by Susanna Ives
Days later, a letter arrived from Wales containing the line, “It would be a pleasure to have you.” Helena brushed her finger back and forth over the benevolent words, tears rolling down her cheeks. She was going to Wales. Her cousin could have invited her to live with her in hell, and Helena would have gone.
Officer Wilson put up his objection to Wales, but nonetheless arranged a carriage and a train car. She wrote Jonathan and Emmagard one last time, giving them her new address and a wish that they would send a letter.
Now she spent the last minutes in her home pacing the hollow rooms that rang with the insults from the crowds gathered outside, trying to remember what the parlor had looked like while her father was alive. Hanging above the fireplace, there had been matching portraits of a French man and his wife posing in garish clothes from the last century, and on the mantel, three blue and gold porcelain pheasants were once arranged. Those useless details gave her comfort. She never truly liked her home in its cold grandness, but now she was afraid to leave.
She heard the rap of a knuckle against wood and spun to find Officer Wilson’s bulking presence taking up the parlor threshold.
“You have a visitor,” he said and moved aside. Behind him waited Jonathan.
Jonathan had not removed his hat and wore a long deep gray coat that flapped around his calves. The collar was turned up to his cheeks. He stepped inside. His nostrils pinched as he surveyed the bare walls. The crowd’s jeers echoed dully around them.
She was accustomed to him tearing into her parlor, flinging his slender body onto her furniture, then launching into a cynically amusing retelling of an incident that had recently happened to him.
This was a different Jonathan. He was reserved, his boyish nature subdued.
“Miss Gillingham.” He bowed and shot a glance at Wilson. “Excuse us,” he commanded, as if Wilson were a mere household servant.
Wilson’s mighty shoulders jerked with an amused snort. “I’ll give you a few minutes,” he told Helena in a low, slow voice, making a show of his authority. He strode out, leaving the door ajar and flashing her a look that ordered her to keep it that way.
She had always toyed with Jonathan because she knew he loved her. She would tease him to draw him close when she was self-doubting and needed to feel adored, and then pushed him away again, pretending not to see the lustful fires she had flamed in him.
Now those stupid games were over. She burst into tears and rushed to him, wrapping him in her arms, pressing her head to his thin chest. She clutched her old friend, trying to bring back the past when her tiny world was safe and snug. But he didn’t soften to her touch as he once did.
He gave a low groan and broke from her embrace. He strolled near the mantel, putting several feet between them. Then he turned, leaned against the wall, crossed his ankles, and jammed his hands into his pockets. “I’m sorry I didn’t call earlier,” he said casually with a shrug. “I’ve been engaged with family matters.”
She didn’t mention the letters he hadn’t responded to or the hurt of her friends’ silent rebuff.
“But you are here now.” She smiled prettily—a desperate, little lure.
He treated her to a cold, assessing look and remained quiet, waiting for her to say more.
She approached, laying a light hand on his arm. “I’m sorry for all the times I may have taken advantage of our friendship… of perhaps not being a good enough friend or… or…” The word lay heavy on her tongue. She forced it out. “Lover.”
The edge of his mouth hiked a fraction—a semblance of her old friend.
“You could have been much better to me,” he confessed and then removed his hat, setting it upon the mantel. Still smiling that half smile, he let his finger trail down her cheek and under her jaw, lifting her chin. “Should I give you another chance, my little fool?”
“It’s been so difficult.” Her voice broke. The words tumbled out, charged with her fears. She knew Wilson was listening, but she didn’t care. “Take me away from this place. Don’t let me go to Wales. I’ll be a wonderful wife to you, I promise. I won’t be the stupid girl I was before. I’ll make you happy. So very happy. You will have no cause for censure.”
He tossed his head and laughed. She joined in his amusement, assuming she had given him the words he always wanted to hear. But his mirth trailed quickly off, and he turned sober.
“Helena, things have changed,” he said. “You always treated me like a puppy on your leash, and I indulged you. But marriage? You have to see that your life’s situation has changed. Such a union between us is impossible, undesirable now. But perhaps…” His finger drifted down to her chest. “Perhaps other arrangements of the intimate nature can be made.” He studied her face, gauging her response.
She stifled her repulsion and did not stop his finger from circling her breast. She had sunk to a courtesan. A man’s toy. But she knew Jonathan. He would keep her on the edges of her old world. Her other option was Wales, which was a brutal place populated with filthy, low-minded people, according to Officer Wilson. All she remembered about that rugged, strange land was falling onto the hard castle stone.
“I’ll provide for you,” he said. “A flat, clothes, and food. But you must obey me, Helena. I will give you up if you cruelly tease me as you once did.”
So much had to be decided in a matter of minutes. A virtuous woman would leave for Wales and not debase herself. But Helena was drawn to the allure of obeying Jonathan, let him do the endless thinking, let him worry about the money, let him hide her away.
She rose to her toes and brushed her lips against his. Her answer. She experienced no tenderness or rush of desire from the kiss, only sadness. There would be no pure love, joyous wedding day, or wanted children.
