Beauty Like the Night

by Liz Carlyle

  But Helene was more than a little reluctant to encourage Catherine in her musings. However warm her feelings toward Cam’s sister might be, Helene was mindful of her precarious position in the Rutledge household. Her earlier conversation with Catherine had shown her that all too plainly, and even now, it took all her fortitude to hide her pain. Cam was to wed his young cousin. Helene was but a governess. She had no business speculating about family matters, not even with Catherine.

  Indeed, Helene strongly suspected that nothing short of desperation would have driven Catherine to couch such an issue, even in the veiled terms she had used. No, it was all too clear that Catherine loved her niece unequivocally, and would have gone to great lengths to protect her.

  They finished their milk in silence. “Well!” said Catherine, setting down her mug and looking across the table for a long, uncertain moment, “I’m for bed, Helene, unless there’s something further I might do?”

  It was clear that the moment of shared intimacy was at an end, and despite her curiosity, Helene knew it was best. “No,” she replied. “Ariane is asleep now. And I thank you, Catherine. I am so glad you decided to remain at Chalcote the night. I believe it helps Ariane to know that you are here. Certainly it is of help to me.”

  In the dragging hours before dawn, Cam found himself battling his own demons, thrashing irritably beneath sheets that felt both damp and cold. The lamen-table condition of his bed linen was partly his fault, as were the dreams that tormented his rest. The evening had seemed interminable, even before the drenching rain blew in.

  At first, he had resolved to push forward, come hell or high water. But in the end, the water had won. Cam had found himself pounding on the door of The Swan at well past two in the morning, weary, wet, and bone-cold. Upon securing the innkeeper’s last room—a tiny cubbyhole of a place with one lumpy mattress—he’d collapsed into bed, still chilled from the rain, and with every intention of falling instantly into unconsciousness.

  But true sleep had eluded him. It had been a mistake, he now realized, to set out for Devon with a storm brewing, both on the horizon and in his heart. With every passing mile, Cam had grown ever more certain that it had been a grievous error to leave Helene’s side, particularly with her mood so brittle, and matters so unsettled between them.

  Doubt and fear, and the almost overwhelming need to be with her had tortured Cam for the whole of the journey, and he still did not know what he ought to do. Why? He never suffered from indecision. But in the schoolroom, he had experienced what amounted to an epiphany, and the ensuing realization that marriage to Joan would be an unutterable mistake continued to plague him.

  Yet as he had ridden, Cam had been mindful of the fact that there were others to consider. He’d felt as if the mantle of family duty might well weigh him down into the mire beneath his horse’s hooves. Then the spatter of rain had turned into an outright downpour, and the carriage had to be left behind just north of Bath.

  Nonetheless, Cam had been determined to go on to Devon in all haste, primarily because he was determined to return home in just the same manner. And so he had pressed onward, leaving Crane and his staff snugly ensconced by a wayside hearth. But Bentley, in some foolish attempt to match his manhood against Cam’s, had insisted upon accompanying him. Together, they had made it only as far as Wells before surrendering to the inevitable.

  As if to remind him of his brother’s presence, a sonorous snore rattled the canopy overhead. With a sour expression, Cam looked across the narrow width of the mattress at his charming bedfellow, and gave the boy a good, solid jab in the ribs, for no better reason than the maddening fact that Bentley could sleep the sleep of the innocent, while he could not. In his current mood, Cam would rather have slept with the horses, but even the stables were full.

  Bentley made another resonant sound—more of a choking wheeze this time, like Old Angus’s plough horse on a steep climb. Suddenly, the terrifying image of his brother dying of pneumonia flashed before Cam’s eyes. He should never have dragged the boy off on such an ill-planned journey!

  But on his next breath, Bentley pitched his right arm over Cam’s chest, rolled amorously into him, and sighed sweetly into his ear. In disgust, Cam shoved the arm away. But Bentley, imperturbable in his slumber, merely smacked his mouth twice, patted Cam affectionately on the chest, then burrowed beneath the covers.

