The Wood Nymph

by Mary Balogh

  Helen was still seated at the escritoire, the pile of discarded papers now spilled over onto the floor. She turned as the door opened, the beginnings of a polite smile on her face. When she saw Mainwaring, she scrambled to her feet, brushing yet more papers to the floor.

  “Oh,” was all she could think of to say.

  He hurried across the room, took a nerveless hand from her side, and raised it to his lips. “Nell,” he said, searching her eyes with his, “how are you?”

  She stared back without a word for a few moments, during which time the room seemed curiously quiet. “Oh,” she said again. And then, loudly, accusingly, “Oh, someone has told you!”

  And she brushed past him, ran the length of the room, and pushed her way with lowered eyes past a silent Elizabeth and Robert and out into the hallway.

  CHAPTER 16

  What do you think will happen?” Elizabeth asked.

  “I believe he will fall asleep at any moment,” Hetherington said, brushing a cheek against the soft curls of his son, who had become very quiet against his shoulder, except for the sounds he made as he sucked on one fist. “And it is not before time. I am near exhaustion from playing so hard.”

  “I did not mean with John, silly,” she said, smiling at him from her perch on the window seat. “And he would have fallen asleep long ago if you had not persisted so long in tickling him and getting him overexcited. I meant with Helen and William. It has been dreadful since yesterday afternoon, has it not?”

  “I did not find last night half-bad,” Hetherington said, ogling her over the baby’s head and grinning broadly when she blushed. “But, yes, you are right. Last evening was most uncomfortable with that little chit with her nose in the air, quite ostentatiously talking to none of us, and William his most gloomy, taciturn self.”

  “This morning was awful too,” Elizabeth said. “All four of us seem to have had the same idea—to breakfast early before the others were down. And there we all were again, you and I making polite conversation to two deaf-mutes.”

  “If they had been deaf-mutes, all would have been well,” Hetherington said. “We might have carried on a cozy, personal conversation. The situation is going to be impossible for you, Elizabeth. Are you really intending to stay with this girl until after the birth of her child? She must have six months to go at least. She is the most morose little brat it has ever been my misfortune to meet.”

  “Oh no,” she said hastily. “That is really a misconception, Robert. I have got to know her in the past week, and really she is a very vital and a very interesting girl. Very intelligent, I think, and artistic. She was beginning to settle down and relax. I have come to like her very much. I cannot help feeling that William mistimed his visit quite dreadfully. She needs time, Robert, and a great deal of it. Now she is right back to the state she was in when I brought her here.”

  “Yet I must sympathize with William,” Hetherington said. “He really does dote on her, you know. I have been feeling sorry for him, but from what you say, perhaps he has not made such an unwise choice. But really, he has got himself into a dreadful mess. The girl wants nothing to do with him, and he obviously knows that she is with child.”

  “Yes, was that not dreadful?” Elizabeth said. “Helen still believes, I think, that we have told him. And then when she left the room yesterday, he asked us what it was he was supposed to have been told. You could just tell that he knew very well, but he was afraid to put it into words just in case he was wrong. And of course we could not say anything.”

  Hetherington sighed loudly. “Elizabeth, is this little tyke asleep yet?” he asked, turning so that she could see the child’s face. “I am sure he must be. There are no longer loud sucking noises assailing my ear, anyway.”

  “Yes, he is,” she said, getting to her feet. “Put him down in his crib.”

  They both stood gazing down fondly at the sleeping baby. “Do you think he has gone to find her?” Elizabeth asked.

  “ ‘He’ being William, I suppose,” Hetherington said. “I would think it very probable. She disappeared with painting equipment right after breakfast and has not been seen since. He disappeared soon after luncheon and has not reappeared. I would imagine that somewhere on our grounds, my love, there are two people either glowering at each other in sullen silence —that seems the most likely possibility with those two —or having a battle royal. I hope for the latter. It is more likely to accomplish something.”

  “Oh, I do hope so too,” she said. “Hope that something is accomplished, that is. They should be together, Robert. Not just for the sake of the child, but for their own sakes. They are a rather odd couple, but in a strange sort of way I think they suit admirably.”

  Hetherington wound an arm around her waist and pulled her against him. “Do you know,” he said, “much as I am fond of William, I am mortally tired of talking about his love life. I would much prefer to talk about my own.”

  “You have problems too?” she asked, laying her head on his shoulder.

  “Yes, certainly,” he agreed. “I am feeling in dire need of making love to my wife, and yet I find myself in a room that is likely to be entered by a nurse at any moment.”

  “Let us go to our room, by all means,” Elizabeth said, “and I shall see if I can think of a solution on the way.”

  He nudged her head away from his shoulder and grinned down at her. “I expected shocked protests about what the servants would think if we disappeared to our bedchamber together in the middle of the afternoon,” he said.

  “Will they know, do you think?” she asked, coloring. “It is just that a week was such a long time, Robert.”

