The Weary Heart

by Lancaster, Mary

  “She returned there from calling here yesterday to see the children,” Helen replied.

  “Perhaps Miss Milsom will take you there after luncheon,” Lord Overton suggested hopefully. “It will set your mind at rest to see her.”

  “Excellent idea,” Philip beamed while Helen’s heart sank. It seemed she would see Sir Marcus again after all.

  Chapter Nine

  Since Mrs. Marshall insisted with horror that there was no room in the carriage, even for Eliza, none of the children accompanied Helen to the Hart that afternoon. Instead, Helen sat in the carriage, her back to the horses, facing the uncomfortable perusal of Phoebe Marshall who seemed to find her shabby, unfashionable garments fascinating.

  To make it worse, Philip had chosen to sit beside Helen rather than his wife, and he seemed to take up a lot of space, bringing him too close to her for comfort. It wasn’t an exciting closeness, either, such as she secretly felt whenever Sir Marcus was near. It was simply unpleasant. Helen wondered all over again what she had ever seen in this vain, selfish man.

  Philip made trivial conversation for the first part of the journey, which Helen strove to answer politely. He moved on to more personal questions about her work as governess, her previous employers, and how the Overtons compared.

  “I heard they were not exactly flush,” Phoebe observed. “and were forced to sell their marriageable daughters off to the highest bidders.”

  Helen tightened her lips but made no comment. It was quite clear to her the Marshalls were trying to do the same thing.

  Phoebe didn’t appear to notice. “Judging by the fineness of the house, this scheme has worked very well for them. Plus, they have welcomed a duke and a soon-to-be earl into the family.” She looked thoughtful. “Young Richard Maybury is Overton’s heir, is he not?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Helen answered.

  “Hmm.”

  “Overton isn’t exactly on his last legs,” Philip objected, and Helen realized the woman was concocting a reserve plan in case Sir Marcus would not be caught. “Besides, it looks to me as if Dain—and Anne herself—are coming around nicely.”

  Helen looked out of the window and wished to be anywhere else in the world.

  The two-hour journey to the Hart by road had never seemed longer, but at last, the Marshalls’ carriage turned into the inn yard, and Helen breathed a sigh of relief. She wondered if she could persuade the Marshalls to stay here rather than Audley Park and suspected Lord and Lady Overton would be grateful if she did.

  Any hopes Helen harbored of being able to warn Anne and the Robinovs in advance of the Marshalls’ appearance were swiftly dashed. They strode into the inn first, and instead of sending in cards or asking if Mrs. Robinov could receive them, Philip simply commanded Lily to take him at once to Mrs. Robinov or Sir Marcus Dain.

  “Sir Marcus is out, sir,” Lily informed him. “But Mrs. Robinov is in the parlor. If you—”

  “Take us there immediately,” Philip interrupted, and Lily, with a quick glance at Helen, obeyed.

  However, either Philip’s voice had been recognized, or they had already been seen from the windows, for when Lily knocked and opened the door, everyone looked as if they were on stage.

  Anne stood facing the door, flanked by Kenneth and a rather pale Carla. Although trying to look defiant, she was quite clearly scared.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Marshall, ma’am. And Miss Milsom,” Lily announced and effaced herself.

  Nearer the fire, Mrs. Robinov rose from her chair, smiling pleasantly as she came to meet them, her hand held out. “How delightful! I have been longing to thank you for the loan of your charming daughter, who has been keeping mine company these few days. I am Dorothea Robinov.”

  The Marshalls, both slightly taken aback by the widow’s confident welcome, shook hands with her.

  “Thank you for looking after her,” Philip said loftily. “Well, Anne? Have you no words of welcome for your parents?”

  “Papa. Mama.” Anne bobbed a curtsey and came forward warily to kiss the cheeks of each. “These are my friends, Mr. and Miss Robinov.”

  “How do you do.” Philip spared them a mere glance, his wife not even that much. She was looking at the elegant Turkish rug before the fire. It had not been there on Helen’s last visit and looked too fine to belong to the inn.

  “Please sit down,” Mrs. Robinov invited. “Will you have tea?”

  “Thank you,” Phoebe said. “We hoped to see Sir Marcus, too.”

