by Liz Carlyle
Helene bristled a little at that. “Do you think so? Well, I can assure you that I had no idea of—”
“Pax, Helene!” interjected Catherine, flinging up her palm as she paced across the carpet. “I am sure you did not. But I knew, from the first moment I saw Cam look at you, that he was seriously affected by your presence. And slowly, it all came back to me. Oh, yes, Helene. I remembered. So how could my brother not? He loved you more than life itself.”
She paused again by the window, and let her fingers slide up and down one of the heavy damask panels that she had urged Helene into choosing. During Cam’s long stay in Devonshire, Catherine had written to him, suggesting that all of the downstairs rooms be refurbished, and that Helene be given the task. Suddenly, another piece of the puzzle clicked into place. Like a lowly pawn sliding over a chessboard to displace the queen, Helene had been deliberately positioned by Catherine to supplant her cousin.
“Alas, poor Joan suffers much in comparison to you,” Catherine said softly, dropping the drapery and spinning about with a devilish smile on her face. “I know my brother, and I am well aware of the perverse way in which his mind works.”
“Certainly you seem just as willful,” remarked Helene dryly.
Catherine ignored her pique. “And what’s more, Helene, I have a long memory. When they sent you away, I was what—aged nine? Ten? But I was much older than that before my brother stopped mourning your loss. After a while, it is not something an impressionable young lady fails to notice.”
“But ... but I do not understand. That very first day ... why, you told me quite plainly that Cam and Joan were to marry—”
Catherine cut in with a sharp bark of laughter. “Indeed I did! I decided the sooner that little secret came out, the sooner it could be dispensed with. It was something you needed to know, Helene. And I am not sorry I told you.”
Helene cut a sly, sidelong glance toward Cam’s sister. “Just as you took it upon yourself to tell me about Ariane?”
“Yes,” she said emphatically. “And make no mistake, Helene, about Cam’s love for Ariane. Nor mine. If her parentage was an uncertainty that you were unable to accept, then again, it was—”
“—something I needed to know?”
“Something we all needed to know.”
Just then, all conversation came to a halt as the door opened again to admit a maid who began to lay the table for luncheon. From the corridor, Larkin came forward, bearing a tray laden with dishes. Helene was almost relieved to see them.
Once again, Cam’s sister had managed to disconcert her with those black, all-seeing eyes, and her smooth, deceptively glib demeanor. Had Helene once imagined her to be nothing more than a good-natured English gentlewoman? How astoundingly wrong she had been. Again.
Belatedly, Helene had discovered that no one and nothing at Chalcote was as simple as she’d first assumed.
18
In which Treyhern completes a long-awaited Mission
In stark contrast to his beloved country home, Cam usually found autumn in London oppressive, because the incessant haze of coal smoke draped over the city like a woolly, mustard-colored blanket. On this particular afternoon, however, his spirits were unassailable, and the bleak sky went almost unnoticed. Nonetheless, it was midafternoon before he was able to venture forth on the second of the three important tasks that had brought him to Town.
He had come in too much haste to open his house in Mortimer Street, and after stepping down into the lobby of his hotel, he sent ‘round for his horse. Across the room, a smiling chambermaid paused to look him over, cocking a hip invitingly. Appreciatively, Cam returned the smile, but shifted his gaze back to the window.
Within a few short moments, the ostler had brought forth his mount. And within the hour, Cam found himself riding beyond Cheapside, past the bank, and along the storefronts stuffed cheek-by-jowl with the sundry financial institutions which crowded the City of London. Today, however, they escaped his notice.
At last, he reached the familiar environs of upper Threadneedle Street, and the offices of Brightsmith, Howard and Kelly. The young Mr. Kelly scraped and groveled, then ushered him into the senior solicitor’s office.
After another ritual exchange of pleasantries, Mr. Brightsmith rose to cross the room and, with a little grunt, hefted down Cam’s mother’s small but ornately carved chest, banded in brass, and embellished with the Camden coat of arms. Reverently, he placed it on the desk.
