by Susanna Ives
She climbed onto the second rung of a turnstile and waited. The breeze whipped about her skirts and the blue ribbons of her bonnet.
“This is all ours,” she said when Helena caught up to her. “My father’s family farmed it for over two hundred years. Now we let it, and people can’t always pay.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So I don’t want to learn finishing.” Megan stared at Helena, her nostrils flared and eyes darkened with some meaning Helena couldn’t decipher. “Do you understand?”
Helena shook her head.
“I want to farm this land as when Papa was alive. I haven’t time to be like the silly village girls. They’re stupid.”
Helena was beginning to see the problem. She rested a hand on Megan’s arm. “These village girls…do they tease you?”
Megan yanked away, “They only flirt so they can get husbands. That’s all they know to do: flirt, waltz, and pour tea. But what happens when their husbands die? What do they do then? Does all that finishing help them?”
“I know you miss your father,” Helena said. “He must have been a wonderful man.”
“You don’t understand what I’m saying. Women should want more than to marry. They should learn to do everything themselves. I mean, look at you. You can’t do anything.” She jabbed with her words like a knife and then scampered over the fence and walked on, leaving Helena behind.
A dozen vicious retorts rang in Helena’s head. She bit them back, remembering Emily’s words. Megan is not angry at you. She’s scared. Helena’s presence was a physical reminder of the fears Megan didn’t want to acknowledge. Helena wished she wasn’t pushed away, but be allowed a chance to show she understood.
Helena released a low breath, lifted her hems, clambered over the fence, and chased the girl down the hill to the river. They crossed an ancient stone bridge over the clear, cold water rushing over its rocky bed to a footpath shaded by spreading oak trees. A church rose just outside the village. The dull brown structure consisted of a chapel with a trio of thick lancet windows rising along the back. A simple steeple containing a single bell jutted from the roof.
By the building, a rotund man dressed all in black gripped a slate gravestone, trying to support himself as he knelt down amid the neat lines of graves. He had stubby legs and a long, sloping torso leading to an expansive belly.
“Bore da, Reverend Jeffries,” Megan called out as she passed.
The man struggled to stand, tipped his brimmed hat, and replied in Welsh. He eyed Helena curiously, but Megan made no introduction. She continued under a stone arch and onto a narrow street bordered by brown brick and stone houses. The stark, dull architecture was relieved only by flowers in window boxes. The inhabitants on the walks treated Helena with curious, yet hostile looks. She pulled her bonnet lower and hurried along, trying to catch up to Megan.
The lane opened into the main square with the river running along one side. On the opposite shore rose the inn where the carriage had set her down the day before. She couldn’t see Megan.
She pivoted on her heel, searching.
The villagers had stopped their daily activities and started to gather around her. She released a high-pitched hum, her panic rising. She spied a straw bonnet with blue ribbons disappear into a shop along the cobbled bank. She gracelessly ran down the street, chasing after her cousin.
Passing through the shop’s threshold, she was bathed in the rich scents of fresh bread, sugar, and cream. Glass cabinets contained neatly arranged confections and bottles of jam. Two shorthaired tabby cats were curled like shells before an iron stove.
A thin woman with a tight bun of graying red hair was balanced on a stool, shifting round bread loaves on a shelf. She chattered happily to a bearded man, who stood behind the counter, tidying the lines of muffins, buns, and meat pies.
Megan spoke in Welsh as she fished coins from the bottom of her basket.
The kindly smile the man wore for Megan fell when he spied Helena.
“She’s here,” he hissed in English to the red-haired woman. “Walked into my own shop, she did.”
The woman stopped her work, stepped down, and placed a calming hand on the man’s shoulder.
Not again. Helena’s stomach tightened.
“Are you buying a muffin for her?” he asked Megan, jerking his head at Helena.
Megan blinked. “Err, yes sir.”
“See now, I’ll give you three of them for free.” He made a production of picking out the muffins, counting aloud as he did. “One, two, three. For you, your mother, and that servant girl of yours. But hers,” he gripped the fourth one in his hand, “that will cost you a pound.”
