by Mary Balogh
"I did not know," Helen said tonelessly. "I am sorry."
"You need not be," Elizabeth said. "You are quite right. At present I have all the blessings in life that any person could want. Clearly you do not. But my own sufferings have made me sympathetic to those of other people, Helen, and I am a good listener. Will you not confide in me? Sometimes it is far easier to talk to a stranger than to a friend or a relative."
"No, there is nothing," Helen said, shaking her head, "nothing to tell. I am sorry if I have spoiled the evening for everyone. Truly sorry. We will all go home tomorrow and I shall not embarrass anyone with my company again."
"But, my dear," Elizabeth said, "you cannot shut yourself away from all company. You are young and you should be enjoying yourself, meeting other people of your age. Can you not put your unhappiness behind you and start afresh?"
"No," Helen said.
"I see," said Elizabeth. She hesitated. "Is it William, Helen? Has something happened between you two?"
"I said I did not wish to talk!" Helen said sharply. "I hate Mr. Mainwaring."
Elizabeth looked at the girl's sullen face for a few moments in silence. "I am sorry I cannot help you," she said. "If there is anything I can do for you tonight or tomorrow, will you send for me?" When Helen did not answer, she turned and crossed to the door.
"Oh," Helen wailed, "help me. Please help me!" Her hands covered her face when Elizabeth turned, and she doubled over to put her head in her lap.
Elizabeth knelt in front of her and put her own hands over the back of the girl's head. "Oh, what is it, Helen?" she said.
The girl's sobs were so convulsive that she could say nothing for a while. "What am I to do?" she managed to gasp out eventually. "What am I to do? Oh, what am I to do?"
Elizabeth held the girl cradled in her arms. She rocked her, without saying a word.
Helen looked up at last, her eyes filled with tears and horror. "I am increasing," she said. "I am with child."
Elizabeth closed her eyes. "Oh, God," she said.
"I do not know what to do," Helen said, "or where to go. I keep expecting to wake up and find it all a dream. But my dresses are beginning to tighten already. I shall not be able to keep it a secret much longer. Oh, what am I to do?"
"Were you ravished?" Elizabeth asked. "Helen, if it is true, you must have the courage to go to your parents. The man must be brought to justice. You cannot be blamed."
"No," the girl said. "It was not like that. I loved him. Oh, God help me, I loved him. I gave myself willingly. And he left me." Her hands were over her face again.
Elizabeth looked at her and held her breath as she asked the question. "Not William, Helen?"
"Yes," she said.
Elizabeth stood up. "I can hardly believe it," she said, dazed. "William! I cannot imagine him behaving so dishonorably. To ruin you and then to abandon you! And does he now refuse to marry you?" But he had just said he loved the girl, her mind recalled.
"No," Helen said, "he offered for me soon after we came to London. I refused him."
"But why, Helen? It is the only solution, is it not?"
"I cannot marry him," the girl replied. "He thought me a mere servant girl when he knew me in Yorkshire. Yet as soon as he discovered my true identity here, he positively rushed to Papa so that he might do the proper thing. I could not marry a man who offered for all the wrong reasons."
"But there is the baby to think about too," Elizabeth said. "William must feel that he owes your child a name."
"I have not told him," Helen said.
"He does not know?"
"No."
Elizabeth sat down on the edge of the bed and tried to order her whirling thoughts. She could not quite believe the things she was hearing about her friend, whom she had always considered the soul of propriety and honor. But digesting those facts would have to wait awhile. At present the frightened girl beside her was in desperate need of help.
"You will have to leave London immediately," she said. "I shall take you to Hetherington Manor, shall I? It is in Sussex, not very far away. If we were to leave tomorrow as soon as possible after returning from here, we would have to spend only one night on the road."
"I could not ask that of you," Helen said tonelessly.
"I think you have very little choice," Elizabeth said very gently. "You will need a place where you can come to terms with what is happening to you, and Hetherington is a very private place. You need not worry that you will be taking me away from the social whirl. London life is something I can take or leave with equal cheerfulness. I shall be happy to take John back to the country."
"I cannot impose upon you after the shabby way I have treated you," Helen said.
"Nonsense!" Elizabeth said briskly. "Now that I understand your behavior, I can quite easily forget it. I shall ask your mama if you may accompany me to the country for a visit. Will you tell her the truth before we leave, Helen? She will have to know soon, you know."
"I know." Helen's hand was over her mouth. "Oh, but I cannot. I cannot say it to her. I have imagined myself doing so many times in the last few months when I am in her presence. And I know I just cannot do it."
"Then you must write to her as soon as we reach Hetherington," Elizabeth said, "and then the worst will be over. You will be able to relax. It is important, you know, that you be as tranquil as possible during the next few months, and that you rest and eat well. Your child is in no way to blame for anything that has happened. He must be given a good start in life."
"Why are you willing to do this for me?" Helen asked. "I have done nothing to deserve your concern. Indeed, I would have thought you must dislike me intensely."
