Or that she would fall in love.
That fact alone ought to have made her accept him like a shot.
Instead, it was that very fact which made marrying him such a scary prospect. When she had told him she would only marry for love, it was the first thing that had come into her head, she realised. And even then she had been vaguely thinking about an equal love. A man and a woman falling in love with each other, as her parents had done, and then finding they could not bear to be apart. Marriage naturally flowed from such strong feelings. She could see exactly why marrying, in their case, had been so right.
But in this case it was all lopsided. She had fallen headlong in love with him. But he appeared to have looked her over, noted down her admirable qualities as though he had some kind of a mental list, and decided that, yes, she would do very well in the role.
Many women would regard that kind of proposal as a triumph. The kind of women who regarded marriage as the only respectable state for a female of good birth. Unfortunately she was just not of their number!
Her breath was steaming up the window, obscuring the view she had dirtied her gown to obtain, just as her infatuation with Lord Bridgemere had clouded her judgement. Before coming here she would never have dreamt of marrying a man who saw her as nothing more than a means to prolong his bloodline. Where had her pride gone? She deserved more than that! More than the kind of marriage she’d had such a clear vision of immediately after his proposal, with her pouring out her heart and him taking it as his due.
Her lips tight with strain, she trudged off up the stairs again. She wanted him—oh, yes, how she wanted him! But could she pay the price? That was the question.
When she reached the schoolroom, she was amazed to see the air thick with glistening soap bubbles. Several of the children were sitting at a table, industriously dipping little clay pipes into dishes of soapy water, while the smaller ones were dancing about madly trying to burst them before they popped of their own accord.
Her mouth relaxed into a smile. It was impossible to remain out of sorts in such an atmosphere.
‘Merry Christmas, miss!’ said one of the nurserymaids as she scurried past with an empty coal scuttle.
‘Merry Christmas to you, Jenny,’ Helen replied.
‘Miss Forrest!’ cried Charles, scampering up to her. ‘Look what I got for Christmas!’ It was a clasp knife and exactly, he stressed, what he had been wanting.
Every child, it appeared, had mysteriously received exactly what they had wanted most. She smiled to think of Lord Bridgemere skilfully yet subtly extracting the information from them over the few days they had been here, and then sending somebody—Cadwallader, probably—to make the purchases in the nearest town.
‘There were bunches of grapes hanging from the rocking horse when I woke up this morning,’ said Peter, pausing for a moment in his endeavours with his clay pipe. ‘And twists of barley sugar and peppermints…’
‘I got a doll,’ said Junia, holding it up.
Her heart squeezed inside her chest. He was such a darling to do all this for the children. To make sure Christmas reached to the very furthest corners of his domain—be it to the neglected children, thrust out of sight of their selfish parents, or to the meanest cottager inhabiting his estates.
He was a man who ought to have his own children. He wanted a son and heir. She had already noticed that he seemed to approve of the way she was with other people’s children, and now something had made him decide he wanted that for his own.
And if they were hers, too…
Already she had grown fond of this group. It would be quite a wrench to leave them. If she really did become a governess her life would become a continual round of growing fond of children who were not hers and then having to bid them farewell when they outgrew her and she had to move to a new post. If she married Lord Bridgemere it would save her from all that heartache. She could have her own children. Raise them exactly as she pleased. Love them unreservedly.
Whatever problems she might have with their father.
But was it enough?
It was not long after a joyful and rather chaotic Christmas lunch, which had started with ham and sausage and finished with jellies and creams, that the door opened and to her utter astonishment Nicholas Swaledale and Lady Augustine came in.
The maids glanced at them and dropped curtsies, but did not greet either of them warmly, as they had done Helen. Because they were gentry, she realised, whilst over the week she had been there she had almost become one of them.
She had to lower her head to conceal a smile when Swaledale waved his hand regally, as though granting them permission to carry on.
Then Junia squirmed down from her chair and ran over to them.
‘Gussy, look!’ she cried, her eyes alight with happiness as she held up the doll to show her sister. ‘Look what I got for Christmas!’
Swaledale took a hasty step back. ‘For the Lord’s sake, make sure that child keeps her sticky hands off my clothing, if you please.’
Lady Augustine cast him a look of irritation, then hunkered down and put her arm round Junia’s shoulders.
‘Oh, what a lovely doll,’ she said. ‘I do like her dress!’
‘Would still rather be playing with them, wouldn’t you,’ Swaledale drawled, ‘than partaking of more adult pursuits?’
‘I just wanted to see what they’d all got for Christmas,’ snapped Augustine. ‘And you needn’t have come with me if you dislike children so much. In fact,’ she said, getting to her feet, ‘I wish you had not if you are just going to be nasty.’
‘But how else was I to manage to get a few words with Miss Forrest?’ he replied glibly. ‘Now that she has taken to hiding herself away up here?’
‘We have nothing to say to each other, sir,’ said Helen.
‘Oh, but I disagree,’ he replied. ‘Run along, Gussy, do. What I am about to say to this person is not for your ears.’
