by Mary Balogh
Her father-in-law had not insisted today that Helena rest after nuncheon, though he did ask her if she felt quite well. He and everyone else, of course, wondered why Edgar had gone to Bristol just two days before Christmas and why he was still not back on the afternoon of Christmas Eve. She could feel the worry and strain behind Mr. Downes’s smile and Cora’s. She decided of her own accord an hour before tea to retire to her room for a rest.
She did not sleep. She was not really tired. That first phase of pregnancy was over, she realized. She had come for escape more than rest. There was such an air of eager anticipation in the house and of domestic contentment. One would have thought that in such a sizable house party there would be some quarreling and bickering, some jealousies or simple dislikes. There were virtually none, apart from a few minor squabbles among the children.
It was just too good to be true. It was cloying.
She felt lonely. As she had always felt—almost all her life. It seemed to her that she had always been on the outside looking in. Yet when she had tried to get in, to be a participant in a warm love relationship, she had done a terrible thing, trying to add a dimension to that love that just did not belong to it. And so she had destroyed everything—everything! If she had only remained patient and true to Christian, she realized now—and it would not have been very difficult, as he had always been good to her—she might have mourned his death for a year and still been young enough to find someone else with whom to be happy.
But then she would never have met Edgar, or if she had, she would have been married to someone else. Would that have made a difference? If she had been married this autumn and had met him in the Greenwald’s drawing room, would she have recognized him in that single long glance across the room as that one person who could make her life complete? As the one love of her life?
She lay on her bed, gazing upward, swallowing several times in an attempt to rid herself of the gurgle in her throat.
Would she? Would she have fallen as headlong, as irrevocably in love with him no matter what the circumstances of her life? Had they been made for each other? It was a ridiculous question to ask herself. She did not believe in such sentimental rot. Made for each other!
But had they been?
She wished they had not met at all.
If they had not met, she would be in Italy now. She would be celebrating the sort of Christmas she was accustomed to. There would be no warm domestic bliss within a mile of her. She would not have been happy, of course. She could never be happy. But she would have been on familiar ground, in familiar company. She would have been in control of her life and her destiny. She would have kept her heart safely cocooned in ice.
Would he come home today? she wondered. Would he come for Christmas at all? But surely he would. He would come for his father’s sake. Surely he would.
What if he did not? What if he never came?
She had never been so awash in self-pity, she thought. She hated feeling so abject. She hated him. Yes, she did. She hated him.
And then the door of her bedchamber opened and she turned her head to look. He stood in the open doorway for a few moments, looking back at her, before stepping inside and closing the door behind him.
She closed her eyes.
ALL DAY EDGAR had been almost sick with worry. He was taking an enormous risk with several people’s lives. If things went awry, he might have made life immeasurably worse for both Sir Gerald and Lady Stapleton as well as for Helena. He might have destroyed his marriage. He might have exposed his father to censure for behavior unbecoming a man with pretensions to gentility.
But events had been set in motion and all he could do now was try to direct them and control them as best he could.
The Stapletons had not changed their minds overnight. And so they set off early for Mobley Abbey on Christmas Eve on roads that were still covered with snow and still had to be traveled with care. Sir Gerald, Edgar noticed, was very tense. His wife was calm and outwardly serene. Each of them, Edgar had learned during his short acquaintance with them, felt a deep and protective love for the other. Without a doubt they had found comfort and peace and harmony together. Equally without a doubt, they were two wounded people whose wounds had filmed over quite nicely during a little more than a year of marriage—their marriage, he guessed, must have coincided almost exactly with the birth of their son. But were the wounds healed? If they were not, this journey to Mobley might rip them open again and make them harder than ever to heal.
They arrived at Mobley Abbey in the middle of the afternoon, having made good time. Edgar, who had ridden, set down the steps of the carriage himself, though it was Sir Gerald who handed his wife and sleeping child out onto the terrace. The child’s nurse came hurrying from the accompanying carriage and took the baby, and Edgar directed a footman to escort them to the nursery and summon the housekeeper. He took Sir Gerald and Lady Stapleton to the library, which he was thankful to find empty, ordered refreshments brought for them, and excused himself.
