“He needs a wife to look after him,” Mrs. Whitlock said.
“A wife?” Mrs. Standish scoffed. “Who would have him?”
Mrs. Whitlock looked over her shoulder at Helena. “He were a good man once, was Bill Danvers. Drove the mail coach, he did. No man could handle a team of horses so well.” She scooped a ladleful of porridge into a bowl and handed it to Mrs. Standish. “He lost his wife and two little sons to fever in ’55. Lost his job soon after. Hasn’t been the same since.”
Mrs. Standish set the bowl of porridge down in front of Helena along with a folded napkin, a spoon, and fresh butter and sugar. A pot of hot tea followed, accompanied by a chipped porcelain teacup and saucer. “We’ve all suffered hardship. It’s no excuse to fall into vice.”
Helena listened to the two women bickering as she ate her porridge and drank her tea. The servants at Greyfriar’s Abbey were so unlike the servants at her uncle’s townhouse in Grosvenor Square as to be almost a different species. They talked, argued, and gossiped with impunity, and seemed to have no fear of being turned off without a reference. It was little wonder the house was in such a state.
In other circumstances, a new wife would set about restoring some semblance of order. Helena was certainly up to the task. She’d had the charge of her father’s household from the age of fifteen and, when Giles had ascended to the title, he’d happily let her continue in the role. If Giles were still alive, she’d likely be in Grosvenor Square now, conducting weekly meetings with the housekeeper and cook and toiling over the household accounts.
If Giles were still alive.
The hand holding her spoon froze midway to her mouth.
Good gracious, had she truly thought such a thing? Of course Giles was alive!
She slowly lowered her spoon and rose from the table, leaving her porridge half-finished.
“No appetite, my lady?” Mrs. Whitlock asked.
“Not as much as I thought I had,” Helena said. Indeed, a leaden weight seemed to have settled in the pit of her stomach. She felt vaguely ill.
“Up too early, that’s the trouble,” Mrs. Standish grumbled. “Ladies aren’t meant to rise before ten.”
“And how many ladies have you waited on?” Mrs. Whitlock replied tartly. “Not many, I’ll wager.”
Helena retreated from the kitchen to the sound of their continued arguing.
She fetched her bonnet, shawl, and gloves from her room and made her way back downstairs. The entry hall was empty, the sun shining in through the stone-framed windows, casting dust motes in dancing beams of light.
If Justin was dressed for riding, he must have gone to the stable. With any luck he’d be there still.
With that in mind, she headed out the door and down the front steps, tying on her bonnet as she went. The air was crisp and cool on her face. There was no hint of moisture in it. Perhaps the rain had truly stopped?
An anxious tremor went through her. She envisioned Mr. Glyde waiting for the moment he could swoop in and take her. He’d bring the magistrate with him again, and this time there would be no thwarting him.
Justin had told her that, after visiting the Abbey that fateful, stormy evening, Mr. Glyde had returned to London on a night train. He’d probably gone straight to see her uncle. To make his report. She supposed he could have come back. Perhaps he was even now lingering about the village? Drinking at the King’s Arms. Biding his time until the roads dried out.
Or perhaps he was still in London, anticipating her return?
There were countless places for him to hide in the city. If she went back, she’d have to remain forever on her guard. At the slightest sign of weakness or inattention, Mr. Glyde would seize her and take her to Lowbridge House. She’d be locked away with no hope of regaining her freedom.
But she couldn’t think about that now. For one thing, she hadn’t even agreed to Justin’s scheme. There might yet be another way.
She tightened her shawl around her shoulders as she marched down the drive. There was activity at the stable. She could see the dogs lying in the stable yard, watching Mr. Danvers polish the carriage. Contrary to the disparaging report rendered by Mrs. Standish, he appeared very much awake and not at all the worse for drink.
He tipped his cap to her as she entered the stable.