  Cam rolled over and tried to ignore him, intent on focusing on those same things which had so troubled him during last night’s travels. For the first eight miles of their ill-fated journey, Cam had deliberately chosen to ride in the carriage with Crane, where the two of them had proceeded to talk at some length, and in something less than total ease.

  Cam knew little about Helene’s life in the time they had been apart, but for some reason he could ill explain, her past was rapidly ceasing to matter. Nonetheless, he was greatly concerned about her future. He simply could not allow her name to be sullied by his lack of deportment. And although he trusted his old retainer implicitly, he knew, too, that some explanation was owed Crane regarding the compromising situation in which he and Helene had been discovered.

  The big traveling coach had lumbered south, with Crane quietly watching him. And after Cam had managed to stammer his obviously fabricated account of the pesky gnat which had flown into Miss de Severs’s eye, the valet had maintained his impassive expression, save for the grin which threatened one corner of his mouth.

  “Oh, yes,” Crane had gently agreed, as Cam fumbled nervously for his pipe. “An eye injury is indeed a vexing thing, and would, of course, require a great deal of ministration.”

  But as Cam carefully occupied himself with the minutiae of cleaning out the bowl, the old man had begun to ask questions.

  His lordship had been required to get very close indeed, had he not, in order to properly assist Miss de Severs with the invasive insect—? In fact, Crane had subtly added, to the uninformed observer, it appeared almost as if his lordship might have been kissing his governess—!

  “Well, I bloody well was not!” Cam had snapped, shuffling nervously through the pockets of his greatcoat in search of his tobacco.

  “Oh indeed, not!” agreed the valet, rather too smoothly. “Miss de Severs is every inch a lady. She would never go about kissing a man to whom she was not utterly devoted.”

  “Quite right,” Cam had added, then forgetting his pipe altogether, he squinted at his servant for a long moment. “What the devil do you mean by that, Crane?” he finally blurted out. “Do you mean to imply that she—that a woman—would not wish to kiss me? That is to say, if my ... my intentions were honorable? And if I were free to do so, and all that rot?”

  Crane had merely shrugged, his gaze fixed out the window. “Oh, I daresay you should ask Miss de Severs that question, my lord,” came his soft answer.

  Cam had blushed furiously at that. “It was just a rhetorical question, Crane,” he insisted. What the devil was he thinking of, anyway? He already talked to his cat. Now, here he was, all but applying to his valet for advice to the lovelorn. It was pathetic.

  Long moments had passed before the servant spoke again. “I am exceedingly fond of the young lady myself. Always have been, since she was a sprite of a girl. So charming, and such vivacity, I always thought.” The old man paused to clear his throat. “You’re rather fond of her, too, are you not, my lord?”

  Cam had scowled at the man. “What has that to say to anything, Crane?”

  The valet’s brows had gently lifted. “Well, indeed, my lord! I am just making conversation. ’Twas you, I collect, who tied your mount to this coach and climbed in to ‘blow a cloud and have a chat,’ as you so carefully put it.”

  “Yes,” admitted Cam tersely, shoving the unlit pipe and pouch back into his coat. “You are quite right. And yes, I am very fond of Miss de Severs. She is a fine ... teacher. And as you say, a very fine lady, too.”

  Crane stared at him rather pointedly for a long time. “Is aught amiss, my lord?” he finally asked
. “You seem not yourself of late.”

  Cam studied the toes of his riding boots. “Nothing, Crane. It’s just that Bentley has my temper in a lather these days.”

  “Oh—?” answered Crane, the feathery white brows shooting up again. “It is young Mr. Bentham, then, who has you in such a foul mood? I thought—but perhaps I am mistaken—that it was Miss de Severs.”

  In that moment, it had seemed very obvious to Cam that Crane had put far too little starch into his cuffs, and so he set about carefully neatening them. As he did so, he began to think, and to speak, very slowly. “I cannot be sure just what you are implying here, Crane. But as I believe you know, I am expected to announce my betrothal once my mourning is ended. I am expected to wed Miss Belmont, who is a lovely girl. I would be loath to hurt her in any way.”