Helen was the one who tried to move away but, like a snake striking, his hand shot out and grabbed her arm. His grip was so tight that she knew if she resisted the way he was tugging her to a quiet corner his fingers would leave a bruise.
‘Think you are very clever, don’t you?’ he breathed, once they were out of earshot of anyone else. ‘I saw you dancing with him last night. You think you have him eating out of your hand. Though I can’t say I blame him for making the most of what you’re offering. One taste of you was enough to make me want more. And you looked very beddable in that nightgown, with your hair all down your back, from what I can recall. Was pretty castaway, was I not?’ He sniggered, as though they were sharing some dirty secret.
Helen felt the bile rise in her throat as his proximity brought the whole episode rushing back to her so vividly that she could almost feel his tongue sliding across her face. Instinctively she tugged her hand free and put it to her cheek, as though erasing the very memory of his intrusive kisses.
‘You know, flinging yourself at him won’t get you anywhere. Even if you’ve gone so far as sacrificing your virginity you won’t get a marriage proposal from him. He will cast you off without a backward glance when he’s done with you!’
‘How dare you?’ she gasped. Lord Bridgemere had already offered her marriage—and how could this toad imply that his uncle would seduce a female living under his roof? It would be completely out of character! Naturally she was not going to tell Swaledale about the proposal. That was strictly between her and His Lordship! But one thing she could refute.
‘Lord Bridgemere is an honourable man. He would never take advantage of an innocent woman then discard her!’
‘My, my, you are hot in his defence. He must have really turned on the charm. He can be charming, so I believe. But you would change your tune if you knew what he is really like.’
‘I do know what he’s really like.’
‘Oh, do you?’ He smiled nastily, leaned closer and murmured, ‘Do you, perchance, happen to know exactly what became of his first wife?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It is strange, but nobody who was around at the time is at all willing to talk about it. Suspicious, wouldn’t you say—the way they all clam up and look shifty, saying the accident was nobody’s fault? It is almost as if nobody dares to lay the blame at his door. But then the people round here need to keep on his good side. You have seen the power he wields over them.’ He smirked. ‘But my mother has told me there is quite a scandal there. If you know him as well as you say you do,’ he said suggestively, leaning closer still and lowering his voice, ‘then you will already have discovered he has the devil’s own temper when roused. And Lucinda roused him all right…from what I hear.’
Helen could not help flinching to hear yet another person speak of the very great love Lord Bridgemere had had for his first wife. When he saw her as little more than a potential mother for his children.
Swaledale must have seen the hurt flicker across her face and decided he had achieved what he had set out to do, because with one more smirk he turned and stalked over to where Lady Augustine was dipping a clay pipe into a dish of bubbles.
‘Playtime over, Gussy,’ he said. ‘Time to return to the world of adults.’
Her face red, Lady Augustine handed the pipe back to his younger brother, whom he had completely ignored, and they left.
Junia stuck her tongue out as the door closed behind him, and Helen couldn’t blame her. What a toad he was!
What a liar!
Lord Bridgemere would never hurt a lady! And as for implying he could fly into some sort of rage. Hah! Were they talking about the same man? Lord Bridgemere was always fully in control of himself.
She felt a small hand tugging her fingers out of the fist she had unconsciously clenched them into. She looked down as Junia looked up. ‘He always makes me want to hit him as well,’ she said.
Helen knelt down and gave her a swift hug. He would make a saint want to hit him. In fact, even though she could not imagine Lord Bridgemere ever raising his hand to a lady, she could see him becoming so angry with Swaledale that he would do whatever it took to prevent him inheriting his title.
She went cold inside. He would even enter a loveless marriage, provided the woman in question could make him comfortable. That was what he thought of her, was it not? That she would make some man a comfortable sort of wife?
And perhaps, if loving his first wife so much had made him grieve for so many years, he would only risk marrying again if he could be sure he would never experience the same sort of hurt.
He obviously thought she would not give him a moment’s worry or heartache because he felt certain that his heart would never be deeply touched by her. How could it be? It was buried in the grave with his first wife!
Her hands went to her beads, which she had put on in honour of Christmas Day, even though she did not usually wear jewellery during the daytime, and she thought again of her parents, who had married for love. Their love for one another had carried them through the opposition of both their families, various financial hardships—oh, all their difficulties. She had not seen it as a child, but now she perceived that it had been the best for them, that they had died together. Neither would have wanted to outlive the other.
They’d been as essential to each other as the air they’d breathed.
And was she, their daughter, seriously contemplating marrying a man who, though he had shut himself away in mourning for years after the death of his first wife, would regard her as comfortable?
Comfortable for him, perhaps. But what would such a match be like for her? She had already imagined herself pouring her love into his wounded soul. But if his heart remained closed, as was clearly his intent, then how long would it be before loving him without hope proved too much for her? She was not a saint! Far from it. She had only a very limited supply of patience. And a great deal of pride. And a temper that she often had a struggle to contain.
It would not be very long before she became disgruntled. She would shout at him. He would coldly withdraw.