Justin’s horse, Hiran, was tied in the aisle, his chestnut coat gleaming like a freshly minted penny. Justin was at his side, swinging a saddle onto his back. He was clad in Bedford cord breeches and black top boots, his white linen shirt worn open at the collar to reveal a shadowed glimpse of the burns on his neck.
He caught Helena’s gaze over the top of Hiran’s withers.
“Good morning,” she said brightly.
“You’re up early.”
“Not very.”
“No?” He settled the saddle in place and reached under Hiran’s belly to catch the girth. “Do all fine ladies rise at half seven?”
“This one does.” She walked to the other side of the aisle, watching as Justin tightened the girth. “Sometimes even earlier.”
“Shocking.”
She shrugged one shoulder. “I’ve never enjoyed lolling about in bed in the morning. There’s too much to be done.”
“I’d have thought that was what servants were for.”
“Servants can’t do their work without direction.”
Justin scratched Hiran on the shoulder, his expression thoughtful.
“Where do you ride?” she asked. “When you exercise him, I mean.”
“It depends. Usually I take him into King’s Abbot.”
“And today?”
“Today I thought I’d ride on the beach.” He moved to a nearby hook to retrieve Hiran’s bridle. “Do you ride?”
“Not since…” She faltered. “Not in a long while.”
“But you do know how?”
“Of course. I used to ride with Giles before he left for India. We’d go out in the early morning for a canter in Hyde Park. After he left, I sometimes rode there with a groom.”
Justin bridled Hiran. He had an expert hand, cradling the big horse’s face as he eased the bit into his mouth and slipped the bridle over his ears.
“Would you like to ride with me?” he asked.
“Now?”
“Why not?”
“I’ve nothing to wear,” she said. “I didn’t pack my riding habit.”
Justin gave her a cursory glance. “What’s wrong with what you’re wearing?”
“This?” She pressed her hands to her voluminous skirts. The gray silk dress she’d donned this morning was serviceable enough for a walk, but it would never do for riding. “I’m knee deep in petticoats and crinoline.”
“I know. It’s very becoming.”
Her cheeks warmed at the compliment. “Yes, it’s very pretty. And wholly impractical, too. I’d never be able to sit a sidesaddle in these skirts.”
Justin untied Hiran and turned him around in the aisle. The giant horse swished his tail with impatience. “A sidesaddle. I hadn’t thought of that.”
“You don’t have one?”
“We don’t. There hasn’t been a lady in residence at Greyfriar’s Abbey in three decades or more.”
She followed Justin as he led Hiran out of the stable and into the yard. Danvers was gone, but the coach was still there, the dogs resting languidly beneath it. “Was Sir Oswald not married?”
Justin stopped. He looked out toward the cliffs for a moment, his eyes squinting against the sun. “No, he wasn’t married.” He paused. “He was rather a famous bachelor around these parts.”
“Oh.” She didn’t know what else to say. “May I watch you exercise Hiran?”
“If you like. It’s nothing very exciting. You’d do better to go back to the house where it’s warm.”
“I’d rather stay with you.” An e
mbarrassing admission, but an honest one. Ensconced in the Abbey, she felt safe. In Justin’s presence, she felt doubly so. He was her husband. Her protector. Now he’d returned from London, she was loath to let him out of her sight. “If you don’t mind,” she added.
“Why should I mind?”
Helena could think of several reasons. After their discussion yesterday, she’d rarely been out of his company. She’d even sat in the library, curled up in the window embrasure with a book, while he’d discussed business matters with Mr. Boothroyd. He might simply want his privacy. A few minutes alone, free from her and all of the problems she’d brought into his life.
“Here,” he said. “I’ll walk down with you.”
“You needn’t.”
He gave her an amused look. “After nearly a week of rain?” He offered her his hand.
She took it gratefully.
The path to the beach was muddier than it had been on the day of her arrival in Devon. She might have slipped and fallen had she not availed herself of Justin’s arm. Hiran had better luck. He picked his way along the path with surefooted ease. When they reached the end, he jumped from the edge down to the beach. Justin followed.
