An Improper Companion

by April Kihlstrom

  “Yes, my lady,” she said, her eyes wide. “Shall I undress you? No? Shall I bring you some tea?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Ellen rang for tea and then undid my hair so that it fell in waves about my shoulders. When the tea arrived, a moment later, I dismissed both girls, saying I should ring when the tray was to be taken away. The cook had provided a few pastries I was particularly fond of, but I had little appetite for them. After a time, I turned from the table to look out the window. I could see some distance from there and the land was green and healthy. Had matters been different ... But they were not. I was shackled to Leslie, yet not truly his wife, and not wanting to be. And I could never have children, Babies such as Jenny’s. Silently I began to cry. Then it grew stronger and I began to sob helplessly as unhappiness washed over me. And in that moment came a knock at the door. “Heather?” Philip’s voice called.

  “Go away!” I sobbed.

  But he would not, and the door opened and he strode quickly to me. “Heather, Heather, what’s wrong?” I could only cry. His arms encircled me, “Please, Heather, don’t cry. Whatever it is, I’ll help you. Please, Heather, I love you!”

  And then he kissed me. And, God help me, I did not fight him. In that moment, all that mattered was that someone loved me. Suddenly I was standing alone. I looked up at Philip, then followed his gaze to the door. Leslie! I sank into the nearest chair, my face chalk white. Leslie took two steps forward. Philip was trembling, but his chin was thrust out in determination. It seemed an eternity before Leslie spoke, and when he did, his words came as though from far away. “Philip! I shall speak with you in the library shortly. Please go—”

  “No. I won’t leave Heather.”

  “Please, Philip,” I heard myself say, “go.”

  He looked at me a moment and saw the plea in my eyes, for he left. Then Leslie slowly closed the door. “So,” he said softly, as he advanced on me, “I was wrong. Mary said Philip had come up here, but I believed it to be in harmless sympathy. My God, how wrong I was!”

  “It was harmless!” I cried.

  “Harmless!” His anger exploded. “Pray, tell me, madam. Do you always receive men with your hair down? Do you always encourage men to kiss you? And don’t try to say you were resisting, for I saw you! God, how wrong I was about you! I thought I had to marry you to save your honour. What a fool I was! You are no better than a common slut! You don’t even provide what you have been paid for. Were you a virgin, I wonder? Or was it a chicken’s blood in the bed?” Under the fury of his attack, I was incapable of speech. Leslie took my silence for guilt. He advanced closer and grabbing my wrist, dragged me to my feet. “If you must have kisses,” he said savagely, “why not mine?”

  And then his mouth was on mine, bruising with its strength. I struggled, but one arm held me firm as the other hand tore at the front of my dress. I was crying, terrified, when suddenly he threw me to the bed. “God damn you!” he swore, and was gone.

  I lay, shocked, on the bed. And after a while, I began to cry again. When I could cry no more, I got to my feet and tried to close my dress. But my fingers were too clumsy, and finally I removed it. Trembling, I forced myself to put it away and choose a wrapper. Then I began to pace. If I had felt despair earlier, I felt it threefold now. I had, perhaps, destroyed Philip’s relationship with Leslie as well as my own marriage. For there was no doubt that Leslie hated me now.

  Hated me and regretted his marriage. It had not been worth it, the kiss. As I paced I knew I could not stay. I must escape. Today. No, tonight. But I must also be careful. Leslie would put paid to my plans if he knew. I must think. What would seem normal? I could not face the family. But that was all right. Mary thought me ill and Leslie and Philip would not question my decision to remain in my room. But the servants, also, must not become suspicious. Well, Ellen already knew I felt ill. I turned to the tea tray where the pastries still rested untouched. I forced myself to sit and eat them. I should need all my strength tonight. When I had done, I rang for Ellen and a maid to clear away the tray. I told Ellen that I had the headache and that I should like the day’s meals in my room.

  “Yes, my lady,” she replied in sympathy. “You’ll become quite thin if you don’t take care.”

  I smiled. “Thank you, Ellen. That will be all.”

