by Liz Carlyle
“Forced? I do not understand.”
“Money, Helene.” He laughed bitterly. “Did it not always come down to money? Your mother, my father—they were like willful children unleashed in a sweet shop with no notion of self-discipline.”
When she made no response, Cam took up a slender, gilt-trimmed book from the corner of his desk, and thumbed through it. “What was it, Helene, that dear Byron once said? Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter; Sermons and soda water the day after?” Cam snapped shut the book, and gazed blindly into the shadows. “Yet Father never quite made it to the part about sermons and soda water,” he quietly added.
Helene felt an aching sense of sadness. “Could not Cassandra have simply refused you?”
Cam made a sarcastic sound and tossed the book back onto his desk. “Her father was a cit who aspired to loftier things—blue-blooded grandchildren and an old name—and he meant to buy the stud services required to obtain them.”
Inwardly, Helene choked with mortification. The picture he painted was crude, yet his words rang horribly true. “My lord, the specifics of your marriage are none of my concern, but might I ask one question about your wife’s death?” Helene kept her voice as nonconfrontational as possible. “Was there anything about it that might have been ... too traumatic for Ariane’s comprehension? Sometimes, children can be exposed to ... to things which can cause them to simply shut out the ...”
Helene let her words slip. Cam was staring at her, a starkly painful expression on his face. A protracted silence fell across the room. “Do you mean to say, Helene,” he finally replied, “that a person can see something which frightens them, and thereby lose the faculty of speech?”
“No, not lose it. But ... unknowingly suppress it, if you see the difference?”
Cam froze in midmotion. “I suppose it had something to do with the fire,” he finally said, dropping the penknife back into the drawer with an awkward clatter.
“I beg your pardon?”
Cam exhaled sharply, as if he had been punched in the stomach. “My wife—Cassandra—she died in a fire. Ariane may have seen it—or seen something worse.” He shoved one hand roughly through his hair, his quills and papers at last forgotten.
Helene leaned forward and laid her fingertips lightly upon the desk. “Was it here at Chalcote? Was Ariane hurt in any way? I’m very much afraid I need to know.”
After a protracted silence, Cam turned his intense stare back toward her, as if he’d briefly forgotten she was there. “No. No, not here,” he said in a voice which was suddenly devoid of emotion. “It happened when Ariane was but three. Late one afternoon, the child was discovered wandering alone along one of the forest paths by one of Chalcote’s tenants. He thought he saw smoke in the wood beyond, but he rushed Ariane to safety first. We went back, of course. But by then, the fire was raging. It was too late.”
“Too late?”
“Too late save my wife,” he said without blinking. “Cassandra died in the fire. At the old gamekeeper’s cottage.”
“I—yes, I recall it,” she replied uneasily.
“We did not know—indeed, still do not know—what happened. How Ariane came to be in the cottage, or if she was ever there at all. It seemed she was trying to find her way home when she was found.”
“But that is over a mile away! A child of three could hardly travel so far alone.”
Cam’s face went strangely blank. “One would think not. However, it was a path she’d often traveled with her mother. Cassandra liked to stroll in the woods with Ariane. It was one of the few things they shared.” His tone was edged with bitterness.
A dozen ugly questions whirled through Helene’s mind, but she was loath to ask any of them. She had some notion of the cause of Ariane’s trauma, and as she had suspected, it was more than a child’s grief for the loss of her mother. But why had Cassandra Rutledge been inside the gamekeeper’s cottage? How had the fire started? Had the poor child been with her? Or attempting to find her?
But the question she had the least business asking was whether Cam had loved his wife. Was it grief which had wrought such changes in the man she had once loved? Determinedly, Helene forced away the thought. It would be prudent to remember that Cam’s anguish was not her concern. Ariane’s, however, was. “My lord, another question, if I may. How many physicians have seen Ariane?”
“Three,” he bit out, his eyes narrowing in silent warning.
“And their diagnoses?”
