by Jane Steen
“You can’t do that.”
“You’d prefer that people think your husband was a seducer?”
“Stop.” I put my hands over my eyes as if I could hide the picture Fortier had put in my mind. “Stop it. I won’t hear this. I wish you’d go.”
I felt strong hands around my arms, and Fortier pulled my hands away from my eyes—gently but with inexorable force. Scotty growled softly.
“The most destructive trait of the aristocracy, in my opinion, is its tendency to wish to keep everything it doesn’t like hidden in a corner. I happen to believe in a more enlightened, scientific society where we can look our problems in the face.” He gave my arms a gentle shake, then let go. “I would far rather you be the one to defend Sir Justin, you know. People already suspect my motives for just about everything I do. What will they imagine if I speak up in the name of truth?”
“They’ll call you an interfering foreigner—as you are.” I knew I was being horribly rude and probably quite unjust, but I was past caring.
“As I am.” Fortier stood up. “And you, Lady Helena Whitcombe, are living in a dream world. You think your position in life and yes, even your money, make it possible for you to do as you want. I’m here to tell you that position and money are no protection against trouble, and hiding your head in the sand won’t make the trouble go away. And now if you’ll excuse me, it’s time I went to see Susan.”
18
Shame and sorrow
I maintained what I hoped was a dignified silence while Fortier made his bow and strode out of the room. By the time the sound of his footsteps was no longer audible, my legs were shaking so much that I sat back down on the window seat with a thump. That startled Scotty, who came to curl up against me with a sigh. I leaned my head against the panes of glass and stared out at the valley, where rain had begun to fall, willing my heart to stop pounding.
I felt raw and exposed, as if Fortier had ripped off my skin. I supposed I had known all along, since the first day I met him, that he was privy to Justin’s secret; but Justin had gone beyond shame or sorrow, or so I thought. I hadn’t considered I could feel shame or sorrow for him as if he still lived somewhere inside me, so it astonished me how deeply upset I was by the thought he could be publicly unmanned. That this would be the lasting impression people had of him rather than the picture he had presented in life, vigorous and strong. I would a thousand times prefer that people thought of me as barren.
And I had called Fortier an interfering foreigner, no doubt wounding him in his most vulnerable spot. I’d done what all of Littleberry did, making him the outsider who had no right to stick his French nose into our English business. I had broken the rules of courtesy and hospitality by which my sort of people lived, just because a man insisted on telling the truth.
But why did he have to tell the truth?
I watched the cloud descend upon Whitcombe Hill, a smothering mist that hid the valley from view, reflecting that I was far less fortunate than the other women in my family. Gerry had her kind, influential, responsible husband to lean on. Blanche could retreat behind the wall of self-serving ambition that seemed to make her impervious to other people’s opinions. Annette and Alice had each other, and O had her art and cared little for anything else. I had few allies, and I’d just insulted one of those few.
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself.” I pushed myself upright, facing the reflection of my face that had begun to emerge out of the dimming fog behind the windowpane. “You’re a Scott-De Quincy. Don’t sit around moping when you can find something useful to do.”
I kissed Scotty on his silver-gray head, rose, and went to stand in the middle of the room. What had I been doing when Ned arrived? With a sinking feeling, I realized I was still faced with the correspondence concerning Dene Farm. Well, I couldn’t postpone that. My lawyer needed to hear from me before the rumor of Farmer Hatherall’s suicide reached him. I sat at my desk and pulled a sheet of paper toward me.
Half an hour later that task was done and the footman dispatched with the letter. But what about the blasted sheep? I paced the morning room for a further thirty minutes and then rang for Guttridge.
“Please tell Mrs. Foster I won’t be in for luncheon after all,” I told her as she fastened the bodice of my walking dress. “I’m going to Hyrst, and I expect to eat with my brother.”
“You’ll be taking the carriage, won’t you, my lady? It’s turned into a right murky old day out there.”
