British Brides Collection

by Hake, Kelly Eileen

  Oliver rubbed his chin. “Then you must help, Gretel. Helen needs a woman’s care lest she take a chill and die ere she claps eyes upon the children.”

  Gretel’s scraggly eyebrows rose. “She’s a servant, same as us. Let her make up her own room, I say.” She glared at Helen. “You’ll find clean bed linens in a chest. The mattress is fresh stuffed.”

  Helen could not drag her gaze from that dog. Her feet were lead weights. Her mind seemed detached from her body.

  Gretel tossed back her drink and wiped her mouth on her own plump shoulder. “If you’re hungry, take whatever food you find.”

  At that moment, the mastiff noticed Helen. With a thunderous bellow, it rushed to investigate.

  As from a distance, Helen heard Oliver shout at the dog. Enormous white teeth in a slavering red mouth loomed like approaching death. Her body went slack. First the beamed ceiling then the flagstone flooring flashed before her eyes. Dimly she expected to impact upon the stones, but something broke her fall. A deep voice repeated, “Helen?”

  Chapter 2

  Helen opened heavy eyelids and blinked. No light met her straining eyes. She lay adrift in total darkness. Panic filled her chest. God? Are You here? A quilt fell away when she struggled to sit up. Billowing softness surrounded her.

  She sat in a feather bed, fully clothed.

  At last, her eyes caught the dim glow from a banked fire. A muffled wail brought her fully awake. Somewhere nearby a child was crying. Helen flung off the quilt and put her feet to the floorboards. Groping with shaking hands, she discovered a bedside table, a tray, and what felt like cold meat and a roll. There it was—the hoped-for candle.

  Helen slipped out of bed and knelt on the hearth, touching her candle’s wick to the coals. Her heart pounded and her hands trembled—she could scarcely grip the taper. At last the candle flared to life, and Helen pressed it firmly into its holder. Protecting the feeble flame behind her cupped hand, she searched her chamber for a door. Did no one else hear those pitiful cries?

  Two doors led from her bedchamber. The weeping came from behind the door nearest the windows. When Helen pushed it open, the creak of its hinges sent chills down her spine.

  The stench of bodily waste made her clap a hand over her nose. Disgust overcame her fear of the dark. Did no one empty chamber pots in this house? Steeling herself, Helen lit a sconce on the wall and set her candle on a stool. As light filled the chamber, her knees gathered strength and her breathing deepened.

  Three small beds lined the walls, each with a blanket-covered lump. The farthest lump reared up to reveal wide eyes in a round face. As Helen approached the child’s bed, two skinny arms reached for her. She dropped to her knees and took the child in her arms. “I am Cousin Helen. Did you have a bad dream?”

  The small head nodded against her shoulder. “A bad dog eated me, Cousin Helen.”

  Helen could relate to that nightmare. She patted the bony little back and encountered one source of the foul odor—the child’s bedclothes and shift were soaked. “ ’twas only a dream, little one. I think you will sleep better if we get you into dry clothing and a clean bed.” Helen lifted her small charge and stripped the trembling body of its clinging gown. Every rib showed beneath the child’s pale skin. Scars dotted her body. Helen’s memory began to return. “You are Patsy?”

  Patsy nodded. Her lower jaw shook with cold. “I can sleep with Avril.”

  “Where are your clean clothes?”

  Patsy wrapped both arms around her thin body and shivered.

  “Patsy, where do you keep your clothes?”

  Realizing that the little girl would not or could not give her an answer, Helen began to search the room. She found a clean shift, several sizes too large, on a wall hook. “This will have to do.”

  “That is Avril’s. She will be angry,” Patsy stated as Helen enveloped her in the gown. The child’s eyes were large and apprehensive in her thin face. Her hair appeared to have been chopped off at chin level.

  “We will worry about that tomorrow, little one. Now is the time for good girls to sleep.”

  “You will be here when I wake?” Patsy reached small fingers to touch Helen’s face. “I like you, Cousin Helen.”

  Helen scooped Patsy into her lap and rocked back and forth. “And I like you. I will be here in the morning. I am your new governess. I will care for you and Avril and your brother from now on.” At the moment, the boy’s name escaped her.

