Once Beloved

by Amara Royce

  “It was the least I could do. You and the others take so much more risk producing and distributing those pamphlets and sheets.” An image of Honoria’s bookshop—defiled and in shambles—rose in her mind. Someone had figured out that they produced and distributed their writings out of Honoria’s shop, and its destruction had been a warning that they had gotten too close to a truth someone wanted hidden. Instead of discouraging them, the vandalism had galvanized the women not just to restore the shop but to take stronger action on behalf of those too weak and powerless to defend themselves. This new pamphlet would be sent anonymously to all the members of Parliament.

  “You can give this to Honoria yourself at dinner this evening. I’ve invited Mr. Lanfield so we can honor him properly.”

  Helena’s hand shook, spilling the tea she was pouring. “What do you mean, dinner this evening?” Helena asked, horrified at the thought of seeing Mr. Daniel Lanfield again. How he’d looked at her, as if she were a demon who’d escaped Hades and threatened to steal his soul. Between one breath and the next, his entire being had transformed from kind gentlemanly concern to horrified disgust. She’d have laughed at the memory of his absurd transformation, except . . . even now, she felt that tiny shard twisting in her heart. In all these years, she never regretted anything about her life with Isaiah, and yet Mr. Lanfield’s tacit condemnation left her with a lingering pinprick of shame. How could she endure any more time spent in that man’s company?

  “Well, dear, clearly you have no other plans. And Mr. Lanfield was so helpful and attentive. A total stranger, he took charge immediately, your safety his only concern. He seemed like such a nice person that I insisted he dine with us and the other Needlework ladies so we could show our appreciation. The evening will give you the opportunity to thank him properly.”

  “What do you mean by that, Marissa? Am I to pay him for services rendered?” She could hear the sharpness of her tone and cringed, but the very thought of thanking a man who loathed her, of being beholden to such a man, chilled her.

  “Don’t be silly, Helena! What has gotten into you?” Marissa stared at her. “Honoria was quite pleased to hear it.”

  “What about Elizabeth?”

  “You know your sister much better than I. She said she couldn’t attend but seemed a little perturbed. I would have thought you’d like a chance to speak with your rescuer under less trying circumstances.”

  Less trying circumstances. God must be laughing. When she didn’t answer immediately, Marissa cocked her head and continued to stare, as if she were a puzzle to be solved. She had to say something, but what? The only thing worse than suffering through dinner with him at Marissa’s home would be bearding that lion in his own den, which she would never do since she’d determined long ago never to set foot on Lanfield property again. But how could she bow out of the dinner without raising Marissa’s suspicions? The very last thing she wanted to do was raise old ghosts, especially in front of her friends. Only her sister knew what had happened before she’d been swept into matrimonial bliss by her Captain Martin. The others knew she’d been estranged from her parents, but they didn’t know why, didn’t know the details or how extensive their repudiation had been. They didn’t know how completely she’d been shunned. If Elizabeth hadn’t followed her to London a few years later, all of her family ties would have been severed.

  He knew. This man knew what she’d left behind, the disappointments and the doors subsequently closed to her.

  “I admit that was an odd overreaction, but, Marissa, I feel that terrible foreboding again that I get when around strangers.” She wasn’t lying. Her stomach twisting, her palms moist, she felt ill at the thought of seeing him again. She simply wasn’t presenting the whole picture. When Mark stopped in the doorway to hand her the day’s post, she turned her attention to the stack of notes and moved away from Marissa noncommittally.

  A letter addressed in handwriting both familiar and yet not quite right drew her whole attention. Gran. Her grandmother’s vibrant, dramatically rounded script—how often had she watched Gran write letters and lists and notes? But, as she quickly opened the letter and began reading, it was clear that the hand wavered. Mr. Lanfield dropped from her list of concerns as a chill ran across her skin. The paper in her hand shook; only then did she realize her hands were trembling.

  “What is it, Helena?”

  “My gran. I’ve a letter from her.” Fate could not be this cruel.

  “Does she still live in Marksby? When was the last time you heard from her?”

