“No, not her death, but…it’s such a moving story.” She glanced up at him, her bonnet ribbons blowing in the wind behind her like two silken streamers. “Don’t you think so, Mr. Thornhill?”
What he thought was that she looked damnably pretty at the moment. Was it too soon to tell her so? If theirs was a traditional courtship and betrothal, he wouldn’t have hesitated. But what were the rules when one became engaged through a matrimonial advertisement? And did those rules even apply anymore? After the crude way in which he’d addressed her at the King’s Arms, a soft word or a compliment would likely be as nothing to her. He’d already proven himself to be a vulgar, mannerless brute.
“Justin,” he said gruffly.
“I beg your pardon?”
“We’re engaged to be married, aren’t we? I see no reason why you must continue to call me Mr. Thornhill. My name is Justin. I give you leave to use it.”
“Oh.” Her voice was faint.
“What about you?” he pressed. “Or am I to address you as Miss Reynolds until we’ve solemnized our vows?”
“If that’s what you’d prefer.”
“I wouldn’t prefer it. I would dislike it intensely.”
She took a quiet breath. “Well, in that case, I suppose you’d better call me Helena.”
“Helena,” he repeated. He tightened his hands at his back. “We proceed apace.”
“Indeed. Everything is moving so quickly.”
“Isn’t that rather the point?”
She tugged at the fingers of one of her gloves, little agitated movements that expressed her disquiet more eloquently than words ever could. “Yes, but—”
“But?”
“It will take some adjustment, won’t it? No matter our intentions.” Her eyes found his. “You must be patient with me.”
“Of course. Always.”
His words seemed to reassure her a little, but Justin would have had to be a fool not to recognize the lingering doubt that shadowed her gaze. She didn’t trust him. Not yet. And he couldn’t entirely blame her. Thus far, he’d done little to earn her confidence. Quite the opposite. He’d been too sullen. Too volatile. It was all well and good when he was growling orders at Boothroyd, but if he wanted to win the regard of Helena Reynolds, he was going to have to do better.
He made an effort to collect his scattered thoughts. “We were discussing Mr. Dickens.”
“So we were.”
“The Old Curiosity Shop, I believe.”
“You were about to tell me you didn’t like it.”
“I didn’t dislike it.”
“But you didn’t find it as moving as I did.”
“As to that…” He raised an absent hand to rub the side of his jaw. “It was sentimental, certainly. If one enjoys that sort of thing.”
“Which you don’t, I take it.”
“I dislike suffering for no purpose. Pain and sacrifice should come to something in the end. It should have meaning.”
Helena nodded slowly, her expression thoughtful. “Yes, it should. But I’m not convinced it ever does. Not really.”
“You take a grim view.”
“I can only speak from my experience.”
Justin looked down at her, his gaze assessing. It was not in his nature to be sympathetic or consoling, but as he registered the fine lines of tension in Helena’s face, he felt the same inexplicable tug of protectiveness that had plagued him earlier at the inn. “You’ve been reading the wrong novels.”
She smiled. “Do you think so?”
“Yes. It won’t do, you know. If you’re not careful, you’ll read yourself straight into a black melancholy.”
“Good gracious. I hope you’re not one of those gentlemen who believe that a woman must restrict herself to improving books.”
“Not in the least.”
“What do you recommend, then?” she asked. “Farming manuals? Architectural journals?”
“Either would be better than maudlin tales of innocent creatures dying for no reason, but no. What you need is a steady diet of adventure stories and revenge plots. Suffering always has meaning in those types of books.”
“Is that what you read, sir?”
“When time allows. Which is not to say I don’t own a Dickens novel or two. I have a copy of David Copperfield in my library, and several other of his novels besides. You may read them whenever you wish—and add to the collection, too, as it pleases you.”
The glimmer of amusement faded from her eyes. “That’s very generous. Thank you.”
He acknowledged her thanks with an inclination of his head. She was close enough to him that he could feel the brush of her skirts against the leg of his trousers as they walked, could smell the faint scent of her perfume mingling in the salty sea air.
Was Helena as aware of him as he was of her? Somehow he doubted it. She was looking up at the clifftops again, her thoughts plainly elsewhere.
“Are there no other houses?” she asked after a time.
“Some. Cottages mostly. You won’t be able to see them from here. The only building you can see—though not very well—is just there.” He pointed to a faint outline in the distance.
She shielded her eyes with her hand. “What is it?”
“The church spire at Abbot’s Holcombe.”
“But it’s so close!” she exclaimed. “I thought you said it was thirteen miles away.”
“Only by road. From the clifftops and then by boat, it’s no distance at all.”
A worried frown worked its way across her brow as her gaze moved along the cliff face and then to the water below. The cliffs at Abbot’s Holcombe were some of the most dangerous in the district, only a smattering of rocky outcroppings breaking up what would have otherwise been a sheer, vertical drop into the sea.
“Is there a path down to the beach?” she asked. “Like the one from the Abbey?”
“Nothing so civilized as that. If one wants to reach the beach from the cliffs at Abbot’s Holcombe, one must climb down.”
