Winning the War Hero's Heart

by Mary Nichols

  ‘What you got ag’in him?’ one of the others asked.

  ‘Plenty,’ he said. ‘He had me flogged.’

  ‘Why, what d’you do?’

  ‘Me? Nothing. There was a little Portuguese lady he had his eye on, but she preferred me and he did not like that. But I’ll get him for it.’

  Helen found that hard to believe and preferred Miles’s version. She rose and wandered away, fearful that they might have seen and recognised her. But no one stopped her and she went in search of Miles to warn him. He was nowhere to be found and she supposed he had left. She decided to leave, too.

  Outside the wind was whipping along the street, stirring up rubbish as it went. It was going to rain again. She pulled her shawl closer about her shoulders and put her head down to hurry home. It was a good job her window had been mended, even though it had cost her the price of two of her mother’s figurines. She feared she might have to sell more of them if the paper was to survive.

  She heard footsteps behind her and increased her pace. Whoever it was did the same. She was almost running when a hand took her arm. She squealed in alarm as he pulled her round to face him, then realised it was the Viscount and let out her breath in relief. ‘Oh, it’s you, my lord. You gave me a fright.’

  ‘I am sorry for that, but did you not remember me telling you not to go out unaccompanied?’

  ‘You may tell me whatever you wish, but I do not have to take heed. It is but a step from the Assembly Rooms to my door.’

  ‘Why did you not tell me you wished to leave?’

  ‘I could not find you.’

  ‘I had only stepped outside to smoke a cigar.’

  ‘Then you did not hear Mr Blakestone making threats against you. It is you, not I, who should not go out unaccompanied.’

  He laughed. ‘I have survived threats before and shall do so again. It is all bluster.’

  ‘I hope you are right. I should hate to think of you lying unconscious in a ditch somewhere.’

  ‘Should you?’ His voice was low, seductive, increasing her confusion.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I promise you I shall be alert to danger.’

  They had reached her door and she turned to face him. ‘Thank you for your escort, my lord.’

  He took her hand from his sleeve and put it to his lips. She felt the familiar warmth coursing through her and lifted her face to his. The wind whipped a cloud across the sky and for a brief second the street was bathed in moonlight and she could see his face. He was regarding her over their clasped hands as if drinking in the sight of her, moving his gaze from her eyes to her lips and back again to her eyes. He seemed to be looking right inside her, revealing things she did not want revealed: her uncertainty, her weakness where he was concerned, her longing to have him put his arms about her. Another cloud obscured the moon again and they were once more in darkness. She felt his lips brush her forehead. ‘Goodnight, my dear,’ he said softly, letting go of her hand.

  She was trembling all over as she let herself into the shop and shut the door behind her. How dare he take such liberties? How dare he? She had not given him the least encouragement. Or had she? She was in a ferment. She ought to have given him his rightabout, made him realise how affronted she was. But how could she? It had been such a gentle brushing of his lips against her brow, not lustful in any way—brotherly, perhaps, nothing more. To have made a fuss would have blown the incident up out of all proportion. So she told herself, but it led to a wakeful night as she relived the evening over and over again.

  Chapter Eight

  Jack Byers had been put in charge of ordering supplies for the Co-operative and he had instructed the bills to be sent to Helen. One arrived for timber the following Monday. She told herself that to do the job properly, she ought to see what had been delivered and check it against the invoice and if she were to come across Viscount Cavenham there she would act with cool disdain.

  The wind was still blustery and cold and she walked quickly, glad that the rain was holding off for once. Perhaps, after all, they would have a summer. That would make everyone more cheerful. She was surprised and delighted when she arrived at the site to find so many men at work there. They had allocated the plots and were busy clearing the scrub. Some were already digging, though the ground was saturated and muddy. On one side there was a pile of timber and men were busy sawing it into lengths. Jack Byers was among them and she went over to him. ‘You are making headway, I see.’

  ‘Yes, we are going to make glasshouses on this patch. When we’ve got the frames up, we will order the glass for them.’

  ‘What about the barn?’