He met her gentle kiss with a violent one. He pressed hard against her mouth until she received his tongue. She wanted to push him away, but instead tried to slow and soothe his motion. She knew this arrangement couldn’t work, but she needed it so desperately was she was willing to pretend. After all, she had spent a lifetime playing the little game of refusing to see the harsh truth.
“Where do you want me to go?” she asked. “I must let Officer Wilson know.”
“I don’t have any arrangements yet. I must find a way to get the money from father without him knowing. No one must ever know. You can never mention my name to anyone. I will find a small apartment near Hyde Park so that I can easily call and Papa won’t suspect anything. And I’ll need a solicitor.”
“Why? Must I sign something?”
“I understand from asking among my friends that is the best way to handle such transactions. I’m sorry, my darling, but you must understand the position I’m in.”
There was a tap on wood. “The carriage has arrived.” Officer Wilson waited at the door. His gaze darted from Helena to Jonathan and back to Helena. “Are you taking it?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“I will write to you when…” Jonathan glanced at Wilson and carefully censured his next words, “…when I’m ready. I believe you gave your address in your last letter. “He replaced his hat. “Have one of your men see me through the scullery entrance,” he told Wilson and strode from the room, his coat swinging at his calves.
Wilson snorted through his smirk and followed the man.
Helena remained alone in the empty room a few moments. Again, she tried to see it arranged as when her father was alive. She walked by the invisible tables and chairs, remembering their texture on her fingertips and snippets of old conversations had among them. Then she strolled out the door.
She returned to the front hall, slid on her gloves, and sank onto her trunk. She waited for Wilson with her face in her hands. Here, the hateful jeers of the crowd rang louder:
“Put the totty in Newgate.”
“Workhouse whore.”
“Hang her by her pretty garters.”
Wilson entered, flanked by two other officers. “I wouldn’t put too much stock in that green lad savi
ng you,” he said before his men. “You’re not going to hear from him again.”
“’Tis a pity,” she viciously retorted. “For you tell me I won’t last in Wales.”
“You don’t know when someone is trying to help you, miss,” he snapped. “One day you may wish you had shown me a little more gratitude.”
He issued a sharp whistle. “Let’s get her in the carriage, lads. Take the trunk before us.” He jutted out his elbow for her to take. “Stay close to me.”
He guided her out the front door. People pushed upon the gates, reaching out, trying to seize onto her. Their lewd calls pierced her ears.
“Stay back,” Wilson warned the crowd as he hurried Helena down the walk. A man in a faded brown bowler jumped over the railing and grabbed at her cloak.
“Take everything she has!” someone cheered him on. Helena’s neck was jerked back at the same time Wilson’s large hand shoved her shoulders forward. The clasp of her cloak popped off as she fell onto the carriage floor.
Wilson yanked the man away by his collar. “Get away from her.”
Helena scrambled into the seat, pulling her falling cloak onto her lap.
The two other policemen quickly slid the trunk in.
“Go,” Wilson barked to the driver, swinging into the carriage, slamming the door behind him.
Hands were beating on the windows as the carriage lurched into the street. Helena could hear the shouts of the driver as his whip cracked in the air, warning people away from his horses.
A few feet later, they had broken through the crowd, and Helena gazed out the window, watching her neighborhood go by. She wasn’t going to stroll down the walks anymore. She would never go to the door of her home again. Her old everyday life was passing away. Her shoulders began to shake. She turned from Wilson, covered her face with her hands, and cried.
He rested his heavy palm on her shoulder. “There now,” he said with more gentleness than she thought he possessed. “Miss Gillingham, don’t cry.”
∞∞∞
A day later, Helena stepped down from the coach in front of a rambling, timbered inn. The old structure sagged in the middle, and the whitewash on the daub had started to crumble.
The young, wiry postilion yanked her trunk from the stack in the back.
He said, “Here you go, Miss Simpson.” Simpson was the name she had given them. “Good afternoon to you. May you enjoy a fine time in Snowdonia, now.”
She watched the man climb upon his horse. The driver clicked his tongue and the powerful horses heaved the coach forward.
She clutched her reticule to her chest and surveyed her new home. A stone bridge arched over a wide, cold stream strewn with rocks and boulders. Along the bank, a tiny village stood—a mishmash of brown brick, gray stone, and old timbered buildings. A simple, triangular church steeple holding a single bell rose above the rooftops and appeared as black as iron against the grassy hills and the great craggy mountains disappearing into the heavy clouds.
For the last day and a half, she had been trapped in the stale, smoke-tainted air of trains, public inns and carriages. The journey from London to Bangor took over eight hours, changing trains in Manchester and then Chester. She had kept her head bowed, an arm pressed against her burning belly, terrified someone would recognize her.
She didn’t waste her precious money on a bedchamber in Bangor. She wouldn’t sleep anyway, so she spent the evening in the corner of the public room, ordering tea through the night and listening to a group of Englishman speculating about her father.
One drunken gentleman suggested the police should be investigating Gillingham’s daughter because “the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. A fast gel, that one, flaunting herself in her fine gowns and jewelry, but she’s no better than a street thief or tart.” The man went on to innumerate her faults.
