The Matrimonial Advertisement

by Mimi Matthews

  “Probably, but it’s less likely to have happened with an officer. Even less so for one sporting a title. Whoever reported her brother’s death would have had to recognize him.”

  “And his body?”

  Justin shook his head. He truly didn’t know. At that time, in that place, anything was possible. “It might have been burned on a pyre with the other dead. It might have been dismembered or left out in the sun to rot. Chances are there wasn’t enough left of him to send home to England.”

  “Then we must proceed on the assumption that Giles Reynolds, 6th Earl of Castleton is not coming back to save the day. Which means—”

  “Which means,” Justin said grimly, “I must prepare to fight an unwinnable legal battle with a member of the peerage.”

  “Not necessarily.” Finchley looked thoughtful. “There’s a chance—a very small chance—this battle won’t have to be fought in the courts.”

  Justin met Finchley’s eyes. A weighted look passed between them. An unspoken acknowledgement of all the untenable situations in their past that had been resolved through Finchley’s intellect and Justin’s daring. “What do you advise?” he asked.

  They spent the next thirty minutes talking. Or, rather, Finchley did the talking. Explaining the legal whys and wherefores, as Helena would have called them. He was so focused on the intricacies of his plan he didn’t notice the passing of the time until the little clock on the mantle delicately chimed the hour. At the sound of it, he looked up with a start.

  “Damnation, is that the time?”

  “Do you have somewhere else to be?”

  “No, but I was supposed to send for her shortly after you arrived.” Finchley grimaced. “It’s been a full hour. She’ll be thinking I’ve forgotten. Or worse, that I’ve decided to exclude her.”

  “Who the devil are you talking about?”

  “Miss Holloway. Haven’t I mentioned her?” Finchley moved to rise. “Blast it. You know how forgetful I am once I start discussing the law.”

  At that very instant, the parlor door opened. A woman stepped through. She was tall and slim, clad in a prim black day dress with a lace collar. Her thick hair was twisted into intricate plaits at the back of her head.

  Her thick auburn hair.

  Justin shot Finchley a sharp glance as the two of them stood. His friend had long had a weakness for auburn-haired females. Up until now, he’d never indulged it. As far as Justin knew, the only mistress Finchley had ever had was his work.

  “I beg your pardon,” she said to Finchley. “But I’ve been waiting for some time.”

  Justin regarded the woman with mild annoyance. He had urgent matters to discuss with Finchley and had no intention of discussing those matters in company. Least of all in the presence of the man’s mistress.

  But this woman didn’t sound like anyone’s mistress. Quite the opposite. Her words were brisk and businesslike, her voice as crisp as a fresh apple.

  Finchley crossed the room to meet her. “My apologies, ma’am. The hour got away from me.” He ushered her into the parlor. “Allow me to introduce my friend, Mr. Justin Thornhill.”

  The woman fixed Justin with an appraising stare. She appeared to take in his face, his frame, and his burns in one comprehensive, and rather cool, glance.

  Realization dawned slowly in Justin’s brain. “Ah,” he said. “You must be Jenny.”

  North Devon, England

  September, 1859

  Helena spent the next two days inside the Abbey with Mr. Boothroyd, Neville, and the housekeeper and cook. She had little to occupy herself with.

  Each morning, Mrs. Standish brought breakfast to her room on a tray. She built up the fire and drew the curtains.

  “This is a maidservant’s job,” she grumbled.

  Midmornings were spent pacing the house. Walking from stone-framed window to stone-framed window and gazing out across the drive, the stables, and the sea. She spent so much time walking the upper floors she felt as if she’d been transformed into one of the Abbey’s ghosts. A colorless wraith, silently roaming the halls.

  She wasn’t alone in her wanderings. Indeed, since Justin’s departure, she’d scarcely been alone for five minutes outside of her bedroom. Neville and the dogs followed after her wherever she went.

  On the second day, her impatience with the situation finally got the better of her. She stopped in the long gallery and turned to face Neville. “You needn’t stay with me,” she said. “I’m more than content to be on my own.”

