"Maggie," she whispered, hearing the quaver in her voice. "Maggie, I've come."
The relief on Maggie's face when she looked up spoke volumes about what she must have been through since they'd said goodbye. She said nothing, only coming to Helen and embracing her warmly, holding her in her arms as Helen bit her lip and tried to stop the trembling that had begun inside her.
"There, and I knew you'd come," she said simply, the Irish lilt in her voice doing its best to reduce Helen to tears.
"Oh, you did, did you?" she asked with a shaky laugh. "I had no idea if I would manage to come or not. But I suppose you have the gift of seeing into the future, Maggie Conway?"
"No, that I don't. But I have the gift of seeing you as you are. It's only the devil himself could keep you from coming." She tilted her head back and gave Helen's hair one last stroke with her hand before breaking away and glancing toward the door. "I hope it's not the devil you've had to pay to get here, though," she muttered.
Helen did not deign to look in Lord Summerdale's direction. Two nights and a full day in that carriage, filled with only silence while he looked at her as if she were a particularly fascinating insect. But he was the least important thing in the world to her right now. Later, when she needed his cursed money, she would take notice. For the moment, she walked quietly to the bedside, and Maggie followed.
"Cousin Janet's gone to fetch some water. The doctor promised he'd come back tonight, so you've come at the right time."
Helen looked down at the girl in the bed, still seeing no more than a pile of curls. She knelt down on the floorboards and leaned over, pulling the blanket slightly down so she could see Katie's face. The child was flushed, bright spots of pink on her cheeks, but she did not look feverish. She had strong features – straight dark brows set in a rectangular face, sharp cheekbones that jutted out becomingly, a square chin and perfectly straight nose. So this was Katie.
"Hullo," whispered Helen, stroking one soft curl away from a delicate pink ear, to pick it up and press her lips against it as she settled more comfortably on the floor. "Hello, Katie." And she laid her head against the bed, not far from the pillow, and tried not to think of lost things.
How long she stayed that way, she could not guess. When she looked up again, Lord Summerdale and Maggie were gone, and a woman who could only be Cousin Janet sat silently by the door. Helen met Janet's eyes, only to be rewarded with a shake of the head and a gesture toward the door.
"I won't let the child alone for long," she said stoutly once they stepped into the hall. "I only wanted to say that I'm sorry for the troubles. I've helped to look after the girl since she came to us, and it's a shame to me that I let such a thing happen. I've spoken with the owner here and he'll let me work for wages so I can make me way back to Ireland."
Helen's mouth nearly fell open at this speech. The woman had the air of a penitent servant. "But, Miss Janet..." She shook her head, hoping to clear some of the fuzziness. She had not slept, and her brain was slow to think. "There's no need, of course. You shall leave with Maggie on the next available ferry. Please don't worry yourself over money."
"Indeed, that is my task." Lord Summerdale stepped forward from where he'd been hiding in the shadows with Maggie. He glanced dismissively, though not unkindly, at Janet, and nodded at the closed door. "Stay with the child, if you please. I must speak with Lady Helen."
Janet wasted no time in obeying him, and Maggie hastened to follow. Helen caught her eye as she passed, and was given a miniscule shake of the head in response to her silent question. Maggie had not told Summerdale who Katie was. Thank heavens.
"Well, Lady Helen," he began as she turned to him with a sigh. "Maggie tells me the child is recovering and the next ferry is tomorrow noon. There is a bill waiting to be paid downstairs for tonight's lodging, fares to be bought, and I've no doubt the doctor will want to be paid for his visit tonight. There is no need to look at me so, I will pay them all and any other expenses that arise. But I am waiting."
She barely had the strength to summon any emotion other than a vague suspicion. "Waiting for what, my lord?"
"For an explanation, of course," he replied coldly. "That was our agreement."
"Was it? As I recall, I asked you for the necessary sum in exchange for allowing you to see what your money would buy. You see for yourself how your coin is put to use. I have no memory of offering you any explanations. You must judge for yourself and find meaning in my actions as you may."
Something about speaking to him made her feel stronger, even though she could see he was angry. She only raised her brows at him, knowing she had succeeded in frustrating him thoroughly. But she was tired, and short-tempered, and it was none of his affair.
He narrowed his eyes at her. "What would it cost me for an explanation?"
"That is not for sale, my lord."
He looked ready to press the matter, but before he could open his mouth, the doctor was at the top of the stairs. Helen went to the man immediately, waylaying him with questions about Katie as Lord Summerdale turned on his heel and left them in favor of the common room.
Katie slept the night through, and half the morning. It would have worried Helen more, if it was a restless sleep, but the girl seemed perfectly peaceful. After several wakeful nights filled with a racking cough and uneasy breathing, the doctor insisted that Katie only needed sleep to recover properly. Sleep and a warmer climate, he said, and since they could not change the climate they let her sleep on.
The barmaid offered to oversee Katie's breakfast while Helen went downstairs with Maggie to see her off again. Summerdale was nowhere in evidence, having left the inn last night for more luxurious lodgings. No doubt he resented waiting for instructions, but he had at least sent his servant to see to any needs they might have.