  He leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the lips. “You proved that to me last night, darling,” he said. “Come and show me again. Take my arm, ma’am, so that we will present a respectable appearance to any servants who happen to be lurking about.”

  * * *

  Helen had left the house as soon as she could after breakfast. She had hastily gathered together her painting materials, donned a warm cloak, and fled to the grove below the lower lawn, out of sight of the house. She was horribly embarrassed and confused. She wished she might never have to go back to the house. She did momentarily consider the idea of dropping her supplies and keeping on walking or running, but it was a stupid urge, of course. She had nowhere to go, and neither belongings nor money with her. Anyway, she had run or avoided her problems for too long.

  She might have known that William would come with the marquess. It had probably been planned all along. But she felt betrayed to think that Elizabeth had said nothing to her, and even more so to think that the Hetheringtons must have told him about her condition. She had been inclined at first to judge them very harshly. But she was tired of always thinking the worst of people. They had doubtless thought that they were acting for the best. William was their friend and they must have concluded that he had a right to know the truth. And indeed he did. She had been wrong to keep it from him for so long.

  But these thoughts did not make the awkwardness of the situation any the more bearable. She had hardly been able to look at William since his arrival. That letter had been proving hard enough to write. But to meet him face-to-face, knowing that he knew, was proving to be an impossible situation, especially when the marquess and his wife were always present too. She had found herself unable to utter a word to any of them since the afternoon before, or even to look at them.

  William was not helping matters at all, either. It was true that he had spoken to her, even come close to her and touched her, when he arrived. But that had been the wrong time. She had been so surprised that she had been quite unable to respond. Since then he had said nothing. He had been almost as silent as she during dinner the evening before, and during breakfast this morning. Was he regretting his decision to come? Was his silence proof that he had come only out of a sense of obligation, knowing that she was with child?

  Now she did not know what to do. There was no longer any point in tryi
ng to write to him. Yet she could not imagine herself summoning enough courage to approach him and talk to him. It was just too hard a problem to solve.

  An hour after she had arrived in the chosen spot, Helen began to paint. Fortunately, it was not a very cold day. The sun shone from a clear sky, bringing the suggestion of warmth even if not the reality. She huddled inside her cloak for a while, but later she threw it back over her shoulders so that she could have greater freedom to use her brush. She had resolved that she would not think for several hours, at least, and soon she had succeeded in becoming quite absorbed in the process of creating with paint what she had seen with her eyes and felt in her heart.

  William Mainwaring had left the house after luncheon. He was feeling deuced embarrassed and not at all sure that he had done the right thing to come. He had hoped that a week in the country would have calmed Nell down, made her better prepared to receive him and listen to him. Yet she had appeared to be very angry both when she saw him and since. He must talk to her, of course, and alone. He had waited for her to come back during the morning. He had intended to ask her to walk outside with him, and somehow force her to communicate. But she had not returned, even for luncheon. Finally he could wait no longer. There was no point in having come if he was going to be afraid to approach her. He must go and find her and hope that he could somehow break through the wall of silence that she had set up between them the day before.

  He did not know where she had gone; he had not watched her leave the house that morning. But he did know that she had been going to paint. She could not be too far away. It took him a half-hour to find her, but as soon as he saw her through the trees of the grove he knew that he should have guessed she would come among the trees. He walked closer. She must be very absorbed in what she did if she had not heard him, he thought.

  He stopped some distance behind her and leaned one shoulder against the trunk of a tree. Yes, she was absorbed in her work. Her cloak had been thrown back over her shoulders so that it could offer warmth to no more than her spine. And the dress she wore underneath, although made of wool, was not heavy enough to protect her from the autumn chill. Yet she seemed quite unaware of any discomfort. She wore no bonnet and her hair was in wild disarray as it had been those times when he had first known her. The ribbon that had held her curls away from her face was lying abandoned on the grass beside her. Her face, which he could see partly in profile, was flushed, whether with the cold or with the intensity of her efforts, he could not tell.

  Her dress was not ragged and her feet were not bare, but it was the old Nell, his little wood nymph, who stood there, quite unaware of his presence. He folded his arms and watched her for a long time. He did not want to break the spell of the moment. He did not want her to turn and see him and become again the cold, bitter young woman that she had been since they had met in London.

  Finally she made an impatient gesture with head and hand, flinging a lock of hair behind her ear. And in so doing, she turned her head enough that she became aware of his presence behind her. They stared at each other in silence for a moment.

  “William,” she said at last, “how long have you been standing there?”

  He pushed his shoulder away from the tree and strolled toward her. “For some time,” he said. “I hated to disturb you. You seemed as intent on your painting as you were in studying water when I first met you.”

  “I have always loved painting more than any other activity,” she said. “And I have discovered that painting does not have to be insipid and decorative. That picture in the marquess’s house—the one by Mr. Turner in the hallway—is magnificent. It has filled me with despair and with hope.”

  Mainwaring discovered that he was almost holding his breath. Where was the coldness, the aloofness? It surely would return at any moment. But he wanted to prolong this moment of near-friendliness. He looked at the painting on her easel. And then he gazed at it, transfixed.