“You may have your choice,” he sharply responded. “My daughter reacts little better to physicians than they react to her, which is to say, quite irrationally. You would have to see her in one of her wild fits of temper in order to fully appreciate just how unrestrained she can be.”
“But she is frightened! Of course she behaves badly.”
“That is precisely what I have tried to tell them,” agreed Cam, looking at her appreciatively. “But to them, she is either willful, simple-minded, or insane. They have not an ounce of compassion among them, and their remedies range from bleeding, beating, and confinement, to outright exorcism. One resourceful fellow proposed to do all four, just for good measure.”
Helene was horrified, remembering her blithe lecture about Dr. Pinel. No wonder Cam had winced and changed the subject. At one time or another, such dreadful therapies had been acceptable treatments for a wide range of mental disturbances. None of them, however, was effective.
And in Ariane’s case, any of them could have caused grave harm. She drew an unsteady breath. “My lord, you did not—?”
“Bloody well right, I didn’t,” he interjected, his voice edged with frustration. “I sent the devils packing. Along with their leeches and their restraints and their opiates, too. Their coming here was nothing but a needless distress, each more so than the last. The poor child has suffered one stranger after another, examining, and prodding, and cajoling her.”
Suddenly, he looked straight into her eyes, his anger slipping away to reveal a look of overwhelming fatigue. “Helene,” he said quietly, “I simply do not know what further to do. This is tearing me up inside. And if I cannot bear it, how must it feel to Ariane?”
As if begging for her help, Cam held out his hands, palms open, on his desktop. Helene had to fight hard against the urge to go to him. Instead, she bit back her words of comfort, inadvertently sounding coldly professional. “To be sure, my lord, it is exceedingly hard for Ariane. But the child will improve. We will use patience, and consistency.”
Cam slumped back against his chair, as if she had not responded as he had hoped.
Suddenly, Helene realized that she should go; that remaining in such proximity to Cam was imprudent. She rose from her chair, anxiously smoothing down her skirts just as the clock struck half-past. “It grows late, my lord,” she said softly. “I should go now, if you have nothing further?”
6
In which Treyhern tastes the bitters of Love
Cam stared up at her for a long moment, then something which looked like surrender passed across his face. “I ... no. Please stay, Helene,” he answered, his eyes edged with faint desperation. It was the look of a man who did not want to be left alone with his ghosts. “I grow weary discussing my troubles. Sit down and tell me of yourself. We have not discussed your studies, nor how you became a teacher.”
Reluctantly, Helene sat back down. “Do you wish to further review my credentials?” she asked uneasily.
Suddenly, the room felt close and uncomfortable. Then, for the briefest of moments, Cam let down his impenetrable resolve, and Helene glimpsed the loneliness etched into the strong, stark lines of his face. But she could afford to give him nothing beyond her skill and training in the care of his daughter.
Slowly, Cam shook his head. “No, I have your credentials and references,” he answered very quietly. “I want to know where you have been. What you have done. Tell me ... tell me what your life has been like, Helene, since we—since you—went away.”
Helene
was taken aback. Aman who had risen as high as the Earl of Treyhern could scarce have cared where she had been these past many years. Moreover, she really had no wish to remain alone with him. Cam’s obvious grief and his dark good looks were far too disturbing a combination to a woman who was trained to give comfort to those in pain.
Her eyes roamed over his face and beyond. Though he and his brother had dined alone tonight, Cam had still dressed for dinner in a coat of rich black superfine, with a waistcoat of pure ivory. Despite his fashionable clothing, however, Cam still managed to look hard, even a little uncivilized. When he dressed in his rough wool and plain linen, Helene found the contrast less startling. But tonight, emphasized by formal attire, the elegant bones of Cam’s face took on a hint of wildness.
Helene noticed that his black hair was overlong and that his face was again shadowed by a heavy beard. There was a hollowness beneath his high, hard cheek-bones, while the tanned skin of his throat contrasted sharply with the elegantly tied neckcloth.