“On the rocks? But no one could accomplish such a feat, surely. It’s far too steep.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “I have done it.”
“You?” She turned to look at him, her lips half-parted in astonishment.
Had they been conversing on any other subject, Justin might have been amused by her reaction. As it was, he couldn’t even muster a smile. “When I was a boy,” he said, “no more than nine or ten years of age, my friends and I must have made the climb once a week at least.”
“What in heaven’s name for?”
Justin looked up at the clifftops, his face a mask of carefully cultivated indifference. In his long quest to purchase the Abbey, he’d never once considered what it would be like to see the cliffs at Abbot’s Holcombe every day for the rest of his life. He’d never thought of how it would feel to be reminded. No. He’d been too consumed with thoughts of justice. Too intent on revenge.
He turned back to Helena. “Boys often do foolish things. When have any of them ever needed a reason?”
She shook her head. “I can’t believe your parents allowed it.”
“We had no parents.”
“No parents?” Her brow furrowed. “Do you mean to say that you…that you and your friends—”
“We were parish orphans,” Justin said with brutal frankness.
He hadn’t meant to tell her. Not yet. But there was no taking it back now. Nor why should he want to? It was who he was. An orphan. A bastard. Had Helena Reynolds been the plain working-class spinster he’d expected, he would have had no qualms about confessing it.
Instead she was a lady. A lovely, impeccably mannered lady. And despite Finchley’s assurances that the circumstances of his birth wouldn’t matter to her, Justin knew full well that there were not many ladies who would rejoice at the chan
ce to marry a man of dubious parentage. Not unless that man were in possession of a suitably large fortune—which he most assuredly was not.
He watched Helena’s face, waiting for the first flicker of revulsion to make its inevitable appearance.
“In Abbott’s Holcombe?” she asked.
He nodded, still waiting.
She gave him a long, searching look. “Is that why we loathe the place?”
We.
Justin’s chest expanded on an almost painful surge of emotion. He couldn’t tell if it was relief or—worse—if it was gratitude. All she’d said was we. It was hardly a declaration of undying affection, but to him, in that moment, it was everything. “Yes. That’s the reason.”
Helena turned her attention back toward the cliff face. “I’m amazed no one was ever hurt.”
He followed her gaze, frowning. “Someone was once. Another boy—a childhood friend of mine—slipped on the rocks and fell into the sea. He hit his head on the way down.”
“How awful.” Her eyes filled with ready sympathy. “Was he injured badly?”
“Yes. Quite badly. He’s not been himself since.” Justin cleared his throat. “Which is my fault, really. Everyone always said he’d follow me anywhere. And it was I who insisted on making the climb.”
“Oh, my dear,” she murmured.
His heart gave a desperate, pathetic lurch, believing for a single, fleeting instant that she had addressed him as my dear. That her soft, caressing undertone was meant for him. But she was merely lamenting the unhappy fate of some unknown boy.
Or perhaps not so unknown.
“Was it Neville?” she asked.
He nodded stiffly.
Helena looked away from him, turning her face back toward the sea. In the distance, white-capped waves rose to crash in the water, leaving nothing but foam to lap up against the sand. It came within an inch of wetting her boots.
Justin reached for her arm to guide her back onto dry ground, but there was no need. She sidestepped the water without his assistance. His hand fell, useless, back to his side.
“How very kind you are,” she said.
He started. It was the second time she’d referred to him as kind. “For employing Neville? Hardly. He’s not really even a servant. He chooses to work. Insists upon it, in fact.”
“He doesn’t wish to be idle.”
“Neville’s stubborn. He always has been. But I won’t complain. I’m lucky to have him. Anyone would be. He does the work of five men, all without complaint.”
“As I observed.” She looked back at him, the lush curve of her mouth hinting at a smile. “Does he often serve tea to your guests?”
Justin grimaced. “No, thank God.” Their tea had been the flavorless, watery residue of leaves on their fourth washing. Why Neville hadn’t used fresh tea from the canister, he didn’t know. He had his suspicions, of course. Suspicions which rested squarely on Boothroyd’s shoulders. “Neville prefers being out of doors.”
“He did seem rather uncomfortable inside the Abbey. I thought it was because of me.”
“He’s unaccustomed to seeing women about the place.”
“Your cook is a woman.”
“Mrs. Whitlock is a sixty-year-old tartar with silver hair and a penchant for cheap gin. Next to you, she may as well be a different species.”
“And happy to be so, I have no doubt,” Helena said. “There are advantages to being a sixty-year-old woman.”
“Are there indeed.”
“Of course.” She proceeded to enumerate them with the ease of someone who’d given the matter a great deal of thought. “Freedom. Independence. The ability to go where she likes and do what she likes. The ability to be as eccentric as she wishes.”
As Justin listened, he couldn’t help wondering how highly Helena valued her own independence. Very highly, he suspected. She’d mentioned something to that effect in the first letter she’d written him. He could still remember her words, her small even script flowing across the page, so unmistakably feminine:
I never intended to marry, but reversals of fortune have made it impossible for me to remain independent.
Marriage, it seemed, was a last resort for her. And a not entirely agreeable one at that.