  “My brother is Franklin. Joseph died of the spots. He was my other brother. My mother died too. Our old nurse went away and got married. Do not die, please, Cousin Helen?”

  “I shall strive to remain alive for a long while yet, Patsy.” Helen began to hum a little tune, pressing her cheek against the child’s matted hair.

  “I am hungry.” Patsy’s cheeks were sunken. Helen decided it would be wise to give her food whenever she craved it. She led Patsy into the other chamber and allowed the child to eat heartily from the loaded tray on the bedside table. After building up her fire and setting lighted candles about the room, Helen nibbled on a date and watched the little girl drain a cup of milk.

  Her stomach nicely rounded, Patsy popped a thumb into her mouth as Helen carried her to Avril’s bed. The child was asleep before Helen tucked her in. Avril frowned in her sleep and rolled toward the wall. The older girl’s hair was as tangled and dirty as Patsy’s—shorn during the recent bout of illness, Helen surmised. Had no one cared for these children since their mother’s death?

  Helen snuffed the light and returned to her chamber. She blew out her candles, leaving only one lit beside the bed. After removing her gown and petticoats, she crawled beneath her quilt, mentally listing the changes she would make on the morrow. “Dear Lord, give me strength to bring Your glory and love into this house,” she whispered. “And please help me to endure this wretched darkness.”

  Morning light awakened Helen. Delighted to see streaks of sunshine on her bedclothes, she climbed out of bed, pulled back the heavy draperies, and let light stream into her chamber. After stretching her stiff arms and shoulders, she poured water into her basin and began to splash her face. “Good morning, Lord Jesus.”

  She unbraided her hair and began to comb out its tangled length. Last night’s fog had made ringlets out of the fringe on her forehead and around her ears. Helen tried to comb them out, creating puffs of curls. Lacking a mirror, she could only feel the disarray she had caused.

  Someone knocked at the door. Probably a maid. “You may enter,” Helen called.

  Silence. Curious, she opened the door, then slammed it shut. Waiting in the hall was the man with the scornful smile and hawk nose. She had just shocked the life out of him, no doubt, answering the door in her smock, with her hair hanging loose! “One moment, please.”

  She pulled on her wrinkled gown. Tossing aside an assortment of petticoats, she hunted for her cap. Where was I when I took it off? Pausing abruptly, she wrinkled her brow. I don’t remember coming to this room last night. How did I get here?

  Another knock at the door. “I have your trunk,” he explained in an overly patient tone.

  The cap was nowhere in sight. Helen sighed. I recall there was a huge dog … Or did I dream it? Or was that Patsy’s dream?

  The next knock was harder.

  Helen lifted the latch and pulled the door wide open.

  “God give you good day, Helen Walker. I trust you slept well after your disturbing experience.”

  As usual, his deep voice hinted at derision. Helen’s face burned. “My disturbing …? Oh, aye. Thank you, um …”

  “Oliver,” he supplied. “I promised to bring your trunk today. Where would you like it placed?”

  She stepped back and fixed her gaze upon the floor. “Against the wall between the windows, if you please. You must have risen before dawn. You are exceeding kind.” She could not bring herself to address him by his first name. Did governesses often allow male servants to enter their bedchambers? Helen found the situation un
comfortable.

  He hefted the trunk, crossed the small chamber without bumping into any furniture, lowered the trunk, and shoved it against the wall. “Is there anything else you’ll be needing?”

  Helen remained near the open door. She tried to sound friendly yet indifferent. “I’m sure I shall straightaway learn to feel at home here now that I have my trunk. It contains not only my clothing, but also my Bible and other items that belonged to my parents. Everything I own is packed inside.”

  “I, too, cherish a Bible among my belongings. Its translation was one of the few beneficial acts our late king accomplished. Do you read it often?”

  She was startled into looking at him. “Every day. Are you a disciple of Jesus Christ? I mean, do you truly know God?”

  This time Oliver lowered his gaze. “I do. Knowing Him is my only boast.”

  “And does the vicar in this parish teach from the Scriptures?”

