Helen nodded. “I’d better telephone Tony first.”
“I’ve laid a fire in your grate, sir,” Sarah said. “It’s chilly tonight.”
Helen rang Wellmore, telling Tony that while Evelyn still remained unconscious she felt she should remain at Holdston. While not exactly a lie, she still felt guilty about misleading him.
Upstairs in his room, Paul switched on his light and indicated the grate. “Can you manage the fire, Helen? I’ll pour us both a brandy. God knows we’ve earned it.”
Helen set the match to the kindling and sat back on her haunches, taking the proffered glass from Paul. He wandered over to his table, picked up the small leather bound book, and flicked through the pages to find the right spot.
Helen stared at him.
“That’s it!”
He looked up in surprise. “What is?”
“The thing that was missing from her bag. Her diary! She would never have left her diary.”
Paul looked down at the book in his hand.
“She wrote her last entry and secreted it back among her books, intending to return to it,” Helen continued. “Even if she didn’t intend to take it, she would have destroyed it, not left it in her room for anyone to find.”
“Anyone with a desire to read a commentary on one of the Saints,” Paul remarked drily. “Maybe she just forgot it? As you say, she packed in a hurry.”
Helen walked over to the table and took the book from him. “No, it would have been the first thing she packed.”
He took it back from her. “If you want me to finish it, I had better get on with it.”
Helen picked up the other book that sat on his table. “Is this your copy of Homer?” She flicked open to the first page and gasped. “This was Robert’s!”
He nodded. “It was a birthday present from my uncle.”
Helen turned the pages. “Where’s your translation?”
He handed her a bound notebook, the leather cover stained and creased. “Excuse its appearance. I had it with me when...I’m afraid some of the stains may be blood. I did try and clean it.”
Helen traced the dark stains on the cover. The price Paul had paid for his life.
“This is what you worked on in the trenches?”
“War is ten percent terror and ninety percent sheer boredom. Homer filled the boredom more than adequately.” He smiled. “I hope you can read my writing. It may be a bit shaky in bits. It’s hard to write when the shells are falling around you.”
Helen poured them both another brandy and settled down in the large chair by the crackling fire, and opened Paul’s notebook. He wrote in pencil, his hand firm and sure despite the conditions under which he had been working.
Taking a sip of brandy she abandoned herself to the conversations of the gods as they decide Troy’s fate. Another futile war in another time. Paul’s translation moved in a gentle rhythm, capturing the grace and beauty of the prose. “Paul, this is wonderful,” Helen said. “Are you going to have it published?”
He looked up and shook his head. “I’m glad you like it, Helen, but I don’t suppose I’ll ever finish it.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged. “It was a means to an end and I think, maybe, I’ve reached the end. Like Odysseus’ Penelope it is time to put the past away and concentrate on the present. Now let me finish this.”
* * * *
The clock on the mantelpiece showed nearly midnight before Paul straightened and pushed back his chair with a scraping noise that woke Helen, who had been dozing in the chair.
She sat up with a start. “Finished?”
Paul stretched, easing his left shoulder with a wince. Drawing a deep breath, he gathered up the papers on his desk. “I think we have our answer.”
She looked at him, fully awake and her eyes bright with curiosity. “Do we?”
“You read it and tell me what you think?”
He handed her the papers and she read aloud:
“September 9: Last evening Robert called me to sit with him before the fire. I took a seat and picked up a piece of needlework. ‘Put it down, Anna and come sit with me,” he said. ‘I have done you a great wrong and caused you great hurt.’ I did as he bid and he placed his hand on my shoulder. ‘Anna,’ he said softly. ‘I seek your forgiveness for what passed between us. I have been to hell and I hope my feet are now turned back on a path of righteousness.’
“ ‘What do you mean?’ asked I, seeing a new pain in his face. He buried his head in his hands and began to weep. ‘Ah Anna, such sights as no man should see...’
