He sat down on the floor beside her. ‘What’s happening?’ he whispered.
‘Poor Miss Parker is crying,’ Eleanor whispered back. Her stomach ached in a most strange fashion, she felt so sorry for kind Miss Parker. The lady’s sobs, even muffled by the door, sounded like the saddest thing Eleanor had ever heard. When she had peeked out the nursery door earlier, she had seen Captain St George standing in the hall while Miss Parker ran from him. She didn’t know what it meant, but she knew they were both sorrowful.
William looked just as appalled. ‘But what’s wrong? Is she ill?’
‘I don’t know,’ Eleanor answered. ‘But I heard one of the housemaids say she thought she heard that Miss Parker had turned down a proposal of marriage. Could it have been from Captain St George? Can you imagine that?’ To Eleanor, with her love of fairy-tale castles where handsome princes saved beautiful princesses with a kiss, turning away from romance seemed unthinkable. Especially if it made Miss Parker so unhappy.
‘A proposal?’ William scoffed. ‘You girls are so silly about such things.’
Eleanor scowled at him. ‘You just wait until you’re grown-up and have to find your own countess! It won’t seem so silly then. And anyway, surely Miss Parker loves the Captain or she wouldn’t be sad.’
‘That’s true.’ William gently pressed his hand to the door, as if Miss Parker could feel their concern even through the stout wood. Eleanor placed hers next to his. ‘Why do you think she turned him away, then?’
‘I’m not sure. I think it has to do with money.’
‘Money?’
‘Miss Parker has to teach us music, doesn’t she? And she has to live with that old lady. And Mama says Hilltop has a roof that is falling in.’
‘But that’s silly. If just a roof is keeping them from getting married...’
‘Yes,’ Eleanor said thoughtfully. She did so adore Miss Parker, who loved music and was always patient and smiling, and never dismissed their ideas just because they were children. She liked the Captain, too, who was just like the brave, wounded princes in her stories. Surely they were meant to be together?
Surely they just needed a fairy godmother, one who could fix their roof and help them live happily ever after?
‘William,’ she said with excitement. ‘I have an idea. Will you help me?’
‘Is it for Miss Parker?’
‘Yes. If we could find the lost treasure at Uncle David’s estate...’
William’s eyes widened as he grinned. ‘We could get Uncle David and Aunt Emma to give it to Miss Parker and she and the Captain could fix their roof and marry!’
‘Exactly. And then she would live next door to Barton and never leave us.’
‘But where will we start?’
Eleanor frowned. ‘In Papa’s library, I suppose. There are lots of old maps there, maybe one could help us narrow it down.’
‘We could go out after dinner tonight, when they’re all in the drawing room. The gardeners always leave their shovels in the sheds at night.’
‘We’ll need lanterns...’
‘What on earth are you children doing?’ a sudden bark interrupted them.
Frightened, they leaped to their feet and spun around. They found themselves face to face with Aunt Sylvia, who blocked their escape at the end of the corridor, all towering plumed turban, layers of fur-trimmed shawls and a most ominous dragon-headed walking stick.
William and Eleanor clutched hands. ‘N-nothing at all, Aunt Sylvia,’ William said. ‘We were just...’
‘On our way to lessons,’ Eleanor said when he faltered.
‘This is not your schoolroom,’ Aunt Sylvia said. ‘Isn’t that the door to Miss Parker’s chamber?’
Eleanor gulped and nodded.
‘Then why are you lurking out here?’ Aunt Sylvia demanded.
‘We thought she might need some help,’ Eleanor answered.
‘Help?’ Aunt Sylvia glanced at the door with a scowl. ‘I see. Well, run along now. You should be doing your lessons, not pestering Miss Parker.’
Eleanor and William dashed away, hand in hand. ‘Remember,’ she whispered quickly when they saw the nursemaid looking for them. ‘Tonight we look for the treasure.’
* * *
Sylvia impatiently pounded at Rose’s door. She hadn’t seen the girl for hours and she couldn’t find the book she wanted. Rose always knew where to find things.
