by Amara Royce
As she closed the shop door firmly behind her, she was shocked to find that the main thoroughfare was no longer deserted. Various men and women, some of them in tight groups and others standing individually in doorways, dotted the lane. How odd, she thought, as her breathing quickened. Even odder, she couldn’t help but notice, was that they all appeared to be watching her. Everywhere she turned, the people along the road were looking at her. A woman at the curb down the way whispered something to her companion, whose eyes widened as she stared and stared. Later, when she recalled the incident in the safety of her bedroom, she would realize that there had been no more than two dozen people out there, but in the moment, they seemed legion. Helena’s stomach turned over as she looked around at all the unfriendly faces, and that familiar surge of anxiety shot up through her throat. She turned toward home, focusing on moving her feet forward. Keep walking. One step, then another, then another. Ignore everything else. Just keep moving forward.
“Helena Thorton!” someone called out behind her. She stopped, her heart pounding so hard she feared it would burst out of her chest where she stood, and she turned in the direction of the high feminine voice that carried to her. Her throat dried and seized, but she couldn’t swallow. I’m Mrs. Martin now. Mrs. Martin. I have a family; I have young children who need their mother. She opened her mouth but couldn’t get any words out. An older woman who looked vaguely familiar nodded and said, in a shrill, cutting voice, “I heard you’d come. You should be ashamed to set foot here! Now you can bear witness to the ruin you left behind.” With that, she slowly and quite obviously turned until she presented her back. The woman stood with one hand on a thick cane and another on her husband’s arm. Yes, suddenly she recognized them, this couple who’d been friends with her parents, although she could not guess their names. The wife must have said something to her spouse because he nodded, looked at Helena sharply, and then very slowly and deliberately turned his back. Then, one after another, without a word, the villagers along the street followed suit. Not a single person spared her a merciful look or gesture. An awful silence filled the air. She’d never felt so mortified.
She rushed out of the village. Keep moving forward. All will be well. Keep moving forward. All will be well. Only after she’d crossed a few stiles and several hills stood between her and the village did she stop to lean against a tree and catch her breath. She would not cry, would not allow the village the satisfaction of insulting her. If any hot tears fell, she wouldn’t acknowledge them.
When she arrived at the Thorton house, Vanessa asked, “Is something wrong, Auntie? Has something upset you?”
She shook her head. “Nothing at all, dear. Perhaps I’m not so accustomed to this fresh country air anymore. It will pass, I’m sure.” The rest of the household need not know about her humiliation. As soon as her grandmother’s health was resolved, she and Vanessa would happily escape the confines of this petty, small-minded, vindictive little village.
News tended to travel with remarkable speed through these lands, and so it was no surprise to Daniel when some of the neighboring farmers rode out to meet him as he went along the Lanfield perimeter, reacquainting himself with the flocks. By the time he paused for lunch at the northernmost point, half a dozen men had found reason to greet him and share their perspectives on the return of the pariah Helena Thorton Martin. More importantly, they’d felt it necessary to share their wives’ surprisingly strong and vocal objections to her presence in the village. Half a dozen times he explained that she only intended to care for the Grand-dame and that he’d done only his Christian duty in assisting her and that he, of all people, was as irate about her return as anyone else.
A heavy ball of dread settled in his wame as he caught sight of his brother galloping toward him. Gordon handled the books and oversaw the farm’s operations, which meant he rarely rode out this far.
“What’s wrong, brother?” he called out.
“You need to fix this situation with Mrs. Martin and quickly!”
Daniel resisted the urge to roll his eyes at his brother’s urgency. “This was so urgent you needed to ride up here? We had this discussion last night. My association with the woman is done. There’s naught to fix.” Except for a few concerned neighbors, whom he’d set straight.
“Have you any idea how many people have already been to the house this morning? Prattling like fishwives. If it wasn’t the men coming to me spouting things about injustice, it was the women coming to commiserate with Ruth.”