  Then I packed. I still had the bag I had left Mrs. Gilwen’s school with, and in it I placed a few things. Not many. I would have left all behind, if I could, but I was not so imprudent. Soon I was finished and quickly I hid the bag, afraid someone would enter and see it. It was necessary, somehow, to fill the time until the hour of my escape. In my nervousness I could not read, and I paced. Then my eyes fell on the journal I had begun. I spent the next several hours writing much of this account.

  As I expected, no one came to chide me for my absence downstairs. But the hardest time for me was when Ellen came to put me to bed. I dared not alter my routine, so I had to sit patiently as she plaited my hair and helped me undress. Finally, I was in bed with a book, and she tiptoed away. Hurriedly I bolted the door, as was my habit. An hour, no more, to wait. Then I must attempt it. Twice, footsteps paused outside my door. And twice they went away. I dressed quickly. Mentally I had already composed my farewell letters, and now I wrote them. First to Mary.

  Dearest Lady Mary,

  Circumstances make it impossible for me to remain here. You have been kind enough to offer me aid and shelter, but I fear I cannot accept. The proximity to Philip would be unwise. I thank you for all your kindness and hope that now and then you will think of me with fondness.

  Heather

  It was more curt than I should have liked, but I was too distraught to write better. Next I determined to make an end to the confusion with Philip. No lies now, but the truth.

  Dear Philip,

  Circumstances make it impossible for me to remain here. But I wish also for you to understand how I feel. I do not love you, Philip, nor could I ever love you save as a brother or nephew. You will wonder at this morning, and I can only say that it is but now that I understand myself. I thank you for your championship of my cause, but too late I see it was something only Leslie and I could have resolved. You will perhaps believe I write so because I am Leslie’s wife. I tell you now that Leslie’s wife or no, I could not love you. Make peace with your uncle, if you can, and try not to hate me.

  Heather

  That should be sufficiently final, I thought. But one letter left and that the hardest one. For what could I write to this man who was my husband? I forced myself to begin.

  Leslie,

  I am leaving. You must see that this marriage is impossible. I am sorry to sneak away, but otherwise you would not let me go. I do not know the precise nature of the law, but I am sure you can find a means to end our marriage. You will then be free to find a wife who would love you and could give you heirs. I am taking the guineas you gave me because I must, but I shall repay you as soon as I am able.

  I know that you must hate me, and I wish it had not been so. But we were never suited. I would not have you deceived about this morning, however. I am not leaving you to join Philip. I have written him, also, explaining that I do not love him, nor desire his attentions. I beg of you to make peace with him, for I would not have such a breach on my conscience also.

  Good-bye, Leslie. Had matters been otherwise, I think I might have loved you.

  Heather

  I sealed the letter quickly before I could change my mind, and set it with the others. It was late and I determined to delay no longer. I had my reticule and the bag with my clothes and my journal. I needed to travel light, for I should have to walk to the village. Not daring to take a candle, I set my keys beside the letters and resolutely stepped into the darkness. My footsteps seemed to echo loudly, but no one came to challenge me. And then I was outside and I ran, needing to be away from there. I ran until, exhausted, I had to stop, my breath coming in painful gasps.-And tears began to run down my cheeks. I walked, then. I had no n
otion of how far I must travel, and after a time, I grew weary. Right foot. Left foot. I must not pause. At last, sometime after midnight, I reached the inn. Mike, the fellow I had met the night I arrived, weeks before, was there alone. “Aye?” he said curtly when he saw me.

  “Mike?” my voice trembled.

  “Lady Kinwell?” he whispered. “Ye are Lady Kinwell, are ye not?” I nodded. “What the divil are ye doing here?”

  “Mike, I need help,” I said. “I need to get to London. I’ve money, but I must be on the first coach through. I must be away by morning.”

  “There, there, child,” he said soothingly. “Of course I’ll help ye. And put ye on the mail to London if ye are determined. But ye must not stay here, now. My wife will give ye a cup of tea. Come along, child.”

  Gently he took my bag and led me to the kitchen of the inn. His wife stood as we entered, her eyes sharp on my face. “Well?” she asked Mike.