  ‘Getting the land in good heart and the hothouses up is our first concern, Miss Wayland. We need an income as soon as possible. Some of us are sleeping in the barn just to keep an eye on things. We don’t want anyone to make off with the timber and tools, do we?’

  ‘Very sensible. Did you hear Mr Blakestone making threats against Viscount Cavenham at the dance on Saturday?’

  ‘Yes, he spoke so loud, everyone did. That’s one of the reasons why we decided to put a guard on the place. He is a troublemaker, that one.’

  ‘Do you think he will try to harm the Viscount?’

  He shrugged. ‘His lordship don’ think so.’

  ‘You have spoken to him about it?’

  ‘Yes, he’s in the barn with Mr Mottram. Why don’t you go and say how d’you do?’

  Helen’s heart skipped a beat. Did she really want to speak to him? She was only laying herself open to more heartache. That brief kiss had set her pulses racing, stirred the woman in her and opened the gate to a longing for something more, something she could not have and she was afraid it would show. And yet she found her feet taking her to him, ignoring her brain.

  He was busy with a tape measure, a pot of paint and a brush, drawing the ground plan of the houses he had envisaged on the hard earth floor. She stood and watched him for a moment. He was dressed in plain riding breeches and an even plainer waistcoat over his shirt. He wore no coat or hat and his dark curls nestled in his neck and across his brow. His cravat was a simple neckerchief. You would never tell, looking at him, that he was a member of the aristocracy. She knew he liked to work alongside the men and that could not be done in fancy waistcoats and pantaloons. But the clothes did not detract from, but rather enhanced, his muscular physique. When he was working like that, his disability hardly showed. Mr Mottram in his fine city clothes was standing watching him.

  Miles looked up and saw her. ‘Miss Wayland, good morning. Have you come to see how we are getting along?’

  ‘Yes. Good morning, my lord. Mr Mottram.’ She acknowledged them in turn. ‘I thought I would write a diary for the paper of each day as the work progresses. It might inspire others to think of joining forces for the common good.’

  ‘Good idea. Self-help is better than relying on charity. If everyone did that, the country would soon come out of its doldrums.’

  ‘It would not please men like Mr Blakestone and Mr Hardacre.’

  ‘No, but Mr Hardacre has moved on, so I have been told, and Mr Blakestone is a lone voice. Few people are taking any notice of him.’

  ‘Including you, my lord, even though he threatened you.’

  ‘And you, too, as I recall. We shall have to watch each other.’ He gave her one of his disconcerting smiles as he spoke, his eyes seeming to pierce what little armour she had left. She felt the colour flare in her face and tore her eyes away from his, only to find herself meeting the gaze of James Mottram. He seemed amused.

  ‘I received this bill for timber this morning,’ she said, proffering the invoice to him. ‘I’ll give it to you for payment, shall I?’

  She intercepted a look between him and the Viscount, which set her wondering all over again. Mr Mottram seemed momentarily surprised and Miles gave him an almost imperceptible nod before James took the invoice from her. ‘Yes, of course. Send all the bills to me.’

  ‘His lordship has instruc
ted me not to include building materials in the men’s ledger,’ she told him.

  ‘I told Miss Wayland it was a capital outlay and increased the value of the land, so should not be put down to the Co-operative account,’ Miles put in. ‘That is what you intended, was it not?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Helen looked from one to the other. Why did she think they were acting out a charade for her benefit? Who was the benefactor and who the middle man? It annoyed her to think they did not trust her with the truth.

  ‘I will leave you now,’ James said. ‘Everything is going on as it should and I have an appointment in Norwich later this afternoon. Good day to you, Miss Wayland.’

  And he was gone, leaving Miles holding a pot of paint in one hand and a brush in the other. ‘What do you think of it, Helen?’ he asked, waving the brush and spattering paint on the floor.

  ‘You mean the barn?’

  ‘All of it. The men are working with a will, but I thought I would help them by planning out their homes. You see what I have done?’

  She laughed. ‘Covered everywhere in white paint, including yourself, my lord.’