Elizabeth smiled. "I have recently become a mother myself," she said. "Perhaps it is just that my maternal instincts are working to excess at the present. Will you tell William too, Helen? He has a right to know."
"No!" Helen said sharply. "I do not wish him to know. He will be forever pestering me if he finds out the truth. He would not have cared that much"-she snapped her fingers in the air-"if I had been a mere tenant's daughter or a servant. For all I know, the country may be littered with his illegitimate offspring."
"I think you do him some injustice," Elizabeth said gently. "But, I know. Sometimes we are inclined to think far worse of those we love most than we are of anyone else. We expect perfection in our loved ones, I suppose."
Helen looked up. "He said that just now," she said.
"You do love him, do you not?"
"Yes."
"I shall leave you now," Elizabeth continued. "Will you be all right? Do try to rest. Tomorrow if all is well we shall set out for the country and there you will be able to relax and prepare for the future. You will be safe with me, Helen. I shall look after you."
"Only promise me one thing," Helen said as Elizabeth rose to leave. "Promise me that you will say nothing to him."
"Of course I will not," Elizabeth assured her. "That information must come from you when you are ready. But remember, Helen, that he should know. Your child is his too. Good night."
"Good night," Helen said. "Thank you, your ladyship."
" 'Elizabeth,' " that lady said, smiling warmly at the girl as she left the room.
***
"If you and John are going to Hetherington tomorrow, then of course I must come too," Robert Denning was saying an hour later when he and Elizabeth were in their room together.
"No," she said. "I think it is important that I be alone with her for a while. She is very frightened and very bewildered, Robert. I think your presence would merely distress her more."
He caught her arm and pulled her against him. "We have not been apart since last year," he said. "I am afraid to be without you again, Elizabeth."
She put her arms up around his neck. "You are being absurd," she said. "Do you imagine that if we part again, someone or something will keep us apart as they did seven years ago? It will not happen again, darling, you know that. I hate the thought of being away
from you too. I am not even sure I shall be able to sleep without your shoulder to lay my head on. But that poor girl is in dreadful trouble, Robert. I cannot leave her to face it alone. You should have seen the look of utter desperation in her eyes just before she told me."
"Can it really be true?" he asked, frowning down into her upturned face. "It just does not seem like William at all. To tell you the truth, I thought he had never had anything to do with women. I am sure he had not when I knew him in London."
"I really do not know the full story," she said, "but I do know that those two love each other. And they are worlds apart, Robert. Sometimes one feels so helpless."
He hugged her to him and laid his cheek against hers. "It seems I have no choice but to let you go," he said. "But not for long, Elizabeth. A week is the longest I can give you. I shall come to you then. Will that be long enough?"
"Yes," she said. "John and I cannot possibly live without you any longer than that."
He moved his head back from hers and grinned down at her. "If this is to be our last night together for a whole week, darling," he said, "I do not know why we are wasting time standing here fully clothed. Do you?"
"I really cannot imagine," she agreed, "unless it is that you are remarkably slow." |
"Minx!" he said, his hands at her back. "I never have broken you of the habit of wearing these dresses with the scores of buttons down the back, have I?"
Chapter 14
Helen was gazing through the window of the Marquess of Hetherington's very comfortable traveling carriage. Although this was their second day of travel, she felt quite free of the aches and pains that had made the journey from Yorkshire a torment a few weeks before. She felt relaxed for the first time in several months. Not happy, it was true. But it was an enormous relief to be at least partly free of the burden of her secret.
She looked across to the seat opposite, where Elizabeth was smiling down at her baby. He was gazing back up at her, his eyes fixed and occasionally drooping. He would be asleep very soon. Helen could still not imagine why her companion had chosen to be so kind. They were barely acquainted and Helen had not done anything to endear herself to either of the Hetheringtons. Quite the opposite, in fact. Yet here she was on her way to a safe haven in Sussex, safe until after the birth of her child if she wished, Elizabeth had said.
She had seriously misjudged both husband and wife, Helen thought ruefully, returning her attention to the passing scenery. Elizabeth had mentioned the day before, laughingly, not at all in reproach, that she and the marquess had not been away from each other at all since their reunion the year before. Yet clearly he must have permitted her to leave, and she had chosen to do so, all for the sake of a stranger who had committed an unpardonable indiscretion and who had always treated them in an ill-mannered way.
It was just one more sin to add to the many. She really had made a terrible mess of her life, and there was no real chance that she would ever be able to live normally again. There was always the chance, of course, that she could find a foster-home for the child without anyone finding out what had happened. She was sure her father would be only too eager to pay for the child's keep. But she knew tbat she would not be able to turn to that solution. Despite everything, now that her pregnancy was an accomplished fact, she wanted the child. She felt a fierce love of it, a determination to devote her life to its upbringing. And heaven knew, the child would need as much love as she had to give. The stigma of bastardy was not easily shaken.