Whipcord lean, full of constrained energy and sullen moodiness, Cam reminded Helene of a wild, black cat she had once seen at a Bavarian fair; a huge, restless thing, confined in a way that was at odds with his nature, and suffering from the loss of something which was hard to define.
Nonetheless, her employer had asked a reasonable question. Again, Helene smoothed the sweating palms of her hands down her skirt and forced a neutral smile. “Where shall I begin?” she asked, in as conversational a tone as she could muster. “I believe you are aware that I was educated in Switzerland, at a rather prestigious girls’ school?”
“Yes, I did eventually learn that much,” he interjected, withering Helene’s false composure. What a stupid thing to have said. Of course he knew. What she had never known, however, was how he had felt about her being sent away. Had he agreed to it? Had he been relieved by it? Had he missed her at all?
But it hardly mattered now, in their very different worlds. “Of course, it was an enlightening experience,” she continued with artificial brightness. “I was surrounded by excellent teachers who were able to provide an outlet for my natural curiosity and energies.”
“Indeed?” responded Cam in a tight, neutral voice. “You seemed to have enjoyed it vastly.”
“My education enabled me to escape a lifestyle to which I was not suited, my lord,” Helene answered, trying to keep the bitterness from her tone. “Moreover, it helped me to realize that I had a purpose in life.”
“What sort of purpose might that be, Helene?” he interjected cynically. “To be a governess to other women’s children?”
“I think you know it is a vast deal more than that,” she returned, deliberately elevating her brows. “I help children who are not well, and it is very gratifying to bring joy to a life which has suffered.”
“And what of your life, Helene?” he asked abruptly. “Have you known joy? Or only that gratification you speak of?”
“I have been by no means unhappy, my lord,” she answered. “My work sustains me.”
“Yes, your work,” he echoed hollowly. “I own, it still surprises me.”
“Why?” she sharply returned. “It doesn’t surprise me. I have long understood that I would be required to earn my way in the world.”
Cam looked a little contrite. “Yes, but why this sort of career?”
The question made Helene a little angry. “The choices for women are rather limited. I was fortunate in that my headmistress was the sister of a noted physician. He required a ... a sort of teacher and nurse for a young patient. The position was in Vienna, which suited me, as I did not wish to return to England at the time.”
“And after Vienna?” He looked at her intensely, as if he were probing for something as yet unsaid.
Helene lifted her shoulders in a deliberately Gallic shrug. “I moved from position to position, until I acquired something of a reputation amongst doctors who were treating mental diseases—a very different sort of reputation from the one I would undoubtedly have had, had I remained in England,” she added caustically.
Uneasily, Cam shifted in his chair, then picked up his stack of correspondence and began to rearrange it yet again. “I suppose I was surprised, Helene,” he said softly, “that your mother had the foresight to educate you so well. I would not have believed her—” his words jerked to a halt.
Helene bit back a flash of temper. “You did not believe her capable of properly valuing such an education?” she said with deceptive softness. “Is that your meaning?”
Cam paled ever so slightly. “No ... but such a school is expensive.”
Helene’s voice was tight with emotion. “How astute of you, my lord. But you’ll recall that I was offered little alternative. And so I took care to choose the best school I could find, for it was plain my very future depended upon it. As for the cost—surely you must know that was your father’s doing.”
Cam looked at her in stunned silence. “My father? I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Do you not?” she asked bitterly. “Whatever else she may have been, my lord, my mother was no fool. In her eyes, I was ruined, and there were but two remedies. The first—well, your father simply would not agree to. As for the second, it was plain even to Maman that I had to leave England.”
“But why, Helene?” Cam softly interjected. “Even had I been an outright cad—which I was not—you can hardly have believed that I would have said anything to cause you harm.”
