A Fallen Lady

by Elizabeth Kingston

  Maggie was always better in situations like these, and Helen calmed minutely as she took in the news that whatever had happened, the resourceful Irishwoman had the situation in hand. She consciously adopted the practical tone and mannerisms of Maggie, ignoring the dread inside her, and told Jack to walk with her to the house and tell her what he could on the way.

  "The cousin," Jack began. "When we got to the port, the cousin – Janet's her name. She was nowhere to be found, nor Katie. So Miss Maggie and I, we asked around everywhere and one of the men working the ferry told us they was bein' held in the harbormaster's jail."

  "Jail!" It seemed to call for more outrage than Jack had voiced, which only filled Helen with apprehension that whatever happened next was even worse. "Why on earth would she be in a jail? And Katie with her?"

  "The shipmaster said they hadn't paid their way, and not a soul would listen to Janet. She paid the porter for the cabin, as she told me and anyone else would listen, and paid him before they ever left out of Dublin. But that porter's a nasty type, and so I said when I saw him. He kept the coin for himself, and no one to believe Janet or even Maggie, though she near took the head off the lot of 'em. She's wicked in a temper, is our Maggie."

  Helen felt a violent surge of pride and love. "Our Maggie's made of iron, Jack, and no one better to be with Katie. Here, now, come in to sit in the kitchen and I'll bring you something to drink. Did she get them out of the jail?"

  "That she did, though she had to pay both fares again – and they raised the price, and then pay the fine, says the harbormaster." He slammed a fist onto the table in his anger, rattling the cup before him. "It's a rare port town that's not dirty and greedy, I'm always hearin', but had to see it with my own eyes to believe. Maggie spent more than she had for her own fare to get them out, and then more of all she had to find them a room at the inn."

  "But why didn't she send Katie back with you? Why waste money on an inn, when there's so little for anything at all?"

  Jack took a deep drink of the water before he answered. When he faced Helen, his face was grave, sending waves of fear through her.

  "Because the little one shouldn't travel just yet. That's what the doctor said. She was sick all the way over the water, and a day and night in that jail hole only made her worse."

  Helen sank slowly into the chair, clutching the cloak she still wore about her as though it could protect her from what she was hearing. "The doctor. You said there was a doctor?"

  He nodded. "Maggie took one look at the girl and run off for a doctor. That's what took the most of her money, after the bleedin' harbormaster. But she said you'd want it and she wouldn't be leaving the girl unless she was safe and whole, and the doctor says she done right. So I took part of the money what you gave me for coming back to Bartle and gave the rest to Miss Maggie to pay for the room." For the first time since he'd run into town, his face lost its grimness and took on a pained expression.

  Helen stared at the tabletop, seeing nothing. "How much is left, Jack?"

  She thought the big man might actually cry. "Two shillings, nothin' but that little. And Maggie and her cousin on the coast without fare for the crossing, and Katie with no way here, and us with no way to get back there. None of us knew what to do. But Maggie said, sure as anything, she says to me, go right to Miss Helen and she'll fix it."

  She kept staring at the boards of the table, looking for the answer there. She had no idea how long she sat, unmoving, as Jack waited patiently beside her. When she finally looked up, she felt the kind of sure and solid strength that she imagined Maggie must feel every day of her life.

  "I'll take care of it, Jack. I will. Go home to Sally, and tell her not to worry. I'll bring our Katie to you soon."

  "Hélène, can we be sure there is no other way? You look pale as death at the very notion."

  She sat in Marie-Anne's bedroom, in front of the dressing table. It was a conscious effort not to ravage her hair with the brush, and she watched her hands tremble a little as she took gentle strokes over the strands. It would be no use to show up at his door looking as sick and terrified as she actually felt.