“ ‘You must not talk of it,’ I said, remembering Lady Morrow’s edict. He looked up at me. ‘Please let me talk,’ he said. ‘I must unburden myself.’ I took his hand and kissed it. ‘Then talk, if you must.’ And talk he did, until the small hours of the morning, of his time in Spain. Of the friends he had seen killed and of that fateful day before Badajoz. His tales were horrific and I began to understand the anger within him, the frustration of a man burdened with a terrible pain that those he loves cannot share. After a while the words ceased to have meaning, I watched just his face and his eyes, seeing for the first time since his return a certain peace and the shadow of the man I had once loved. When he was spent, he slept in his chair. I covered him with a blanket and stole away to my bed to toss sleepless with indecision.”
Helen looked up at Paul and he saw the empathy in her eyes. It would have taken enormous trust on Robert’s part to talk to her of his time in Spain. Helen understood that, just as she understood why Paul would never talk about what had passed between himself and Charlie in no man’s land.
“Go on,” he said.
“September 10: Last night I went to my husband. As I slipped into the bed beside him, he took me in his arms and held me close. We did not make love, just lay together in silence. He slept fitfully. His leg bothers him again and I was most concerned not to cause him more pain or distress. As the first light of the day began to break, he awoke and kissed me. At his direction we made love and when we were done, he wept, kissing my hair and calling me his ‘dearest.’ When I left him I called the maid for a bath. I lay in its steamy depths and wept as if my heart would break.
“Robert rose and dressed for breakfast and spent the day with us, laughing and teaching his son to play chess. In the evening, he insisted on taking a walk in the garden with his mother. My fear that it would overtax him has come to pass and tonight he seems tired and feverish.
“September 11: Robert is grievous ill. His exertions of the previous day have quite overdone his fragile strength. The doctor has attended and bled him. He says the wound in his leg has reopened and must be attended to. I fear this setback will mean Robert will once more be bedridden for the next few weeks. I sat with him in the afternoon and read to him from a most amusing novel by ‘A Lady’ called Sense and Sensibility which I obtained while I was in London. It was quite the talk of the salons. Her observation of life in country society are unerringly accurate and quite biting in their comment. Lady Morrow would disapprove, I am sure but it was nice to see him smile though he is so weak and in such great pain. He reached out a hand across the bedclothes and encircled mine, once more beseeching my forgiveness for the cruel way he has treated me these past weeks.”
Helen stared at the paper in her hand. “Robert was bound to his bed,” she said, looking up at Paul. “He could not have physically stopped Suzanna leaving.”
Paul nodded and she continued.
“September 12: It lacks but an hour until the appointed time when I am to flee with S. He will be waiting for me at the churchyard with a coach and our passage for Port Jackson. All that is left is for me to pack a portmanteau and slip away. In doing so I leave behind my two children and a husband that I see now loves me beyond measure and needs me. If I leave it will destroy him utterly. If I stay, what passed between us cannot be undone but it can be forgiven. What appeared such a simple decision but a few days previously now presents itself entirely differently.
If I do leave, my husband and my children will be disgraced and I shall spend my life looking over my shoulder wondering when we shall encounter someone who knows us, knows our past and all the hurt and anguish I will have caused will be revealed. My clock has chimed twelve. My mind is certain. My decision sure. It is time to close this book and put it safely to one side and pen a note which I will leave safely with the first baronet. When I do not appear as arranged, S will know to look there. What I will do tonight will be for the best of reasons - for love of a man and that man is my husband.”
Helen looked up at Paul, her eyes misting with tears.
“You were right, Helen,” he said. “She was not going to leave him and Robert could not have been the murderer.”
“So what happened?” Helen frowned.
“She left her room, in her day clothes as you observed,” Paul said thoughtfully.
“She reached the library, opened the secret door and then...” Helen continued
“Go back,” Paul said. “Retrace her steps. She slept in the green bedroom. To reach the library she had to pass this room.”