“What?” Megan cried.
“It’s well,” said Helena, backing toward the door. “I don’t need anything.” The man relished his self-righteous anger. He had probably been waiting for this opportunity to confront her.
Megan’s confusion gave way to defiance. “I am to fetch four muffins. I have a penny. And that’s what it should cost.”
“I’m not hungry,” Helena assured Megan. “Let’s forget the matter.”
“Is that what you want?” the man boomed. “To forget the matter? Well, I doubt the London courts are going to let you off the hook so easily.”
“Randall, enough,” the red-headed woman said. She tried to reach across him to the muffins, but he slammed down his palm, rattling the panes. The cats lounging by the stove shot out the door.
“Megan, you know how I adore you and your mama,” he continued. “Like my own sisters. But when your mother decided to let that Gillingham woman stay—”
“Don’t put the girl in the middle of this quarrel,” Helena said.
The man bolted up from where he was sitting. The stool capsized and thudded on the floor. “You don’t come into my shop that I paid for with honest money and tell me—”
“She desires some muffins,” Helena said. “Let her buy three muffins at the usual cost. I don’t require anything.”
He pointed a blunt finger at her. “You keep quiet, you—you little whore.”
“Randall, no!” the woman shouted.
The bakery turned silent except for Megan’s quiet whimpers as tears trailed down her cheeks. The man’s shoulder heaved as he swayed on his feet. He wiped his mouth, his anger giving way to awkward, quiet shame.
“Come.” Helena placed a protective arm around the girl’s shoulders and tried to guide her away.
“Wait!” The woman grabbed two loaves of bread and hurried around the counter. “I just pulled these from the oven,” she said, nestling the loaves inside Megan’s basket. “Nice and warm.”
Megan shook her head. “I haven’t enough for the loaves. I have only a penny.”
The woman pleaded with her eyes to Helena.
“I think this was meant as a… a kind gift,” Helena stammered. “The bread smells wonderful. Let’s take it home now.” She wheeled Megan towards the door, but stopped and then glanced back. “Thank you,” she said, and exited.
∞∞∞
Outside, a crowd lurked about the riverbank. Helena’s temples throbbed. She kept a tight grip on Megan. She had to be strong enough to get the girl out of the village and back into the fields without breaking down.
“Stop staring!” Megan shouted at the villagers and then covered her face as if ashamed of her tears.
“They’re looking at me, not at you,” Helena assured her. “Please, let her pass,” she told the wall of people. “She’s a mere girl.”
People stepped aside, but as she and Megan rounded the corner, even more villagers milled about, wanting an eyeful of the notorious Helena Gillingham.
Helena kept one arm around Megan, the other pressed tight against her nauseous stomach. She was terrified she would vomit in front of the villagers. Someone touched her and Helena flinched. A stooped elderly woman wearing a tall hat and checkered shawl held onto Helena’s sleeve. She spoke in Welsh, her watery eyes filled with concern.
Helena shoo
k her head. “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand. I have to… I have to… to go home.” But her home wasn’t here. It was far, far away in London.
Now it was her turn to cling to Megan as they progressed toward the footpath running along the water. They had almost reached the church when a border collie, its tongue hanging from the side of its mouth, raced toward them.
“Miss Gillingham! Stop!” Mr. Mallory sprinted behind his dog. He halted before them and placed his hands on his knees. His breath was rapid from exertion. “I called on Emily. She said you had gone to the village. I wanted to intercept you.”
“They said horrid things to Helena!” Megan cried. “They called her a whore and—”
“What?” he thundered.
His voice pierced Helena’s throbbing head. She pressed her fingertips into her temples.
“Are you well, Miss Gillingham?” she heard Theo ask.
Helena shivered as if she was cold, but her innards were burning. She yanked at her collar, trying to get the hot, itchy fabric away from her skin. “I need a moment where no one… no one… hates me.” Tears sprung in her eyes, too many to blink away.
Dear Lord, everyone would see her break down.
She stumbled toward the church, seeking a hiding place under its eaves, away from the onlookers.