  “Forgive me, sir, for saying so,” Crane had gently answered, “but Miss Belmont is not yet your wife. Nor has your betrothal been announced. And while it’s certainly none of my concern, one wonders if you have even discussed marriage settlements, or any other particulars, with your Aunt Belmont? Indeed, one could almost question if this is a matter of imagined duty, or of genuine affection.”

  “I have known Joan since she was a babe. Of course I feel affection for her.”

  Crane frowned. “Well, my lord, let me put it this way: have you offered Miss Belmont your hand? And has she accepted?”

  “Are you asking if I have formally proposed? I have not; it is understood.”

  “Oh? By whom?” Crane’s eyes narrowed. “You are not, after all, marrying Mrs. Belmont. Might it be that young Joan desires a love match? After all, we no longer live in the Dark Ages.”

  “What exactly are you saying, Crane?” Cam asked sharply.

  “Just this, my lord. Whilst a man’s word is his honor, and to be maintained above all things, one should be unerringly certain that one knows just what one is honoring.”

  At that remark, Cam had thumped on the carriage roof, climbed out of the door, and hauled himself onto his horse. And from that moment until this, he had not known one moment’s peace. Now, in the murky light of dawn, Bentley grunted, snuggled up against Cam’s back, and eased his hand beneath the covers to seductively stroke his brother’s hip.

  As is so often the case, the days following the storm brought bright, clear skies to the Cotswolds. Helene’s mood, however, remained cloudy. Much to her consolation, Catherine called at Chalcote with great frequency. On her second visit, Catherine shared a letter from Cam stating that matters were improving in Devonshire, and that he still meant to return within a fortnight.

  Helene’s life was a little brightened by the fact that Thomas Lowe called every other afternoon, and although she found both his nieces to be a bit rambunctious, it was clear that the girls had served one good purpose: they had drawn Ariane—a little forcibly, perhaps—from her shell. On one occasion, when the girls were playing hide-and-seek in the shrubbery, Helene was almost sure that she had heard Ariane giggling quietly to herself.

  For Helene’s part, the time passed slowly during Cam’s absence, for she found herself obsessed by two very dissimilar concerns. Why would Ariane not speak, when she so obviously could? And what had Cam meant by his last words to her as he left for Devonshire?

  As to the first concern, Ariane was doing exceedingly well in the schoolroom, and Helene was increasingly convinced that there was very little wrong with the child. Indeed, she had begun to toy with the idea of simply explaining to the child that she was aware of her ability to speak. Only Helene’s ignorance of the reason behind Ariane’s silence kept her from doing just that, for she was unwilling to risk any further trauma to the girl.

  But when it came to Cam, the power of speech was of no help at all, for Helene had no notion what he had meant by his words to her. I shall return ... and we shall sort this muddle out. That was what he had said. And yet, when Helene had insistently repeated that she would not be his mistress, Cam had made no reply. In fact, he had continued to kiss her. And she had continued to allow it, when what she should have done was slap his face.

  It had cut her to the quick to realize that while Cam had been enticing her into his bed, he had been betrothed to Joan Belmont in an arrangement of long standing. Good heavens, how close they had come to making love on the floor of Cam’s study! What had she imagined? That he would wed her?

  Now, in light of his betrothal, righteous indignation kept Helene awake at night. How dare Cam have asked her to be a kept woman? Perhaps one could argue that Helene’s wanton behavior had all but granted him permission to suggest such a thing, but to realize he’d done so while awaiting his wedding day seemed so much worse.

  That kind of behavior was wholly unlike the man she had believed Camden Rutledge to be. And she really had thought she knew him. Though Bentley could poke fun at his brother’s moral rigidity all he wished, life would eventually teach him—just as it had taught Helene—to value a man who could, by sheer force of will, place duty and honor above all else.

  Even in adolescence, Cam’s unassailable character had been a large part of what had drawn Helene to him. To her, his strength and constancy had been a beacon amidst a sea of neglect and vice. When Cam gave his word, his word would be kept. It was an honorable trait, and yet, it made the current situation all the more distressing.

  As a very young girl, it was true that she had teased and tempted him, but what she had truly craved had been his attention, and eventually, his love. But not his downfall. Oh, no, never that. And she still wanted his love. She still did! And how it hurt her to wonder if he was not who she had believed him to be. Her heart cried out that he had not altered. Yet Helene was afraid to listen.

