by Liz Carlyle
“I apologize,” he said stiffly. “I wish you would stay.”
Angry at the path her thoughts were taking, Helene yanked her hands free from the books, raking a little skin off one knuckle. Turning to face the wall behind the desk, she drew the wounded hand to her mouth. She was beginning to suspect just what this might be about, and it sickened her.
Cam wanted her. But he was ashamed of the wanting.
Men had often desired her. And Helene had had to learn that a man’s reaction to his physical desire was a complex thing. Now Cam was angry. With her. With himself. And in response, he was perfectly willing to issue tyrannical demands, then drive her mad by arbitrarily changing them. And by standing too close to her, touching her, and breathing softly just next to her ear.
But how silly she was! It wasn’t as if Cam were trying to seduce her! Perhaps he found it satisfying to exert his authority over her, to use his masculine strength to intimidate her just a little. But what did she care? She was required to earn her way in the world, and would always be accountable to someone. What did it matter if it were Cam—or some other arrogant nobleman?
Yes, he was judgmental and wrong, but at least Cam had always been a good man at heart. More important, there was work to be done. A child to be nurtured and comforted. Indeed, Helene was already here—at Chalcote—one of the few places she’d ever felt true happiness. Was that not part of the reason she’d come?
Suddenly, a faint, muffled sneeze fractured the precarious silence.
Cam’s stern gaze swiveled toward a wide, old-fashioned corner cupboard that appeared to have been built into the walls of the schoolroom. Helene stepped back toward the desk, but Cam seemed not to notice her now. The whole of his attention was focused elsewhere. “Ariane,” he said, in a surprisingly gentle voice. “Come out of the cupboard, sweet.”
Immediately, all thoughts of what had just passed between them fled from Helene’s mind. With a sharp sigh of exasperation, Cam strode across the schoolroom and tugged open the lower half of the door. Inside, a fair-haired, wraithlike child was curled up in the empty bottom, her knees tucked neatly beneath her chin. The girl made no sound whatsoever. And indeed, she hardly needed to, so grim was her expression.
Without further comment, Cam leaned down and offered his hand. Blinking against the sudden light, the child reached out obediently to take it, then with obvious reluctance, clambered out. Helene was surprised to see that her tiny feet were bare of shoes or stockings. Her hair was in wild disarray. In her empty hand, she clutched a tattered stuffed animal of uncertain breed.
Quietly, Cam knelt down to gather the child into his arms, then stood up, staring over the girl’s tousled blonde hair to catch Helene’s gaze. The unguarded pain in his eyes pierced her in a way his angry words could never have done. Cam loved the child; his affection was obvious for anyone to see. And in his simple but telling expression, Helene could see the torment—and the multitude of unanswered questions.
Her heart went out to Cam, as it had done to others before him. And suddenly, she saw him not as an old lover or an arrogant lord, but as a father who feared for the welfare of a child whom he struggled to understand. At last, he broke Helene’s gaze and walked across the room toward her, his lips pressed lightly to the top of the child’s head.
The little girl turned her face into her father’s starched neckcloth, refusing to look at Helene. “Ariane,” said Cam in a calm, matter-of-fact tone, “this is your new governess, Miss de Severs.”
“Good morning, Ariane,” said Helene brightly, taking her cue from Cam.
Urging her face deeper into the folds of her father’s cravat, the child tightened her grip on her father. “Sweetie,” said Cam softly, “please look at Miss de Severs. Give her just a little smile, hmm?”
After a long moment, Ariane half-turned to look at Helene through one narrow eye, but no smile was forthcoming. Helene studied the child, pleased to see that the little girl appeared physically healthy, even tall, for her age. Her fine, curling hair was so blonde as to be very nearly white, and her eyes—at least the one Helene could see—was a startling shade of blue against her pink, almost translucent, skin. Her face was round, sweet, and utterly beautiful. The whole effect was ethereal, as though she were an angel instead of a real child.