  He looked down at himself; his riding breeches were spattered with paint. ‘So I have.’ He put the can down in a corner and stood the brush in a pot of water. ‘I was just leaving. I do not want the men to think I am standing over them all the time. They do not need that. Are you ready to leave? We can walk together.’

  ‘Do you not have your mount?’

  ‘Caesar, yes. Would you like to ride up behind me again?’ It was said with a twinkle in his eye, which made her smile.

  ‘No, thank you. I prefer to walk.’

  They turned and left the building. He stopped to speak to the men, so Helen set off on her own. He soon caught up with her, leading the black stallion. ‘It is not far to Ravensbrook Manor,’ he said. ‘Shall we go and look at it?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Are you not a little curious?’

  She sighed. ‘I suppose I am a little, but I cannot see how my curiosity can be satisfied. A house will tell us nothing.’

  ‘Nevertheless, will you humour me, please? I would like to know if you think it will make a good home.’

  She wondered why he did not ask Miss Somerfield that question, if he was going to marry her.

  ‘Very well, if you insist.’

  ‘If it is the only way to get you to agree, then I do insist.’

  When they reached the crossroads, they left the Warburton road and took a narrow lane that went round the wall of Ravens Park grounds. In a mile or two they came to a gate leaning drunkenly on its hinges. It led to a weed-infested drive at the end of which stood a substantial house. It was a square building covered in ivy, which hid the fact that the walls were scorched and obscured the broken windows.

  ‘I knew the place was here,’ she said, ‘but I have never been up the drive. It looks as though it was destroyed by fire.’

  ‘Yes, that was the start of it, but since it was abandoned it has become worse. I used to play here as a boy. I would run off and hide from my tutor and pretend I was a general commanding an army and had to capture it from the enemy.’ He laughed. ‘I had a wooden sword and an empty pistol.’

  ‘Did you have no siblings to play with?’

  ‘No. My mother was unable to have more children. It has always been a source of sadness to both my parents, particularly my father, who wanted more sons. My mother would have liked a daughter. Unfortunately, they have had to make do with me.’

  She detected a wistfulness in his voice, as if he knew he had been a disappointment to them, and she felt herself sympathising. Being wealthy and having a title did not necessarily make for happiness. She had worked hard all her life and they had never been more than comfortably off, but she had been happy, secure in the love of her parents.

  He pushed open the creaking front door and they stepped into the entrance hall. It was dark as pitch. She dare not step forwards. ‘I should have brought a lantern,’ he said, taking her hand to lead her. ‘It will be lighter in the drawing room.’

  She screamed as something brushed against her face and then she was in his arms and he was holding her tightly. ‘Something touched my face,’ she said from the depths of his chest. ‘Was it a bat?’

  ‘No, only a cobweb.’ He brushed it from her face with gentle fingers. She shivered, but it was not from fear, it was the sensation his touch was stirring in her. He put his finger under her chin to lift her face and the next moment his lips were on hers. And this was no brotherly kiss, this was a kiss full of passion and she allowed it, not only allowed it but welcomed it. She knew, as surely as she knew the difference between night and day, that she had fallen hopelessly in love with him. And it was hopeless. Afraid she had betrayed herself, she drew away. ‘My lord…’

  ‘I am sorry,’ he said contritely. ‘I did not mean that to happen. It was too much of a temptation to resist. I beg your forgiveness.’

  He did not mean it to happen. He was simply tempted and succumbed. That hurt most of all. She was breathless and trembling and did not answer.

  ‘Please,’ he pleaded, ‘I should hate to think my indiscretion made you think the less of me. We have become friends, have we not? We have so much in common and work well together. I should be unhappy if I had spoiled that. Say you forgive me and we can go on as before.’

  There was no going on as before in her heart, but she could not tell him that, could not tell him how much she was hurting. ‘I forgive you,’ she murmured. She could easily forgive, but not forget. How could she forget what it felt like to be in his arms and feel his lips on hers, stirring a passion that had looked set to overwhelm her, and would have done if she had not suddenly come to her senses? ‘We will not mention it again.’ She forced herself to sound unconcerned.

