The Weary Heart

by Lancaster, Mary

  “Of course they have not!” Anne said, laughing.

  “Why don’t you run inside and see if Carla needs anything? Kenneth has gone out, so she might like the company if she’s awake,”

  Anne tripped off happily enough, but as her mother made to follow, he caught her arm in a grip she could not break. “Oh, no. You tell me where your husband has gone.”

  “What makes you think I know?” she spat. “Or care!”

  “The look of spiteful triumph in your face.”

  “Spiteful is not unnatural in the circumstances. But how on earth can there be triumph when the woman has run away with my husband?”

  “Run away where?” he asked, frowning as though he believed every word.

  She hesitated, and he imagined her counting the minutes, wondering if he had time to catch up and spoil her plan.

  But with sudden clarity, he remembered a few words overheard at luncheon, talk of a house being hired for Christmas.

  “Brighton,” he flung at her.

  Her eyes widened, giving her away, and while rage and fear galloped through him, he dragged her toward the curricle.

  “Unhand me this instant!” she insisted.

  “But you and I are going to Brighton to join your husband before he does something extremely silly.”

  “He has already done it!”

  “Sillier then,” he said savagely.

  “You don’t need me, and I won’t go.”

  “You will. For I doubt you will like to be the butt of crude jokes during the coming Season when it comes out how you procured your husband his lover.”

  She stared at him, coloring for the first time since he had known her. “You are foolish,” she snapped.

  “Actually, I’m surprisingly powerful, socially speaking. I don’t go into society much, but I know all the right people. And believe me, if Helen Milsom’s reputation suffers, it is nothing to what will happen to yours. And then you will never find a wealthy husband for Anne. Not from the first level of society at any rate. Or even the second. And your debts, I imagine, will continue to pile up.”

  She knew she was beaten. He saw the rage in her eyes and then the calculation before she drooped against his arm. “Oh, hurry and stop him! I only ever obeyed his orders, but you are quite right. It is not fair on my darling daughter. I will not have her chances ruined by her father’s lust for that hussy! Drive like the wind, sir! Like the wind!”

  “I shall,” Marcus said grimly. The appalling woman seemed to think she could play on his sympathy now, perhaps even catch him still for Anne. Well, if it helped his immediate purpose, he would not yet dissuade her. “Get in. You are their chaperone, God help us all.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Helen was only too aware that every moment she was being dragged further away from Finsborough and any reasonable means of returning to Audley Park. Hurling herself from a moving carriage would merely injure her and leave her more helpless in Philip’s hands. So, to give herself time, she forced a sick look into her face and held her hand to her stomach.

  “I don’t feel well,” she uttered shakily.

  “It is the shock,” Philip said kindly. “You will be better in a few moments when you are used to the new situation.”

  Blackguard! “Perhaps if the carriage went slower, I might keep my luncheon,” she said, giving an unladylike heave.

  Only too quickly this time, he knocked on the ceiling, then lowered the window and shouted up to his coachman.

  The horses slowed at once to a mere trot. She tried to look grateful, but now that she had gained some control, her mind began to think beyond her sense of outrage. And she remembered where Anne’s dislike of illness must have come from. Philip, too, had a morbid sensitivity to illness. It was why he had never visited her father in his sickbed. Well, it was time she used that weakness to her own advantage.

  She introduced a tremble to her hands as she wiped at her forehead and clutched at her stomach. She gave a few miniature heaves and swallowed convulsively.

  “Oh, please stop the carriage,” she moaned. “I shall be sick. Don’t let me be sick in here.”

  She didn’t even need to heave again. He was already banging on the roof. The carriage pulled up at the side of the road, and Philip threw the door wide. “Go!”

  She went, without even lowering the steps. Stumbling across the verge, she dropped to her knees and made horrible retching noises into the undergrowth. She imagined Philip shuddering in the coach. And she was right, for the door clicked shut behind her.

  It was a beginning. She waved one hand behind her, as though apologizing for distressing him. To anyone else, it would have seemed ridiculous, but to Philip, with his massive sense of entitlement, she knew it would appear a natural consideration that he quite deserved.

  Accordingly, she rose and stumbled further away from the carriage, following the road, and making increasingly loud and realistic sounds of distressed vomiting. Until she reached the bend in the road.

  She straightened and ran.

  Philip was not the most athletic of men. In fact, he had let himself run to seed a little. Especially with the head start she had won for herself, she thought she could outrun him. But she had no idea of his coachman’s quickness. And if they turned the carriage and came after her, the horses would easily run her down. Her best hope was to encounter another vehicle or even pedestrians who might afford her some protection.

  But to her dismay, the road ahead was empty. Nor could she hear any obvious sounds of approaching vehicles from the other direction. It was a surprisingly long time before she heard distant shouting that warned her trick had been discovered.

  She did not spare the time to look over her shoulder, but she imagined the coachman observing her from the bend, for she heard a closer shout and then pounding footsteps that inspired her to run faster. However, she realized the footsteps were fading. A horse’s whinny told her why. The coachman had run back to the carriage, and they were going to turn it and come after her.

  And still the road ahead was empty.

  She needed to hide.

  Swerving across the road, she threw herself over a stone wall and into the field of cattle behind it. She considered lying close to the wall, but she suspected the coachman at least would have the height to see her there. She began to run again, between the slightly baffled cows. Could she hide behind one of them? Or behind a huddle of them if she could only persuade them to form one—which she couldn’t.