He went first to the drawing room. Helena was not there. His father was, together with a number of his guests.
“Edgar!” Cora came hurrying toward him and took his arm. “You wretch! How dare you absent yourself for almost two full days so close to Christmas? Helena has been quite disconsolate and I have scarce removed my eyes from the sky for fear lest another snowstorm prevent your coming back. It is to be hoped that you went to Bristol to purchase a suitably extravagant Christmas present for your wife. Some almost priceless jewel, perhaps?”
“Edgar,” his father said, rising from the sofa on which he had been sitting and conversing with Mrs. Cross, “it is good to see you home before dark. Whatever did take you to Bristol?”
“I did not go to Bristol,” Edgar said. “I told Helena I was going there because I wished to keep my real destination a secret. We are all surrounded by family and friends while Helena has only one aunt here.” He bowed in Mrs. Cross’s direction. “I went to see her stepson, Sir Gerald Stapleton, at Brookhurst and persuade him to come back with me to spend Christmas.”
“Splendid!” Mr. Downes rubbed his hands together. “The more the merrier. My daughter-in-law’s stepson, you say, Edgar?”
“What a very kind thought Mr. Downes,” Mrs. Cross said.
“Sir Gerald Stapleton?” Cora’s voice had risen almost to a squeak. “And he has come, Edgar? Alone?”
Cora had always been as transparent as newly polished crystal. The questions she had asked only very thinly veiled the one she had not asked. Edgar looked steadily at her and at his brother-in-law beyond her.
“It is Christmas,” he said. “I have brought Lady Stapleton, too, of course, and their son. If you will excuse me, Papa. I must find Helena and take her to meet them in the library. Do you know where she is?”
“She is upstairs resting,” Mr. Downes said. “This will do her the world of good, Edgar. She has been somewhat low in spirits, I fancy. But then your absence would account for that.” The statement seemed more like a question. But Edgar did not stay to pursue it. He left the room and, almost sick with apprehension, went up to his bedchamber.
She was lying on the bed, though she was not asleep. Their eyes met and held for a few moments and he knew with dreadful clarity that the future of her life and his, the future of their marriage, rested upon the events of the next hour. He stepped inside the room and shut the door. She closed her eyes, calmly shutting him out. She looked quite unmoved by the sight of him. Perhaps she had not missed him at all. Perhaps she had hoped he would not return for Christmas.
He sat down on the edge of the bed and touched the backs of his fingers to her cheek. She still did not open her eyes. He leaned down and kissed her softly on the lips. He felt a strong urge to avoid the moment, to keep the Stapletons waiting indefinitely in the library.
“Your father will be happy you have returned, Edgar,” she said without opening her eyes. “So will Cora. Go and have tea with them. As you will observe, I am trying to rest
.”
“I have brought other guests,” he said. “They are in the library. I want you to meet them.”
She opened her eyes then. “More friends?” she said. “How pleasant for you. I will meet them later.”
She was in one of her prickly moods. It did not bode well.
“Now,” he said. “I wish you to meet them now.”
“Oh, well, Edgar,” she said, “when you play lord and master, you know, you are quite irresistible. If you would care to stop looming so menacingly over me, I will get up and jump to your command.”
Very prickly. He went to stand at the window while she got up and straightened her dress and made sure at the mirror that her hair was tidy.
“I am ready,” she said. “Give me your arm and lead me to the library. I shall be the gracious hostess, Edgar, never fear. You need not glower so.”
He had not been glowering. He was merely terrified. Was he going about this the right way? Should he warn her? But if he did that, the chances were good that she would flatly refuse to accompany him to the library. And then what would he do?
He nodded to a footman when they reached the hall, and the man opened the library doors. Edgar drew a slow, deep breath.
“SIR GERALD AND Lady Stapleton.” Cora whirled around and looked at her husband, her eyes wide with dismay.