“Aye, I got an earful from some of our neighbors along the wall.”
“People keep asking about you too. Why did you have to bring her yourself? Let her make her way as any stranger would. Folks are confounded and none too happy with you.”
He’d been asking himself the same thing for days now. He thought back to the sight of her helpless and insensible at the Great Exhibition, of her standing vulnerable and defenseless in the courtyard of the inn. Any woman in such circumstances would draw sympathy, wouldn’t she? He had cause to despise her, but he needn’t turn into a monster and abandon his own values in return.
“It was a simple twist of fate, Gordon. Who would have guessed that, in a city of thousands, I would have encountered her? And in such a time of need?” Unaccountably, he was reluctant to mention her fainting spells. That seemed too personal, not his to share. “The Grand-dame was practically our own grandmother once. Mrs. Martin has persuasive friends in London, and one of their husbands might yet prove to be a fortuitous connection.” Even as he said it, he could hear the weakness of his arguments. But he couldn’t fully convey the imperative he’d felt in his breast to do her the simple courtesy of a ride in his cart. Gordon’s lips quirked skeptically. “You would have done the same, Gordon. Despite everything, you would have brought her here yourself. There were . . . other factors, and it wouldn’t have been right to leave her and her niece without escort.”
“That damn noble protective streak of yours.”
“It’s been a long time, and Mrs. Martin has changed, I think. What she did to you was inexcusable, but all our lives have changed a great deal since then.”
“She would be wise to stay out of sight as much as possible. Have you heard about her visit to the Wyatt shop this morning?”
As his brother related the story about the villagers shunning her, a chill ran through Daniel. What had possessed her to parade herself in Marksby the day after her arrival? She was lucky they’d treated her so cordially, compared to what they might’ve done. An unwelcome image of her insensible and injured, even bloodied, flashed before his eyes, and his entire body tensed.
He couldn’t help the odd sense of admiration at how Mrs. Martin blithely dismissed the negativity she encountered. She soldiered on. He’d expected her to collapse into a helpless mess and run back to London weeping, but she’d held her head high and faced her critics honestly, bravely.
Despite himself, he appreciated how she’d negotiated a space for herself here. And he had to admit too that his visceral reactions to her reawakened a fire in him that he hadn’t felt toward a woman in a long time. Perhaps it was the fact that there was no chance of emotional attachment between them. Perhaps it was his native protectiveness spilling into something more. Perhaps it was the intensity of his animosity seeking a different outlet. Whatever it was, he could no longer deny his body’s heightened awareness of her. Nor his increasingly insistent desire to be in her presence, to watch over her, to shield her. A heat he hadn’t felt in years surged through him at the thought of her delicate neck.
He shifted in his saddle as a particular body part awakened. What irony that he’d be aroused by this woman. The feel of her hair, her soft pillowing flesh—the memory of even the lightest touch set him alight rather inconveniently.
Chapter 11
Memories of her recent humiliation fresh and vivid in her mind, Helena hesitated in the doorway of the village shop, her hand trembling as she reached for the doorknob. Meeting her niece’s gaze, she sa
id, “We shall be quick. No time for frivolities or trinkets.”
“Yes, Auntie. As you said earlier, I shall keep to the list and only the list.”
She’d warned Vanessa in the most general terms about how standoffish the villagers might be, but she couldn’t bring herself to tell anyone about the shunning. Mrs. Weathers had begun to soften toward her, showing her tiny kindnesses by allowing her to help in the kitchen, suggesting things she might find useful in the house, pointing out things she and her sister had left behind that they might enjoy. But perhaps that was a result of the diligence she and Vanessa had shown since their arrival. From sunup to the snuffing of the lights at night, every waking moment was devoted to Gran’s well-being, including anything in the household that needed doing in order to promote her comfort. With Vanessa’s help, she’d thoroughly scrubbed the sickroom, washed and aired the linens and window hangings, made the windows sparkle. They’d cleaned every inch of that bedroom. All that work did wonders, it seemed. Sun streamed in the windows, no longer impeded by cobwebs and dust. The very air, while still tinged with antiseptic and mustard poultices, was no longer musty and dank. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. The doctor’s visit was reassuring, and he’d thankfully not advocated any bloodletting. Instead, he’d provided them with several natural remedies for treatment, as well as a list of necessary items for her grandmother’s comfort. After he departed, Gran dismissed his ideas as muckment. But Helena didn’t think it would do any harm to try.