  Neville reddened with embarrassment. “I have to. I promised Justin.”

  “That you would watch me?”

  He nodded. “Me, Paul, and Jonesy.”

  Helena cast a dubious glance at the two giant black dogs. They strolled along lazily in Neville’s wake, their tongues lolling out of their mouths. She wasn’t deceived by their languor. She’d seen them explode with energy on her first visit to the Abbey. And she knew firsthand how fearless they could be. The younger one—Paul—hadn’t hesitated to leap after her when she’d tumbled over the side of the cliff. The elder dog had followed, the two of them guarding her as intently as a marrowbone.

  “If that’s the case,” she said, “you’d better walk alongside me.”

  Neville looked vaguely startled by the suggestion. “Ma’am?”

  “There’s no need for you and the dogs to trail behind me like a royal retinue. I’d rather see you and talk to you. Come. Tell me about the animals at the Abbey.”

  “The dogs?”

  “And the horses. You tend to them, don’t you?”

  As a question designed to loosen Neville’s tongue, it succeeded admirably. He gradually began to relax his guard and, with occasional prompting, told her about Jonesy’s appearance at the Abbey as a starving stray and about Paul’s arrival a year later, an exuberant puppy Justin had found wandering the back alleys of King’s Abbot.

  He told her about Justin’s horse, Hiran. About Mr. Boothroyd, Mrs. Whitlock, and—rather reluctantly—about himself and how he’d come to live at the Abbey when Justin acquired it nearly three year before.

  Their conversation was slow and halting. Necessarily so. Whatever damage Neville had incurred during his childhood fall from the cliffs at Abbot’s Holcombe had made formulating complex sentences an ordeal. It was as if his words were submerged in a deep London fog. He visibly struggled to find each one and draw it out. It was a painstaking process that seemed to both embarrass and frustrate him.

  But Helena never doubted his intelligence. Indeed, the more they talked, the more she came to regret her first impression of him. He was slow, and perhaps a bit childlike in some respects, but he was no halfwit. He comprehended everything she said.

  He also took Justin’s directive to watch over her very much to heart.

  Though why Justin had given such an order, she didn’t know. Was he worried she would escape again? Fling herself from the cliffs or otherwise disappear without a trace? Or was he afraid someone would come for her?

  But how could they? He’d said when the cliff road washed out there was no way a carriage or a horse and rider could get through. And yet…

  And yet, Justin had managed to find his way through without difficulty.

  Then again, comparing the abilities of other men to those of Justin Thornhill seemed unfair at best. All she had to do was recollect how he’d rescued her—and the dogs—from the ledge of the cliff during the thunderstorm. After that, a walk from the Abbey to the village was surely child’s play.

  “Will he be back today, do you think?” she asked.

  But Neville didn’t know anything more than she did. He only reiterated that Justin had gone to see Mr. Finchley and would return in two days.

  That afternoon, she sat at the window in the library, her cashmere shawl wrapped tight around her shoulders. Raindrops slid down the glass, one after the other
in quick succession. The sight only served to further depress her spirits. Along with the gray skies, the cold, and the damp, it made her feel isolated and alone. It should have made her happy. The poor weather guaranteed that the cliff road wouldn’t be drying out any time soon. Which meant that no one would come to the Abbey.

  It also meant no one could leave.

  She was in two minds about that fact. Part of her wanted to run. To take the next coach departing from King’s Abbot and flee to Cornwall, Taunton, or Exeter. Anywhere, really, as long as the town was large enough for her to disappear in.

  The other part of her desperately wanted to wait for Justin.

  Trust me, he’d said in his hastily scrawled note.

  There was no reason she should. After learning the truth about her, he’d left. Gone to see Mr. Finchley in London. Did he wish to annul their marriage? Or was he seeking legal counsel on the matter of her sanity?

  Hadn’t he seen, just from talking to her, that she was perfectly sane? She might have been wet and numb with shock, but she thought she’d explained things to him in a calm and reasonable manner. Perhaps he simply didn’t believe her.