Helen put her head back against the soft velvet cushions of the coach and glanced at her companions again. The baby was sleeping; Elizabeth had closed her eyes. Helen did likewise.
She would not relive yesterday for all the money in the world. They had decided after all not to begin the journey to Sussex until the morning after their return from Richmond. But Mama had been very delighted by the invitation to her youngest daughter. Her trunk had been all packed by night.
So yesterday morning there had been little to do but to get ready and to wait for the arrival of the marchioness. Alone with her mother quite by chance in the morning room, Helen had taken her courage in both hands and blurted out the truth to her. For one moment she had expected her mother to faint-she certainly had paled and swayed on her feet. But the countess seemed to have felt that it was not the time for the vapors. The matter was too serious. Helen could not now remember what either of them had said. She knew only that she had refused to tell the name of the father, beyond denying that he was Oswald Pyke. Her mother had agreed, in a daze, to break the news to the earl.
It had been horrible, and more so when it came time to kiss everyone else good-bye in the hallway, as if she were on the way to a coveted holiday. Both she and her mother had done well, she thought. It was strange how one's own wrongdoing could reach out to hurt others. At first she had hardly admitted her own guilt. She was mostly the wronged party, she had convinced herself. When she had begun to suspect the presence of the child, she had felt a great bitterness against William for his betrayal. It was only recently that she had admitted again that she was at least equally guilty. And she had hurt not only herself, but her mother and doubtless her father and sisters too. Not to mention the poor innocent growing inside her.
Her upbringing, of course, had been largely to blame for it all. She had always been a dreamer, and despite their scolding and nagging, her parents had given in to her and allowed her to go her own way. They had certainly allowed her a great deal more freedom than Emmy or Melly had ever had, or than most other girls of her class had, she suspected. She had made a habit of being away from home for hours at a time, but they had never insisted that she take a groom or a chaperon with her. But she must not shift the blame to her parents; it would be unfair to do so. She knew that she had been a very difficult girl.
She had lived in a dream world. Because she could find little to satisfy her in the world where she actually lived, she had created her own, centered on the woods and the stream, and she had lived deeply in her imagination, losing herself in nature and books and in the creative process of painting, writing, and-at home-sewing and playing the pianoforte.
So it had happened that although she knew what was right and wrong, what was acceptable and unacceptable in her world, she had applied the standards of her own world in her relationship with William. He had seemed so much a part of that world, a man who liked solitude as she did, a man who liked reading and who seemed to understand her as no one else had ever done. It had been the most natural thing in the world to fall in love with him and to show that love in the ultimate physical way. She had known, of course, even at the time, that she was doing wrong, but she had known only with her head. With her heart, she had known that what she did was the only right thing to do.
Everyone had to grow up at some time in life, she supposed. It was just unfortunate for her that it had been such an abrupt and such a painful process. Finding William to be faithless and cruel had been the first step. It had jolted her out of her dream world. Acknowledging her own responsibility for what had happened had been the second. Discovering that she was with child had completed the process. Her thoughtlessness, her refusal to be realistic in her actions, had now involved an innocent person, who would suffer all his life from his illegitimacy. These weeks in London had served to make her realize that she herself had done very wrong. Now she knew that such behavior as hers was almost unheard of in a young girl, though older, married ladies often lived by an entirely different moral code. She was really very fortunate to have encountered someone as kind as the marchioness.
William. She was, she supposed, extremely foolish to have refused his offer of marriage. Perhaps her first refusal was understandable. It had happened only the morning after her meeting with him. She had been taken completely by surprise. But two days before, he had kissed her and asked if they might start again, if he might court her properly. His behavior had suggested that he really did wish to marry her, not just that he felt obliged to do so. Yet she had still
rejected him. Marriage to him would be the answer to all her problems. She would be with the man she loved. Her child would have a name and a father. Both of them would have the security of a home.
But she could not do so. There was probably something quite ridiculous, she thought, about clinging to this little shred of pride when she had so completely degraded herself, but it was all she had to cling to. She could not trust him. And she would not marry a man whom she could not respect, even if she loved him ten times more than she loved William.
Helen relived that kiss. It had felt so very right to be there in his arms, her body leaning against his. She had felt for those few moments as if all the burdens of the world had been lifted from her shoulders. If only…
She opened her eyes to find Elizabeth looking across at her and smiling.
"We are on Hetherington land already," she said. "We should be at the house in fifteen minutes or less. I shall be very happy to get down and have a good stretch."
"This coach is very comfortable," Helen said politely.
"Yes," Elizabeth agreed. "Robert and I traveled all the way to Devonshire and back with it last year." She bent her head over the sleeping child to hide a private smile.
***
"And she said nothing else?" Mainwaring prodded.
The Marquess of Hetherington shrugged his shoulders and lowered his head to avoid contact with an overhanging branch. As was their frequent custom, the two men were riding in the park before the crowds of the day made it a social pastime rather than an exercise.