  “He does. There are many true believers in the community.” Oliver shifted uneasily. A flush stained his high cheekbones. “You find it difficult to believe that I am a Christian.”

  Helen floundered for a moment. Ignoring his comment, she tried to speak brightly. “I must confess, I feared that I would find no one in East Anglia with whom to fellowship, but God has provided for my every need just as He promised. Please accept my apology. I was uncivil to you last night. Had I known you were a Christian, I would not have mistrusted you so.”

  Helen could not read his expression.

  “It is I who should ask pardon,” he said softly. “I should have perceived that you were nigh unto swooning and been more solicitous of your welfare.”

  “Swooning?”

  He shook his head slowly, his eyes searching her face. “You do not remember?”

  Helen swallowed hard. “Wha–what is it I should remember?”

  The door to the nursery creaked open, and Patsy staggered into the room, rubbing her eyes. She lifted the hem of her borrowed gown to keep from tripping over it.

  Oliver greeted her. “What have we here? Good morrow, little lady.”

  Helen would never have believed the man could speak in such affectionate tones. He seemed to welcome the child as a reprieve.

  Patsy blinked up at him. “Uncle Oliver, wherefore are you here?” Then she caught sight of Helen. Her face lit up, and she dashed across the room to fling herself into Helen’s open arms. “You’re not a dream!”

  “No, darling, I am real,” Helen assured the child, holding her close.

  “Did you bring Cousin Helen for me, Uncle Oliver?” Patsy twisted around in Helen’s arms to inquire. “She says she came to take care of us. I think God must have sent her. I prayed for a new mother, although Avril told me not to. Maybe Father will marry her and we will be a family again.”

  “This cannot be, Patsy, for I am your close relation,” Helen hastened to inform the child. “Cousins may not wed by order of the church.”

  Patsy’s face fell. “But I do so want a mother.”

  “I understand. Would you like to hear me read a story? I have a Bible in my trunk. It has the most wonderful stories you ever heard.”

  “I will take my leave, ladies. Enjoy your cousin while you may, Patsy.”

  On that remark, Oliver closed the door behind him.

  Jenny entered the kitchen, carrying an empty tray. “Those children were eating like trenchermen when I left the nursery. Must have worked up appetites with all the screeching and howling that went on this morn.” After discarding the tray on a worktable, she ladled pottage into a bread bowl and joined the other servants for the noon meal.

  “She’s a glutton for work, this governess,” Maggie complained around a mouthful of pottage. “Such a wee thing to be spouting orders like a queen!”

  “And how she did handle that Franklin when he tried to escape the bathin’!” Jenny added, giving a snort of laughter. “Took the lad by the back of his neck, she did, and popped him in the tub pretty as you please! Not even the late mistress could make that one do as he was told. I wonder how long it will be before the young knave starts his usual tricks and makes this governess wish she had never heard of Biddlesham Hall.”

  Gretel frowned and shook her gray head. “Weak as the children be, she’ll be the death of them with this washing and this opening of windows. The master will return to find his offspring dead of lung fever, for certain.”

  “I do wonder what he will say,” one of the gardeners agreed. “However, this Helen be a friendly enough wench. Leaned out her window to compliment me on the gardens today whilst I was trimming topiaries. Not above her station, that one.”

  Jenny scoffed. “So you say! Thinks she’s mistress of the hall, she does. How my arms ache from toting water up and down, up and down so’s she could wash.”

  Maggie laughed, displaying gaps between her yellowed teeth. “Puts me in mind of Oliver and his fancy for soap and water!” She dug an elbow into Oliver’s ribs. He continued eating.

  Jenny ranted on. “She had me digging through chests and trunks for clean clothing. Says she is taking the children out for fresh air. As if the nursery ain’t awash with cold air from the windows hanging open all the day!”

  “She will be good for them.”

  All eyes turned to Oliver. “What did you say?” Gretel demanded.

  He rose and tossed his soggy bread bowl out the window to the waiting chickens and geese. Eyeing the other servants coldly, he said, “Helen is exactly what those children need—someone to love them and give them hope for the future. Attend upon me now: We must keep Diocletian out of Helen’s way until the master returns. Quincy,” he addressed the undergroom, “I place you in charge of the dog. Do you hear?”