  “You have missed one detail,” he said at last.

  “Have I?” she asked doubtfully. “I am sure you are right. What is it?”

  “There should be a little wood nymph sitting up in the branches of the oak tree,” he said. “This branch, I think.” He pointed.

  “Oh.” Her face relaxed unexpectedly into a smile. “That is ridiculous. Is the water right, William? I am not at all sure.”

  I can almost feel it,” he said. “Yes, you were quite right. All those colors are necessary. Together they capture the stream exactly as it is. How could you possibly do it all so well from memory?”

  I don t know,’ she said. “In fact, until this moment I do not believe I even realized that I was not painting the scene before my eyes.”

  “Nell! ’ he said, and there was such tenderness in his voice that she looked up at him, startled. There was an awkward moment while they looked full into each other’s eyes.

  “Nell,” he said, “will you listen to me for a while?”

  “No!” she said quickly.

  “No?”

  “No,” she said. “I want to say something first.” She turned away from him and busied herself cleaning her brushes and packing away her things. “I was writing you a letter when you arrived yesterday. I had not finished it, but it was far easier to write than to speak to you, I think.”

  “What is it, Nell?” he asked gently. “We should not find it so hard to talk to each other, should we? There was a time not so long ago when we meant everything to each other.”

  “Oh, I think not,” she said breathlessly. “But no matter. The point is, William, that you were right that night in Richmond. My behavior since I have known you has been far from blameless. The worst wrongs I have done you have been to keep secrets from you, facts that you had a right to know. Before we became l-lovers, I should have told you who I was. You had a right to know that and to decide if you still wanted to . . . to . . .

  “It should have made no difference,” he said quietly.

  “But I did wrong,” she persisted, “and thus I had no right to refuse to forgive you for what you did to me. I do forgive you, William. I do not know why you did as you did, and I really do not want to know. But it does not matter. It has been a sordid affair from beginning to end, and perhaps we should forgive each other and have an end to the bitterness at least.”

  “Nell,” he said, and he reached out without thinking and put behind her ear the truant lock of hair, which had fallen again across her face.

  She pulled away from his hand and turned away from him. “I think it would be better if you went now, William,” she said. “I mean away from the house altogether. It is painful for both of us, I believe, to be in each other’s company. We do not need to torture each other, do we?”

  “I love you,” he said.

  She turned back to him and smiled rather wanly. “It is kind of you to say so,” she said. “You know my pride will not let me accept you unless you can say that, and you feel that you must convince me because of the child. It is not necessary, William. I have had two months to become accustomed to the knowledge that I am increasing. I am no longer bewildered.” She had been looking at his hessian boots. She looked now into his face and found it white and set.

  “It is true, then,” he said. “I was convinced that it must be so, yet it is still a shock to hear you say it.”

  “Did the Marquess of Hetherington not tell you?” she asked.

  “Robert?” he said. “His lips can be firmly buttoned if he feels that honor demands secrecy. No, I did not know for sure until now. Nell, I have caused you so much suffering, and I have let you endure it all alone. You must have been so very frightened. Let me make amends as far as I am able. Let me give you my name and my protection now. Let me care for you.”

  She shook her head.

  “I wanted to marry you,” he said. “I wanted you and I needed you, Nell. And I left you because I knew I did not have the willpower to stay away from you as long as I stayed at Graystone. I wanted to marry you but I could not offer for you
because I did not believe I could offer you my heart. I fancied myself in love with someone else. And you had said you loved me, Nell. It did not seem fair to marry you when, as it seemed to me, I needed you only to soothe a bruised heart. I did not realize, fool that I was, that my feelings for you were ones of love. It seems incredible to me now that I did not know.”

  “You loved someone else?” Nell asked, just as if she had not heard anything else.

  “It was over long before I met you,” he said, “but I had refused to let go. She was a friend as well as the woman I had hoped to marry. But when I saw her again in London, I realized that only the friendship had survived the year of our separation. I had loved you without even realizing the truth. But I had realized it before I met you again, Nell, and I had already decided that I would go back to Yorkshire and find you and see if you would have me.”

  “Even if I had been a barmaid or a scullery maid?” she asked.

  “Even if you had been a duchess,” he said with a smile. “Your rank really did not matter to me, Nell. I loved a girl who was unspoiled by life, a girl who could look at the world around her with wonder and awe. And a woman who was unafraid to give herself in love to a man who had promised her nothing in return.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  “I am truly sorry for the terror the last few months must have brought you, Nell,” he said. “And I will be very sorry if you insist on going through this alone. But I cannot feel as sorry as I should for those afternoons we spent together. I have not known a great deal of love in my life—perhaps that is why I did not recognize it this time. But you have taught me that love is a giving of one self, that it goes beyond the rules and restrictions that our society imposes on us. I am glad that my child will be borne by you, even if you refuse to acknowledge me as the father. He will be fortunate indeed to have you for a mother.”