“In accordance with your letter,” the old solicitor said, in the somber tones of one surrendering up his firstborn, “the jewels were brought up from the vault this morning.” With his gnarled fingers, Brightsmith lifted the lid. “As you see, the set is intact, save for the necklace, which was not here when the jewels were conveyed into our safekeeping.”
“I know where that is,” answered Cam impatiently, his hand hovering over the chest. He let his eyes search the contents, inhaling sharply when he found what he sought. “What I have come for,” he whispered, “is this.”
Reverently, Cam lifted his treasure high into the meager stream of sunlight that trickled through Brightsmith’s window. It was sufficient. Together, they watched in awe as a half-dozen emeralds sprang brilliantly to life. Delicately, Cam turned the wide, gold band this way and that, studying the sparkling winks of fire.
“Your great-grandmother’s ring—?” muttered Brightsmith, still staring at the gemstones, his curiosity obviously piqued. “You mean to take only that, my lord?”
“Just the ring for now,” Cam absently responded, his heart awash in memories. Forcing himself into the present, he shifted his gaze back to the elderly man’s face. “Will you wish me happy, Mr. Brightsmith? As it happens, I have some hope of remarrying soon.”
“Indeed?” returned Brightsmith.
“Yes.” Cam closed the chest and rose. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have a length of green silk to fetch in Bond Street.”
In Gloucestershire, the afternoon had turned cloudy, and a chilly wind sailed down from the north and over the wolds, sending the villagers of Cheston-on-the-Water scurrying for their shawls and hearths. In the house on the hill above St. Michael’s, however, Helene spared no thought for the weather. She paced the floor of her bedchamber, restlessness impelling her forward, even as the wind whipped ’round the corners with its howling emptiness.
Chalcote, too, felt empty. Ariane’s studies were finished for the day. Bentley was still traipsing about the hunting fields with his brother-in-law. Catherine had not called since their fateful luncheon the previous day, and Cam was still away in London.
And that was the real source of her discontent, was it not? Chalcote was empty because he was away. Indeed, her very existence felt empty without him. He could not possibly come home soon enough.
Home. The one word carried with it a simple truth. For home had always been Chalcote, where Cam was. As the realization dawned, Helene ceased her pacing to stand squarely in front of her canopied bed. She stared down at it, now empty and neatly made. But she remembered. Ah, how she remembered what he had done to her in that bed, not three days past. It had been her undoing.
A shiver of sensual awareness ran down her spine at the thought of his hands, so strong, so sure. Like so much of Cam, they were an enigma. His were the fine-boned hands of an aristocrat, and yet, she had trembled at the unmistakable power in their touch, reveled in their work-roughened surface, as his hands had skimmed up the flesh of her thigh and beyond.
Remember? No woman could possibly forget.
A flash of heat rushed over her. Dear heavens, such memories would drive her insane. She had best get out of the house. In a trice, Helene had exchanged her slippers for half-boots and tossed her heaviest cloak over her shoulders. If the memories did not drive her mad, unslaked desire might. A long tramp over the hills and along the woods would be just the thing. And with today’s bad weather, she would be utterly alone.
Helene had no idea how long she had walked in the cold, nor just how
long she had sat propped on the low stone wall across from the burnt-out cottage, remembering the times she and Cam had hidden there during their misspent youth. Her feet were drawn up almost beneath her skirts, braced upon a stone that jutted conveniently from the masonry. But inside her fur-lined gloves, her hands were frozen solid. She realized it only when a deep voice behind spoke her name aloud.
She jumped, and her numb fingers lost their grip, very nearly pitching her forward. “Thomas?” She slid onto her feet in the stubbled grass of the cottage yard.
He approached quickly, his blond hair whipping back from his coat collar in the breeze, and leaned across toward her. “My dear, you must get out of this wind.” His brows drew together fretfully. “What could possibly have brought you out on such a day?”
Helene toyed with asking the same of him as the rector hastened through the gate that had long since rotted from its hinges. She really had no wish to see him today. She had come to be alone. But she was indeed frozen to the bone, and when Thomas took her arm, urging her toward a small building below the burnt ruins, she realized she had indeed sat too long in the cold.