But, worse than that, Sylvia had seen Captain St George striding off down Barton’s drive, his face like a thundercloud. She knew the look of heartbreak and profound disappointment on a man’s face. Hadn’t she caused such a thing herself more than once, when she was young and beautiful and careless in France? Those affaires de coeur had passed as quickly as a rainstorm.
But Sylvia had a deep suspicion that whatever was happening with Rose and Captain St George was nothing like that.
‘Rose, I insist you open this door,’ she called out sternly.
After a long, silent moment, the door swung open. Rose stood there, composed but pale, her eyes red-rimmed. ‘How can I help you, Aunt Sylvia?’ she asked.
‘Oh, my dear girl. I think that for once it is how I can help you.’
Rose’s mouth parted on a startled ‘oh’ and Sylvia realised with a pang what an old crank she had truly become. She stepped into the room and shut the door behind her. She then did something she had never dreamed she could—she took Rose into her arms and held her close.
‘Now, my dear girl,’ she said. ‘Tell me what is amiss.’
Chapter Seventeen
Helen tried to pretend that it mattered not a whit to her that Charles had not appeared for Boxing Day tea. Neither had Miss Parker or Harry, or a few others who were obviously still recovering from last night’s ball. But it was Charles’s face Helen searched for every time the drawing-room door opened and her heart sank every time she saw it was not him.
She feared her disappointment would show on her face. That her reputation as the scandalous, fun-loving, careless Lady Fallon would be ruined if she was seen actually to care for someone.
Care for someone. What a very strange idea, a new feeling. Rather like an ague coming on, making her feel feverish and restless and giddy. She hadn’t felt that way in so long. Perhaps—never. And over a mere kiss.
A kiss from Charles St George, of all people. But, yes, there it was. She wanted to see Charles again, had to see him again. Had to know if what had happened meant anything at all to him, as it had changed everything for her.
She jumped up from the sofa and went to pour herself more tea, unable to sit still any longer. Jane and Emma sat by the fireplace, Jane embroidering and Emma with a book in her lap, talking quietly while everyone else played at cards or backgammon. It was a lazy afternoon with the servants gone, everything quiet after last night’s ball. A few snowflakes drifted past the window, closing them into their own cosy world as the winter weather turned colder. Yet Helen felt filled with a sparking nervous energy.
She took a sip of tea as she gazed out the window at the bare trees of the park, the lacy haze of snowflakes. She remembered Charles’s kiss, how it felt on her lips, the way his touch made her feel so very—alive.
She had come to Barton half-hoping she could find something with Harry again, could recapture a bit of that girl she had once been, before Fallon and her whole shallow London life. She had only found that Harry, as brave and kind as he was, had never been for her. If they had indeed married when they were young, they would have been unhappy because they could never have understood each other.
But Charles—he saw who she really was, because he was the same. Seeking, restless, longing for something more.
As she lifted her teacup again, she suddenly glimpsed a figure in the grey gloom outside. Startled that anyone would have stayed out in the
cold weather, she peered closer and saw to her shock that it was Charles, heading towards the house.
He wore his many-caped greatcoat, a scarf wound around up to his chin, and a hat pulled over his brow, but she knew it was him. Under his arm was tucked a leather-covered sketchbook.
Helen hurried from the drawing room, ignoring the curious looks that followed her, and found Charles handing over his winter wraps to a footman in the hall. To her surprise, he was smiling, his cheeks red from the cold, as light and merry as the Charles she had once known.
‘What on earth were you doing out there?’ she demanded. ‘It’s starting to snow. You could have made yourself ill.’
He just laughed. A real laugh, the kind she had not heard from him in so long.
‘Would you have nursed me most tirelessly, Helen?’ he said lightly. ‘Brought me beef tea and bathed my feverish brow?’
Helen planted her hands on her hips. ‘Certainly not. You brought it on yourself. What were you doing out there?’
‘Sketching, of course.’