  "If you have another suggestion, I'll be more than happy to consider it, but we have been through it all. We've nothing more than a few pence between us, and the cost of a trip to and from Anglesey to conjure from it. Daniel's horse will not take me even as far as Gloucester, and there's nowhere else to sell anything, even had we anything worth so much as we need." She experienced an equal amount of desperation and relief in laying out the situation logically. "Unless I am there within the week with the funds we need, Maggie and her cousin will miss the last ferry of the season to Ireland, not to mention being tossed out of the inn, so that leaves out a London trip to appeal to the solicitor, or to Alex. I am desperate enough for that, even. But there is no time for a trip to London. So you tell me, Marie-Anne, where else do I find such a sum within the next twelve hours?"

  Her friend paused in her agitated fumblings with the green gown. It wanted only the tiniest bit of slack in the bodice to fit Helen as perfectly as it had six years ago, and Marie-Anne was quick with the needle, her hands far steadier than Helen's. Only imagining the gown slipping over her head was enough to impart a sense of vertigo.

  "The moon is bright, and I can find my way there easily. Jack has said that the roads were good all the way to Holyhead, so if I can obtain the money tonight, I can be well on my way in the morning and at the port in a few days."

  She made herself look in the glass and consider her hair, pulling at it to twist it up on her head in an attempt to guess what she could make of it. She had only a few hairpins at her disposal, so it would be nothing elaborate even had she the skill.

  Marie-Anne watched her from her seat on the bed, meeting Helen's eyes in the mirror. "He will give you the money, I am sure," she declared.

  "I am sure of it, too. That is not in question. What is unknown is what he will ask in return."

  Her usually composed friend wore an almost comical expression of outrage and confusion upon hearing these last words. Helen saw her turn her face down to snip the thread quickly before she looked up again and insisted, "But, no. It is not in his character. He is not one to treat a friend so!"

  Helen dug the tip of a sharp hairpin into the pad of her thumb. "We are no longer friends, he and I. We parted...badly. I no longer hold his respect, Marie-Anne, it was clear. I will ask him for the money as a loan. If he does not agree, I will offer anything else I have of value, from scrubbing his floors to darning his stockings, though I doubt he has need of a maid."

  They had both carefully avoided naming the only other thing of value she possessed. At least she still assumed it held some value for Lord Summerdale, and covering it in silk and lace would not hurt her cause. There was need to look a beggar, she supposed, although she had no illusions that she was exactly that.

  "What if he is not there? If he has left this manor and gone to another?"

  "Daniel spoke with one of the grooms when he returned the book for me weeks ago. Lord Summerdale will stay in Herefordshire through the winter. Luckily for us."

  "I could go."

  "Marie-Anne," she said as calmly as she could. "You are the one who has said he wanted me. And that may be our only advantage."

  Marie-Anne picked up the dress and stood. Letting go of her hair to let it fall down her back, Helen walked briskly over to the bed. It had turned out to be a good thing that she had kept the dress, after all. And a good thing she had not been wealthy enough to gain any weight over the years, though she had never been slight-boned. If only she could manage to draw a complete breath, she might have a chance of putting the thing on without falling to the floor. She closed her eyes as Marie-Anne slid it over her head, then ran her hands along the smooth silk while it was fastened.

  Giving into an impulse of modesty, she reached into a drawer of the dressing table to pull out a filmy white scarf and laid it over the bared skin of her chest. Marie-Anne said nothing, but hel
ped to tuck in the ends, her face solemn. It made Helen smile. There was no one better than a Frenchwoman to arrange a scarf.

  "Well!" said Marie-Anne with an obvious attempt at normalcy. "We have only to decide what is to be done with your hair, and you shall be ready." She hesitated. "You look very lovely, Hélène. You can charm him with appearance alone, and if you can give him a smile, well, what man can say no to a pretty woman in need? Men love to play hero to the damsel in distress, and he has enough money to give you a thousand times what you ask, so I think you will not have to make any great sacrifice."

  The upward break of her voice on this last statement betrayed Marie-Anne's doubts. Helen knew less of men and their proclivities than her friend did, but even she knew it was wishful thinking that she would escape so easily. It was worth it, no matter what she might be forced to give. The vision of Katie lying sick sustained her. She twirled the ends of her hair and turned to the mirror.