I spared a fleeting thought for Fortier, who must have departed into the mist and drizzle on horseback. He would probably be soaked by the time he got home. Served him right. He should have come to say good-bye at least. And then it occurred to me that Fortier was no doubt as angry with me as I was with him.
“All the fault of that dratted letter,” I fumed under my breath as I climbed the stairs to the servants’ quarters to visit Susan before I left. “I should have snatched the thing from Ned’s hand and thrown it into the fire. Why do men have to be so honorable?”
Susan was still weak and sleepy but most definitely on the mend. The nurse told me the French physician had given a good report of her, recommending broth to start with and vegetable soup once she began to show some signs of appetite.
I did my best to be cheerful and encouraging, even though I had a constant feeling of dread in case the young woman asked after her father. Every moment I spent with Susan unsettled me more. How long should I wait until I told her? Should I delay the news until she was strong enough to walk around? Should I ask her—no, I would ask her nothing. She had made it clear she didn’t want to talk, and perhaps she had called her child a monster because she had been forced. I would protect her from further distress if I could.
It was a relief to drive away from Whitcombe in the deadening mist, cocooned in a swaying carriage where I could brood in peace. I hadn’t asked Guttridge to come with me; I didn’t need a chaperone to visit my brother.
I had guessed correctly that Michael would be at home on a Thursday three days before Christmas. Julia had gone to Littleberry to visit Gerry. I hoped Ned had held his tongue and they were all blissfully ignorant of Farmer Hatherall’s so-called confession. My first Christmas without Justin would be difficult enough.
“I was going to have luncheon with Brandrick,” was Michael’s irritable reply when I suggested we might eat together. I sighed.
“But you have the opportunity of eating tête-à-tête with your sister, Michael. Rather than with a servant.”
“Brandrick is not my servant; he’s my land agent. And I like eating luncheon with him.”
“I suppose he needs to hear what I want to ask you anyway.”
To my surprise, luncheon with Michael and Brandrick was less tedious than I thought it would be. Conversation naturally turned purely on business matters, but Michael, I discovered, could be more interesting on business matters than I would have believed when prompted with the right questions. Brandrick certainly knew how to manage him.
“I came here for a reason,” I declared once I’d eaten the last bite of lamb rump. One of Michael’s animals, I presumed, and it compared well with the Whitcombe meat. They had clearly been working on their breeding.
“Of course you came here for a reason.” Michael drained his glass. “You wouldn’t just arrive with no purpose.”
I glanced at Brandrick, who looked down at his plate. “Honestly, Michael, that remark was purely meant to introduce my request. Don’t take everything so literally. You’ve heard, of course, that I’ve lost my tenant farmer.”
“He killed himself.” Michael wiped his mouth with his napkin. “You’ll need some help with your sheep over Christmas.”
“Exactly.” Well, at least I was spared having to ask nicely for the help I had previously refused. “Would it be possible to arrange that for me? I don’t know who the farmer would have hired.”
“I’ve already sent word to a couple of our shepherds out on the marsh,” Brandrick said. “I’ve found a family w
ho’ll put one of them up. The other will stay at the Wild Boar—his sister’s the barmaid there, and they’ve got an attic room. They’ll keep an eye on the flock until you can make a permanent arrangement.”
“Thank you,” I said weakly.
“Brandrick’s not interfering.” Michael rang the silver bell lying near his plate—he did not insist on a footman being present during a casual luncheon, as his staff was not large. “I asked him to do it. So I’m interfering.”
“I suppose I’m glad you are.” I patted Michael briefly on the hand. “As long as you understand it’s a temporary arrangement.”
“You won’t find a better one than I’m offering you.” Michael glared at me and moved his hand away. “Why can’t I find you a husband straightaway as well? Julia says I have to give you time to mourn, but I married Julia exactly eight months after Cecilia died. Why are you different?”
“Well, for one thing it’s only been two months since Justin died,” I said.