The low shed had been dug into the shelter of the sloping land, and the downhill side stood open, but inside, the three thick walls provided ample refuge from the elements. But the shelter was small, and Lowe seemed to take up a great deal of space inside it. Suddenly, Helene found the rector’s proximity disconcerting.
But how fanciful. She was allowing Cam’s remarks about the rector to vex her, when he had merely misinterpreted one of Thomas’s blithe, innocuous compliments. How could a rector wish to court her, of all people? The idea seemed faintly ridiculous.
“Warm yourself, my dear,” the rector said, “then I shall see you safely home. Today is no day for a pleasant stroll.”
Briskly rubbing her hands, Helene studied him. “And yet you have come out walking, Thomas,” she remarked rather sharply. “Are you worried about Basil?”
“My cousin is now beyond my help,” he replied ambiguously. “Now, you must tell me why you sat perched atop that ridge, and right on the wall, where the wind blows the coldest.” Thomas flashed his charming smile. “I would not wish to see you ill, my dear.”
Helene shrugged. “I often walk past here when I feel the need for exercise. But today, I suppose I was thinking of Ariane’s troubles. And about her mother, too. They say, you know, that Cassandra Rutledge died here. I vow, I should very much like to know what Ariane saw up here that day.” She gave a sardonic laugh. “Perhaps I think those ruins might speak to me, were I patient enough.”
“There is little to tell, I daresay,” he returned.
“But can you understand, Thomas, that I need to know what happened here?” she explained. “Indeed, I may be unable to help Ariane if I do not know.”
At those words, Thomas drew near to her side and laid a staying hand upon her shoulder. His touch felt heavy through her cloak. “Listen to me, Helene! Cassandra Rutledge was an evil woman,” he whispered, his words hanging in the cold silence. “She was wicked. And faithless. And she’s best forgotten, for Ariane’s sake.”
Helene stared at him in surprise. “You knew her? Did you hold the living of Saint Michael’s then?”
Dully, Thomas nodded. “Oh, I knew her well enough. Well enough to see what she was.”
“How cold you sound, Thomas.” Helene looked at him somewhat imploringly. “Did she never attend church? Did she never seem open to ... to ...”
“To what, Helene?” he interjected bitterly. “Having her soul saved?” He pitched back his head as if he might laugh aloud, but instead he simply blinked repeatedly.
Finally he spoke again. “Yes, Helene, I had a Christian duty to help Mrs. Rutledge walk life’s true path. I tried my best, but she wanted no help. I was naive, just two years out of my divinity studies; young, brash, and woefully ignorant.” He dropped his chin and looked Helene squarely in the eyes. “And yes, I failed. Miserably. And in so doing, I left Ariane to suffer the sins of her mother.”
“Oh, Thomas, you mustn’t blame your—”
Thomas cut her off with an angry flick of his hand. “Perhaps a more experienced man might have succeeded, Helene. But God in His infinite wisdom had seen fit to send me here, and one might argue that I failed them both.”
Helene came swiftly to his side then, and leaned intently toward him. “Thomas, I am sure that is not so! No one holds you in any way responsible.”
Thomas made no answer. The wind seemed to change direction, whistling with renewed vigor past the open end of the shed. For several moments, neither of them spoke, until at last, Thomas shifted closer, and to Helene’s initial relief, changed the subject.
“Do you know, Helene,” he said rather wistfully, his eyes drifting over the rough stone walls, “I so often find myself restless and yearning for something ... something I am not entirely certain I can define. And yet, a brisk walk can set aright a great many of life’s ills. We share that habit, do we not, Helene?”
She managed a weak smile. “Why, yes,” she murmured. “I suppose we do.” He stared down at her openly, his eyes sincere, his smile warm. Gently, he lifted her gloved hand in his.
His every gesture was amiable, but in light of Cam’s recent warning, his proximity made Helene ill-at-ease. And when he looked down at her again, from beneath a sweep of long brown lashes, Helene was abruptly convinced that everything Cam had repeated to her had been true. Thomas was flirting with her.