  She did look well, she supposed, if one discounted her pallor. The green emphasized the dark richness of her hair, glossy waves that spilled down almost to her waist. She looked a stranger to herself.

  "We won't waste time in trying to dress my hair." She heard herself make a sound somewhere between a cynical laugh and a sob. "I'll leave it loose. Like my character, I suppose."

  Marie-Anne gave a twist of her mouth in response to that, and then crinkled her nose. "To leave it hanging free is not so much wanton as it is vulgar."

  Helen picked up the cloak where she had left it on the bed. If she left now, she could be there just after dinnertime. "Then it's quite fitting. What could be more vulgar than this?"

  Chapter 8

  Stephen thought he must have heard the butler wrong. She would not come here, at night. Alone. At all. He shoved his papers into the desk and stood in preparation for whatever would walk through the door.

  It took a moment to realize that it was her. He saw little more than the gown she wore as she stepped into the room, a gleam of silk in the candlelight. He felt all the air go out of his lungs as he recognized the curves revealed by the cut of the dress, curves she had hidden so very well. He felt lightheaded as his gaze traveled up to her face, taking in the sight of her unbound hair.

  A month. It had been only a month, and he'd forgotten what it was like to look at her. He felt the familiar tightness in his throat, the sudden urge to smile at her like an imbecile. She only stared at the fire, immobile as stone. Finally, she gave a slight curtsy, lowering her head and spreading her skirt with one ungloved hand, as if they were about to begin a country dance.

  "Lord Summerdale, I hope I have not disrupted your evening beyond forgiveness," she said into the hush, and the sound of her voice broke over him like water on dry shore. He did not answer, only watching the play of light on her hair.

  She looked up at him. "I went to the servant's entrance and made sure you had no guests before I approached your door."

  "Looking to preserve your tattered reputation?" It came out sullen and spiteful, because he could not hide the hostility that sprang to life inside him. It lived alongside the longing for her.

  "No," she answered quite civilly, as if she had expected his contempt. "I was looking to protect your own quite excellent reputation, and those of any guests you might have had. I am sorry if my presence here offends you."

  It offended him. It upset him and unsettled him. It made him want to go down on his knees and beg her to stay, to pull her tight against him and push his hands through her hair, to feel her lips seeking his again. But he took refuge in derision and indifference, pulling his shoulder up in a shrug.

  "Do you intend to tell me why you've come? Or will you hang about the doorway all evening and distract me from matters of importance?"

  He had no hopes that she was here to tell him at last about her broken engagement. There was too much pride in the set of her shoulders to indicate that she was willing to divulge any secrets. But what else she could possibly have come to him for eluded him. He opened his hand in a gesture toward the chair across from the desk, but she looked instead to the decanters on the table nearby.

  "Can I impose upon your hospitality for a drink? It was a long ride, and I am grown unaccustomed to being in the saddle."

  He gave no hint of surprise at the irregularity of her request. Expect no delicacy from a lady who was not a lady at all, she had once said with laughter on her lips.

  "Do help yourself, Lady Helen. Will you take whiskey or port, I wonder?"

  He was glad she did not look up as she poured and drank, for he could not have helped but betray his amused surprise at her choice of whiskey. It was a singular experience to see her take a healthy swallow without turning a hair.

  "It meets with your approval, I hope," he said.

  She nodded and moved to take the chair before his desk, but said not a word even after he sat and looked expectantly at her. He allowed the silence for long enough to observe the determined set of her features. She was as beautiful and as ordinary as she had always been, the clothes and her hair falling freely about her shoulders doing nothing to change the truth of her appearance. Where the fire lighted the left side of her face, she seemed as unremarkable as he had first thought her. But where the candlelight touched on her right side, he saw again the depths of her eyes and the heartbreaking loveliness of her face. She was only beautiful in moments, at certain angles and in certain moods, her features arresting one minute and common the next. Her body was another matter entirely, and he resolutely focused on her fire-brightened face.

