Beauty Like the Night

by Liz Carlyle

  Nonetheless, Bentley’s offer had not discomfited him, as it had probably been timed to do. Cam had decided he needed to keep an eye on Bentley’s interaction with Helene. Initially, Cam had discounted Bentley’s threat to seduce Helene. Now, he was not so sure. Last night, beneath Bentley’s mocking tone and drunken swagger, there had been something which looked like resentment. But why would his brother be jealous of him? It had to have something to do with Helene, for she was the only woman Cam was ... was infatuated with.

  Yes, it would be necessary to watch the two of them. In fact, it was his duty, was it not? No more surreptitious backgammon games, no more garden strolls, for young Hell-Bent. Not if Cam could thwart them. With the merest flick of his gaze, Cam dismissed the footman.

  “Calm yourself, Miss de Severs,” he said, as she critically observed the servant’s departure. Anger sparked in her eyes, but she made no answer.

  “Excuse me, then,” he said stiffly, jerking out of his chair. “I shall leave you to your breakfast. Afterward, however, I would speak with you.” Cam swallowed hard. “I believe I have an apology to make.”

  Helene coolly lifted her coffee cup. “Very well.”

  Cam paused, assessing her for a moment. Helene sat stiffly at the table, her spine ramrod straight. The usual warmth of her eyes had turned a cold, slate gray, and her chin was set at a proud angle.

  Today she wore the purple gown again, but her polished elegance was missing, and it tore at his heart to think that he might have been the cause. Helene was meant to sparkle with fire and glory, but instead, she looked drawn and pale. Was it his imagination, or did her hand tremble just a little as she held her coffee?

  “Miss de Severs,” he spoke abruptly, “do you still ride?”

  She was taken aback. “A little, yes, but very ill.”

  “Then perhaps you would consent to ride with me after breakfast. I wish to speak with you privately.”

  Helene colored furiously. Cam suppressed a wave of anger. After all, he had attempted to seduce his own employee, a woman who, to some extent, was at his mercy. But Helene was not the sort of woman who would consent to being held at any man’s mercy for very long. Cam was certain of that.

  “Helene, my motives are honorable,” he said softly.

  Helene dropped her gaze to her plate. “I am engaged to work with Ariane this morning, my lord. Recall, if you will, that that is my job—if I am to stay here.”

  Cam did not need to be reminded. The fear of losing Helene stabbed at him again. “Excellent. Then we will take the curricle, and Ariane shall accompany us. The fresh air will do her good.” He paused to think. “Do you know the arched bridge which crosses the Coln to the west?”

  Helene brushed at a wisp of hair with the back of her hand. She still looked distressed. “I—yes. I think I remember it.”

  “Ariane and I go there often. She loves to play near the waterfall. That will give us a moment to speak freely.” Eagerly, Cam shoved his chair beneath the table.

  “I think not,” said Helene fractiously. “I have prepared for our work in the schoolroom, my lord. Moreover, it is far too cold to go hurling about in a curricle this morning.”

  Too late, Cam realized how right Helene was. Indeed, Ariane would undoubtedly have frozen, and perhaps the two of them with her. Nonetheless, the autumn day held promise. “You are right, of course,” he agreed. “We must wait until the afternoon.”

  Helene set down her coffee rather gracelessly and stared at him. “I am sorry, my lord, but I simply cannot accompany you. I have plans for this afternoon.”

  “Plans—?” The word came more querulous than he had intended.

  Helene lifted her chin steadily. “My afternoons are to be my own, are they not? That was my understanding. In any event, I am expecting the Reverend Mr. Lowe.”

  “Lowe—?” Cam was seriously nonplused at that. “Do you mean to say Thomas Lowe?”

  “The very same, unless some odd sort of hoax has been perpetrated upon me,” answered Helene in a voice so nonchalant that Cam wanted to jerk her from her chair and kiss her insolent mouth until she was senseless. “That is your rector’s name, is it not?”

  “I—yes,” agreed Cam, biting back his temper again. “But how very odd! Lowe is not normally so diligent in greeting his new parishioners.”