Blinking back an unexpected tear, Helene rose abruptly from her seat and withdrew to the deep window across the room. “You will excuse my saying so, my lord, but Randolph had a tendency toward indiscretion. I daresay he thought it a very fine joke, particularly when in his cups. It was he who most concerned my mother,” she answered, her back turned to him.
“Helene, please—”
“Oh, yes,” she softly interjected. “Your father made his position clear.” Now that she no longer faced him, Helene found it easy to unleash her bitter anger. “His eldest son would wed nothing less than an heiress who could replenish the family coffers. Not some impoverished French chit, whose only claim to good breeding—her father—was so thoughtless as to get his head caught beneath the blade of a guillotine.”
“Helene, I’m sorry—”
“And it was your father,” Helene continued, ignoring his apology, “who funded my education.” Her voice was hard and bitter. “Surely you knew. My mother gave him little choice. That was her price. Though I daresay it tightened his gaming purse a tad.”
Silence fell across the room as Cam’s chair creaked in the darkness behind her. In the hearth, the coals continued to hiss, while on the opposite wall, the old walnut clock continued to tick off the interminable minutes.
“Good God, Helene. I swear I knew nothing of this!” Cam finally whispered. Helene was taken aback to realize that he stood just behind her.
Lightly, he placed one hand upon her shoulder. “I suppose I assumed ... that your leaving was just temporary. I always believed that as soon as you were able, you would come home. To England. I am sorry.”
“As am I, my lord.” Her outburst over, Helene was stunned by the imprudence of her words. Was it possible Cam spoke the truth? She drew a steadying breath. “I thank you for your sympathy,” she added, “but I have little need of it. Things always work out for the best.”
She shifted her stance, but he seemed reluctant to move away from her. Finally, the warmth of his hand slid from her shoulder. “Did you know I wrote to you?” he whispered, his voice hesitant. “Did you?”
“Wrote to me?” She looked at him over her shoulder, her words softly incredulous.
“God help me, Helene, I knew it was wrong. But every month, for two bloody years, I wrote. Did you receive none of my letters?”
Cam stood beside her now. Helene turned to stare at him, her mind spinning with uncertainties. “I received nothing.”
Cam made an odd, choking sound, whether one of disbelief or anger, she did not know
. He stretched his arm out and braced it high on the window frame, leaning into it as if for support, his dark hair falling forward to shadow his face. “Twice I stole Father’s curricle,” he whispered hoarsely. “Once, I made it all the way to Hampstead. But your mother’s house was shut up, the knocker was down, and no one knew where she’d gone.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Good God, I must have looked an utter fool.”
“I heard nothing of any visit,” she answered, struggling to steady her voice. “If letters came, my mother quite likely burnt them.”
“If letters came—?” Suddenly, Cam seized her by the shoulders with his huge, callused hands, and jerked her toward him. “Oh, they came, Helene! They came. How in God’s name could she have been so cruel?”
Helene felt weary with sadness. “You could not give my mother what she wanted, Cam,” she gently replied, pulling away from the heat of his touch. “You were underage, and you could not give me the protection of your name. And had you somehow managed it, your father made it plain he would sever your allowance, and disinherit you to every extent he could.”
“Every extent—?” Cam gave her a violent shake and jerked her closer. “What nonsense, Helene!” He stared down at her, his eyes filled with an anger so volatile that it was rapidly burning into something else.
“I ... I do not know what you mean,” Helene tried to step backward, but Cam held stubbornly to her shoulders.
His hand came up to cup her face, his strong fingers sliding roughly around the curve of her jaw, to jerk her gaze back into his. “My allowance, my inheritance, even this very home, Helene—all were part of Mother’s marriage settlement,” he rasped. “Father could not touch them, else they’d have gone to his creditors years ago.”
His words rang painfully true. Had her dreams—and perhaps even his—been shattered by a selfish man’s lies? A dizzying sense of grief, as sickening as the one she’d suffered over a decade past, began to swell in her chest. Good God, she could not give in to that again.