She waited for him to assist her down as he had the last time. Instead, much to her dismay, he caught Hiran by the bridle and vaulted into the saddle. He spun the horse around to face her.
“If you can manage to shed a petticoat or two, I’ll take you up with me,” he said.
She blinked. “What?”
“I daresay you’d enjoy it more than sitting on the sidelines watching me ride.”
“I daresay you’re right. But I’m not certain…”
“Are you frightened?” Justin asked. Hiran pranced beneath him, mouthing at the bit. “You shouldn’t be. He’s perfectly safe.”
Helena wasn’t so sure about that. Hiran was a giant brute of a horse, not at all suitable for a lady of her dimensions. “It wouldn’t be entirely proper. Me riding pillion in a day dress.”
“You won’t be riding pillion. I intend to put you up in front of me.”
She gave a short laugh. “Oh, well, I suppose that makes a difference.”
He flashed a grin. “As for your dress…”
Her stomach fluttered. Was she really going to do this?
And why not?
“May I have a moment of privacy?” she asked.
Justin readily obliged, turning his horse—and himself—away from her.
She lifted her skirts and swiftly unfastened the tapes of one of her petticoats. It slid down over her hips, falling to her booted feet. She unfastened a second petticoat as well. And then, just to be safe, she removed her crinoline.
Without the layers of support, her silk skirts fell in unstructured folds down to drag on the ground. She gathered them up out of the way as she stepped out of her petticoats and crinoline. She shook the sand out of each of them before folding them carefully into a little pile.
“You may turn back around now,” she said as she dropped her bonnet atop the stack of discarded undergarments.
Justin walked Hiran in a half circle, riding up to the edge of the path. His gaze roved over her with approval. “There’s much less of you, my lady.”
“I should think so. I’ve just removed half of my underpinnings.” She willed herself not to blush. “My skirts are going to tangle up awfully.”
“I’ll see they don’t.” He reached down to her, his large black-gloved hand outstretched. He was all seriousness now. “Take hold of my hand. And place your foot on my boot.”
She clasped his hand, feeling it close strongly around hers. She was still on the path and of a height to reach his boot without too much trouble. No sooner had she set her foot atop his than he lifted her up in front of him with an effortless grace, seating her sideways in front of his saddle.
One of his arms curved around her midsection, holding her in an iron grip. His other hand grasped the reins with the casual skill of a career British cavalryman.
Helena’s heart beat with a mixture of fear and excitement. “Have you done this before?”
“Not with a lady.”
She gasped as Hiran surged forward.
Justin held her fast against the hard wall of his chest. “You’re safe.”
“I know I am.” Which did nothing to prevent her fingers from tightening on his arm.
He guided Hiran along the water’s edge. “I’ve had to take up injured soldiers on occasion. Though they weren’t usually seated. Most were unconscious from their wounds. The poor lads had to be draped over the front of the saddle like sacks of grain.”
“How dreadful.” She turned her head to look up at Justin’s face. He met her eyes briefly. “Was it during the uprising?”
“It was.” He resumed looking straight ahead. “Would you like to canter?”
She gripped his arm tighter. “You won’t let me fall?”
“Never.”
“Then yes,” she said.
Justin gave no discernible cue to Hiran. He was too accomplished a rider. A subtle shift in the saddle, a faint pressure of the legs, and Hiran sprang from a walk into a long, ground-covering canter.
Helena’s pulse leapt. She clung to Justin’s arm, but true to his word, he didn’t let her fall. Indeed, she scarcely budged from her perch in front of his saddle.
Hiran’s stride was smooth as glass, a rarity in a horse so big. The soft sand churned under his hooves as he ran, the sea roiling and crashing alongside them. The wind whipped at Helena’s skirts and through her tightly plaited hair. She didn’t know when she began to smile, nor when she started to laugh. By the time Justin brought Hiran back down to a walk, she was doing both.