  “Is he not?” Helene’s eyebrows rose delicately, and something warm unfurled in Cam’s belly. Damn it, how could a woman so inflame him, with just the merest tilt of an eyebrow?

  “Perhaps I should explain that Mr. Lowe and I met yesterday,” continued Helene. “He was kind enough to escort me around St. Michael’s. I believe he thought me overtired from my travels and now he merely wishes to be kind.”

  “Yes, of course. Kind ...” mused Cam. He paced the length of the room, then turned just in front of the door to stare at her heatedly. “Very well,” he said at last. “I shall come with Ariane to the schoolroom shortly. And I shall see you both in the hall at half past noon. Tomorrow.”

  And without giving her time to refuse, Cam strode quickly from the dining room and down the corridor to the blessed sanctuary of his study.

  This new lady—Miss Helene—was different, Ariane thought, as she watched her move about the schoolroom, tidying up from their morning’s work. Miss Helene did not make scratching marks on the slate, and then look at her, eyebrows all up high on her forehead, as if she was supposed to do something clever. Instead of making marks, Miss Helene had brought ... games.

  Yes, they were games, Ariane decided. But not quite like Bentley’s game, which he called backgammon. That was her favorite game. Not because she could play it. But because she liked to shape the sound in her mouth.

  Backgammon. Backgammon. But not just plain gammon, which was the word Mama always used to say, every time Papa said “I love you, Cassandra.” Cassandra—that was her mama’s name. It was a name almost as good as backgammon for saying in your head.

  But anyway, Miss Helene had brought games. Little circles and blocks and other shapes—she did not know the words or names for them—that fit into holes in a big board. Miss Helene had spread the shapes out across the schoolroom table, and then watched while they raced, she and her papa, to see who could put the circles and blocks in their holes the fastest.

  After a while, Papa had patted her on the head and left her to play alone with Miss Helene. Miss Helene was very, very fast. She did not let Ariane win, but once, when Miss Helene dropped a circle on the floor, it rolled beneath the cupboard, and Ariane did win. Miss Helene laughed and laughed, and clapped her hands. Papa was right. She was a very nice lady.

  And then they had painted! Ariane understood painting. She liked to go up to the long gallery and look at the pictures there. Paintings, Papa had told her long ago, pointing at them and smiling at her with his eyes.

  Sometimes he would go with her, and take her hand, and walk up and down the gallery, telling her the names of each person in the painting. There was Grandpapa Camden, and great aunt somebody-or-other, and a second cousin once removed from... something. She couldn’t quite remember what he had been removed from. But it didn’t matter. Ariane just loved to look at paintings.

  Last Easter, Papa had taken her all the way to Salisbury. There, she had seen a man sitting in the close, painting a picture of the church. Papa called it the cathedral, which was a word that meant a very tall church. Salisbury was her favorite place in all the world. Well, it was almost the only place she had ever been, but she loved it most anyway.

  The man with the painting had smiled at her, and Papa had let her stand and watch for as long as she wanted. That was how she learned about painting.

  Anyway, Ariane’s painting—and Miss Helene’s, too, for that matter—didn’t look much like any of the paintings she had seen. But it was fun. And Miss Helene said that they did not have to be great painters to enjoy painting. She said that they should paint what they felt, not what they saw. And then Miss Helene painted a great, red circle with slashing lines
through it, like thunderbolts, but colored black.

  “This is what I feel like when I am angry,” said Miss Helene.

  Ariane could see from the colors and shapes just how Miss Helene felt. She wondered who had made her so angry. Ariane thought that she was angry, too, sometimes. But not today. Today she was just... well, she did not know the words for what she was. So she had just painted some blue and white and yellow shapes.

  Miss Helene said they were clouds but they weren’t just clouds. The shapes were her mama going up to heaven. Up through the clouds, going even higher than the spire of Salisbury Cathedral. That was where heaven was, Papa had said.

  It was all right, Ariane supposed, to play games and paint with Miss Helene. Wasn’t it? What sort of bad thing might happen? She was not doing anything she was not supposed to do. She was not saying words. She was not telling secrets. She was just ... having a spot of fun. That’s what Bentley would call it.