  The autumn sun was warm on Helene’s dark cloak, but absorbed in her thoughts, she was only dimly aware of the girlish laughter ringing in the air around her.

  “Miss de Severs?”

  She looked up from her seat on the garden bench to see that Thomas Lowe had returned from taking his turn at blind man’s buff.

  “You promised to show me the keyhole garden, did you not?” he said brightly, offering his arm. “The girls can play on their own for a while, I daresay.”

  With a forced smile, Helene agreed. Together, they strolled through Chalcote’s rear lawn and into the tunnel of vines and greenery which led into the circular garden. Outside the circle, the girls darted around and around its perimeter in some strange variation of ring-around-the-rosy, squealing and laughing, bits of skirts and petticoats flashing through the shrubbery as they ran.

  “Ashes, ashes!” shrieked Lucy. “They all fall down!”

  Through the thinning walls of greenery, Helene watched the children tumble happily into the grass, Ariane included. Thomas Lowe commented warmly on Ariane’s participation, but soon, Helene slipped back into her private thoughts. As they strolled around the circle, Helene paused to snap off a wayward stem that protruded from the carefully sculpted shrubbery.

  Suddenly, she found the warmth of Lowe’s hand pressing lightly against her upper arm. “I want to thank you again, Miss de Severs, for coming to tea again yesterday,” the rector said, gently turning her to face him. “You cannot know what it meant to my sister. And,” he hesitantly added, “to me.”

  Helene forced a wan smile, trying to ignore the heat of his hand. Privately, she suspected that her second Sunday afternoon visit to the rectory had brought the rector’s sister no more pleasure than had her first. Indeed, she hardly knew why Mr. Lowe insisted on inviting her.

  Helene had been introduced to Mrs. Fane following her first attendance at St. Michael’s, and her reception could only have been described as cool. This past Sunday, as the parishioners had lingered in the churchyard, the rector had enthusiastically issued yet another invitation to afternoon tea. His sister, however, had been stiff, formal, and rather less than enthusiastic.

  Things had gone little better that afternoon at the rectory. Mrs. Fane had busied herself pouring and serving and scurrying back and forth to
the kitchens, despite the fact that a housemaid stood ready to assist. When Mrs. Fane did make conversation, she glowingly referred to her brother as “dear Thomas,” and seized every opportunity to emphasize just how fulfilled and godly his existence was.

  Oh, dear Thomas is utterly devoted to the Church, Miss—er, Miss de Severs. Indeed, God comes first in his life, just as He ought! Oh, Thomas does so love my apple tart. He says no one’s recipe is as good as mine. Of course, Thomas takes the very best care of me, too! And of Lucy and Lizzie.

  “And we have two aging aunts at home in Norfolk. Dear Thomas is so good to them! Why, one can plainly see that my brother is a man who understands his family duty. And a good thing, it is, too, for no man was ever possessed of more family obligation than our dear Thomas ...”

  Helene was hardly a fool. She had taken Mrs. Fane’s simpering prattle for the subtle warning it was meant to be. But the insecure widow had been determined to beat a dead horse, or in the case at hand, beat her brother’s potential interest in matrimony to death.

  Helene had barely resisted the urge to clasp the poor woman’s hand and say, “Why, rest assured, ma’am, that I am far too frivolous to fall in love with a decent, good-natured rector! Indeed, I favor men who are cold and withdrawn, preferably those who are far above my station, and who would never deign to make an honest woman of me!”

  But of course, she had not. Instead, Helene had been as amiable as was humanly possible, and she had told Mrs. Fane in the warmest of tones what lovely, lovely daughters she had. She had paid a dozen small compliments, murmured endless platitudes, praised the apple tart to the high heavens, and then had flown back to Chalcote Court to hide in her room, her face pressed into her bed pillow yet again.

  “Miss de Severs?” She was pulled back into the present by Thomas Lowe’s searching gaze. “You did enjoy our tea, did you not? I realize that my sister seems a little distant. She still grieves for the loss of her husband, I think. But I harbor such hope that you will come to like her.”