Helene stared at the girl’s white-knuckled grip on her father’s lapels. Cam’s affection for his daughter was as obvious as Ariane’s discomfort, and for the first time, Helene felt the momentous weight of the task which she had so blithely accepted. What if she should fail? For if she did, she would be failing Cam, someone whom she already acknowledged would always mean more to her than just an employer.
“Don’t worry, Ariane,” she said, placing one hand lightly on the girl’s thin shoulder. “I am sure you must be weary of training new governesses. I shall try to learn quickly.”
The girl gave Helene what might have been a weak smile, but at that moment, a young servant materialized in the open doorway, a pair of tiny slippers clutched in her hand. “Oh, beg pardon, m’lord!” She bobbed perfunctorily. “The child got away from me. I went to fetch her shoes, and when I turned me back, she disappeared.”
“I understand, Martha,” Cam said calmly as he bent forward to put Ariane down. Fondly, he gave the girl a fatherly swat on the rear. “Go with Martha, imp! Finish dressing so that I may see you with your shoes and stockings at luncheon!”
Helene watched as the pair left the room and disappeared down the corridor. In the emptiness which remained, it felt as though a cold breeze had swept into the room, returning with it the uneasiness which had previously lingered between them. Behind her, she heard books sliding back and forth, as if Cam was sorting through the pile on the desk, but she did not immediately turn around.
“Well,” he said at last, his voice sad. “You see how ... how unwell she is, Miss de Severs.”
Helene spun about to face him. “What I see is a very frightened child, my lord. Whether there is anything more to it than that I cannot yet say.”
Cam seemed to be watching her carefully. “I have always been gentle with her,” he said, his voice soft, and a little bitter. “I cannot but think it is more than simple fear which plagues the child.”
Helene nodded, and chose her words carefully. “I apologize, my lord. My words were not ill–meant. And fear is rarely simple, particularly at Ariane’s young age, when one cannot so easily discern the difference between an imaginary terror and a real danger.”
Cam looked down at the desk and kept shuffling aimlessly through the pile of books. “Can you help her, Helene?” he asked at last, his voice inordinately weary. “Will you stay? Please?”
Helene slowly nodded. “I will stay,” she finally answered. “But as to helping her, I pray that I can. Yet I never promise ...” Weakly, she let her words trail away.
Cam made a dismissive gesture with his hand, then picked up one of her books. “What the devil is this, anyway?” he asked abruptly, as if hoping to break the pained intimacy between them. Slowly, he pronounced the book’s title, as if pondering the words in his own mind. “Medical Inquiries and Observations Upon the Diseases of the Mind—?”
Helene stepped toward the desk. “The author, Dr. Rush, was an American who studied at Edinburgh, my lord. He wrote about a special sort of medicine. It concerns the diseases which can affect one’s mental processes, as opposed to one’s physical body,” she hesitantly concluded.
“I daresay I have some passing knowledge of the sort of medicine you mean, Helene,” he responded tightly, “though I’ll grant that I may look like the veriest rustic to you.”
Helene refused to rise to the bait. “Well, then,” she answered briskly, “you can see that Rush’s work is a textbook on mental diseases. Already a bit outdated, I’m afraid, but many have furthered his research and I find it helpful in my ... my governess work.”
Cam’s sadness, which had first shifted to arrogance, suddenly looked like anger. Ruthlessly, he slammed the book back d
own. “My daughter,” he gritted out, “is not mad!”
Helene forced a light laugh. “Well, my lord, having just met her, I’d certainly be reluctant to apply the term mad,” she coolly retorted. “However, if her moods are as mercurial as yours—”
“As mine?” he interjected archly, his eyes narrowing. Then slowly, and much to her surprise, his mouth quirked at one corner. “Yes! Very well! Devil take it, you’ve made your point. Perhaps I am mad.” He drove his long fingers rather roughly through his hair. “But Ariane is not—and I shan’t have her treated as such.”
Ashamed of her sarcasm, Helene softened her tone. “Of course she is not, my lord. Indeed, the very term madness is somewhat passé. I have worked with such physicians and their patients for years, and have never seen above a half-dozen people one could accurately call mad. Why, once I attended a lecture at the University of Vienna—”
“At the medical school, do you mean?” he interrupted, his tone doubtful. “Surely they do not permit women to study such things nowadays, do they?”