  As Ariane scrubbed the back of one hand across her pert nose, Helene rose and tugged on the bell pull. When Martha answered, Helene sent her belowstairs for a jug of hot water. Ariane was covered from elbow to chin in yellow paint. But she was smiling, and tapping one toe rhythmically against her chair leg, as if keeping time to some inner music that only she could hear. And as her toe tapped, her plump fingers flew, unfolding a string of paper dolls which Helene had just cut.

  All in all, it had been a very productive morning, Helene decided, as she tidied up the schoolroom. With a sigh, she straightened up from wiping the table and looked down its well-worn surface to stare at her new pupil. How anyone could conclude that Ariane Rutledge was either simple-minded or mad was beyond her.

  Initially, the little girl had been uneasy about Cam’s leaving her in the schoolroom, it was true. Ariane was obviously riddled with anxieties. But within half an hour, most of her overt fear had worn away. Soon, the child had thrown herself into their games, her mind grasping the purpose of each one as swiftly as any child Helene had ever worked with.

  For today, however, lessons were over. After luncheon, they would go outside to play, thereby giving Helene yet another opportunity to observe Ariane’s motor skills—not that she expected to see any problems. Then tomorrow, Helene would attempt to determine if Ariane could identify colors, and perform any simple counting tasks. Obviously, the child could not read or write, but few children her age did so with any degree of proficiency.

  If Ariane could learn to speak—and perhaps even if she could not—reading and writing were possible, given a little patience. But such skills were by no means a priority. And as best Helene could conclude, this was where Ariane’s previous governesses had failed.

  At this point, it was important to assess Ariane’s ability to assimilate information and express her emotions. Again, Helene would use art, music, and games, most of which she had created herself. With children, she had discovered, it was far better to learn from observation. Today, for example, Helene had had many of her worst fears put to rest. She had learned that Ariane was willing to follow simple instructions, that she had a quick wit, and a healthy dash of ambition. But more important, she had seen Ariane smile.

  As Martha returned to wash Ariane’s face and hands, Helene studied the child. Today, she was appropriately dressed, including shoes and stockings, and her cloud of wild blonde hair was pulled back into a neat plait, yet nothing could suppress the blue of her eyes. Again, Helene was struck by how little Ariane resembled her father. Neither did she favor Bentley, nor Catherine, nor any other member of the family whom Helene had ever seen.

  Cam’s wife had reportedly been an incomparable beauty, and Helene had begun to suspect that Ariane was the very picture of Cassandra Rutledge. She could not help but wonder how Cam felt about that.

  8

  Behold a Plain, Blunt Man

  With a manly grunt and a mighty heave, Cam slid another flat rock atop the object on which he’d chosen to unleash his frustrations, a low stone wall which edged between the sloping field and the road above it. Across the stubbled corn rows behind him, his workers labored with picks, shovels, and the strong of their backs, unearthing more fieldstone. A few yards downhill from Cam, one of his tenant farmers was meticulously laying a similar stretch of wall.

  Dragging one shirt sleeve across the perspiration which threatened to trickle over his forehead and into his eyes, Cam turned to stare assessingly down the length of the wall.

  It was a good day’s effort, he decided. A satisfying, tangible result of hard work, and as good a way as any for a man to spend his frustration. The new wall ran straight and true, and with another three days’ labor, it would be finished, and the workers could move on to the next task, or the next field. Casually lifting his hand to motion for the waterboy, Cam let his eyes drift higher, to the wold beyond, counting with satisfaction the sheep which thickly dotted the hillside.

  It had been a good spring lambing, followed by a fine summer. The hay had been plentiful, and his flocks were fat for the coming winter. Inhaling a deep draught of fresh air, Cam realized that for the first time in a great many days he felt infused with a sense of peace.

  His family did not understand his burning need to be close to the land. In fact, his father had belittled it, despite the fact that in leaner years, Cam’s efforts had significantly contributed to the estate’s survival. Now, his presence here mattered very little to anyone other than himself. Although smaller than the seat of his Devonshire earldom, Chalcote was his home. Some would say the master had no business here at all toiling in the fields like a common serf. Indeed, his Aunt Belmont, with her disdaining sense of propriety, roundly scolded him for it.