“The only type of woman with more independence than an elderly woman,” she continued, “is a widow.”
“Quite so,” he agreed. “Though may I advise—if you are aspiring to widowhood—you consider marrying a man older than two and thirty?”
She gave him a reproving look. “I’m aspiring to nothing of the sort. I’m merely stating a fact. About your cook, I might add.”
“Your cook, too, in the very near future.”
Her color heightened. “Yes.”
They continued to walk side by side at the edge of the water. In a few short minutes, they’d have to return to the house. He’d have to bundle her into the coach with her temporary maid and send her back to the King’s Arms. And then…
And then, he’d have to wait.
But for how long? A few days? A few weeks while the banns were called? The prospect was grim, but Helena couldn’t very well remain at the Abbey. Not with half the villagers already believing him to be a ruthless, opportunistic monster. Acquiring a wife was supposed to help his reputation, not sink it further into the mire.
“You still haven’t answered my question,” he said.
Helena glanced back at him, puzzled. “What question?”
“About the things you will miss in London.”
“Oh, that.” She was quiet for several seconds, seeming to reflect on the matter with uncommon solemnity. “There was a place I enjoyed very much once. Though I can hardly pine for it. It isn’t even there anymore.” She brushed a stray ribbon away from her mouth as she explained, “The summer before my brother first went away with his regiment, he took me to the Crystal Palace.”
“The Crystal Palace?” The dazzling structure of cast iron and plate glass had been erected in Hyde Park in 1851 to house the Great Exhibition. It had been a chance for Britain to showcase itself as a leader in industrial technology and design—as well as to display the art and inventions of other nations. “The Great Exhibition was eight years ago.”
“Yes, I know that, but…it’s the only happy memory I have of London.”
Justin considered this with a slightly furrowed brow. He couldn’t articulate what it was about her statement that unsettled him so. She didn’t sound sad or self-pitying, merely matter-of-fact, as if she were commenting on the weather.
“Tell me,” he said.
She needed little prompting. “We wandered for hours. First to the Indian Court and then to see the exhibits from Turkey and China. My brother insisted on examining everything. We were like two children. It was all…” She searched for the right words. “Oh, I can’t describe it. It was all so marvelous. There was an elephant with grass in his trunk. And an Indian tent filled with rugs of crimson and gold. And then we filed along in a line of a hundred other people to see the largest diamond in the whole world.”
“The Koh-i-Noor.”
She looked up at him. “Have you seen it, Mr. Thornhill?”
“Justin,” he corrected. “And yes. I have. I visited the Crystal Palace that summer as well.”
Admission had been only a shilling, which had seemed to him a small price to pay to admire exhibits from all over the world. He remembered having spent a great deal of time in the machinery courts looking at the Harrison Power Loom and the cotton machinery of Hibbert, Platt, and Sons. However, no visit to the Crystal Palace would have been complete without a viewing of its most famous exhibit.
“When I saw it,” Helena said, “it was inside a gilded birdcage, illuminated by a ring of little gas jets. People were complaining it didn’t sparkle.”
“They were doing the same when I saw
it.” He gave her a wry smile. “Perhaps we were there at the same time?”
She seemed much struck by this idea. “Perhaps we were. Perhaps we were fated to meet again.”
“Do you believe in fate?”
“I don’t know.” Her lashes lowered. “I would like to believe in it.”
“It’s certainly a more romantic explanation for all of this than your having answered my matrimonial advertisement.”
He hadn’t said it to embarrass her, but judging by the color that rose in her face, it seemed he’d done so. He cursed himself for an insensitive brute. It was too soon to have mentioned romance in any case. Though why the devil he was mentioning it at all, he hadn’t the faintest idea. The whole purpose of a matrimonial advertisement was to meet and marry without the burden of wooing and courtship. That shouldn’t change simply because the woman who’d answered his advertisement was sweet and soft and pretty.
“Do you believe romance is necessary in an arrangement such as ours?” she asked.
“Necessary? No. I would say not.” He ran his hand along the back of his neck. “Then again, I’m no expert.”
Helena bent her head, the brim of her bonnet briefly shielding her face from his view. “What about friendship?”
He thought he detected a note of hopefulness in her voice, but couldn’t be certain. “Ah. Friendship, I suspect, is a different matter.”
“Then you think it necessary?”
“Not necessary, no, but without some degree of friendship, marriage wouldn’t be very comfortable, would it?”
“No, I suppose not,” she said. “And yet many gentlemen believe their wives are not their friends, but their inferiors. They treat them as children.”
“They want to protect them.”
She folded her arms at her waist. “I would that women could protect themselves.”
“As do I. But that’s not the world we live in.” Justin would have said more on the subject, but as they walked closer along the water’s edge, his attention was caught by a glint of glass sparkling in the wet sand. He bent to pick it up.
Helena approached, curious. “What is it?”
He gave the glass a quick polish on the sleeve of his frock coat. It shone a gleaming amber. “Sea glass,” he said as he stood. “Here. Open you hand.” When she obliged him, he placed the glass in the center of her palm. “This looks to be from a broken bottle. Probably French brandy smuggled in during the war with Napoleon.”
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