Stephen's sole purpose for being anywhere near her.
Whether it was the mystery of her, or the relief of being so far removed from the whispers and deceptions that filled his other life, he did not want to leave. Only this morning, he had made arrangements to stay through the end of the year, purposely stalling work on the manor house and sending messengers to London with letters and contracts so that his business affairs would not stagnate. The weather was growing colder every day, and soon he would have no reason to offer for riding out to her in the wind and sleet. No reason but the truth. They were friends. She did not object to his company. She even seemed to like him for himself.
For the first time he could remember, he belonged. He was not shut out here.
He walked round the house to retrieve the bundle of fresh arrows from his saddle, pushing aside the unworthy thought that she hid the less admirable bits of her character from him. Her refusal to speak of Henley bothered him; the only reason he could imagine she would not wish to tell her side of the story was because all the rumors had been true, and she did not wish to hear his censure. He wished he had pressed her brother for a more clear description of her account so long ago. Wild tales, Whitemarsh had said vaguely, dismissively. He said that she had refused to speak at all, and then when she did, she was plainly inventing the story on the spot, stuttering and searching for words, producing a far-fetched story that made no sense whatsoever.
It was hard to imagine that version of her, as she seemed so sensible and level-headed to Stephen. He would like to hear the truth of it, once and for all, even if it reflected poorly on her.
From the corner of his eye, he perceived a movement in the front window. Helen stood, clutching Maggie to her, both of them smiling and jumping excitedly like children. She spoke to the maid, and though he could not hear her words through the open crack of the window, there was no mistaking the joy in her voice. He immediately started to the back of the house again, before they noticed him.
It was intrusive, to watch them a
nd wonder what caused their happiness. It was childish, to become sullen over the knowledge that it was not he who had provoked such a smile. Ridiculous to resent that they shared something with each other, something he had no part of. He picked up the bow and listened with satisfaction to the loud whistle and thunk of his arrows meeting the target with more force than was strictly necessary.
When she came back to him, she was subdued. It pierced his heart to know that she would not confide her good news to him, that he must pretend not to know of it. There was a light in her eyes that was not fully diminished.
"Why, Lady Helen, I believe you're glowing," he announced to her, with as much gallantry he could muster. "Whatever could account for it, I wonder?"
"These arrows, of course. They are so fine!" she said with a delight that mollified him somewhat. She picked up an arrow by the shaft and examined it closely. "Indeed far too fine for practice. One would think they were meant to fight a war. Where did you find them?"
"A Welshman. His family's made them for generations, and still use them for the hunt." Her expression was one of great surprise. When she spoke, it would be to draw attention to the expense or the impracticality of the purchase, he was certain, so he spoke before she could. "It seemed practical to find arrows of a quality that they might last through many seasons of continuous use. And to send to London for more common ones would have taken just as much time and trouble. It was much more convenient this way." Protesting too much was a clear indicator of deceit, and he rushed on before she noticed his defensiveness. "Try them. You'll find they fly wonderfully."
He watched her hesitation with suspended breath. When finally she picked up the bow and hit the target, he saw with regret the cool blankness on her face that had replaced the earlier joy. She avoided looking at him, holding another arrow in her hand and rolling it between her fingers thoughtfully.
"Well," she sighed. "It would seem I am in your debt. You kindly provide me with these, and lend me a new book each time you come, and I can only ever offer you a cup of tea. It does not seem much."
He stopped himself from saying that the debt was repaid a thousand times over with each smile she bestowed on him. He really was growing appallingly romantic.
"Each time you offer me your hospitality, Lady Helen, you give me a great gift." He found himself saying something of the truth that was in his heart. "I am not used to being so free with others. I suppose I am rather lacking in companionship."
He didn't know why he said it. He shouldn't have, he was sure. Since Edward had died, he had been so very alone, and there was no one who knew of that loneliness. Except Clara. And now Helen knew, and he suddenly felt it was idiotic of him to have told her. She might make light of it, or use it to mock him, and he couldn't bear the thought of it.
But she said nothing, only running her fingers along the white feathers of the arrow she held, and he felt his whole body grow taut as it had when she stood in his library. He had only to reach out to her, break through the invisible barrier of reserve that she wore like a cloak, and she would – what? What would she do, if he were to touch her? He closed his eyes, thinking of the possibilities. He did not trust himself to look at any part of her. Not yet.
It was she who moved first, taking up the bow and planting more arrows in the far-off target. When he felt safe enough to look at her again, he saw the contentedness on her features and knew the dangerous moment had passed.
"They are excellent, and I thank you for them. As I thank you for your friendship," she said quietly. Then she returned easily to her cheerful manner, another cloak she put on for him sometimes. "But you'll never loan me anything again if I forget to return that novel to you. I finished it days ago, so you must remember to take it with you today."
"And the Sismondi? Have you finished it?"
"I put it aside for the novel. Really, I couldn't resist a good story, but I am nearly finished. It's fascinating, and it was most difficult to stop reading last night when the sun went down."
"Why did you? I thought you voracious in your reading habits. I would've expected you to burn the lamp all night," he teased.
