by Mary Balogh
Thus it was that early the following morning William Mainwaring was on his way to Scotland, all but his heaviest trunks strapped to the back of his curricle. His heavier luggage was to be sent on later. It was with a heavy heart that he drove on until the landmarks became unfamiliar. This was a sordid and a shameful episode of his life, and he would not easily forget it. One's own unhappiness was easier to bear than the unhappiness one knew one had inflicted on someone else.
***
The family was already sitting down to dinner when Helen trailed into the dining room. She took her place without a word.
"Well, miss?" the earl said severely. "Is it customary in this house to come to the table whenever you feel like doing so?"
"I am sorry, Papa," she said. "I was busy thinking and I forgot the time. I did hurry as much as I could so that I would not be dreadfully late."
"Perhaps a removal to the schoolroom without any food or drink would teach you that punctuality is a virtue in this house," her father said.
"Yes, Papa," she replied, her eyes on her empty plate.
"And next time, child, that is exactly what will happen," the earl blustered, unnerved by the docility of his daughter.
"And where were you this afternoon, Helen?" her mother wanted to know. "You know very well that I asked specifically that you drive to your Aunt Sophie's with your sisters and me. It was Cousin Matilda's birthday, and it was only fitting that we all go to wish her a happy birthday."
"I am sorry, Mama," Helen said. "I forgot. I went for a walk."
"There have been altogether too many walks since spring arrived this year," the countess said in exasperation. "Papa and I have been very patient. We know that you are rather strange, child, and that you seem to need to be on your own more than Emily and Melissa. But, really, at your age, you must begin to take an interest in your social duties. If you cannot limit the walks to afternoons when we have nothing else planned, I shall really have to forbid you altogether to leave the house unaccompanied."
"Yes, Mama," Helen answered meekly.
Really, she did not feel like arguing with anyone. She felt mortally depressed, though she had told herself for the past two hours that she was overreacting. William had not been there this afternoon. There was nothing so strange about that. He felt his social obligations, even if she did not feel hers. He was very popular in the neighborhood. Doubtless he had other engagements for the afternoon. She could not expect to see him every day. Tomorrow he would be there.
She must be very careful not to antagonize Mama further. What a dreadful predicament she would be in if her mother's threat were carried out. Not that her parents usually showed such consistency, but she did not want to tempt fate. She would never be able to see William if a groom or a maid were made her constant watchdog.
It would not be so bad, perhaps, she would not be so depressed, if she had not had a presentiment that he uld not come today. She had sat under the oak tree trying to shelter from the chill wind that had arisen since noon and had known that she would not see him. She told herself now, as she had told herself all afternoon, that he would come tomorrow and all would be well. She had nothing to fear until then. They had no engagement for that evening, which might have brought her unexpectedly into William's company.
Helen was so deeply wrapped in her own gloom that she almost missed the interchange between Melissa and her mother. Melly was talking in her complaining whine, Helen's unconscious mind realized, before her conscious mind heard the words.
"But, Mama," Melissa was saying, "I cannot believe that he would have left without a word. Surely something dreadful must have happened to cause him to leave in such a hurry. We were to ride one morning."
"It is most provoking," the countess agreed. "He did appear to show a marked partiality for you. It must have been your excessive modesty, my love, that made him believe that you did not wish the connection. I cannot think what else can have changed his mind."
"Perhaps he thought that because he was a mere mister, he was not good enough for me," Melissa said tragically. "Oh, Mama, what am I to do? We will never find husbands."
"Considering that he is so beneath us in station," Emily added tartly, "I would say that Mr. Mainwaring altogether put on too many airs. He is probably holding out for a duke's daughter. I warned you, Melly, how it would be."
Helen was all attention now. "What has happened to Mr. Mainwaring?" she asked.
"You see, Helen," her oldest sister said crossly, "you will have nothing to do with visiting with us, and then you expect us to relay all the local news to you at the dinner table. Mr. Mainwaring has gone, that is what has happened. The neighborhood is buzzing with the news. He gave no warning, you know, and he had several invitations that he had to decline after already accepting them. For once I must applaud you, Helen, in showing no interest in securing an introduction to the man. He did not deserve such notice."
Helen felt somewhat removed from the scene at the table. Her ears were buzzing. Voices seemed to come from far away.
"He is not much loss to the neighborhood," the earl grumbled into his food. "The fellow's just a city dandy, if you ask me. Won't hunt because of the poor fox! Won't watch a cockfight because of the poor birds! It only made me wonder that he did not carry a jar of smelling salts around in his pocket."
"Is he not coming back?" Helen asked. Her voice sounded surprisingly normal to her own ears.
"It seems not, child," the countess said. "In the note he wrote Papa, he explained that he is going to Scotland for the remainder of the summer at least. And his trunks and boxes were sent away from Graystone this morning."