  ‘Good. Now stand still while I pull some of the ivy away from the window and we can see where we are going.’

  He left her with empty arms and an aching heart and the next minute the room was light enough for her to see it. It had no furniture, carpets or curtains and the woodwork was scorched, but it was a spacious room with high ceilings and long windows. They went into more rooms. All were the same with varying degrees of fire damage and rot, which meant some of the floorboards were unsafe and they had to be careful where they put their feet. ‘It must once have been a lovely home,’ she said, forcing herself back to reality.

  ‘Yes, and I believe could be again.’

  They could not go upstairs because the stairs had gone, so they made their way towards the back of the house where the kitchen, dairy and laundry were situated. ‘I used to climb up the servants’ stairs when I was a boy,’ he said. ‘They were damaged by smoke and water, and some of the steps had gone, but to an adventurous boy that was all the better.’ He pushed open a door. ‘This was the morning room and, being on this side of the house, was not so badly damaged by the fire. I made it my headquarters in my games.’ Then, as the interior was revealed, ‘Someone has been in here. Look at that.’

  The ivy had been pulled away from the window and there was light enough to see the dust on the floor was covered in footmarks. Cold ash spilled from the grate; a saucepan and a kettle stood in the hearth, alongside a burned-out candle set in a tin candlestick. In a corner was a ragged blanket. Miles picked up the kettle and shook it. There was water in it. ‘Recently, too.’

  ‘A tramp, perhaps,’ she ventured.

  ‘I expect so. So, what do you think of the house?’

  ‘It will take a prodigious amount of money to restore. You would be better building something new.’

  ‘But there is history here.’

  She was shivering. True, the house was cold, but it was more than that. It had a dreadful atmosphere of decay and, though she was not given to fancies, she felt a kind of ghostly presence that added to her nervousness. ‘And tragedy too, I can feel it. It is oppressive.’

  ‘But that is only the darkness caused by the ivy. Given more lig
ht, rebuilt and refurnished, it would be entirely different.’

  ‘Perhaps. Let us go, my lord. I have seen enough.’

  They turned and went out by the front door, shutting it carefully behind them. Miles untethered his horse and they returned the way they had come. Neither had much to say until they reached the crossroads, where he stopped and turned towards her. ‘Where do you go now, Miss Wayland?’ She was Miss Wayland again, no longer Helen. So be it.

  ‘Back to Warburton. I have the first entry of the journal to write and I promised to print posters for the Midsummer Fair on Saturday and I must see how Tom is getting on with them. The ladies of the committee are hoping for a record attendance.’

  ‘With all the work going on at the barn, I had quite forgotten the fair. We must certainly do our best to make it a success. I believe Ravens Park has donated a pig for the bowling and prizes for the races. Will you be there?’

  ‘Of course. I must write it up.’

  ‘Allow me to escort you home. You never know…’

  ‘No need,’ she said brightly. ‘Here comes Joseph Taylor and Jack Byers. I can walk with them and talk to them about what they have been doing and their plans for the next stage as we go. I thank you for the escort, my lord.’ She spoke politely, a little stiffly, unable to return to the easy relationship they had enjoyed before that kiss.

  ‘As you wish.’ He stood holding his horse’s reins until she joined the men. She did not look back or she would have seen him staring after her.

  * * *

  The two men were eager to tell her all they had been doing and planning, but it was an effort to concentrate on what they were saying. She could not help reliving that kiss. In some ways she savoured the memory and in others wished it had never happened, then she would not be longing for something so far out of her reach. It was not an exaggeration to say it had changed her whole outlook on her life. A knowledge and acceptance of who she was and what she was had suddenly become a matter of uncertainty and discontent. Apart from that, why was the Viscount taking such an interest in her family? She did not believe in ghosts, but that deserted house had given her the shivers. If it could talk, she wondered what it would say. In spite of what she had said to the Viscount, she could imagine it in its heyday, light and airy. What had started the fire? Had anyone been hurt? Why had the Brents left it to rot? The questions came one after the other, but overriding all of them was the biggest of them all—why had Miles kissed her?