She didn’t miss her niece’s precocious tone, and she hoped Vanessa would conduct herself in a dignified manner. This wasn’t London, and these people wouldn’t understand her forthright, sometimes impish nature. She smiled tightly as she gestured for her niece to lead the way into the store.
Yet again, the past collided with the present. When she’d first come to mail the letter to Elizabeth confirming their safe arrival, she hadn’t bothered to look around much, so preoccupied had she been worrying about the reactions her reappearance would incite. Now, she was at leisure to observe. So much of the large room was as she remembered it, the shelves packed to the ceiling, the tables piled with incongruous items. Here was a basket of ribbons next to bottles of lamp oil. There were lollipops next to sewing needles. She hadn’t recognized the postmaster. The store used to belong to Mrs. Robinson, but she’d surely be in her nineties by now. That remarkable woman had always known exactly where to find any item in the store, always seen the order beneath the seeming chaos. As Vanessa went directly to the counter with the list in hand, Helena moved quietly toward a corner stacked with fabrics. Perhaps a bright new nightgown or a small pillow might brighten Gran’s day. A simple item would take less than a day to sew. She rifled through the materials: cottons, wools, even a silk. A lovely yellow calico caught her eye, and then a simple blue worsted . . . so many possibilities. Immersed in the colors, patterns, and textures, even the distinct scents, she didn’t realize how much time had passed until she felt a tap on her shoulder.
“Auntie, our order is ready.”
She straightened and made her way to the counter at the rear of the building. A woman she didn’t recognize stood packing their items into a crate. As she and Vanessa approached, however, the woman looked at her and froze with a sour expression and narrowed eyes. Helena’s stomach dropped, but she continued to move forward. Just before she reached the counter, the woman picked up the half-packed crate without saying a word and went through a curtained doorway into a back room, leaving the remaining items on the counter. The moment the clerk was out of view, Helena heard what she had to assume was the woman’s voice, loud and vociferous.
“Louis, can you believe that Thorton strumpet has the nerve to show her face here? Again?”
Louis? That wasn’t the name of any of Mrs. Robinson’s sons, at least not that she could recall. He must be the postmaster she’d encountered. Now she could only hear the deep indistinct mumbling of his voice, not his actual sentiment. His rough tone was not reassuring. Then she heard the woman say, “Well, if you won’t get those whores out of here, I will! They can rot, for all I care.”
“Auntie, what is happening?” Vanessa whispered. “She was so helpful before. Is she talking about us? What could have changed her demeanor so abruptly?”
“Undoubtedly, me, dear. My very appearance, as Mr. Lanfield so accurately predicted,” she replied tersely.
“What is wrong with your appearance? You are dressed quite normally.”
“Oh, my sweet, don’t joke. Some people here have very long memories. It is as Mr. Lanfield predicted.” She could hardly stand to let the words pass through her lips. He’d been absolutely right.
“What should we do now?” her niece asked.
“What can we do? We wait for her to return. Gran needs those remedies.”
They didn’t have to wait very long. As another shopper entered, the bell attached to the door rang out, and the clerk poked her head out of the curtains. Her jaw set and her eyes icy, she met Helena’s gaze before shifting away to find the newcomer.
“Oh, Mrs. Carter! How nice to see you! I shall be with you momentarily.” Then the clerk disappeared into the back room again.