“My new daughter’s stepson,” Mr. Downes said, beaming at Mrs. Cross and resuming his seat beside her. “And his wife and son. More family. When was there ever such a happy Christmas, ma’am?”
“I am sure I have never known a happier, sir,” Mrs. Cross said placidly.
“Tell me what you know of Sir Gerald Stapleton,” Mr. Downes directed her. “I daresay Edgar will bring them to tea soon.”
“Yes, my love,” Lord Francis said, going to Cora’s side.
“Oh, dear,” Cora said. “Whatever can Edgar have been thinking of? Perhaps he does not even know.” She looked suddenly belligerent and glared beyond her husband to the group of their friends, who were regarding her in silence. She lifted her chin. “Well, I will be civil to her. She is Helena’s relative by marriage, even if it is only a step relationship. And she is Edgar’s and Papa’s guest. No one need expect me to be uncivil.”
“I would be vastly disappointed in you if you were, Cora,” her husband said mildly.
“And why would anyone even think of treating a lady, the wife of a baronet, a fellow guest in this home, with incivility?” the Earl of Thornhill asked, eyebrows raised.
“You do not remember who she is, Gabriel?” his wife asked. “Though I do hope you will repeat your words, even when you do.”
“The lady did something indiscreet, Jennifer?” he asked, though it was obvious to all his listeners that he knew the answer very well and had done so from the start. “Everyone has done something indiscreet. I remember a time when you and I were seen kissing by a whole ballroomful of dancers—while you were betrothed to another man.”
“Oh, bravo, Gabe,” Lord Francis said as the countess blushed rosily. “The rest of us have been tactfully forgetting that incident ever since. Though something very similar happened to Cora and me. Not that we were kissing. We were laughing and holding each other up. But it looked for all the world as if we were engaged in a deep embrace—and it caused a delicious scandal.”
“The ton is so foolish,” Cora said.
“Sir Gerald and Lady Stapleton are guests in this home,” the Duke of Bridgwater said. “As are Stephanie and I, Cora. I shall not peruse them through my quizzing glass or along the length of my nose. You may set your mind at ease.”
“Of course,” the duchess said, “Alistair does both those things to perfection, but he reserves them for pretentious people. I can remember a time when I was reduced to near-destitution, Cora. I can remember the fear. I was fortunate. Alistair came along to rescue me.”
“There are all too many ladies who are not so fortunate,” the Marquess of Carew said gently. “The instinct to survive is a strong one. I honor those who, reduced to desperation, contrive a way of surviving that does not involve robbery or murder or harm to anyone else except the person herself. Lady Stapleton is, I believe, a lady who has survived.”
“Oh, Hartley,” his wife said, patting his hand, “you would find goodness in a murderer about to be hanged, I do declare.”
“I would certainly try, love,” he said, smiling at her.
“I know the Countess of Severn,” Jane, Countess of Greenwald, said. “She and the earl have befriended the Stapletons. They would not have done so if Lady Stapleton was impossibly vulgar, would they?”
“There, my love,” Lord Francis said, setting an arm about Cora’s waist. “You might have had more faith in your friends and in me.”
“Yes,” she said. “Thank you. Now I wonder how poor Helena will be feeling about all this. Edgar and his surprises! One is reminded of the saying about bulls charging at gates.”
“I believe both Edgar and Helena may be trusted,” Lord Francis said. “I do believe those two, by hook or by crook, are going to end up quite devoted to each other.”
“I hope you are right,” Cora said with a loud sigh.
“What was that, Francis?” Mr. Downes called across the room. “Edgar and my daughter-in-law? Of course they are devoted to each other. He went off to bring her this secret present and she has been moping at his absence. I have great hopes. Not even hopes. Certainties. What say you, ma’am?” He turned to Mrs. Cross.
“I will say this, sir,” she said. “If any man can tame my niece, Mr. Edgar Downes is that man. And if any man deserves Helena’s devotion, he is Mr. Edgar Downes.”
“Precisely, ma’am.” He patted her hand. “Precisely. Now where is that son of mine with our new guests? It is almost teatime.”