“Two months and two days.” Unable to read a calendar, Michael was somehow able to keep an exact count of days in his head.
“And you had a baby son who needed a mother.”
“Perhaps we could find you a widower with a child.” Michael’s face grew thoughtful. “If you can’t have one yourself, that would be logical.”
I practically flew out of my chair in my haste to prevent the two men from seeing the sudden tears that rose to my eyes at Michael’s remark. I stalked to the window and glared out at the mist, biting my lip furiously until I had my voice more or less under control.
“Allowing you to take temporary control of my land and livestock does not give you the right to assume control over the rest of my life, Michael. Don’t try my temper any further.”
Behind me, I heard Brandrick cough, possibly to remind Michael that he shouldn’t be hearing this conversation. I welcomed the reminder myself as it stiffened my back and stemmed the flow of tears. I surreptitiously wiped the moisture from my eyes and turned back to my brother.
“I’m going to see Mama. My patience with men is running out.”
“She’s not in good humor, m’lady.” Belming greeted me at the door leading to Mama’s rooms.
“That’s all right, Belming. I still want to see her. What’s wrong?”
“The time of year, I reckon, m’lady. The mist and the damp and the long, dark nights.”
I could hear a keening noise from the bedroom, so I headed in that direction.
“You mustn’t worry if she gets cross with you,” Belming said behind me. “She’s been shouting and yelling something awful of an evening this last week. Cursing too. You’d think a lady wouldn’t know all those words.”
“Oh, we know them.” I grinned at Belming. “We’re just taught to pretend we’ve never heard a curse word in our lives. Papa had the most colorful vocabulary and sometimes forgot we were listening, so we all learned early.”
My mother was sitting on her bed in a state of considerable disarray. Her long, thick white hair had escaped some of its pins and was tumbling down on the left side only, giving her a lopsided look. Bare feet stuck out from under her nightdress. One of her slippers was on the top of her wardrobe, the other on the windowsill.
“You stay out of my parlor,” she growled as we approached. “I don’t ever want to see you in my garden again, do you hear? It’s not right. It’s not right.”
“There, Lady Broadmere, cheer up now, do.” Belming didn’t seem in the least bit put out. “Look who’s come to see you.”
My mother turned to me, blue eyes brimming with tears. “Who? Who?”
“It’s Helena, Mama.” I put my arms around her and kissed her cheek, feeling the tremble in her frail, bent back. “I’m your youngest daughter, remember? May I help with your hair?”
Without waiting for an answer, I began to ease hairpins out of the snarled mess. Belming nodded approvingly and went to fetch Mama’s hairbrush.
“You’re good with her, m’lady. The countess is too, but you have the real healing touch. You’d have done well in the nursing profession if you weren’t a lady.” She tutted as Mama screeched, “Go! Go!” at her. “Now then, Lady Broadmere, I’m just bringing her ladyship the brush. You be nice now and let her put your hair to rights.”
“I’m not a child.” Mama’s lips set in a thin line. “I’ll kill you tomorrow.”
“Mama!” I expostulated, taking the brush from Belming. “You can’t talk about killing people. It’s not nice.”
“Why not? Sometimes you have to kill people, when they’re really nasty. She’s a nasty wheelbarrow.”
“Heavens, poor Belming,” I murmured as I finished untangling Mama’s hair and set to work with the hairbrush. “Mmm, your hair smells of lavender—did Belming wash it? It feels nice and clean.”
“That’s one of the reasons we’re angry.” Belming began folding the things Mama had pulled out of her chest of drawers. “We don’t like having our hair washed.”
“Ah. I notice you don’t praise my sisters’ skill with Mama.” I parted Mama’s hair and began to braid it.
Belming sniffed. “Lady Alice and Lady Annette are too—well, you’d think Lady Broadmere was a child at school. I suppose the way they are comes of being busy all the time.”