She wished she could plug her ears but she couldn’t stop herself from listening, from hearing her own life told back to her, judged without mercy for every debauchery, slipped word, or thoughtless act.
The next morning, the same man bid her a cheery good morning as he and his family stepped onto the tourist coach that ran into the heart of Snowdonia.
Now, she sat on her trunk outside the old inn along the riverbank. Her cousin said she would send someone to meet her, but the streets were empty. She wrapped her arms about her and listened to the low roar of water rushing over rocks.
A hot prickly sensation rushed over her skin; she was being watched. She peered over her shoulder. Inside the inn, the patrons were staring at her. Maybe they were merely curious because she was a stranger in their town. Maybe they didn’t know who she was, she told herself, trying to hold back the rising panic.
But on the other side of the bridge, women began coming out of their houses and standing on their door stoops. They wore dark, harsh gowns overlaid with checkered aprons or bright shawls. They shaded their faces with their hands and squinted at her. The knots in her stomach tightened, and she felt she might vomit. Where was her cousin?
She heard the scrape and creak of the door opening behind her. In the threshold stood a balding man with a muscled, stumpy neck and stocky limbs. Laughter lines had permanently crinkled the corners of his eyes, but at the moment, his features were rigid. Behind him, a skinny boy, maybe twelve, clad in brown trousers and coat, stared at her with large, curious eyes—as if she were a circus act.
“Are you Helena Gillingham?” the man demanded.
She sucked her shallow breath and forced a pleasant smile. “Yes.”
He didn’t return the smile, but jerked his head at the young boy and mumbled in Welsh. The boy scampered down the street.
“I sent him to let Mrs. Pengwern know you’ve arrived,” the man explained. “I don’t suspect you speak Welsh, being the type you are.”
“Thank you,” she said and tried keeping her head rigid and high.
He regarded her for a moment. His lips quivered as if he wanted to speak, but he said nothing more, stepped inside and quietly closed the door.
She continued to sit, trying not to notice everyone watching her. By the river, several ducks had waddled onto the shore and were shaking the water from their feathers. Overhead, a hawk flew in long, gliding circles.
Then a female’s sharp voice cracked the air. A young woman with dark brown hair falling from a hasty bun was hurrying along the street beside the water. On her hip, an infant bobbed and another crying child gripped her mama’s hand, stumbling along, trying to keep up.
She was shouting something in Welsh, and an older woman standing in her doorway pointed at Helena. The angry mother advanced over the bridge at a hot pace. Helena swallowed and stiffened her spine, bracing for the onset of the woman.
She stopped a few feet from Helena. Her whole body rose with her rapid breath. Her infant wailed and beat its head about against her shoulder. The other child had wrapped both his arms around his mother’s limbs and buried his head in the folds of her skirt. For a moment, the woman said nothing, her body shaking with rage, and then the words exploded from her.
“My husband broke his back in London loading bricks so we could eat.”
“I-I’m sorry,” Helena said, forcing herself to remain still.
“We placed our savings in your bank.”
Helena didn’t bother to correct her. It wasn’t her bank. But she was the human face to her father’s crime. “I’m sorry,” she repeated again.
The lady’s nostrils flared. Helena knew she wanted a different response, something to stoke her self-righteous anger higher.
“Are you going to give us that money back?” she demanded.
“I-I can’t,” Helena said, showing her empty palms. “The courts have taken everything from me.”
“I suspect you want sympathy? Is that it?” The woman shifted the crying infant to her other hip.
“No, I—”
“I’m sure you have money stored away where no one can find it. That’s you people’s game. How am I going to sup
port my children when my husband can’t work?” She let out a thin, high whimper, her eyes beginning to water. “We have nothing because of you!” she screamed. “Nothing!”
Helena opened her reticule and fished out what little money she had left. “Here, it’s all I have,” she said, offering the money up.
The lady snatched the coins from Helena’s hand and moved them about in her palm, blinking back tears. Then she drew her arm back and threw the money at Helena. Helena turned her head, the coins struck above her neck and cheek.
“Put yourself on the next coach,” the woman spat. “You’re not wanted here.” She turned and stomped off, her children clinging to her. Villagers erupted into cheers as she passed their homes.
She glanced down the road; the carriage was gone. She was trapped. She pressed her hand to her mouth, the rush of her rapid breath roaring in her ears. The beautiful, silent mountains appeared to wave against the gray sky.
“Miss Gillingham,” a man shouted.
A bearded man strode over the bridge towards hers, a walking staff gripped in his hand and a black and white border collie trotting by his legs. His sleeves were pushed up, revealing sinewy arms. Behind him followed the boy the innkeeper had sent. The wind tossed back the man’s long coat and lifted his hat brim. Theodotus Mallory! He didn’t resemble the awkward and angry man in the ballroom, but appeared natural against the mountains.
She knew he lived near her cousin, and she had suspected she might see him from time to time. But why now, when she was holding onto the very last of her strength? She stared past him at the distant icy peaks of the mountains. She wanted to run and run and run, leave the trunk and everything she owned behind, and disappear into the mountains.