  She shook her head without speaking. Since leaving Marksby, she’d never received anything from her grandmother or from her parents. The first few years, their repudiation had devastated her. She’d missed the feasts at harvest time, full of laughter and old stories, even stories so trite and staid the entire assembly would take turns spinning out bits of it. When Bartholomew was born, she’d so keenly wished her mother were there. But no one had responded to her letters. She’d lost hope by the time Mark arrived.

  “Too long ago to recall,” she replied. It took her several tries to comprehend Gran’s unsteady writing through watery eyes. When she finally deciphered the letter, she was surprised to find that she was sitting on a settee as Marissa loomed over her.

  “You look terrible, Helena. What is the news from your grandmother?”

  “She . . . she is ill. . . . She wishes me to return to Marksby to see her. ‘To say a true farewell’ to her, she says. She has summoned both me and Elizabeth. Our families too, if we can manage it.”

  “A true farewell? She thinks this is her end?” Marissa spoke gently, calmly, in a way that should have been soothing, but the placating tone only agitated her more.

  Helena nodded as tears filled her eyes again. “She says she’s dying. She is too weak to leave the house and is sure the end is near.” Suddenly, she felt lost, felt every second of the past twenty years weighing on her. “Part of me suspected she would outlive us all.”

  “And?”

  She looked up at her friend, confused by the question, unable to reply.

  “And think, Helena! Do you mean to go?” Marissa had that impatient look.

  “I . . . it’s been so many years. . . . It would be more than a day’s travel . . . but she is my gran.” A lifetime of memories flooded through her, Gran’s gentle but commanding voice echoing in her ears. Her chest hurt at the thought of never seeing Gran again, and yet that prickling of her skin had already begun. She hadn’t left London, hadn’t traveled more than an hour’s distance, since Isaiah’s death. And she’d have to take a coach or train. Her clothing felt too tight as she began to perspire. “I don’t know. I would give anything to be by her side, anything for her not to be alone at the end . . . but I don’t know if I could manage it.”

  “How could you expect to manage that when you can’t even leave your home to go to the market?”

  She lifted her chin. Marissa might be one of her dearest friends, but Helena wouldn’t be cowed, not over something so important. “I will manage. I must.”

  “Do you think Elizabeth could go? What about all the children?”

  “We shall see. It will all work out. It has to.” Steeling herself against Marissa’s skeptical gaze, she admitted, “When my mother passed into eternal life, I should have insisted that I return for her services, should have fought harder to reunite with my father. Instead, in my cowardice, I stayed away. It is one of my greatest regrets, as is missing his funeral. Gran has asked for us. I will not fail her. This may be my last chance.” Her voice cracked on the last word, and she burst into tears. Sweating and nauseated, she set her mind on her dear grandmother’s wish. There must be a way.

  Having completed his last appointment, putting the final nail in this coffin of a business trip, Daniel took a sweeping look around the smoking room. He’d heard impressive things about the Gresham Club, and he was not disappointed. These were men with a vision of the future. It was small consolation compared to the utter lack of enth
usiasm regarding his proposal for Lanfield wools and materials. The merchants and traders he’d met with during his trip to the city resisted taking on such a small-scale supplier. More than one pushed him for exclusivity. Not a chance. That was one point on which he and Gordon had agreed. His brother hadn’t been in favor of seeking these connections at all. The stubborn fool couldn’t see that their entire foundation was crumbling, their industry dying. At best, the head of Tavish had not given him an outright no; an alliance with the manufacturer could be the lifeblood they needed. Yet it could just as well prove disastrous, depending on too many variables. Would it be better to risk the ever-present threat of illness wiping out a flock or the stormy effects of a partner company’s whims and tribulations? Better they establish a strong web of multiple contacts than place all their eggs in one seemingly strong but uncertain basket. For that matter, Farley and Sons was still considering exporting Lanfield goods to the Americas. Still, it would be foolish to put all his stock in such lukewarm responses. Perhaps he could still salvage this trip on his last day; all it would take was one solid prospect. He took another swig of the excellent port, focusing on the richness of it coursing through his system, and settled into the plush armchair. Who had he yet to approach?