  Quincy nodded.

  Gretel gave a cackle. “Gone soft on her, has our master-of-horse. Today I asked her how she liked being put to bed by Oliver, and she looked nigh unto swooning all over again.”

  Laughter rippled about the table, then suddenly hushed. Oliver cast a glare around the room. After one slap of his gloves against the tabletop, he strode outside into the brilliant sunlight.

  Speculative glances and whispers followed his exit.

  Helen paused to pray before selecting a pheasant leg from the noon trays. “Why did you do that?” Avril demanded, her gray eyes sullen.

  “Why did I pray? I always thank the Lord for His provision. Look at this fine meal! Certainly we have much for which to thank Him.” Helen smiled at the eight-year-old but received a blank stare in return.

  Avril hunched her shoulders and munched on a crusty loaf. Soap and water had revealed a pretty child with pearly skin, luminous eyes, flyaway brown hair, and an aura of despair.

  Franklin had not spoken a word since his enforced bath. Chewing with no effort to keep his mouth closed, he consumed only a few bites of meat and a handful of raisins.

  Beside Helen, four-year-old Patsy gnawed on a cold meat pasty. Her exuberant hugs had lightened Helen’s burden several times that morning.

  Exhausted by the battle of wills and the physical labor, Helen began to doubt her own judgment. She now had three clean charges and a tidy nursery, but she feared she had created at least one lifelong enemy. Franklin’s gaze held even more venom than Avril’s, and the servants had seemed less than pleased by her requests for their extra labor. Had she not been the master’s cousin, she suspected they would have refused outright.

  To make matters worse, her thoughts kept returning to Oliver Kirby. He was, by his own admission, a fellow believer, yet his presence inspired in Helen a confusing blend of admiration and apprehension. Not that Scripture prohibited manliness while encouraging godliness; Helen had simply never before encountered a man possessed of both qualities in full measure.

  If only she were well enough acquainted with Gretel to know whether or not to believe the housekeeper’s astonishing report. Whenever she tried to envision her unconscious self in Oliver’s arms, her mind flitted away in denial while her face grew hot.

  Brushing
her hands on her apron, Helen rose, strolled to the window, and looked down upon the terraced garden. Raised beds and pebbled walkways, paths that disappeared beneath bowers of interwoven tree branches, and a sunlit sweep of lawn reached as far as the distant woods. Pressing both palms against her warm cheeks, Helen drank in the perfume of evergreens and herbs.

  Her heart expanded. “Thank You, Lord Jesus,” she whispered. “If the children can learn to love me, I shall be content to live here. Please help me to find my place.”

  She turned back to the children with a bright expression. “After luncheon we shall walk in the gardens. It is a fine day, and we all need fresh air.”

  Chapter 3

  One sunny afternoon more than a week after her arrival, Helen headed for the stables. Finding a groom cleaning stalls, she inquired, “Where might I find Oliver Kirby?”

  The young man removed his cap. “In the pasture by the orchard, training the master’s green colt. I’m Quincy the under-horseman, just so’s you know. Your company will pleasure Oliver. He watches you take the children out to play every day. He says he’s watching the children, but I know better.”

  Helen didn’t like the way he smiled. “Thank you. Good day.” Lifting her skirts, she picked her way through the stable yard, scattering chickens and ducks.

  She met Oliver on his way back to the stable. Helen maintained a respectful distance from his lively mount. Oliver had removed his doublet, wearing only a full-sleeved white shirt above his loose breeches and cuffed boots. Although his hat bore no plume, he resembled the most dashing of cavaliers. Helen was uncertain which intimidated her more, Oliver or the horse.

  “Braveheart, meet another valorous soul.” Patting the colt’s sweaty neck, Oliver grinned at Helen.

  “I have come to enlist your aid,” Helen announced in a nervous tremolo.

  “Indeed? Where are the children?”

  “With the head gardener. Guy is teaching them to plant parsnips. I would not leave them alone.”

  “My mind is now at rest. In what manner may I help you, Helen Walker? Will you climb up behind me here on Braveheart? We can better converse while in close proximity.”