"The girl thinks you're a wonder of the world, you know, Helen," said Maggie. "They've told her about you over the years. It's a fairy godmother you are to her."
"I only hope I can live up to such a reputation." She watched Cousin Janet instruct the footmen in the matter of the baggage. "I do not know – I have never really known, how to do this without you."
"What, help to raise the child? I've no more experience at it than you."
"But you are so much more capable than me, Maggie, and so much stronger."
She gave a huff of indignation. "Helen Dehaven, you're the strongest person I ever knew or may lightning strike me down." Maggie shook her head, an impatient dismissal. "Now, the doctor says you can leave today without worry and if she's kept warm, it's just as well as staying here. She'll be traveling in style, she will, thanks to his lordship."
"He asked nothing but to come here and see for himself what was so important to me, you know," she told Maggie, as they had not spoken of it. "Strange man. Well, it's done no harm, I think, and now his carriage awaits you, Lady Maggie."
She swept a deep curtsy to Maggie, hoping to hide the wrenching sadness at having to say goodbye once again. Straightening up with a bright smile, she saw Maggie holding out a hand to her. "Shall I kiss it then, Queen Margaret?"
"Loyal subject, that's what you are," sniffed Maggie. "They'll say I put on airs when I get home."
The thought of Maggie at home, surrounded by people Helen had never known, sobered her mood. She took Maggie's hand.
"I've not said to you, Maggie, ever. I have never said–" She pressed her lips together. "You have been the greatest friend – and it's too small a word..." She gave it up and looked in her friend's eyes through a blur of tears.
Maggie looked as she always had: infinitely capable, manifestly good. Her face was filled with the same combination of practicality and compassion that Helen had last seen at another inn, as her newfound savior had wiped away ugly smears of blood from her legs.
The thought of it closed her throat up, and she reached for Maggie, hugging her tightly. Maggie only held her a moment, speaking softly in her ear. "I only did what was right. There is kindness in this world, Helen, and
you should be believing in it, sometimes."
Those were the words Maggie left her with, not even adding a goodbye to this last bit of wisdom, a parting gift to her friend.
They left for Herefordshire that afternoon, Helen taking great pains to see the child comfortably settled. He'd watched her speaking with the driver, witnessing for the first time the extraordinary charm she exerted when she wished to ingratiate herself. She had a way of giving orders while at the same time deferring authority to the servants. They were perfectly pleased at the same high-handed manner that grated on Stephen. Then again, she had done nothing to make him feel the equal even of his own footman, dictating what she needed and when she needed it, making no pretense that he was in any way valued above his service to her needs.
He climbed into the carriage after her, handing her the cloak he'd been compelled to buy for the child. Helen looked at it for a moment, but did not comment on the richness of it, wrapping it around the girl without touching the thick fur lining. The little one stared out the window with wide eyes for the first hour of the journey, asking Helen occasionally about things they saw along the road and darting shy looks at Stephen before she settled back and dropped off to sleep. She looked quite well, only a slight darkness around her eyes indicating that she had been ill.
He had no idea what to make of it. Everything in the way Helen acted toward the child... She had begged and pleaded, debased herself for this little urchin, but it was obviously the first time they'd ever met. She fought like a lion for the girl, and it was clear that nothing on this earth was more precious to her. She must be the girl's mother, it was the only answer to the riddle. But why would she have refused Henley, if she loved him so much and had been pregnant as well? And why on earth have the child in England, send it off to Ireland, and bring her back now? He didn't even think the girl knew Helen was her mother – she addressed her as "miss", but there was awe in her eyes when she caught sight of Helen. Exactly as one might expect from a child upon meeting its mother for the first time.
It gave him a raging headache to think of it, and he understood quite well that she would not solve the puzzle for him. Nor would she answer any questions about the child, he knew, unless he could corner her alone, and probably not even then.
There was less disgust in him than he would have expected. Very well, she'd had a bastard and hidden it from the world. What he found unconscionable was that she would hide the truth of it from a daughter she obviously adored, and that she would continue to refuse her brother's financial support when this child depended on her.
She sat now with her arms around the child, leaning back in a corner opposite him with the girl resting against her. Such a maternal pose.
"What was your own mother like, Lady Helen?" he asked, searching for a roundabout way to force her to impart some information.
She looked up from her deep contemplation of the sleeping child, her hand flexing protectively on the little back as though to shield it from some danger. She had obviously been deep in a troubled thought and had not heard him, tensing when he spoke. She looked at him as wildly as she had after he had kissed her, a fear such as he'd never seen directed at him as she spread her hands over the child's back.
"I... my mother?" she asked, the fear dissolving in the moment she met his gaze.
"Yes," he continued, ignoring the strangeness of her mood. "I think she must have been quite a forceful character, if your own bullying is anything to judge by."
"A bully? You think I bully her?" She turned her eyes back to the bundle at her side with a frown of concern.
"No, not the child. I rather meant myself, and that doctor at the inn. You are adept at giving orders, you know," he informed her ruefully. "I thought your competence in such matters might have been inherited."