  “ ’Tis Lady Kinwell, run away,” he said. “I’ve said I’ll help her te London. But it be hours before the mail coach. She could use a cup of tea, love.”

  But the last words were unnecessary, for she was already setting the kettle to boil and bringing out cups and the tea. She pointed to a chair, but did not speak until the tea was ready. It was only then I noticed she had put out but two cups. “Mike” I asked, realising he was gone.

  “On watch, Lady Kinwell. We’ve a horse ill.”

  “Please call me Heather,” I said, “the other sounds so strange.”

  She nodded. “Mike said ye’d not be happy at the castle. I see it, too. But we thought, when we heard of yer wedding, that Mike’d been wrong.”

  “It was not of my choosing, the marriage,” I admitted. “Still, I think all might have been well had I not been such a green girl.”

  She nodded again. “ Tis often so. And to be a wife in the castle is different than ... other posts there. Are ye sure, child, ye cannot go back? Begin again? I know yer not lacking in courage. And most ways Sir Leslie is a gentle man.”

  I stared at her. “I am sure. I can never go back.”

  She sucked in her breath at my tone. “Has he acted so badly? Offended se deeply?”

  “It is I who have acted badly,” I sighed. “I who have offended.”

  “What will ye do?”

  “Find a position, perhaps abroad. I’ve told Sir Leslie to annul our marriage, and I’m not afraid of hard work,” I answered. She looked at me and I knew she was troubled. “Promise you won’t tell Sir Leslie, or anyone else, what you know,” I said.

  She hesitated, then with a sigh nodded. “I promise.”

  Our talk became strained then, as we pretended it was the most ordinary of conversations. We talked about Leslie, Mary, Philip, and even my father. After a time, however, we ceased to speak. I rested my head on my arms and slept until Mike came to put me on the coach at dawn. “Good luck, lass,” he said.

  I suppose I slept a little on the coach, but it was not enough and I arrived early Monday afternoon in London, feeling very tired. But I had already made my plans ... I would go to Mademoiselle Suzette. How different my return to London was from my departure. Then, I had been sure of myself. Now, I felt unalterably cast down. Then, I had been poor, but with a position, albeit no family. Now, I had a father, husband, and a little money. But no position. My father was of no use, for he would but send me back to the husband I sought to escape. The money was only borrowed and, in any case, meagre. Which woman had been more fortunate? I could not say.

  I soon discovered I had gained something else in my short marriage: poise. I was incapable of walking to Mademoiselle Suzette’s establishment, even had I known how to find it. So I determined to go by hack. There was no question in the coachman’s eyes as he handed me in and, later, out of the carriage, as there would have been but six weeks before. Nor did Dragon question my demand to speak privately with Mademoiselle Suzette. Indeed, she did not recognise me, and her first action was to glance at my left hand. I was glad, then, that I had not yielded to impulse and left my wedding ring behind. Already it was providing a shield. And I toyed with the idea of posing as a widow. But no, at my age, that would scarcely be convincing. And then, suddenly, I was facing Mademoiselle Suzette. She recognised me at once, and the expression on my face. “Mon dieu!” she exclaimed. “Prudence, leave us.” She waited until Dragon had gone, then said, “Well?”

  “You said I could come to you for aid,” I began to chatter. “I didn’t know where else to go. I have left Leslie. Forever. You must know we were married. It was against my will. It was impossible. And now he hates me. And I cannot live with him. He found me with his nephew...”

  “With his nephew?” Mademoiselle Suzette was shocked. “In bed?”

  “No, no!” I said hastily. “He was kissing me. We were dressed. But my hair was down...”

  She smiled. “Well, if that is all ... tiens, he must simply send away the nephew. And perhaps bed you more often.”

  “He beds me not at all!” I said before I could stop myself. We stared at each other in shock. I was horrified at my failure to guard my tongue and she at the revelation. At last she spoke. “Mon Dieu! This is very bad. I think you had better tell me all of it.”

  So I did, omitting nothing, for I knew she was discreet. When I had done, she was silent for a moment, then said, “Tiens, I do not wonder you have not gone to your father for aid.” She paused and asked shrewdly, “You have not eaten, have you?”