Mr. Mallory’s hand brushed her shoulder. “Miss Gillingham—Helena—wait.”
“Please… don’t let them see me.” She continued scrabbling to the church, reaching the side that was hidden from the villagers’ view. She pressed her forehead to the cool stone and tried to stem her humiliating tears.
“Helena.” Mr. Mallory’s voice quaked. He pulled her to him before she could protest. His scent of wood, tobacco, and clove enveloped her. The muscles of his chest pressed against her back. Even through the layers of their clothes, she could feel the rapid thump of his heart.
“Officer Wilson said I should… be… be calm in public.”
He gently spun her, further trapping her in his hold. “Don’t worry about anyone or anything.”
“I can’t.” She clutched his coat lapels and hid her face in his chest, her body convulsing embarrassingly with her sobs. “I want you to know I sent cards to Cousin Emily. Every year. I would have given her money had I known. I would have.”
The hound howled in sympathy, rising up on her hind legs and pawing at her master. “Megan, collect Branwen, please,” he said quietly and ran a calming hand down Helena’s back. “Hush now.”
“I don’t sleep,” Helena babbled on. “I just think and think and think. I can’t stop my mind. Why didn’t I see what my father was doing? Why? I must be stupid. I keep remembering your words when you said I was a vain, ignorant, and selfish girl. And you’re right.”
“Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that again. I was terribly wrong.”
“I loved my father. I loved him and he… I tried so hard. I tried...” Her burning throat choked her words.
“I’m sorry, Miss Gillingham,” he said.
Helena was a fool. She was so starved for kindness, she was willing to take it from a man she hardly knew and certainly didn’t like. A man she had savagely ridiculed when he had exposed his own weaknesses at a ball.
“Hello, there,” a man’s deep voice said.
Helena leaped away from Mr. Mallory. The corpulent reverend Helena had spied from a distance now ambled along the side of the church. His hat was off, revealing a headful of white cottony hair. His long nose was bulbous at the tip and his eyes were vivid green.
“I saw the upset lady through the window.” He bowed, softly groaning from the exertion. “I thought she might desire to speak to me.”
“They were cruel to Cousin Helena in the village,” Megan stated before Helena could think up an excuse.
Helena ran her fingertips under her eyes, hastily wiping away the tears. She forced a pleasant smile. “I believe—I think I’m well now. Thank you.”
She hoped the reverend wouldn’t ask what happened in the village or why she was clinging to a man she hardly knew in a churchyard.
“So is this the beautiful Miss Gillingham I’ve heard so much about?”
Helena stifled a wry laugh. The reverend spoke in a bright, pleasing manner, as though all he had ever heard of the notorious villainess were rosy compliments.
Mr. Mallory clutched her elbow. His touch comforted her. “Miss Gillingham, may I present Reverend Jeffries.”
The reverend enveloped her hand with his large, hot palms. “I’m so glad to finally make your acquaintance. In fact, I was planning to visit Mrs. Pengwern this very day for the purpose of meeting you.” He deepened his voice, his bushy brows slanted down. “Please accept my apologies if you have received a less than gracious welcome from the village.”
“I’ve grown accustomed to it,” she quipped. Reverend Jeffries’ eyes widened, registering the bitterness in her voice. “Thank you for your kindness,” she finished politely.
“You are always welcome here or in my home if you are ever in need of conversation or require a sympathetic ear,” Reverend Jeffries said. “Always. I do hope you shall attend on Sunday.”
Helena would rather gnaw off her fingers than venture beyond Emily’s door again, but she answered diplomatically, “I shall see what Mrs. Pengwern intends to do.”
“Mr. Mallory brings Mrs. Pengwern every Sunday in his carriage.” The reverend nodded to Theo. “Of course, you shall bring Miss Gillingham.”
“If that is what she wishes,” Theo replied.
The reverend turned his attention back to her, awaiting her response. Her tears threatened again and she swallowed them back. She glanced at the expanse of mountains reaching into the sky. Theo’s fingers tightened on her arm. Could he sense her restlessness? Her desire to flee to the mountains and hide in their silence?