“Well, not really,” Helene hedged. “However, if one has the right sort of friends, one can occasionally visit hospitals, and discreetly observe lectures, and that sort of thing.”
“Humph!” said Cam noncommittally. He paused to flip through the pages of another text, his eyes lighting with curiosity. “And what is this?” he muttered, struggling with the title. “Rhapsodien üher—”
“A Discourse on the Application of Psychotherapy,” Helene translated, her tenuous enthusiasm growing. At least Camden Rutledge had not yet pitched her books out the window as one previous employer had done. “And that one—” Eagerly, she pointed to a third, a dog-eared manuscript, “—is by my countryman, Monsieur Pinel, the director of the Bicêtre hospital. He rejected bleeding, purging, and blistering as ineffective therapies for the treatment of mental disturbance.”
Cam winced, then looked at her, his slashing, straight brows elevated. “I must confess, Miss de Severs, you do amaze me. How, precisely, does one go about diagnosing a mental disturbance? Indeed, I begin to fear I have been suffering from one these past two days!”
Helene shot him a quelling look. “I merely hope, my lord, that you will concede that mental disturbance is infinitely preferable to the term madness.”
“Ah! Can one not suffer from both?” He shot her a grim smile.
Fighting down a laugh, Helene tried to ignore him. “A mental disturbance is, in fact, what Ariane likely suffers. I cannot say, for I am not a doctor of any sort. But if she is intelligent—?”
Cam gave a bark of laughter. “Like a fox,” he answered, returning to his usual seriousness. “But that is my layman’s opinion. The learned doctors insist that she is simple-minded. Nonetheless, a year ago, I engaged her first governess, in an attempt to teach her a little reading and arithmetic.”
“Do I correctly understand that she began to speak as a child?” Helene asked, remembering Mr. Brightsmith’s remarks.
“Yes, her vocabulary was initially advanced for her age.”
“Certainly she appears physically well,” mused Helene. “Can she learn? For example, can Ariane obey verbal commands? Play simple games? Does she ever show anger or happiness? Does she appear to think logically?”
Cam hesitated, looking perplexed and wounded by Helene’s verbal barrage. “Why, yes, of course. I am persuaded that Ariane is not simple, just fearful. But when one cannot speak ...?”
“Yes, just so,” agreed Helene sympathetically. “It is difficult to know why, is it not?”
She decided not to press Cam further until after she had spent more time with the child. Clearly, the issue was painful for him, and it would prove more productive to study and learn from Ariane herself.
4
But Love’s a Malady without a Cure
Unexpectedly, Cam pulled up a chair and sat down beside the desk, motioning for Helene to do likewise. To maintain her distance, Helene took the precaution of choosing the seat behind the desk. As if they had been old friends forever, which was near the truth, Cam propped one elbow on the desk and rested his chin on his fist.
“Listen to me, Helene,” he finally said, his haunting gray eyes distant and despondent. “I want only the best for my daughter. Can you understand that? I wish for her a happy life. I won’t have Ariane doing without, either emotionally or materially. Nor will I allow her to be ashamed of herself, or of her family. I refuse to allow Ariane to grow up as Catherine and Bentley did—always on the edge of social humiliation, their futures constrained by society’s opinion.”
Helene was confused. “I am not sure, Cam, just what you want of me.”
Cam colored slightly. “Ah, I badly digress, do I not?” he said with a grim smile. “It has fallen to me to repair my family’s fortunes, both literally and figuratively. All I ask now, on Ariane’s behalf, is that you help me to determine what’s best done to ensure her happiness. I refuse to believe that my child is beyond help!” He pounded his fist on the desk. “ I simply refuse!”
Helene leaned urgently forward. “Cam, I will do everything within my power. I promise.”
As if embarrassed by the intensity of his own emotions, Cam grew silent for a long moment. “I am sorry,” he finally said, “that I hurt your finger.”
Helene spread out her hand on the desktop and ran one fingertip across the scraped knuckle. “Perhaps I should ask another ten pounds for hazardous duty?”