“And having so many opportunities to tell other people what to do.” I grinned. “And Lady Geraldine tends to ignore Mama. Lady Odelia never seems to know quite what to do with her and spends as little time as possible with her.”
I reached out a hand for the ribbon Belming was offering me and incorporated it into the last inch or two of the braid. I finished by wrapping it tightly around the hair and tying it in a firm bow. Mama had fallen silent, staring at the window, where the mist was darkening into the early nightfall of late December.
“There.” I finished the second braid. “Mama, you look quite beautiful now. Oh—what’s wrong?” For my mother was crying silently, large tears finding their course through the deep vertical wrinkles on her cheeks like a river through a valley.
“Dear Mama, don’t cry.” I wrapped my arms around her again and rested my head on her shoulder. “What’s so wrong today?”
“The garden,” my mother moaned. “It’s full of—of creatures that sit, sit on my head, sit on my heart.”
I looked at Belming. “Has she been down to the garden lately?”
“No, m’lady. She won’t go. She says the things that grow there burn her. Or sometimes she says we must set fire to it all. Or she talks about a deep river that runs through it, that she’s afraid of falling into. I think she mistakes the path for a river.”
“There’s nothing in the garden that’ll hurt you, Mama. We can’t even see it today. It’s foggy.”
“Where?”
“Outside. Look, you can’t see anything out there.”
Mama rose and shuffled to her bedroom window. It had been fitted with bars on the outside for Mama’s protection, but the fog was becoming so dense even the bars couldn’t be seen. Mama scraped gently at the glass with the nail of her forefinger, looking pleased.
“Nothing can get in.”
“No, nothing.” Behind us, I heard Belming shut the door quietly, the only sound remaining the tick of the clock on the wall. “When the fog’s like that, you could believe the rest of the world doesn’t exist, couldn’t you?”
“They will all go away and leave us in peace.” Mama’s voice was a mere whisper.
If only that were true. I leaned against the window frame, watching the two faces of Mama, reality and reflection, as she stared out into the darkening day. Here, in this room, all problems seemed to be reduced to their purest essence: whether to sit or remain standing, what Cook would make for dinner, whether to sleep or be awake, whether a sight or sound or word was upsetting or conducive to happiness.
I knew the world was a terrifying place to Mama and did not often envy the flight from reality she’d embarked upon after Papa’s death. Today was an exception.
&
nbsp; “I wish I could stay here forever.” I smiled at my mother. “Just you and me and the rest of the world far away from us. Especially the men.”
“They sit on my heart.”
“Yes, Mama. They do. And I’m so tired of them. I wish I could tell you about today.”
“What about today.”
It didn’t sound like a question, but I needed someone to talk to. If Mama’s mental powers hadn’t been failing, I would have confided in her about Justin—but in the end I had told absolutely nobody. Now I felt my heart might burst without the relief of words.
“I walked into our marriage with my eyes open, Mama. Justin told me before we married that he wasn’t as virile as he’d like to be. He warned me I might be better off with a younger man.”
“I remember him.”
“Do you? Justin?”
“The other one.”
I sighed. “And we thought there still might be some hope, at first. We thought it still might be possible to have a child. One would have been enough.”
“Enough is as good as a feast.”
My eyes widened suddenly, and I felt as if a flame had licked its way down my insides.
“Supposing . . . supposing I kept silent about Justin’s inability to father a child? Mama, supposing I let the world think that what Farmer Hatherall claimed is true? I would be almost morally obliged to bring up Susan’s baby, wouldn’t I? People would understand that.”
“If I burned it with fire, nobody would know.” Mama breathed on the glass and then turned away to shuffle across the room.
“Fortier’s right,” I said to her retreating back. “We do prefer to keep things hidden. If I wish to preserve a dignified silence on the subject of my late husband’s health, I have a right to do so. I don’t see how they can compel me to speak, and they’ll just assume Fortier is making trouble as usual. I think I’ve found a solution that’s right for Susan and her baby.”
And for me.