"Oh, Mama, what am I to do?" wailed Melissa.
"Don't fret, my love," Lady Claymore said. "I talked to Papa earlier about going to London perhaps for the winter. It is only right that you girls should have the opportunity to find husbands worthy of your rank and breeding."
"Mama?" Emily looked sharply at her mother, hope dawning in her eyes. "Is this right?"
"Well," the countess said, glancing anxiously at her husband, "Papa said he would see."
Emily talked about nothing else for the remainder of the meal. It was quite beneath her sense of dignity to appear too enthusiastic about the proposed visit, but it was obvious to all that she was very eager indeed to go to London. Even Melissa's mood seemed to lift somewhat when she was reminded of all the parties and entertainments that winter in the city would have to offer. Why, the place must be simply teeming with gentlemen equally as handsome as Mr. Mainwaring, and a good number of them might even have titles.
Only Helen's mind refused even to consider the delights that might be in store for her if only Papa would agree to let them go. She could not think beyond the dreadful fact that she had been abandoned, left without a word of explanation, by the man who had become her lover. She sat rigidly in her chair while the animated conversation of her mother and sisters continued. She ate without even realizing that she did so.
***
The days following were the worst Helen could ever remember living through. Outwardly she was more sociable and more biddable than usual. She sat with her mother and sisters in the mornings sewing and listening to their conversations. She even agreed more than once to ride with Melly, usually a great trial because her sister always insisted that they ride at a -sedate pace perched on their sidesaddles. Helen was usually a neck-or-nothing person, and she had a shocking habit of swinging one leg to the other side of her horse despite the restrictions of a long skirt, when she thought herself unobserved.
In the afternoons and evenings she did whatever her family had planned, sitting with apparent cheerfulness through endless visits, listening to the invariable topic of conversation: the strange defection of Mr. Mainwaring. One and all now recalled that they had never quite taken to the man. He had always held aloof as if he considered himself better than they. "Toplofty" was the general term of disapproval for the man whose company and favor they had all courted a mere week before.
Both Emily and Melissa were almost equally delighted by the prospect. Emily had always considered that she was wasted on the company she was likely to meet in the country. Now, at last, she would find her true environment. She would make a brilliant marriage and would be able to behave with amiable condescension whenever she came home for a visit. She did not, of course, put these thoughts into quite such words, but Helen was able to interpret her sister's feelings with some accuracy.
Melissa was suffering from wounded pride. She had fully expected an offer from Mr. Mainwaring. What was worse, she was convinced that everyone else of their acquaintance had expected the same outcome. It was humiliating to find that he had left without a word to her. It was not that she had loved him. Melissa would have scorned to consider such an emotion when thinking of marriage. But he was a handsome and a wealthy man. He would have made a distinguished husband. It was important, now, for her self-esteem, that she find another husband, equally superior to all their other acquaintances. Perhaps more so. In London she would have a chance to meet gentlemen of higher rank than Mr. Mainwaring.
Helen listened and she behaved correctly. The countess eyed her youngest daughter several times during those days with relief. The mention of London had brought about a noticeable change in Helen. Why had she not thought of it before? Of course, the child was very young and she undoubtedly had a great deal more energy than either of the elder girls. It was natural that she should be bored by the very restricted activities of their lives at home. London was just what she needed. There she would have more activities than even her energy could cope with, and there surely she would find some gentleman who would not look too much askance at her strangeness. The child was daughter of an earl, after all, and she would have a le dowry with which to attract attention.
But Helen said nothing. She did what was expected of her and she spoke when good manners dictated that she speak. But within, she ached with a pain that felt as if it must break out into sheer hysteria at any moment. She would not go to the woods. She would not think about William. But one cannot tell oneself to stop thinking about a topic. In fact, Helen found, the one sure way to ensure that one thought constantly on a subject was to try not to. One week after her last visit to her private hideout, she went back there deliberately, in a determined effort to think through what had happened and come to terms with her misery.
She did not change into the cotton dress. She merely pulled off her riding boots and stockings when she reached the banks of the stream and dangled her feet in the water as she sat down. She had not opened the door of the hut. She had no wish this afternoon to bring out any of her books or paints. She had to think.
There could be only one explanation for his hasty departure. It had to be because of her. There had been no warning that he had been contemplating the move. He had accepted several invitations for dates after his departure. It had to be that final afternoon with her that had decided him. What was it? He had seemed genuinely glad to see her after his week of confinement at home. He had talked to her as if she had been a real friend, and he had held her hand the whole while. There had seemed to be real affection in his manner.
And his lovemaking had been far more tender than it had been on the first occasion. He had not been intent only on the satisfaction of his own desire. She had been well aware that he had used his hands and and lips deliberately to build her own excitement. He had been ready for her many minutes before she was ready for him›, she had known. And even when he had thrust inside her, she had known, somewhere on a more rational level than the one of heightened emotion under which she reacted, that his movements had been controlled. All the time he had been deliberately guiding her to a climax, and only when he knew that she had reached it did he allow his control to break.