  I signified I had not, and she ordered a tray for me. We were both silent, both thoughtful, until it came. I began to feel safe. I knew Leslie well. He would be searching methodically about the castle and grounds for me. Then he would ask in town if I had been seen. Finally, Leslie would try to discover if I had left by mail or post, but I knew Mike would not betray me. I should have two days or more before he would conclude I could only have gone to London. Even then he could not know I had gone to Mademoiselle Suzette. He would come here, but not for two or three days after that. By then I should be gone. Yes, I was safe. When I had done eating, Mademoiselle asked, “What will you do?”

  I spoke carefully. “I cannot stay in England. Leslie would find me if I did, and it would be difficult to find a position. I thought to go to France. Surely there are families who would be glad of a governess who might teach their children English. Or perhaps, I might teach in a school for young ladies.”

  She tilted her head. “You are very sure. And what do you wish of me?”

  “Help in finding such a position. As a modiste in France, you must have known many good families.”

  She smiled sadly, “Tiens, child, you ask much. There have been many changes since I left France; many families have lost their fortunes.”

  I was worried, but persisted. “The schools, perhaps, have not changed so much ... and you could give me a reference, could you not?” Desperately I added, “I would even be a seamstress for a good modiste!”

  “Child, I wish I could help you,” she sighed. “But you must understand. In France, I was not a modiste. That is a lie I have used here. In France I was a femme de chambre and I left with the son of the house. He established me here. Of the families I know, my reference would ruin you.” I stared at her in dismay, and Mademoiselle Suzette hastened to reassure me. “Mon Dieu, child, do not to cry. I will help you. But you must to have patience.”

  Somehow her odd English, in that moment, was very reassuring. And with no protest, I allowed myself to be put to bed. This time she put me in the guest room. I was soon asleep.

  I woke slowly, puzzled at the strangeness of the room. Then I remembered. I was out of bed quickly and began pacing, trying to form new plans. Mademoiselle Suzette had said she would help me, but perhaps it would be best not to rely on her entirely. By teatime I had achieved no more than to decide to go to France alone, without references, if need be. Lady Kinwell could always write one, after all. Mademoiselle took tea with me and again counselled patience. She was very curious about my life as Lady Ki
nwell, and I answered her questions in much detail. At one point she said, “Tiens, you do not hate him, then?”

  “Only because he ravished me,” I said frankly.

  “Oh, mon Dieu, that is nothing! So many women are ravished on their wedding night! Sir Leslie was only hasty.”

  “It is everything to me,” I said coldly, “this hastiness.”

  “Could you not begin again?” she asked.

  I shook my head vehemently. “Anyway, he does not want me, now.”

  After a time, she left. I was alone that evening, for Mademoiselle Suzette felt it best I not be seen. And she would not let me aid with the needlework this time, so perforce I had to think. To my surprise, I found I missed my chamber at the castle, with Ellen and my books and the little things I had come to think of as my own. And Leslie. Above all, Leslie. Resolutely, however, I prepared for bed and extinguished the candle. I lay in the darkness, vainly willing myself to sleep. The first light of morning had appeared before I succeeded. And it was noon before I woke to find Mademoiselle Suzette setting a tray on the table. She regarded me carefully, but shrewdly said nothing. And to my questions, she only would reply, “Have patience, chérie.”

  That day was the longest I had yet known, and in desperation, I at last turned to the books that filled a small bookcase in my room. It was good practice for my French. Though it was difficult to keep my thoughts on what I read, I forced myself, with the sense of one accomplishing something worthwhile. I saw Mademoiselle but briefly, as there were many important clients that day. Yet I was not concerned, for she said she had determined on a plan, though she would not say what it was. I sought my bed early, for want of aught else to do. But sleep was as elusive as the night before. And, senselessly, I cried. My thoughts were many, but all tangled as a spider’s web. I slept not at all and, at dawn, rose to write. It was sometime later when someone opened my door. Knowing it was Mademoiselle Suzette, or her maid, I did not turn at once as I said, “Come in.”