Cam lifted her hand and twisted it to one side to better view the damage. His touch felt analytical, not physical. “Oh, I fancy you will survive, Helene,” he said dryly, and put her hand down again.
Helene drew her hands into her lap and folded them neatly. “I daresay I shall. I have suffered far more serious wounds.”
Cam let that comment pass unanswered for a long moment. “You promise to stay, then?”
“If that is your wish, yes,” she said slowly, knowing full well how unwise her decision was. “I shall stay—at least for the six months you’ve paid for.”
Cam seemed to breathe a long sigh of relief, then looked across the room at the empty cupboard, its door still hanging open. “Sometimes, Helene, I cannot help but wonder if all this is somehow my fault. That Ariane is so withdrawn because I am ... Well, I daresay you know how I am.”
Helene leaned back in her chair and studied him. “I once knew you quite well, but no longer,” she admitted softly. “As a young man, you were rather taciturn, yes. And altogether too serious for your own good.”
“That, you see, is just what I mean,” he admitted softly.
Helene shook her head. “I doubt that is it.” She spoke as much to herself as to him. “Though it seems that a few types of disturbances are inherited, a lack of speech is rarely so. Ariane’s problem is more likely a manifestation of an internal fear. Perhaps a reaction to some sort of trauma? But not likely something passed through the blood, like a hooked nose, or blue eyes.”
Cam seemed to stiffen, and his voice grew incrementally cooler. “No, I speak not of an inherited problem. I am sure that is not the case. Perhaps the fear that you refer to is simply her fear that she will grow up to be like me; too solemn, too introspective. Certainly with her mother dead, she has no one to whom she may look for an example of normalcy.”
He was, she saw, quite serious. “Oh, Cam!” She gave a soft, reassuring laugh. “Why, that is perfectly absurd! A child could do no better than to emulate your ways, for there is nothing wrong with you. Indeed, I always thought you very nearly perfect.”
“Good God, Helene!” He sounded genuinely shocked. “I hope you did not do so.”
Helene’s face sobered. She was not sure when they had resumed the use of given names, but for the moment, it seemed right. “I used to think of you as utter perfection, Cam. As I said, a little too sober-minded, perhaps, but you’ve always been burdened by duty.”
His brows went up in surprise at that, and he looked at her intently. “Heavens, Cam! Did you think I could not see that
?” she continued. “I may have been young, but I was far from stupid. However, now that you are older, I do think—” She paused abruptly.
Cam’s color heightened. “Oh, go on, Helene!” he grumbled. “Say it.”
She shook her head. “It would be improper.”
Cam sighed melodramatically. “Helene, I can scarce think of you and propriety in the same sentence,” he responded, a wry half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Say it and have done!”
“I beg your pardon, Lord Treyhern,” she retorted. “I have cultivated quite a sense of propriety, and at great cost. Indeed, I am now excessively dull. But I shall say it: you have grown... cold, I think. And a bit irascible. But I cannot see how that could cause Ariane’s problem. There! I’m done.”
Cam really laughed then, his eyes crinkling mischievously in the corners. Unlike most men his age, he did not have laugh-lines around his eyes and mouth, and yet, his good humor sounded perfectly natural. Helene’s heart gave an unexpected lurch at the fondly remembered sound.
“Irascible and cold? Only two adjectives, Hellie?” he retorted, using his old nickname for her. “You shall explode from restraint, I fear, if you do not tell all.” Cam’s eyes softened with mirth, and suddenly he looked so young, and so gentle.
Abruptly, Helene rose from her chair, scraping it hard on the oak floor as she pushed it back. “Another time, perhaps,” she answered with false lightness. “I... I need to unpack. I must be ready to work with Ariane as soon as she begins to be comfortable in my company.”
“Yes, of course,” Cam responded, coming smoothly to his feet near the worktable. Pensively, he smoothed one hand around the side of her old portmanteau, his fingers momentarily catching on the length of rope she’d secured it with. “There is a very good saddler in the village, Helene,” he said absently. “Give this bag to Milford, and he shall gladly see it repaired.”