Eventually, from being merely cool towards her, he would grow increasingly irritated by her outbursts. Which would hurt her terribly.
Before much longer they would become one of those couples who lived in a state of cordial dislike. Given his propensity to remove himself from unwelcome society, he would probably disappear to the estate furthest flung from wherever she was, and she did not want to be reduced to the kind of woman who followed around after a man, begging for scraps of attention like some…spaniel! She would not do it. She had too much pride to beg anyone for anything!
No, she would stay exactly where she was, proudly refusing to show how much he hurt her.
It would be hell on earth!
She hugged Junia swiftly, got to her feet and, after waving goodbye to the children and wishing them a happy Christmas, left the nursery to go and find Lord Bridgemere.
She was going to tell him she could not marry him. The prospect of living like that was too dreadful.
Chapter Eleven
For a man who wanted an answer to his proposal before nighttime he was being extremely elusive. But at length, just before dinner, she ran him to ground in his study.
‘Please take a seat,’ he said, when she hesitated just inside the doorway, her heart in her mouth. He was dressed for dinner, as was she by now. His face was shuttered. He had never looked more unapproachable.
She took a seat. She bowed her head. She was on the verge of tears. Was she doing the right thing? Was she walking away from what could be her heart’s desire?
No. She swallowed down an incipient sob. The vision she’d had of marriage to Lord Bridgemere had convinced her he would utterly destroy her. This brief interview would be painful, but at least all her memories of him would be good ones. She would not grow bitter with resentment. Turn into a shrew that no man could like, never mind love.
She took a deep breath, raised her head and looked at him.
‘I am conscious you have paid me a great compliment by asking me to marry you,’ she began, using the phrases she had rehearsed so many times in her head. ‘I am flattered by your proposal. But on reflection I am afraid that I m…must…’ Oh, no! She could not burst into tears. How undignified that would be. She took another deep breath, clenching her hands into fists on her lap. ‘I am sorry, but I c…cannot m…marry you.’
There! She had done it.
Oh, God. It felt as though her heart was going to break. It hurt to breathe.
‘I see.’ For a moment he looked completely blank. Then he frowned slightly at her, as though she were something of a puzzle, got to his feet and walked past her to the door. ‘There is no more to be said,’ he said tonelessly, opening the door. ‘I trust you enjoy the rest of your stay. I will make the necessary arrangements for your departure on the twenty-seventh.’
He made a gesture with his arm to indicate she should leave.
And she no longer felt as though she might burst into tears.
She had suspected that he would simply shrug and get on with his life if she refused him. And just look at him! That was exactly what he was doing. Calmly ordering her from his study—from his life.
Oh, how right she had been to refuse him.
She leapt from the chair and stalked past him, her head held high. Since he was holding the door open for her he did not even afford her the satisfaction of slamming it in his face.
She was halfway along the corridor before the breath got stuck behind the hard lump of misery in her chest and she had to sit down swiftly on one of the chairs that were ranged along the walls. Oh, what a fool she was! She knew she had made the right choice, to avoid exposing herself to a lifetime of pain, and yet it still hurt.
She suspected it would hurt for quite some time.
But in the distance she heard the dinner gong sound, and knew she must somehow put on a brave face and go and find her Aunt Bella. If she did not turn up for dinner, her aunt would worry about her and demand to know what was wr
ong with her. And she did not feel up to speaking about it. Not even with her.
This cut too deep. And somehow she did not think Aunt Bella would understand. She had never had any time for men. She might applaud Helen’s decision to reject a proposal of marriage, but it was highly unlikely she would understand the pain it had caused her to do it.
She paused just inside the doorway of the blue saloon, wondering how on earth she would survive another evening closed in with Lord Bridgemere’s extended family.
One or two glanced her way, before turning away abruptly in dismissal. Aunt Bella smiled vaguely in her direction, but she was deeply engrossed in conversation with her friend Lady Norton.
Helen had never felt so alone. So utterly, hopelessly lost.
And then Reverend Mullen approached her. ‘Good evening,’ he said with a friendly smile. ‘I have the honour to escort you in to dine tonight,’ he said, taking her by the arm and drawing her into the room. ‘And may I say what a pleasure it will be to have a like-minded person with whom to converse…’
In a daze, she watched his mouth moving as he no doubt said a lot of very kind things to her. But Lord Bridgemere had just at that moment entered by the far door, and he was walking across the room. Nobody else existed.
He looked, she thought on a fresh wave of misery, just as he always did. Calm, controlled. Perhaps just slightly irritated. Just very slightly.
As he might have been by any minor setback that had occurred during the course of his busy day.
Nobody, but nobody, would be able to tell from his demeanour that he was a spurned suitor.
But then he was not. He had not courted her as a suitor would a woman he cared for deeply. He must have proposed to her on some kind of a whim!
‘I say, Miss Forrest, are you quite well?’ The Reverend Mullen’s voice swam to the forefront of her consciousness briefly. She saw his concerned face, peering intently at her.
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