“Where Robert slept?”
“Robert, who was grievously ill and incapacitated with his bad leg. As you said, even if he had heard her, I can tell you from experience he would have been in no position to follow her, let alone do her any harm.”
“She would have had to pass Lady Morrow’s bedchamber, your mother’s room.” Helen looked up at him, her eyes wide. “Cecilia. We have forgotten about Lady Morrow. Her room was above the library. Suzanna would have had to go past her door and down the stairs and then open the secret door. If Cecilia was still awake she would have heard everything.”
“But why not before?”
“Because Suzanna’s trysts were during the day or at times when Cecilia was otherwise occupied and Suzanna was thought to be ensconced in the library or on some other errand. It makes sense now. Can’t you see, Paul?” Helen felt the excitement rising.
Paul frowned. “If Cecilia heard her go past, she could have followed her down the stairs and–”
“Paul. Cecilia is our vengeful spirit who didn’t want the truth revealed. She heard Suzanna go past.” Helen’s hand went to her wrist. “Did she try to stop her? In the struggle did Suzanna fall down the stairs or was she pushed?” She frowned. “I would like to give her the benefit of the doubt, but I think the evidence points to her pushing Suzanna down the stairs.”
“Do you remember if any of her bones were broken?”
Helen frowned. “She had a broken femur but I put that down to her falling off the ladder and then not being able to climb back up again.”
Paul’s lips tightened. “What if Suzanna fell down the stairs and broke her leg. As she lay on the floor, Cecilia picked up the poker from the fireplace and finished off her troublesome daughter-in-law with one quick blow to the head.”
Helen’s brow creased. “Oh Paul, how awful but it makes sense. Then all she had to do was dispose of the body down the hole and go to Suzanna’s bedchamber, pack her bag with what she thought an absconding wife would take with her and throw the valise down after her. She closed the wall up and went back to bed with no one being any the wiser. Only she missed the diary.”
“Cecilia may have had her suspicions about Suzanna and Stephenson for some time,” Paul observed. “Remember, she says in a letter that ‘there have been rumors’ about her daughter-in-law.”
“More than that. She’d disapproved of the marriage to Robert from the first. Suzanna’s flighty behavior only confirmed her worst fears. And Robert? Poor Robert who loved her? Did Cecilia think that by getting rid of Suzanna all would be well with her son?”
“I am sure she did,” Paul said. “But she didn’t understand what Robert had been through in Spain, the things he had seen, what he had suffered.”
Helen continued. “She didn’t understand and wouldn’t even try. Robert had come back from the Spanish Peninsula every bit as shell shocked as any soldier from the Great War.”
“And then to believe he had been abandoned by his wife, little wonder he took his own life,” Paul concluded.
“So Cecilia lost her son after all,” Helen said. “How sad.”
Paul refilled his glass and joined Helen beside the fire, taking the seat across from her. They sat in silence staring at the dancing flames and the glowing coals. Helen’s thoughts were of Paul and Charlie and how little difference there had been between their experiences and that long distant war that had sent the wounded and damaged Robert Morrow back home.
The clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour jerking her out of her reverie. “Look at the time. I should go to bed.”
As she stood, he rose from his chair and took a step to her, putting a hand on her arm. “Don’t go, Helen. Stay with me tonight.”
Chapter 29
Paul saw the conflicting emotions in her face as she looked up at him: Tony, propriety, respectability, reputation...
He didn’t care about any of those things any more. He knew only one thing, he loved Helen and unless he had completely misread her, she loved him too.
He gently tightened his grip on her arm and pulled her to him. “I’m tired of doing the right thing,” he said. “Helen, I know I’m not Charlie, but...”
“No.” Her eyes widened and she placed her hands on either side of his face, forcing him to look into her eyes. “And I wouldn’t want you to be. I love you for who you are, Paul Morrow.”
The word lay between them. Such a simple word–love–and yet responsible for so much unhappiness in this house alone.