“Helene.” His husky voice arrested her motion, his fingers tightened urgently around her hand. “I know my words are precipitous, but I can no longer be silent. I think that you and I share a great deal more than just a love of the outdoors.” His tone dropped to a solemn whisper. “Enough, I think, to build upon.”
Helene drew her hand from his. “Of course I value your friendship, Thomas,” she said uncertainly.
The rector cleared his throat. “Helene, in the past weeks, our friendship has deepened to something exceedingly precious, and I think—indeed, I pray—that you are not immune to my affection.”
“Oh, Thomas ... I don’t think—”
His gloved hand came up to touch her lightly on the lips. “Shush, Helene! Let me speak before I lose all courage.” And then, the words Helene could not bear to hear poured forth. “As a woman, as a teacher of children, and as a Christian, you are everything I could want in a wife.”
“But Thomas—!”
Again, he cut off her interjection. “Oh, I realize that I am by no means wealthy, but I can provide you with a few of life’s luxuries. I want us to be married, Helene, and soon. I realize you’re fond of Treyhern’s daughter, but I want you in my home, teaching our children. Just say yes, and then you need never depend upon strangers again. I shall care for you for the rest of your life.”
The sincerity of his words tore at her heart. “Oh, Thomas, how you do honor me!” she answered unsteadily. “I am the most fortunate of women to have your admiration. But I cannot marry you.”
Thomas drew abruptly away then, and strode to the mouth of the shed. He stood there, frozen in silence, staring out over the valley below. Helene could see that he breathed deeply, almost raggedly, for a time.
Finally, he spoke. “Do I take it, then, that your affections are otherwise engaged, Helene?” His words were even and emotionless.
Not knowing what to say, Helene followed him to the opening of the shed. Of course, her affections were engaged. They always had been. But was she at liberty to answer Thomas’s question?
“At present, I’m devoted to Ariane,” she answered quietly. “She must be the focus of my efforts just now, and beyond that, I cannot guess what my future holds. But Thomas, surely you must know—” she paused, feeling the heat rise to her face, and swallowed hard, “—you must know that many would consider me unworthy of you. My blood is French, and my father died most violently. And as to my mother—well, she was not admired by all of society.”
Abruptly, he spun around from
the shed’s opening, his hands clutched tightly behind his back. “And so, in short, you simply will not have me, Helene?” he responded. “Is that what these excuses amount to? For you will notice that I did not ask for an accounting of your past, nor of your bloodlines. They mean nothing to me. I love you for who you are.”
Feeling a little ashamed, Helene stared down at the toes of her boots. “No, Thomas, you did not ask. And you are correct. I am refusing you, and not without a measure of regret, for you are a most worthy man.”
Suddenly, Thomas seemed to go limp, as if the strength had been sapped from him. “Ah, well!” he sighed. “If it is not to be, then I must console myself by preserving our friendship. May we do that, Helene? May we continue on as we have been, as the best of friends?” Much of his disappointment seemed to have been carried away on the sharp north wind.
“Why ... yes, of course,” she managed to answer, relieved by the sudden change in his demeanor. “I hope that we shall always be friends.”
“Then, thank God,” he answered, his usual smile almost returning. “It would leave me despondent to find that I had ruined our friendship with rash words.” He moved to stand beside her, and offered his arm. “Come, Helene. Let me see you safely back to Chalcote. It will be dark before five, given this dreadfully overcast sky.”
Forcing a smile, Helene slipped her hand through the crook of Thomas’s arm, but just as they reached the cottage gate, he paused to speak again. “By the way, Helene, old Mr. Clapham tells me that tomorrow shall be one of our last warm days.” He laughed lightly. “Since his weather predictions are nigh infallible, will you seal your vow of friendship by joining me for a drive in the country? And Ariane too, of course.”
Uncertainly, Helene opened her mouth to respond, but she must have hesitated a moment too long. Abruptly, Thomas pulled her to a halt in the middle of the footpath, his expression a little perplexed. “Your silence frightens me, Helene. Surely, I have not given offense?” His tone was edged with concern. “I beg you to assure me that I have not destroyed everything, merely by speaking my heart!”