  “He went riding,” Mrs. Robinov told her. “He does not like to be cooped up.”

  Mrs. Marshall’s smile was not quite pleasant. Helen, hating the tension that seemed to follow in the Marshalls’ wake, offered to ask Lily for tea.

  When she returned, Anne seemed to have found her courage. She sat on the sofa, flanked once more by Kenneth and Carla, who perhaps lent her the strength to make easier conversation with her parents.

  “I expect Sir Marcus was astonished to see you here,” Philip remarked.

  “I expect so. I was surprised to see him, too, but I didn’t know then that he was the great friend Mrs. Robinov was waiting here for! Isn’t that a coincidence?”

  “Certainly,” Phoebe agreed.

  They had almost finished tea, and Helen had begun to think about returning to Audley Park, when she heard Sir Marcus’s voice somewhere in the inn. He was only making some casual, bantering remark, presumably to one of the Villins, but something in the timbre of his voice seemed to vibrate through her, so that she was almost holding her breath when he finally came in.

  The Villins, clearly, had warned him about the visitors, for he looked neither surprised nor appalled as he walked in, bowed to the room at large, and shook hands with Philip and Phoebe.

  He turned to Helen, a faint smile in his eyes that melted her bones. But before he could speak, Phoebe said archly, “I hear you have been my girl’s chief protector these last few days!”

  Kenneth narrowed his eyes, which was interesting. But Sir Marcus merely raised one eyebrow. “I cannot claim such an honor. It’s Dorothea and Kenneth who provide such protection as is necessary! But I’m very glad to get to know Miss Marshall a little better.”

  “Will you have tea, Marcus?” Dorothea asked calmly. “The pot is empty, but Lily will bring more.”

  “No, I’m fine without,” Sir Marcus said cheerfully. “So, what is your plan, Marshall? Are you putting up here? I’ll have to inflict myself on Kenneth’s privacy if you do!”

  “Oh, no, we are the guests of Lord and Lady Overton,” Phoebe replied for him.

  “I see. Then do you take Anne with you?”

  “Oh, no,” Anne protested with an alarm that hardly flattered the Overtons’ hospitality. “That is, I am quite comfortable here, and Carla is not quite well.”

  Her mother laughed. “Naughty puss! I see you have hundreds of excuses lined up to sway me. Well, as long as Mrs. Robinov is here and happy with your company…”

  As long as Sir Marcus Dain is here, Helen corrected wryly.

  Rising from her quiet corner of the room, she took a letter from her shabby reticule and crossed to give it to Mrs. Robinov. “Lady Overton wished me to pass on her regards and her hope that you will join her for dinner tomorrow evening. With your family, of course, and Miss Marshall.”

  “Am I not invited?” Sir Marcus asked lightly.

  “I imagine you are, sir, but I have not read the letter.”

  “Of course you are,” Phoebe declared. “Dear Lady Overton distinctly mentioned you to me.”

  “Please thank her ladyship for her kindness,” Mrs. Robinov said to Helen. “And tell her I shall send up a note tomorrow morning. Does this mean you are about to depart?”

  “It is getting dark,” Helen pointed out. “And we are expected for dinner. Thank you for tea.”

  The Marshalls, who had clearly planned to stay longer in order to indulge in a bit more heavy-handed matchmaking, could only rise and follow her, although neither of them seemed very pleased t
o be doing so. Sir Marcus caught her eye with a faint, crooked smile that seemed to both understand and admire her achievement in removing them.

  But Philip had the last word. “Come early tomorrow,” he invited. “I shall paint you!”

  *

  Philip was as good as his word. Without even asking the permission of his hosts, he took over the ground floor reception room that looked onto the terrace and the lawn, and set up his easel and paints.

  Lord Overton went out on estate business and then shut himself in his study until almost dinner time.

  Lady Overton worried about paint spilling on the refurbished floor.

  The children were fascinated, but when they wandered in with Helen on their way for a walk, they were told sharply not to touch anything.

  “Will you paint us?” Horatio asked eagerly, peering from a distance at Philip’s half-painted landscape. It was rather good, Helen had to admit, although she wasn’t sure his talent had grown much in the ten years since she had last seen his work.