  The prospect did nothing to improve her mood.

  She hated feeling helpless. In the past she’d combatted the sensation by coming up with a plan. To be sure, toward the end, she and Jenny had made endless plans. None had ever come to fruition of course. None but the last—and, considering Justin’s absence, even that was debatable. But still, such plans had always given Helena hope.

  She didn’t have a plan now. She was completely at sea. There was nothing to do but wait.

  Perhaps that waiting would have been easier if she could be left alone with her worries. However, even when Neville was obliged to tend to his duties outside of the house, she was not permitted to be on her own. Instead, she was relegated to Mr. Boothroyd’s care. He was in the library with her now, albeit an entire room away. His gray head was bent over his desk. She could hear the scratch of his quill as he made notations in his ledger.

  She turned from the window with a sigh. “Shall I order tea?”

  “What’s that, my lady?” Mr. Boothroyd asked.

  Her conscience flickered. And so did her temper. He’d been addressing her as my lady at every opportunity. As if she needed to be reminded of her dishonesty. “I asked if you would care for some refreshment.”

  Mr. Boothroyd looked up, his pen poised in his hand. “Is it midday already?” He glanced at the clock. “Yes, yes, a spot of tea would not be amiss.”

  Helena rang the bell for Mrs. Standish. The housekeeper might not like serving breakfast trays and tea trays, but there was no one else to do the job at present.

  She arrived a short time later, a dirty apron over her dress and a cobweb-strewn cap on her head. She’d been cleaning out a study down the hall—a room that appeared to have been sealed off since the dawn of time. “You’ll be wanting your tea, I expect,” she said crossly.

  “Yes, thank you Mrs. Standish.”

  Mrs. Standish departed the library as quickly as she’d come into it.

  Helena sat down on one of the sofas near the fireplace. “Won’t you join me?” she asked Mr. Boothroyd.

  He looked at the blaze in the hearth for a moment. And then he rose from his desk and moved to take a seat on the faded sofa across from her.

  “It can’t be comfortable to sit at that desk day and night,” she said.

  “I’m accustomed to it.”

  “When Mrs. Standish has properly cleaned the study, perhaps you might use it for your work? It’s smaller than the library and has a fireplace of its own. I daresay you’d be warmer there.”

  Mr. Boothroyd smoothed a hand over the front of his rumpled waistcoat. “Possibly.”

  He was no more effusive when their tea arrived.

  Helena poured out a cup for him. “Mr. Boothroyd,” she said, making yet another attempt at civil conversation. “I understand you’ve worked for Mr. Thornhill since he purchased the Abbey.”

  “That’s correct.” Mr. Boothroyd took a sip of his tea. “It’s going on three years now.”

  She poured a cup for herself, adding in a liberal dose of sugar. “And before that?”

  “Before Mr. Thornhill bought Greyfriar’s Abbey?” Mr. Boothroyd’s brow furrowed. “Why, I was here, my lady.”

  “Here?” Helena looked up at him, confused.

  Mr. Boothroyd lowered his teacup back to its saucer with an audible clink. “I was employed by the Abbey’s previous owner.”

  She stared at him, stunned. “Do you mean to say you worked for Sir Oswald Bannister?”

  “I was his private secretary.” Mr. Boothroyd’s face betrayed a flicker of distaste. “In which capacity I resided here at the Abbey for nearly a decade. The study, as you call it, has the dubious distinction of having once been my office.”

  She waited for him to say more, but he didn’t appear inclined to elaborate. “Really, Mr. Boothroyd,” she said in exasperation. “Must I pry the details out of you?”

  “The story is not mine to tell, ma’am. If Mr. Thornhill wishes to relate it to you at some point in the future, I daresay he will. Until then, I must respect his wishes.”

  “He’s asked you not tell me?”

  Mr. Boothroyd shifted in his seat. “Not in so many words. But Mr. Thornhill is a private man. I’ve already exposed him enough by placing that unfortunate matrimonial advertisement. I’ll not compound my sin by spreading gossip about him.”