  The young waterboy reached him then, panting and stumbling over the last row of turned and hardened earth. “A fresh bucket, m’lord,” said the lad a little too cheerfully, righting himself without spilling a drop. As Cam dipped deep into the cool water and threw back his head to drink, he saw from the corner of his eye that the lad had begun to scuffle uneasily in his worn work boots.

  “What’s amiss, Jasper?” Cam dabbed at his mouth with the back of one hand as he tossed the dipper back into the bucket.

  The boy looked up at him, squinting hard against the afternoon sun. “A big traveling coach, m’lord. Old Angus saw it turn off the Cheltenham Road when he brought up the water. ‘Twill soon round the bend.”

  Cam scowled. “Mrs. Belmont on her way home, I daresay.”

  “Aye,” nodded Jasper sympathetically. “Thought y’ought t’know.”

  As the boy walked away with his bucket, Cam suppressed the urge to accompany him. Cam’s mount was staked in a patch of grass below. He could go home. But Helene was at Chalcote. Probably offering a dish of tea to the sycophantic rector, who was no doubt waxing poetic over her charming wit and lovely blue eyes while Cam stood here sweating in the sun. No, he couldn’t bear to watch that.

  And yet, in another two minutes, his Aunt Belmont’s carriage would come rumbling unavoidably up the hill, right past this very spot. The sense of satisfaction he had enjoyed moments earlier faded as he watched the old coach swing around the bend and grind into its ascent.

  But Cam was not so lacking in temerity as to turn tail and run. He would stand his ground and suffer the consequences. Resigned to his fate, he hefted the next stone. There was no doubt Aunt Belmont would recognize him, despite the fact that he stood along the edge of a common field, hatless, coatless, and wearing a sweat-stained leather waistcoat.

  And recognize him she did. Given the steep hill, it was no difficult matter to bring the coach to a halt just a few yards beyond his position by the fence. “Whoa up!” cried her coachman amidst the jingle and creak of harnesses. A footman—a new fellow by the look of him—leapt down and flung open the carriage door to receive his mistress’s orders before the vehicle had stopped rocking.

  After nodding subserviently at the person within, the footman peered over his shoulder at Cam, his expression bewildered. Apparently not recognizing the object o
f his errand as someone with whom his mistress might ordinarily converse, the hapless young servant had the audacity to turn back again, as if to clarify her instructions.

  “Poor bastard,” Cam mumbled.

  At once, a bony finger protruded from the carriage to jab at the footman’s nose. “I said to tell that man to come here right this very instant!” bellowed an imperiously feminine voice from the depths of the carriage. “And be quick about it, sirrah! I’m to have my tea at four sharp or you’ll be on your way back to that Cornish coal mine from whence you sprang!”

  The bewigged and wide-eyed footman turned back to Cam. With one hand inching toward his throat as if to forestall some invisible noose, he started toward the fence. Resigned to the inevitable, Cam threw one miry boot over a low spot in the stone wall, clambered over, strolled toward the carriage, and bravely threw open the door.

  Aunt Belmont sat stiffly against the rear squabs while his cousin Joan seemed to cower in the less desirable front seat. He nodded politely to them both. “Good afternoon, Aunt. Joan.”

  His aunt flicked open her lorgnette with one deft motion, then coldly eyed him up and down. Cam knew it was an affectation solely designed to intimidate, for the old lady had eyes like a hawk. Without the benefit of a salutation, she swooped down upon her prey. “What in heaven’s name are you about, Camden Rutledge? You look like someone’s serf in that rig-out.” The glasses still at hand, she leaned marginally forward, then swiftly recoiled, her noise wrinkled in disgust. “And good Lord, but you stink of—of—”

  “Sweat?” supplied Cam thoughtfully.

  “Camden!” said his aunt in a cautionary tone. “I grow increasingly alarmed at this propensity you have for manual labor.” The old lady jerked her head rather obviously toward Joan. “Indeed, what must others think of you? It makes a very ill impression! Very ill indeed!”