‘Sketching? But—I thought you had given up art?’
‘Yes. I saw this astonishing view when we were out sledding a few days ago, and well—I just had to capture it.’
He opened his sketchbook, and showed Helen a scene of the winter woods, looking out over the fields to the chimneys of Hilltop beyond. It was rough, hastily drawn in quick lines, but it was exquisite. The melancholy beauty of the view was all there, the chill winter emptiness with the hope of spring to come, the promise of new life.
‘Charlie, I...’ she began, but words failed her. She shook her head. ‘It is breathtaking.’
He shrugged. ‘Just a rough sketch. When I can procure some paints, I’ll really be able to do something with it. If I could just capture the layers of white in the snow. That blue undertone, not quite grey, but not azure, either. I might have lost my touch.’
‘Never. It was always there, just waiting for you.’ Helen flipped through the rest of the pages. Most of them were still empty, but a few held the beginnings of sketches. A tenant’s little girl with her doll outside a cottage. The summerhouse in the Barton garden.
She turned a page and found that she faced—herself. A profile, a small smile on her lips, her hair waving from her brow. A smaller view of her whole figure, sad and solitary against the terrace balustrade.
Charles snatched the book back and snapped it closed. Suddenly all that sunny openness, the wonderful enthusiasm he showed over his new art, was gone.
‘Charlie, I...’ she stammered. ‘Do you see me that way?’
He shook his head. ‘You know you are beautiful, Helen. Men must tell you that every day.’
‘But you are different! That sketch makes me look so—lonely.’
‘And so you are. You always have been, but you have also always been strong. If you would just believe me, Helen. If you would only see yourself as I always have.’ He took up her hand and pressed a quick kiss to her fingertips.
‘Oh, Charlie, you are strong, too! Your talent, the way you see the world around you—it is something no one else has. If you would let me help you...’
‘No one can help me, Helen,’ he said starkly, turning away.
‘At least let me try! Let us try.’ She had never begged anyone for anything before, but now she wanted to. She wanted to grab his hand, to hold him with her, to beg him to show her the world as he saw it.
He smiled at her, but it was sad, quickly gone. ‘Helen, you deserve so very much more than what I could give you. I’ve never known a lady like you, a lady with all the potential of the world inside of her. Let me do the only right thing I’ve ever done in my life. Forget about me and live all your dreams.’
He walked away from her, disappearing up the stairs as she watched. She had never felt so bereft before, so hollow. So—alone.
‘How dare you, Charles St George?’ she whispered. She had offered him everything, wanted everything with him, and he had left her there alone.
Blast him, she thought. She wiped at her eyes and tilted her head high before she marched back into the drawing room. He was right. She did have everything. She was Lady Fallon, after all.
And Charles St George would be very sorry he ever dared to break her heart.
Chapter Eighteen
‘Oh, Miss Parker! Something terrible has happened and I don’t know what to do.’
Rose glanced up from the book she was pretending to read in the Barton library and saw the children’s nursemaid standing in the doorway, tears streaming down her cheeks and her hands twisting in her white apron. It was raining outside, a steady, icy mist, and Rose had pleaded a headache when Jane took the other guests into the village for a musicale at the assembly rooms. Rose had hoped for a quiet evening to hide from her worries—and from seeing Harry, as he and Charles had left for Hilltop. She felt quite drained after confiding in Aunt Sylvia.
But it seemed her hopes for quiet were in vain. The tears in the maid’s eyes made her own worry spring to life. She put down her book and hurried over to the girl. ‘Whatever is amiss?’
‘I went to look in on the children, as it’s nearly their bedtime, and Lady Eleanor and Lord William are gone!’
‘Gone?’ Rose suddenly shivered with a cold fear. ‘Are you quite sure? Perhaps they’re just playing with their new toys in the day nursery. Eleanor was so determined to practise that new song...’