  “Mr. Lanfield, I was pleased to see you on the club register today,” said an unfamiliar voice.

  Another prospect? He perked up, adjusted his damned cravat, and stood to meet the newcomer. When the attendant made the requisite introductions, it was easy to see why this man, Mr. Frederick Clarke, was the perfect balance for his self-assertive wife. He tensed. Mrs. Clarke had invited him to dine with them, and he’d sent his regrets claiming illness. It was, in a way, true. He had been sickened when he’d recognized Mrs. Martin. The very thought that he’d carried her in his arms sparked a roiling burn in his wame. He had been right to reject their invitation, but you never knew who might take offense.

  “Pardon me, sir. I didn’t mean to startle you,” Mr. Clarke said. “Mrs. Clarke was quite disappointed that you could not come to dinner last evening, after all. She’s been concerned about your health ever since. It seemed like fate when I saw you were here. May I confirm that you are in good health and good spirits?” Mr. Clarke pulled a chair close and sank into it comfortably. His manner seemed easy and undemanding.

  “Yes, thank you,” he replied, relaxing back into his seat. What else could he say? No, not at all. Good spirits are nowhere to be found. I am failing utterly. “It was a passing ailment. You may assure your considerate wife that I am well today.”

  “Considerate is quite a nice way of putting it,” Mr. Clarke responded jovially “She’s perpetually meddlesome, but she has the heart of a lion and the soul of a saint. I find my life is more comfortable and orderly when I do whatever she tells me to do. When she puts her mind to something, it is inevitably the right course, and one would do well not to deviate from it.”

  “Well, as I said, I am quite fine so there is no need for her concern.”

  He could still picture Helena Thorton—Mrs. Martin now, he should remember—before he walked away from her that day at the Crystal Palace. A vulnerable, helpless woman whose first thoughts upon waking were her children. Knowing who she was brought a bitter taste to his mouth. She’d aged, of course, but not enough to satisfy him. She ought to look like one of Macbeth’s gnarled witches, her outside matching her base and ugly spirit. No one with a soul could live with bringing about the ruin of her village. He’d never in his life do a woman harm, but he could wish he hadn’t noticed her distress, to begin with. As if this trip weren’t enough of a dismal failure, meeting that viper again made London a new level of hell.

  Another attendant arrived at the table to refill their drinks, and he frowned at the direction his thoughts had taken. His collar felt too tight, but he couldn’t loosen it here. How could he still hold such sharp, boiling anger over a woman who was ultimately a stranger now? What did it matter that she looked normal, that she looked sedate and well-fed and secure? Water under the bridge. London might be a thousand times larger than the tiny hamlet of Marksby, but it stood to reason that everyone would visit the Great Exhibition. Mere coincidence that, amid the throngs of thousands, she would appear before him. He wasn’t such a monster that he would resent aiding a person in need, even one so undeserving as that woman. Was he?

  Mr. Clarke swirled the liquid in his glass and nonchalantly said, “Now she has in mind that your heroic rescue of our friend, Mrs. Martin, needs grand and proper recognition. It would be best for you to concede with good grace and simply allow her to make a fuss over you. Dinner this evening or tomorrow, whatever suits you. And I must admit it would be a relief to have some masculine reinforcements when Mrs. Clarke has her sewing circle in attendance.”

  So this was how the affable man got on with his bold, outspoken woman—he acceded to her wishes whenever possible. Daniel could easily picture the cycle—she demands, he acquiesces, she advances, he retreats. Daniel knew that cycle all too well, knew too accurately what it was like to try to please an increasingly unsatisfied spouse. Another swig of port. If his mind continued to follow this path, the day would truly be ruined.

  “That would include Mrs. Martin, I take it?” he asked. Under no circumstances would he break bread with that woman. Surely, she would be just as averse to the idea. The image of her insensible and so very fragile loomed behind his eyelids, sparking a contradictory impulse to see her again and make sure she was safe. He tossed back the remainder of his glass. His mind wouldn’t stop racing, diving down these unexpected and unwelcome paths. One moment he wished he’d never laid eyes on her, and the next he longed, however fleetingly, to see that she was intact. It must be the strain of this trip. Get yourself together, man.