HELENA LOOKED FIRST at the woman, who was standing to one side of the fireplace. A very genteel-looking young lady, she thought, slim and pretty, with intelligent eyes. She smiled and turned her eyes on the man. Pleasant looking, not very comfortable. Decidedly uncomfortable, in fact.
And then she recognized him.
Panic was like a hard ball inside her, fast swelling to explosion. She turned blindly, intent on getting out of the room as fast as she could. She found herself clawing at a very broad, very solid chest.
“Helena.” His voice was impossibly steady. “Calm yourself.”
She looked up wildly, recognized him, and was past that first moment and on to the next nightmare one. “I’ll never forgive you for this,” she whispered fiercely. “Let me past. I’ll never forgive you.”
“We have guests, my dear.” His voice—and his face—was as hard as flint. “Turn and greet them.”
Fury welled up in wake of the panic. She gazed into his face, her nostrils flaring, and then turned. “And you, Gerald,” she said, looking directly at him. “What do you want here?”
“Hello, Helena,” he said.
He looked as quiet, as gentle, as peaceful as he had always appeared. She could not believe that she had looked at him for a whole second without recognizing him. He had scarcely changed. Probably not at all. That outward appearance had always hidden his sense of rejection, insecurity, self-doubt.
“I have the honor of presenting my wife to you,” he said. “Priscilla, Lady Stapleton. Helena, Mrs. Edgar Downes, my dear.”
Helena’s eyes stayed on him. “I have nothing to say to you, Gerald,” she said, “and you can have nothing to say to me. I have no right to ask you to leave. You are my husband’s guest. Excuse me, please.”
She turned to find herself confronted by that same broad, solid chest.
“How foolish you are, Edgar,” she said bitterly. “You think it is enough to bring us together in the same room? You think we will kiss and make up and proceed to live happily ever after? We certainly will not kiss. You foolish, interfering man. Let me past.”
“Helena,” he said, his voice arctic, “someone has been presented to you and you have not acknowledged the introduction. Is tha
t the behavior of a lady?”
She gazed at him in utter incredulity. He dared instruct her on ladylike behavior? And to reprove her in the hearing of other people? She turned and looked at the woman. And walked toward her.
“Lady Stapleton. Priscilla,” she said quietly, bitter mockery in her face, “I do beg your pardon. How pleased I am to make your acquaintance.”
“I understand,” the woman said, looking quite calmly into Helena’s eyes. Her voice was as refined as her appearance. “I had as little wish for your acquaintance when it was first suggested to me, Helena, as you have for mine. I have had little enough reason to think kindly of you.”
How dared she!
“Then I must think it remarkably kind of you to have overcome your scruples,” Helena said sharply.
“I have done so for Gerald’s sake,” Lady Stapleton said. “And for the sake of Mr. Downes, who is a true gentleman, and who cares for you.”
The woman spoke with dignity. There was neither arrogance nor subservience in her and certainly no vulgarity—only dignity.
“I could live quite happily without his care,” Helena said.
“Helena.” It was Gerald this time. She turned to look at him and saw the boy she had loved so dearly grown into a man. “I never wanted to see you again. I never wanted to hear your name. I certainly never wanted to forgive you. Your husband is a persuasive man.”
She closed her eyes. She could not imagine a worse nightmare than this if she had the devising of it. “I cannot blame you, Gerald,” she said, feeling all the fight draining out of her. “I would have begged your pardon, perhaps, before your father died, at his funeral, during any of the years since, if I had felt the offense pardonable. But I did not feel it was. And so I have not begged pardon and will not do so now. I will take the offense to the grave with me. I have done enough permanent damage to your life without seeking shallow comfort for myself.”
“I must correct you in one misapprehension,” he said, his voice shaking and breathless. “I can see that you misapprehend. Forgive me, Priss? I met my wife under circumstances I am sure you are aware of, Helena. She had been forced into those circumstances, but even in the midst of them she remained cheerful and modest and kind and dignified. She has always been far my superior. If anyone is to be pitied in this marriage, it is she.”