  Helena was sure she hadn’t heard him correctly. “Forgive me. Are you saying it was you who placed the advertisement?”

  “It was, my lady.” He raised his cup to his lips, taking a casual sip of his tea. “Mr. Thornhill was not at all pleased.”

  Her eyes met his. He looked steadily back at her. They were no longer simply having tea, she realized. They were two adversaries, engaged in a polite battle of wills.

  “Didn’t he wish to marry?” she asked.

  “No, indeed. However, he soon came to agree that there were benefits to having a wife. The right lady would make his life easier, both at the Abbey and within the community. She would help to relieve the weight of his burdens.”

  She returned her teacup and saucer to the tea tray. “If I remain here at the Abbey—”

  “If you remain?”

  “—I shall, of course, address myself to alleviating some of those burdens.”

  “You are one of them, my lady,” Mr. Boothroyd said.

  Helena stilled, her breath stopping in her chest. So, it was not to be mere innuendo, then. He wished to confront the situation head-on.

  An hour ago, she might have welcomed a little plain speaking. Now, however, she found she didn’t have the stomach for it.

  “Yes. Yes, I know.” She tightened her fingers in the soft cashmere folds of her shawl. “I never meant—”

  To lie? To scheme? To take advantage of Justin’s kindness?

  No, she hadn’t meant anything. She’d thought only of herself. Of escaping from her uncle. Of finding a decent, honest gentleman who’d give her the protection of his name.

  In doing so, she’d been worse than selfish. She’d been cruel. If she had any doubt of that, all she need do is recall the look on Justin’s face as he sat at her bedside, his elbows resting on his knees and his head bent under the weight of her betrayal.

  But she wouldn’t make excuses. Not to Justin’s steward of all people. She had some pride left, after all.

  “My lady?”

  She rose from her seat on the sofa. Mr. Boothroyd swiftly stood as well. “I’m going for a walk outside.”

  His brows shot up. “In this weather?”

  “It’s only a drizzle.”

  “You would do better to remain in the house.”

  “Undoubtedly.” She smoothed the skirts of her gray
silk gown and wrapped her shawl more firmly about her shoulders. “I shall walk to the stables to see Neville. Surely that’s within the bounds of my confinement.”

  Mr. Boothroyd’s lips pressed together in a line. “I don’t think it wise of you to caper about out of doors. If you were to have another fall…”

  It would solve a great many problems. Possibly even her own. But she wouldn’t say such things to Mr. Boothroyd. What would be the point? He’d resolved to think ill of her. She certainly didn’t blame him.

  “You may come if you like,” she said.

  She didn’t wait to see if he followed her.

  Helena strode down the drive, her boots crunching on the wet gravel and her skirts whipping violently about her in the wind. The rain had relented, she was thankful to see. Especially as she was wearing neither bonnet nor gloves. She’d left the Abbey in a rush, too distressed by her conversation with Mr. Boothroyd to stop and find her cloak and other outdoor accessories.

  She would find a way out of this. There had to be a way.

  Though she couldn’t for the life of her think what that way might be.

  She and Jenny had racked their brains for months. Only when Jenny had found Justin’s advertisement had there seemed to be a light at the end of the tunnel.

  “See here?” Jenny had said, pointing at the newspaper. “He’s a soldier, like your brother. And quiet too, with a remote property in the country. Better still, Helena, look at this. He’s not concerned with a woman’s fortune. And he doesn’t say anything at all about her looks. Rather promising, don’t you think?”

  Helena had been lying listless on her bed after a visit from Dr. Collins, curled on her side, staring at the silk-papered wall of her bedroom.

  “Won’t you look at it?” Jenny had asked. “We’ve always said your uncle could do nothing if you were married. A stranger isn’t ideal, I know. But we’re running out of time. And Fleet Street isn’t so far. I can pop round to the office of this Mr. T. Finchley Esquire and find out all the particulars. It may all be a hum, but surely it’s worth investigating.”

  Helena had made no response. She’d felt so defeated. She’d scarcely had the will to move.