"I would have, if only there were more oil for the lamp, or more than a few tallow candles to see us through to next quarter." She said it with a matter-of-fact attitude that seemed a tragedy to him. "The days are growing shorter."
He wanted to know what she thought of it. Her observations on the unlikely topic of economics were, like everything else about her, novel and startling and engrossing. Her lack of lamp oil was sure to haunt him, as much as the sight of her stroking a white feather would fill his thoughts for days.
"If you wish to visit the marquess today, you must leave soon," she was saying. "You think your first meeting went well enough? Is there such a need to see him again?"
"Most definitely. We are very close to victory for Emily and her Tisby. I won't let her cause languish. Her uncle is quite close to consenting to the match, so now is the time to press the matter."
She pursed her lips. "It's remarkable, the way he has heeded you. A pretty trick, and most intriguing. I should like to learn how to give my own words a power like that."
"Ah well, years of practice, you know. I shall be glad to teach you." He grinned but she gave him only a distracted quirk of her mouth in answer.
"There is no time for years of practice, if you are to call on the marquess." She gave him the stern look of a schoolmaster. "I expect a full report of how you fare when next you visit me."
"And I shall be pleased to deliver it."
"See that you are. Tuesday?"
He nodded. "Tuesday. And see that you're prepared to report to me on the matter of Sismondi."
She smiled. "I make no promises. But don't let that stop you from coming."
"Oh, no," he said, keeping his voice light. "It would take much more than that to keep me away."
Helen watched him leave. He made no sense. Their friendship made no sense. All of it was foolish, without merit or motivation. Every time he rode up to her little home, she expected him to keep riding past her door. Every time he left, she asked herself why he wanted to come at all. All the benefit was hers. She gained his conversation, borrowed his books, took advantage of his expansive knowledge of the world. He entertained her.
For his trouble, he received nothing but a few cups of tea and her amateurish opinions on foreign policy.
A few times, she had felt the tension between them, her body aware of his, the space they shared full of a buzzing energy. She did not know if it was her imagination, or if he felt it too. But he always, gently, smoothed it over and made the moment normal again. Never with words but with the quiet way he had, of controlling the atmosphere of any given situation. And she was left with scattered thoughts and a sensation of emptiness, trying to acknowledge neither in favor of making coherent conversation.
It surprised her, whenever she would reflect upon it later and alone, that this physical awareness of him was miraculously free of the sort of fear and disgust she would have expected. It only felt warm and pleasant, a little thrilling, to hope that he might embrace her. She rather thought she might like it, if he did. For some reason, the thought did not fill her with dread, or bring back the unwanted memories and sensations which always required her to calm herself with visions of a happy, safe, growing Katie.
It was unfair to think he had some ulterior motive for becoming a regular caller. He had never offered her insult, not in all the weeks she had known him. He seemed to be everything Joyce had described: mannered, accomplished, everything one would hope for. And marvelously handsome. There was that. It was what worried her most, that he was a handsome nobleman, cultivating a friendship with a woman notorious for her questionable morals. On the surface, it was extremely suspect. But he never even hinted at more than friendship, and so she had assumed he already had a mistress, or else he was wed to propriety itself.
That was the most likely explanation. He treated her, all of them, with a kindness and resp
ect that was as gratifying as it was unexpected. She had come to think of him as taking a small holiday away from a rigid morality, enough of a respite to treat them as ladies, but not enough to forget she was still untouchable. It left her with only a persistent suspicion that he was not all that he seemed, that his reasons for befriending her were not entirely benevolent, and it was impossible to know what he really wanted out of it all.
All of her intuition told her he wanted something from her, and for all her hours of speculation, she was no closer to understanding what it could be.
The sight of Maggie coming toward her lightened her mood considerably. She looked askance at the new arrows Helen had gathered up and then gave a shrug.
"Has he left, then?" She asked in an exaggerated whisper.
Helen nodded. "He's off to Emily's uncle, to seal Tisby's fate. I believe he'll be successful, if confidence has anything to do with it. Let's go inside, and you can tell me all about your visit to Jack and Sally."
Once inside, Helen went straight to the letter, which held the momentous date in black and white. At the end of November, Katie would arrive in Holyhead, and Maggie would sail to Ireland.
"Let us hope the roads are fine." Helen worried at her lip with her teeth. "If Katie is as sickly as your cousin says, it's a bad time of year for travel."
The letter said that Katie was very unwell lately, which accounted for the late date of their crossing. The ferry would not run but a few times in December, and the departure had been delayed to almost the last minute in the hopes of the child becoming stronger.
"She's a poor judge of health, my cousin. She said my father was dying even a month after he started recovering, you know," Maggie snorted. "And the tickets are as good as bought already, with the money in her hands."
"Yes, I suppose so," answered Helen, thinking of the expense. In a fit of guilty indulgence for taking the child away from the only life she had known, she had sent her last shilling so that they could secure a cabin. Now there was almost nothing left until the next quarter. It was an extravagant gesture for only a six hour crossing, but she felt vindicated when she read of Katie's failing health. The picture of a sick child in the cold rain for so long, battered by the waves, was enough motivation to empty her purse of what little she had in the hopes of offering comfort.
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