  “No,” Philip said crossly. “I don’t paint children.” He paused frowning, looking from them to Helen. “Although I suppose I might do a group of you with your governess. What do you say, Helen?”

  “No, I thank you,” Helen said at once. “I am not paid to sit for portraits. Come, children, let’s go out. Richard is waiting for us.”

  On their return, Philip was fretful that the dinner guests had not yet appeared. “And the light is fading,” he added petulantly.

  “Lady Overton invited them to dine,” Helen said mildly, hoping he would understand that his own invitation could not override that of his hosts. But she didn’t wait to find out, merely took the children upstairs to see their mother.

  She hoped, as she changed into her tired, old evening gown, that further exposure to Sir Marcus would cure her silly infatuation. The method had certainly worked for Philip, whom she no longer regarded with any sense of loss whatsoever. I am just fickle and subject to foolish obsessions. It will pass.

  Somewhere, she knew that her nineteen-year-old self, lonely, grieving, and vulnerable, was nothing like the woman she had become, that there was even less resemblance between Philip Marshall and Marcus Dain. But she would not think of that, merely get through the evening with her pride intact.

  At Philip’s request, the guests from the Hart were shown into the reception room where he, covered by a paint-daubed smock, let them admire his landscape by candlelight.

  “I painted it more as an elegant background,” he informed them. “Then I can add people into the foreground…”

  “Like our daughter?” Phoebe suggested.

  “Or your hosts,” Sir Marcus said from devilment, Helen was sure. It was quite clear Philip and his wife wished to paint Anne, no doubt with Sir Marcus.

  “I don’t sit for portraits anymore,” Lord Overton declared. “Glass of sherry, Dain?”

  “Thank you.” Sir Marcus took it and sat by Lady Overton.

  “Come, Anne, sit here,” Philip instructed, indicating one of the two chairs he had already set in front of the window.

  Anne, who had been standing by Helen’s chair, moved reluctantly to obey. She sat, with a slightly awkward smile.

  “And beside her, perhaps… Sir Marcus! You would be perfect.”

  “A perfect eyesore beside youth and beauty,” Sir Marcus said lightly. “You should paint the young people together.”

  “Oh, yes,” Anne said eagerly. “Carla, you sit beside me, with Kenneth standing between us! And Richard, perhaps, on the arm of…”

  “Too many,” Philip objected with a shade of petulance. “I shall never finish it in time.”

  “Certainly not in time for dinner,” Lord Overton observed, and Sir Marcus made a choking sound which he disguised as clearing of the throat.

  Ten minutes later, Lady Overton led the way upstairs to dinner on Sir Marcus’s arm. However, as Helen trailed up at the end of the line, Lady Overton drifted over and drew her aside. “Tell the servants to douse the candles in the reception room,” she muttered. “And let the fire burn out.”

  “Yes, my lady,” Helen said shakily and went to obey. That would at least be one tension removed from the evening, but she was sure there would be many more.

  She was glad to be sitting at the foot of the table beside the young people, who appeared to get on exceedingly well. Anne, beside Kenneth Robinov, received frequent glances of irritation from her parents.

  Carla picked at her food, eating very little. Sir Marcus clearly noticed, exchanging slightly worried glances with her mother, though neither said anything to embarrass her. She appeared to get on very well with Sir Marcus, exchanging banter with him as though he were a favorite uncle. Obviously, he was at the center of the Robinovs’ family life.

  Helen was only the governess. It was easy to avoid him after dinner, and he made no effort to seek her out. But not so with Philip who, while she accompanied Anne and then Clara on the pianoforte, sat on the stool beside her. When she had finished, he murmured, “You are still beautiful, you know.”

  “Nonsense,” she replied calmly. “We both know I was never beautiful. I don’t need someone to turn my music. I am quite used to doing so myself.”

  “Dismissing me, Helen?”

  “Yes,” she said baldly. She would have left him there, if only she could have wriggled around him with any dignity.

  “I probably deserve it,” he admitted, although with inappropriate complacence. “I hope the revenge gives you comfort.”