Those were not the actions of a man who was considering abandoning her. Unless he was an experienced rake who delighted in his own sexual prowess. Somehow, though, the image did not at all fit William Mainwaring as she knew him.
It was afterward, only afterward, that his manner had been less warm. He had not been cold exactly, or unfriendly, but she had felt a withdrawal. He had been in a hurry to leave. In his earlier mood he would have stayed and held her and listened to the story that she wanted to tell him. He had talked about hearing it the next time, but his failure to make a definite tryst with her had been noticeable. She had felt uneasy even at the time. Now she knew that her instinct had been quite right.
But what had caused the change? Had he suddenly become disgusted with what they were doing? Had she said or done anything to make him feel that she was trying to shackle him? Surely not. She had given herself freely to him on two occasions. He could not have felt himself trapped.
"Oh, William, I do love you so!"
Helen's eyes widened. She had not said that, had she? Oh, surely not. She could not have done so before he gave indication that he felt as she did. Why, then, could she almost hear herself saying the words? When would she have said them? She hid her face against her raised knees and thought her way moment by moment through their lovemaking from the first kiss. No, she had not said a word. And then she remembered curling into the warmth of his naked body after he had withdrawn from her. She remembered him kissing her, warm kisses of relaxed affection, passion gone.
"Oh, William, I do love you so," she had said.
Helen raised a burning face and stared down into the water. For several minutes she could think only of her own shame. Strangely, she felt no shame at all for having given herself to a man who was neither her husband nor her betrothed. But to have told him that she loved him when he had never suggested anything but a physical and perhaps affectionate regard for her was unpardonable. She had been convinced that he did love her, but he had never said so. How could she so demaned herself!
But finally anger took the place of shame. Mr. William Mainwaring had fled from his home, had he, merely because a girl he supposed to be a village wench had tried to lay claim to his affections? He had run like a scared rabbit. It was fine to spend a summer dallying with her in the woods, accepting her free favors, but he was not about to allow himself to be lured into accepting any responsibility for her feelings, He had not even had the courage to say good-bye to her, to tell her face to face that he was going away.
She had loved him and she had thought him worthy of her love. He had seemed a kindly and a sensitive man. She had not suspected him of cowardliness or of moral weakness. But he clearly suffered from both. And cruelty. He was undoubtedly a cruel man. Did he not realize that she would go back to their meeting place and that she would grieve when he did not come?
One thing was now very clear to her. She must not love William Mainwaring any longer. He was not worth the misery that she had suffered for the last week. She was ashamed now to think that she had given herself to a man of his character. For the first time she felt violated and sullied. But there was really no point in brooding on what could not be changed. Only she must be sure that from this moment she looked only ahead. She would not waste another sigh or tear on that man. She would enter wholeheartedly into her mother's plans for the winter. Perhaps in London she would meet a real man, one she could respect as well as love. She doubted it, but she had to have something positive on which to focus her mind for the next several weeks.
Helen pulled her feet from the stream, rubbing them dry on the grass and the hem of her habit, and pulled on her stockings and boots
again. She strode across to the hut and wrestled the door open. There was no use in leaving her paints, paper, and books any longer. She would not be coming back. After all, she was trespassing on the land of a man whom she was now pledged to hate. Even the hut belonged to him-she was returning the gift, even though he was not there to know it-and she scorned to use what was not hers.
When she came outside again, she placed her bundle of possessions carefully on the path and closed the door as tightly as the warped wood and crooked hinges would allow. Then she stooped to pick up her belongings again. But she did not do so. She remained bent over them for a while; then she straightened up and wandered with lagging steps and unseeing eyes to the edge of the stream again.
How could she be so self-righteous and so dishonest with herself as to put all the blame on William? She was the one who had led him to believe she was a village girl. She had not told him the truth even when he had asked her to tell him about herself. And what had happened to her was not seduction. She had been a willing partner. William had never treated her with disrespect. And he had never made any promises to her.
What promises had she expected, anyway? Marriage? How absurd! Gentlemen did not marry young girls in shabby dresses who ran around barefoot. Especially when those girls give away their favors freely. She must have been mad to have dreamed that he was falling in love with her.
Perhaps for the first time in her life Helen regretted that she was not like other girls of her class. She had earned correct behavior and attitudes, but she had not practiced them. Instead, she had lived in her incredibly unrealistic and childish dream world, where one could do as one wanted and not have to abide by the consequences.
Except that this time she was being hurled out of the world of dreams and childhood into the one where one's actions had very definite and painful consequences. She had lost her virginity along with her innocence. She had a heart that was painfully bruised. She was beginning to grow up.