  “Undoubtedly,” Mr. Clarke said. “Mrs. Martin is most keen to convey her appreciation as well. She cares deeply for her friends and watches over them all like a mama bear. But I suppose you don’t know about their little coterie.” The man stood abruptly, as if just remembering an important appointment. “I say, would you care for a stroll? I don’t suppose you’ve done much sightseeing. During one of the many recent episodes when Mrs. Clarke has sung your heroic praises, she has mentioned that you are visiting Town on business. I would be happy to introduce you to some of my colleagues who I expect to be out and about at this time of day.”

  He breathed an inward sigh of relief and agreed. He found the man’s demeanor puzzling, but this chance meeting could be a profitable turning point after all. A sorely needed spot of hope. Once they’d exited the building, he fell into step with Mr. Clarke easily, and they ambled toward Hyde Park. After talking perfunctorily about how Marksby weather differed from London’s, Mr. Clarke circled back to the topic of the little group of which his wife and Mrs. Martin were members—self-importantly called Needlework for the Needy—as if they’d never been interrupted.

  “She’s known those women for a dog’s age, all fine and upstanding. I don’t know who you would have met. Obviously, there’s Mrs. Martin. You might have also seen their partner in crime, Mrs. Duchamp. She’s quite a bluestocking, that one. Widowed. Owns her own bookshop. Quite enterprising.”

  He could appreciate business acumen, but he wondered at Mr. Clarke’s admiring tone. Independent women . . . bluestockings . . . his wife had admired such women too. Mrs. Martin had apparently found like-minded women to reinforce her self-absorption. All the more reason to avoid her.

  “The other member of their merry quartet is Mrs. Martin’s sister,” Mr. Clarke continued, “but I believe she’s had her hands full these last few weeks. Some minor illness struck the family, and you know how it is.”

  “Mrs. Martin has a sister?” he asked absently. What did he care about the Thorton sisters? He should just make clear that he knew the women from their youth. If they considered the sisters their friends, they deserved to know the truth about the heartless, selfish nature of these women. But then again, he was no sniping gossip and would, with any luck, be
a stranger to these people again in a day or so. If the Clarkes didn’t know any better, it wasn’t his job to enlighten them.

  “Yes, although they look nothing alike upon casual observance. I suppose the only resemblance is their eyes. I believe they’re from your area, if I recall correctly.” Mr. Clarke’s gaze focused on the intersection ahead, and his voice sounded innocuous enough.

  As they passed a fountain in which some street urchins played, Daniel made a noncommittal noise in response. Ah, yes, the Thorton sisters. One light sister, one dark. One bright, one gloomy. Both deemed fine bonny lasses. In the end, they’d both been faithless and self-serving, abandoning their home and family for this cesspool that was London.

  A bell on a passing omnibus was clanging loudly, shaking him free of his thoughts. Again, such bitterness. What was wrong with him?

  Mr. Clarke continued rambling, not appearing to care for any response, “Those ladies are quite something when they work themselves into a lather. Individually, they might not catch one’s eye. Not even my own firebrand, Marissa—though she was quite the stunner in her day—but when they join forces, man, they are a sight to behold. All that shrill, passionate indignation.”

  “It’s common for women to form such attachments,” he responded, just to be able to say something. “My . . . wife had just such a group of friends, as close as sisters. They met every week for tea and gossip.”

  “Are you married, sir? I should have thought to ask. Why, then you do know how they get!” Mr. Martin had steered them toward a quiet corner of the park, one with an impressive statue.

  “My wife is gone, sir,” he responded. He’d learned to use short, vague phrases about her absence. If wasn’t his fault if people took him to mean his wife was dead. She might as well be.

  “My condolences. With all due respect to your dearly departed Mrs. Lanfield, the Needlework ladies are more than a flock of gossips. They rather see themselves as crusaders. In fact, they can be quite a nuisance to those they see exploiting the weak and innocent.”