  Finally, she stared at him, flabbergasted. There were so many retorts springing to her lips that she couldn’t think which one to throw at him.

  “Let me make it up to you,” he urged.

  “There is nothing to make up for,” she managed at last. “I have long been grateful for your rejection. Now, please go away or you will cause comment.”

  Instead, he actually covered her hand with his in her lap. “Helen—”

  She snatched her hand free, glaring at him in outrage. “Go away,” she said between her teeth. Already, Lady Overton was looking their way, and she would not let Philip threaten her position here.

  A sharp jolt shifted the stool, causing Philip to jump up in instinctive alarm.

  “Sorry, Marshall,” Sir Marcus said amiably. “Forgive my clumsiness, Miss Milsom. Let me escort you to a more comfortable seat.”

  Since Helen rose at once, there was nothing for Philip to do but move aside. Helen, hoping no one had noticed the odd little incident, walked across the room beside Sir Marcus.

  “Is that fellow bothering you?” he demanded under his breath.

  “Nothing I cannot deal with. I know to be more careful now. Thank you for rescuing me.”

  “My pleasure. Where would you like to sit?”

  She chose a chair between Lady Overton and Richard, and he strolled away to speak to Mrs. Marshall instead. Phoebe did not appear to have observed her husband’s indiscreet behavior, to call it no worse. She seemed more intent on courting Sir Marcus on her daughter’s behalf, pointing out Anne’s many virtues and accomplishments.

  It was quite a relief when Mrs. Robinov declared her intention to depart and thanked Lady Overton for her delightful hospitality. Sir Marcus rose at once, and Helen pulled the bell to have the carriage ordered. In the general movement toward departure, she slipped away to see that the children were asleep, and then dragged herself to her own bed and slept.

  *

  In the morning, she woke to a great hullabaloo. Lady Overton had lost her diamond earrings that were part of the set she had worn last night. And the housekeeper had just informed her that a set of silver teaspoons were missing.

  “The earrings will be on the drawing-room mantelpiece,” Eliza forecast. “She always takes them off as soon as she can, because they pinch, and she never remembers to have them altered.”

  “And the teaspoons will be in the wrong drawer,” Horatio said.

  George nodded. “’Course they will. Can we go ridin
g today, Miss Milsom? Cook says it will rain tomorrow—and she always knows—so we might as well do it while the weather’s fine.”

  “Perhaps this afternoon,” Helen said. “I’ll just go and speak to your mother to see if I can help.”

  She discovered Lady Overton with her husband, staring in outrage at the mantelpiece as though it was refusing to disgorge her lost jewelry.

  “Well, it can’t be the servants,” his lordship pronounced. “They’ve been with us for years.”

  “Not all of them. We hired more when Alvan made everything right, remember?”

  “Yes, yes, of course I remember. But who would risk their position in such folly? Servants are always the first suspects when anything is lost, so if any of them did it, they’d be putting as much distance as possible between themselves and here. All the servants are still present.”

  “Then where are my earrings and the wretched teaspoons?” her ladyship demanded.

  “Probably in your reticule, or in the wrong jewel case.”

  “Lawson is checking now. But I wouldn’t have put ten used spoons in my reticule, would I? Nor in a jewel case!”

  “I’d be surprised,” her husband allowed. “The teaspoons will be somewhere else entirely.”

  “Can I be of assistance helping you look?” Helen asked. “Or would you rather I simply taught the children?”

  Lady Overton scowled in Helen’s direction. “You are very good, Miss Milsom. But tell me, am I right in remembering that Cecily Verne lost her necklace the night after the ball at Steynings?”

  Helen nodded. “And Mrs. Cromarty couldn’t find the candlesticks she wanted.”

  “You think the two can be connected?” Lord Overton said doubtfully.

  “Perhaps we should be talking to the Marshalls’ servants,” said Lady Overton heavily. “Since they were at Steynings, too. Or perhaps that horrid band of thieves that stole from the Laceys is back.”

  “They’re in prison,” Lord Overton said. “But I suppose another opportunistic thief in the area could be entering big houses how and when he can.”

  “Forgive me,” Helen said, “but you have many items worth stealing. Why settle for a pair of earrings and a mere ten teaspoons?”