‘Oh, no, Miss Parker. I looked there first thing. The younger ones were all asleep in their beds, but Lady Eleanor and Lord William are nowhere to be found. Their beds are still made, but I did find this.’ She held out a rumpled sheet of paper.
Rose recognised it as a drawing by William, who was quite good at sketching and had been talking with Charles a few days ago about his sketchbook. It was a lady, a princess to judge by her tiara, standing by a large open chest of gold coins. The Princess held up her hands, as if beseeching someone to find her. At the bottom was scrawled, Please don’t worry, Miss Parker. We will help you. Don’t leave us.
Rose bit back a sob. ‘Oh, my darlings, no,’ she whispered.
‘Do you know where they are, Miss Parker?’ the maid asked.
‘Perhaps, but I’m not really sure.’ She made herself take a deep breath, to think quickly about what might be in their dear, fanciful minds. ‘Send a footman with a message to Lord and Lady Ramsay, but do not alarm them too much. Say Lady Eleanor has a slight disposition. Tell her all when she arrives home. I think I might have an idea where they are and I’ll go out to look for them.’
‘Alone, Miss Parker?’ the maid cried. ‘In this weather?’
‘There’s no one else to go right now. Don’t worry, I’ll be quite well and I can move quickly on my own.’ She wasn’t at all sure about that, but she put as much confidence in her voice as she could. Panic would not help them now. ‘Can you find me a lantern?’
She hurried up to her chamber and put on her stoutest boots and her hooded cloak. She only prayed she was right and that for some reason they had gone off to look for the treasure.
She left the house and was immediately tempted to turn around as cold, icy rain stung her cheeks. She knew she had to go forward, though. The children needed her. Harry would be brave in just such a situation; she had to take inspiration from him now. Hoping against hope that her lamp would not go out, she set off into the night.
The rain let up enough that she could just see the path in front of her, but the wind was icy-cold, biting through her cloak. She found the stone wall that divided Barton from David and Emma’s Rose Hill and then led off at an angle towards Hilltop. That was where the children had pointed out to her the remains of the cold castle.
Rose carefully clambered over the wall and rushed towards where the ruined towers rose up in the misty night. The blank windows seemed to watch her dispassion
ately, completely unexcited after all the turmoil and trouble they had seen over the centuries. But were they a refuge as well, a place that would shelter two children?
The ground around the ruins was a quagmire of frost and mud, and Rose picked her way carefully closer. She glanced up at the column of what had once been a chimney, the bricks now tumbling down. Rose wondered for an instant what the house must once have looked like, all pale stone and shining windows, a refuge from civil war for two fleeing lovers. How had the long-gone lady felt when she hid her treasure, hoping to reunite with her love and find a new life together?
She had a fleeting image of Harry in her mind, his smile, his hand held out to her, helping her find strength, just as those lost lovers once had. ‘Are you there?’ she called out.
‘Help!’ someone cried, a tiny, faraway sound.
Rose spun around, her heart pounding. ‘Eleanor? Is that you? Where are you?’
Oh, let it be the children, she silently pleaded. Let it not be Arabella’s ghost, if there was such a thing.
‘Help!’ the voice cried again. A very real voice, a little girl, full of fear and desperation, but blessedly real.
‘Eleanor? Where are you?’ she called back, scanning the ruins with desperate eyes. She could only see the fallen chimneys, hear the whine of the icy wind. ‘Can you hear me? It’s Miss Parker!’
‘Oh, Miss Parker! We’re down here.’
Rose’s heart pounded even harder as a rush of panic seized her. She hadn’t heard William at all. ‘Down where, my dears? Keep talking so I can find you.’
‘Down here, under the stones. We fell through some boards.’ Eleanor started singing ‘I Saw Three Ships’ in a wavering, heartbreakingly brave little voice.
Rose followed the sound until she found an old caved-in area that must have once been some kind of cellar. She could hear Eleanor’s voice floating up from the depths.
She knelt down at the edge of the splintered wood, holding her lantern high. It flickered alarmingly. ‘Eleanor, are you there? I can’t see you.’
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