  "To what do I owe your unexpected appearance at my door, Lady Helen? Come to browse the library?" Her calm upset him, while he could only feel the familiar burn of the anger he had felt in the weeks since he'd seen her last. "Or perhaps to have a look at that longbow I mentioned?"

  "No, on both counts, my lord."

  "Wondering about the progress of our little church charity?"

  "No."

  "Perhaps you are afraid I might undo all my good work with Emily. You hardly need bother, the marriage contracts are signed and in order."

  "I never thought you would interfere with that."

  "Then I confess myself at a loss, madame." She would not be drawn into an argument, and she was evidently impervious to mockery. "Will you enlighten me as to why you should so suddenly appear at my door?"

  She nodded stiffly, setting her glass on the table beside her. Placing her hands on the arms of her chair, she faced him squarely and addressed herself to a point just below his eyes.

  "I am come to ask a favor of you, my lord. As you must understand, you are the only one who can help me or else I would not be here." He watched as she gathered herself, no doubt swallowing her precious pride so that she was able to look into his wary gaze. "I need to borrow some money, and you are the only one I know of who is capable of providing such a sum quickly. I have no time to waste. If you can lend it to me tonight, I can promise to have my solicitor reimburse the funds within the month."

  He let his eyes fall away from her and rest on the desk, where he played idly with a pen in his hands. He dimly thought that he should be happy, to know that in her distress she turned to him. But he could not be happy.

  A loan. She came to him for money. If he had thought it impossible that she could hurt him any more than when she had shouted at him to take himself and his assumed seduction out of her life forever, he found he had been sadly mistaken. He should hardly be surprised she saw him as a bag full of coins. Her brother, and everyone else he knew, after all, apparently saw him only as a source of valuable information. How idiotic, to have hoped for a moment that he was anything more than whatever he could contribute to someone else's plans.

  "What could you possibly need so urgently, to lower yourself to walk through my door?"

  "I cannot answer that. I will not."

  Her tone was definite, without hesitancy. He had come to know her well enough to recognize instantly that she would not give him any reason for her request.<
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  "You need it badly enough to approach me, yet not badly enough to offer explanation," he said thoughtfully, as though considering. "I am not in the habit of making investments blindly, Lady Helen. Nor am I in the habit of making loans when I do not know where the money goes. It would seem we are at an impasse."

  He saw her tighten her grip on the chair. "Then you refuse me?"

  Her calm evaporated, her entire demeanor changing to one of utter desperation. It sharpened his curiosity into alarm. It could not be some simple everyday expense, to send her into such obvious despair. She may be determined to hide the reasons for her sudden need of ready cash, but he was suddenly just as determined to know the truth.

  "I refuse your terms. That is all I refuse, Lady Helen."

  "I know I was rude to you at our last meeting, for which I can only offer my apology. But if you cannot accept it, if you wish to see me humiliated in return for that rudeness, I will spend the rest of my life as your charwoman." She really was desperate, more so than he had realized. Her voice was rising almost to a plea, and he doubted there was any humiliation he could mete out to equal what she must feel at this moment. "Or I can sell you the dower house, or repay you twice what you give me, with interest. Given some time, I can do it, I swear."

  He hardened himself against the pity at seeing her reduced to this. He reminded himself that she had done this to herself. She'd refused to marry her lover and now she paid the consequences. It was simple, and cruel, and the way of the world. He told himself again, as he had done so many times since meeting her, that it was not his responsibility to help her out of the poverty into which she had so recklessly thrown herself.

  Advantage and opportunity, that's how he must see this. It always came from moments such as this, desperate people confiding their sad situation to him. If he could know the truth of why she was in such need, perhaps he could take the information to her brother and salvage something out of this ludicrous venture after all. It should mean nothing to him if she looked pale as a wraith. Nothing.