The gray eyes brimmed with tears as she said, “I love you. I have loved you for a long time and I want to stay with you tonight. When I’m in your arms, I feel like I have come home to the place I belong.”
He put his arms around her and bent his head to kiss her, gentle at first, testing her resolve. They had kissed before but always stolen, guilty, desperate gestures of an unacknowledged affection. Now her body responded, melting against him as his hands rose to her shoulders, running down her arms. So slender, so delicate and yet he could feel the strength that came from a life lived in the Australian bush.
He pushed back the sleeves of her cardigan, kissing the inside of her wrists. Helen threw back her head as his lips moved to her throat, finding the soft hollow at the base of her throat. He lifted her in his arms, ignoring the grumbling from his shoulder and carried her into the bedroom.
He lay her down on the bed and turned out the light, leaving only the soft glow from the fire in the sitting room, illuminating the bed in a soft, golden light. She slipped her arms around his neck bringing his face down to hers and they kissed again.
The physical desire for her threatened to overwhelm him but he wanted so much more from this moment then just carnal gratification. He wanted this woman, body and soul. His hand brushed her chest and she caught it, placing it on her breast. Even through the layers of shirt, shift and brassiere, he could feel her nipple, hard and erect.
He groaned and she pulled off her cardigan, fumbling with the buttons of her blouse. He lowered his mouth to her nipple, his tongue circled the areola as his spare hand navigated her skirt, finding the top of her stocking. When he touched the bare flesh of her inner thigh, she threw her head back, grinding her hips against him, her fingers tearing at his shirt buttons and belt. In a complicated burlesque, they divested each other of their clothing, pausing after each layer fell away to explore what had been hidden.
Even in the dim light, her slight but hard body delighted him, her breasts surprisingly full against her slender chest. He kissed each one in turn, teasing the nipples with his tongue as she arched against him. He slid his hand between her legs, determined to share his pleasure with her, and saw her eyes open as he entered her, sliding inside her as if she had been waiting for him all her life.
They moved together in perfect unison, Helen’s fingernails raking his back. She cried out as he brought them both to climax. He gathered her closer
in his arms, determined not to pull away from her, marveling at how two people could become one.
He felt her fingers in his hair as she turned his face to her and even in the dim light he could see the wonder in her face. He sighed and fell away from her, drawing her into him, curling himself around her. They slept for a little while, waking in the dark hours of the night to take each other again. This time the urgency had passed and they could allow a languid, sensuous lovemaking.
Paul rolled over and switched on the bedside light. He propped himself up on an elbow and looked down at her. She reached up and touched his face and he turned his head so her fingers rested on his mouth. He held them there, kissing each one in turn.
“I should go to my own bed,” Helen said in a drowsy voice. “Annie will notice if it’s not been slept in.”
“To hell with Annie and everyone else,” Paul said, his gaze not leaving Helen’s face. “Stay with me, Helen.”
She closed her eyes and he saw a tear slide from beneath her lashes. “Paul, this is all wrong. I’m betrothed to another man.”
“But you’re not in love with him.”
“No,” she conceded. “But I don’t want to hurt him.”
He slid his hand behind her neck, pulling her down beside him, cradling her head in his shoulder. “If you marry him, Helen, you will cause him far more pain.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re not happy now and as the years go by, your unhappiness will make him unhappy and you will end up hating each other.”
“You seem very sure.”
“I am,” he said. “I’ve seen it before.”
She turned her head away to hide the tears that had begun to seep from beneath her eyes.
“And if I break the engagement, what then, Paul? Will you be there?”
His lips brushed her hair. “Always,” he whispered. “I love you, Helen. I want you with me forever. You’re my soul mate, my healer. I can’t let you go now.”
She turned to look at him,
“I thought I had found my soul mate in Charlie,” she said, “but I have been gifted another chance. I can’t leave you, Paul.”
Gather the Bones Page 29