“Well, I do hope I’ll see you there,” Reverend Jeffries said after an interval. “I am quite delighted you have decided to stay with Mrs. Pengwern. A lovely soul.” He bowed again, still keeping her hand. “May God bless you, Miss Gillingham.”
∞∞∞
No one spoke as they traveled up the hedge-lined lane to Emily’s, each deep in their own thoughts. Theo had offered to escort Helena, but she declined. Now he watched her stroll, her arms crossed about her chest, her face, ashen and sad, as she stared off at the distant pale mountains. Dense, gray clouds were moving in from the sea. In a matter of minutes, they would conceal Snowdonia’s craggy peaks.
His muscles were edgy and his pulse still raced. He had felt the emotions raging inside her—the sadness and guilt—when he had held her. Her feelings bled into his body. He wanted to hide her away from everyone and hush the words that pained him to hear. He was the unknown traitor. The cause of her misery. He had cracked the wild, obnoxious Helena he had met in London like a walnut shell and inside was the true brittle and lost woman.
At Emily’s, he opened the gate for the ladies. “Let’s form a conspiracy to keep silent about the village incident. It would upset Emily too much if she knew.”
“But what if they are never nice to Helena?” Megan asked.
“I shall take care of this situation,” he said. “Why don’t you take the bread inside and inform your mother that I’m bringing the carriage around this evening. You can dine with me at Castell Bach yr Anwylyd.”
“Truly?” Megan asked, a smile easing the tension from her features.
“Yes, truly. Now hurry off and tell your mama.” The girl rushed up the path, but Helena remained.
She kept her eyes averted, studying where her gloved hands gripped the gatepost. “I’m sorry I broke down before you.”
“Don’t give it any other thought. I’m a little… well, mad myself in case you haven’t already discerned it.”
“You don’t seem so to me.”
“You will revise your opinion after you visit my home. You’ll believe that I’m surely mad.”
She chuckled—a gentle sound. “I’m not sure I know what is mad o
r sane anymore. But I will be delighted to see your garden. In the light, that is. I watched it last night under the moon when I couldn’t sleep.”
She started to go.
“Miss Gillingham.” He seized her wrist, halting her.
She turned. The wind blew strands of dark hair across her nose.
“I was telling you the truth when I said I didn’t mean those hurtful words I spoke in London. I was quite wrong.” He meant to say more, that perhaps she would enjoy living in Kent with his stepmother where she would be protected from the hostile public. But her pale, hurt eyes—beautiful in their vulnerability—arrested his words.
She gave him a wistful, wavering smile. Her reddened lips were chapped and beginning to crack about the edges. “No, you weren’t,” she said and walked inside.
Eight
Five hours later, Theo sat, slumped, on the edge of the oval fountain in the front garden. He had crossed an ankle over his knee, balanced a hand that held a lit cigarette on the side of his heel, and stared at the empty earth, framed by wedge-shaped boxwoods. He and Gordon would plant asters this week, but at the moment, the bed was up-turned soil layered with manure and compost.
He watched as a brown earthworm wriggled over the dirt, and then exhaled a cloud of smoke. In its swirls, he saw the dead soldier again. The man’s memory had been weaving in and out of his mind since he left Helena.
After the first time the allies had tried to storm Redan, Theo and the surviving soldiers combed the fields, bloodied by slain men and horses, to search for the living. He thought he heard the shrill call of a hawk, then a man—or what was left of him—rose up from the piles of twisted bodies, his face and uniform soiled with blood and mud, intestines spilling from his gut. “Kill me,” he begged. The other soldiers paused for a moment, eying each other, waiting for someone to move. Other men had been killed by the Russian soldiers whom they had tried to help. At last, Theo’s men came to an unspoken decision and continued pressing down the field, leaving the man. But his pleas continued to ring out, his agony filling their ears. Finally, Theo lifted his Minié, the vapor of his breath rising before his eyes as he sighted on the man clawing at the air, pleading for his death. He muttered a small prayer to God, but the words felt as hollow as he did inside. He clenched his finger, the rifle butt slammed his shoulder, and the man slumped into the earth.