“I feel quite giddy,” she said, catching her breath.
Justin’s smile was broad—and a little smug. “You enjoyed that.”
“I did, rather.”
“I knew you would.”
“You knew better than I.” She loosened her grip on his arm. “Forgive me for clutching at you. I can’t seem to help myself.”
“It’s what I’m here for.”
She laughed. “You may feel differently tomorrow when you see the bruises left by my fingers.”
He looked down at her, his gray eyes suddenly solemn. “And how are your bruises? Better, I hope.”
Her smile dimmed. She was painfully reminded of the night he’d rescued her from the cliff’s ledge. It was a shameful memory and one she wished they could both forget. “They’re fading.” She kept her voice light. “Every day they ache a little less.”
“I’m glad. I don’t want you to be in pain.”
“Nor I you.” She let her gaze drift to the open collar of his shirt. The burns on the column of his neck were the same sort as on his jaw. They were puckered and red, disposed in thick, slashing lines, one over the other. “Do they hurt?”
“Rarely.”
“How…?”
“A hot poker,” he said brusquely. “They held it in the fire and then they held it against me.”
She bowed her head. “Oh, Justin.” She wanted to weep for him. “How on earth could you bear it?”
“I had little choice in the matter, my dear.”
“I know that, but—”
He squeezed her waist. “It’s over now. Part of the past. I don’t refine on it too much. You shouldn’t either.”
Hiran chomped at his bit and tossed his head.
“He thinks we’re dawdling,” Justin said.
Helena swallowed back her emotions. If Justin didn’t wish to dwell on his time in India, she had no business forcing him to do so. She reached down to give Hiran a scratch on the neck. “He likes to run, does he?”
“He enjoys nothing better.”
“Are all his gaits as smooth as his canter?”
“His gallop isn
’t bad.”
Her heart pounded. “Can we…?”
But she didn’t have to ask. Justin was already urging Hiran forward, first into a canter and then into a gallop.
The pace fairly stole her breath away. She’d never gone so fast on a horse. It was like flying. As if his hooves never even touched the ground. The sand and the sea slipped by them in a blur of color. She wondered if this was how jockeys felt when they raced at Newmarket and Epsom.
After a time, Justin drew Hiran back to a canter. They had galloped the length of the beach. The treacherous cliffs of Abbot’s Holcombe loomed ahead, the surf frothing violently beneath them amidst a jagged array of stone.
As Hiran slowed to a walk, Helena gazed up at the cliffs. She could sense Justin looking up at them as well.
“How far up was Neville when he fell?” she asked.
“He was nearly at the bottom. The rock crumbled beneath him. His head struck one of the stones and then he plunged straight down into the sea. It was the space of an instant. One moment he was there and the next—gone beneath the waves.”
“Was it you who went in after him?”
Justin nodded stiffly. “I thought I could pull him to shore, but the sea was too rough. I couldn’t find him in the water. It was Archer who finally rescued him. He saved his life.”
Helena’s heart ached for Neville. For all of them. “You’re not responsible for what happened. You know that, don’t you?”
“You think not?”
“None of you were responsible. You were only little boys. You should never have been allowed to climb on the cliffs. Any fool could see how dangerous it was. An adult should have stopped you. Someone at the orphanage. Neville’s accident is on their head, not yours.”
“No one could have stopped us. Not even if they’d tried. We were that determined.”
“But why?” she asked. “I still don’t understand.”
“We wanted to get to the Abbey. It was the fastest way.”
She turned her head and looked into his eyes. “Was it something to do with Sir Oswald? He seems to be tied up with everything somehow.”
“He owned the Abbey. Didn’t I tell you?”
“It’s more than that. Mr. Boothroyd said he’d been Sir Oswald’s secretary. He wouldn’t explain how he came to work for you. He said it wasn’t his story to tell. As if it’s all some sort of secret.”
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