Standing at the counter, Helena spied Mrs. Carter, an older woman she recognized from her youth. “Good morning,” she called, and the other woman merely narrowed her eyes. Had she been on the street that day? Had she been one of the ones to turn her back? When the clerk returned, Helena braced herself. That sick feeling in her stomach grew, and heat prickled her cheeks.
“You won’t be able to purchase what you want here,” the clerk said. “You should go.” The clerk moved toward the end of the counter, her attention focused on Mrs. Carter. Helena stepped into her path, equal parts embarrassed and determined.
“May we at least purchase the essentials we need, Missus . . . ?” she asked, dipping her head. She could swallow her pride for her grandmother’s sake.
“My name, not that it is any of your concern, is Mrs. Wyatt, and my husband and I run a respectable shop. We reserve the right to decline to serve customers, as prudence demands,” the woman replied, frowning and unyielding. “Your money is no good here. I objected to his even taking your letter, but he’s a duty as postmaster that he can’t ignore.”
“But we need at least the mustard seed and herbs and flour for my great-grandmother, Mrs. Thorton,” Vanessa interjected. “As you may know, she’s very, very ill, and the physician is not hopeful. Her breathing has become labored. We desperately need anything that can give her some ease.”
“That is not my concern,” the clerk said, but her expression weakened.
Helena whispered to her niece, “If you think you can convince her, I shall step away. Clearly, my presence is the problem. She treated you as a normal customer. Whatever the cost, see if you can at least get what is necessary, for Gran’s sake.”
When Vanessa nodded slightly, Helena turned to the clerk and said, “Please excuse me, Mrs. Wyatt. I am sorry to disturb you and your patrons.” She made her way to the door, bumping against a table in her haste and nearly toppling a lantern on display. She hated the thought of leaving her niece to deal with the transaction, but she was certain there was no way the woman would concede in front of her. She couldn’t but notice that, as she wound through the tables toward the door, Mrs. Carter watched her aptly and maintained a wide berth. How lowering.
As she exited the shop, she heard Vanessa pleading quite prettily. Sweet, headstrong girl.
Outside, she took a deep breath, the air refreshing her spirit and clearing away some of the miasma that had pressed upon her in the shop. Mr. Lanfield had warned them; only now did his words coalesce into reality. All the anger and resentment she’d attributed to her parents and the Lanfields—it wasn’t just them, and it wasn’t just a matter of strong emotion. Emotion translated to action, action that affected not only her but anyone attached to her. She’d been prepared to be treated as a pariah. Yet it hadn’t occurred to her that such malice would be
extended to innocents—to her vulnerable grandmother, to her sweet niece. Had her parents been thus condemned by everyone? Had her grandmother been abandoned, leading to her condition?
She worried her lip as she waited for Vanessa and breathed a deep sigh when the girl opened the door carrying a small package. It wasn’t large enough to hold even half of what they’d originally wanted, but it was better than nothing. One look at Vanessa’s pale face raised her internal alarms again, however, and she quickly led the girl in the direction of home. Vanessa’s quick but wavering smile only worried her more.
As if by tacit agreement, Helena and her niece walked out of Marksby at a swift pace. Ribbons of fluffy clouds now filled the sky, making odd shadow patterns on the land around them. She saw darkening skies far ahead of them. That was all the day wanted—for them to be caught in a storm on this road.
“I have never encountered such viciousness, Auntie!” Vanessa burst out. “Well, at least not personally. That woman was unbearably rude! It galled me to hand over our money to her.”
“Did she insult you again after I left the building?” She could bear any insult against her, but she wouldn’t allow her innocent niece to be the target of such ugliness.
“No . . . not really. Not exactly.” Her niece’s clenched fists belied her words, as did the way the girl’s chin jutted out defensively.
“What did she say, dear? You can tell me.”
“She didn’t say anything to insult me personally, but she defamed you horribly.” Vanessa’s hands rose in fists, surely without her awareness, and she spoke with such righteous indignation. “She was so bitter and angry and used such coarse language. I’ve heard worse but only on the streets of London.”