A slow curve of her lips revealed her amusement, transfixing him with the soft pliability of her mouth. "Not quite inherited, no. My mother had little to do with me, as a rule. If you find me at all dictatorial, the blame must be laid at the feet of a series of stern governesses. And Maggie's example, too."
"Your parents..." He hesitated, but she seemed to speak of them quite easily. "They died when you were quite young, did they not?"
"When I was fourteen. I did not know them well. My father was ill for some months, and my mother attended his sickbed but did not wish me there. In the end, she died before him, an accident. She was with child, and she took a fall down the stairs." She spoke as if in a trance. She had probably not slept much, which accounted for her sudden willingness to confide in him. "My mother died after the baby was stillborn. It was...very bloody. I detest blood. My father died not two weeks later. There was nothing for him after my mother died. Alex and I were..." She shrugged with nonchalance. "We were not enough. We were always excluded from the little world they'd made together. We distracted them from their grand romance, and there is no greater sin to two people so in love."
"It sounds a lonely childhood," he observed, hoping her mood would last. He tried not to think of her own grand romance with Henley, but failed.
"I had Alex, though. We made our own little world to counter theirs. But ours was a child's world, with games to play and tricks on each other. He had a fondness for putting toads in my bed," she smiled. Her face lost the glow of reminiscence and became sad as she said, "We looked after each other, once."
Like Edward and me, but for entirely different reasons. He felt a sudden wave of loneliness, seeing her arm around the child as she spoke of her beloved brother. Even in her downfall and banishment, she had more than he'd ever had.
No one. He had no one at all in his life, a fact he'd always avoided admitting fully to himself until now. His brother, a cautious ally in the wars of their family throughout their childhood, had become his friend as an adult, only to die too young. Clara was the only other person to teach him anything of love, how to open himself to another, to feel as if his life were more than a desert wasteland. And she was gone from him.
He wanted to ask Helen if she understood her own good fortune. She had her villagers, her tight circle of friends, this lovely frail daughter. She could never know what it meant to be utterly alone, with no one to turn to, or the fathomless depths of loneliness that could rise up in the dark of a carriage containing a woman and child who were no part of him.
He had not realized the depths of it himself, until she had let him into her life, and then turned him out into the cold again.
"And you, my lord? Shall we exchange life stories in the absence of other entertainment? Tell me what your family is like."
He contemplated telling her about the endless mockery of his mother, his father's criticism, how they played their children off one another. How his skin was never quite thick enough to resist being pricked by their barbs. How he was a disappointing bore to them all.
"I had a brother once, too," he surprised himself by saying. "He died not long ago. He was..." He shook his head lightly. "My father died earlier this year. I have two younger sisters. I'm sorry, it reads more like a laundry list than a family. What of the girl? Katie is her name? Does she have siblings?"
That seemed to have disarmed her. Her eyes became unfocused and she tightened her grip on the child again, turning to look at the mountains in the distance.
"No, she doesn't."
She fell silent until evening came, when they stopped at an inn. Even then, she only thanked the coachman for keeping to a smooth road before she bundled her charge up to the private rooms Stephen procured for her. He went to his own room, leaving her to her child, remembering the smile that touched her lips, and how they had moved beneath his, feeling the sting of isolation as acutely as a starving man shut out from a feast.
In the late morning of the third day, they arrived in her sleepy village. They had spoken little on the journey, the girl consuming her attention even though she slept most of the time. Helen said that the girl did not sleep the nights well because of the coughing, and often as the child slept on the ride s
he woke up sweating, becoming slightly feverish.
He watched Helen grow more concerned over the days of their journey, sleeping in the coach next to the child. It was a sight that he had grown to both love and envy at once. But she virtually ignored him, polite to the point of indifference. He supposed she was filled with thoughts of her former lover, the child's father, whom she had so impetuously turned from. If Henley was the father. If Helen was the mother. Unlikely as it might seem, he could not deny that she acted the mother and that there was no alternative explanation.
She directed the carriage to the blacksmith's house instead of her own. He descended after her and watched in amazement as she settled the child in with the family, in a cozy little room. She acted as if he were not there at all, which incensed him. He would talk to her. The need for answers grew increasingly more urgent as he understood she meant the child to stay here, and not with her.
Stephen waited impatiently for a moment when he could speak to Helen alone. When at last he realized that an opportunity would not present itself, he walked over to her and commanded her attention through the simple expedient of remaining by her side and staring silently. She could not ignore him for long, and at last she excused herself and followed him out of the house.
"Well?" she demanded impatiently. "What is it? You are quite welcome to leave, my lord. You have given what you promised and I will disturb you no more."
"It has gone far past the point where you can dismiss me from this business at your whim," he bit out, infuriated that this was to be all between them, that she would allow nothing else.
"You have made it clear that you will not explain the child to me, but you don't have to. What I should like to know, Helen, is how you can have such a fondness for the girl and yet continue to lie to her."
Her brows drew together in outraged confusion. "What are you talking about? How have I lied to her?"
A Fallen Lady Page 14