  Then she spotted their water trough. It was large and far enough away from the road that she thought it would hide her pretty well. Forcing her exhausted legs to move faster, she ran toward it. When she heard the distant coachman’s “Yah!” and the clop of galloping hooves, she knew she was about to run out of time.

  Gasping for breath, she found a spurt of effort from somewhere and threw herself on the ground behind the trough.

  At least she could lie still there, listening to her ragged breath and the thundering beat of her heart. She could have wept when she heard the horse’s hooves slow. Had she been seen? Was this all she had achieved? A mere few minutes of freedom?

  She would wait until the carriage halted, and then she would know Philip had found her. But she wouldn’t give up. She would run toward the path she could make out to her left. It led over the rise, and she prayed it might be the way to the farmhouse, or at least a cottage.

  But the carriage had only slowed, no doubt to let her pursuers scour the ground on either side of the road for a sign of her. It did not stop. She waited, her breath gradually calming while it faded into the distance.

  A loud moo, almost in her ear, made her jump. A cow gazed at her from only inches away.

  “Sorry,” she murmured, sitting up. “I won’t take your water, I promise.”

  Her bonnet, without its pin, had fallen to the back of her head, where she had crushed it and muddied it by lying on the ground. But then, she must have muddied everything. Rising, she brushed off her cloak as best she
could and drew the hood over her spoiled bonnet.

  She began to walk in the direction of Finsborough, wondering what her best course of action should be. To find the nearest house and beg for help? Or to get to Finsborough as fast as possible? From there, she could find someone to take her to Audley Park. But in the meantime, should she keep with the relative safety of the fields? Or to the road for speed?

  Deciding on a mixture, she walked back toward the road, emerging through a gate five minutes or so later. She walked briskly, occasionally breaking into a run, always spying out places to hide if necessary. From the side of the road, she picked up a sizeable pine branch, deciding it might help conceal her at some point. All the while, she listened for the sound of vehicles coming from either direction.

  Only as one finally came from behind her, heading for Finsborough, and she glanced over her shoulder to see an approaching coach and four horses, did she realize the impossibility of enlisting the help of anyone of the upper classes. How could she justify looking as she did without admitting her ruin? A farmer’s cart might carry her anonymously to Finsborough, but a person of family would either not stop or insist on a full explanation, which she doubted she could make. Not without doing herself as much harm as Philip was trying to achieve.

  With fresh panic, she turned her face away from the approaching carriage and trudged on. It swept past her, scattering more mud across her boots and her cloak.

  Only a few minutes later, she heard another carriage approaching, this time in the opposite direction. In case it was Philip returning, she looked around for somewhere to hide. But there was only a thick hedge she could never get through in time… and the ditch running along the side of the road.

  Hastily, she jumped into the ditch and lay flat, holding the pine branch over herself. A moment later, a coach trundled by. Helen, peering through the pine needles, thought it was indeed Philip, deciding he must have missed her in his first pursuit. Presumably, he wouldn’t go much further than the place she had made the carriage stop for her? Unless he thought she had doubled back, heading toward Brighton?

  A pleasant hope, but one she could hardly rely on. As she scrambled out of the ditch and ran onward, she knew she might not have long. And indeed, she didn’t.

  At first, she could not tell from which direction the vehicle was approaching. And then she knew there was one from each side. There was no ditch by this part of the road, no hedge or wall, only flat, open country with nothing to hide her.

  Don’t let it be Philip, she prayed. Please don’t let it be Philip…

  In panic, she could think of nothing to do except disguise her figure, hobbling like an old woman, using her pine branch as a walking stick.

  The carriage approaching behind grew nearer and nearer, slowed and stopped close behind. A horse snorted and pawed the ground. She hobbled faster, hearing a door open and someone step down.

  “Helen,” said Philip’s sharp voice, “stop being ridiculous. Get in before someone sees you.”

  In truth, the vehicle from the other direction was speeding closer, a curricle with two occupants. With despair, she knew she had lost either way. She could return to Philip and be ruined, or let the sporting curricle driver see her in this state and still be ruined.

  In the end, sheer stubbornness made her decision. She would not let Philip win. She would ruin herself rather than let him. Besides, there was always the chance the curricle would simply drive straight past. She had nothing to lose.

  Throwing off her old woman limp, she straightened and ran toward the oncoming curricle.

  Philip swore. His feet pounded after her and this time, she had no head start to outrun him. Besides, the horses were pulling the carriage after her, too, at mere walking pace. But one flick of the reins, and they would be on her in a trice.

  Then she noticed several things at once. Philip stopped running. She could no longer hear the slow movement of the carriage behind her. In front, the oncoming curricle slowed rapidly in a swirl of blowing horses—and she recognized the driver.

  She let out a sob, because no one had ever been so welcome, because she had never even let herself imagine that he of all people would come upon her in her hour of need. How could he have known? It was a question for the future. For now, she didn’t care, merely launched herself past the horses, already reaching both arms before he bent down and seized her, swinging her dizzily through the air until she landed on his knee.

  She tried to speak, but his open mouth came down on hers, not in hard passion but in a brief, strangely cherishing caress. Tears coursed down her face as he grasped it between his hands.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked urgently. “Did he lay a finger on you?”

  That was when she noticed the murderous glint behind the gentleness of his eyes. She shook her head. “No. I escaped and ran and hid.”

  “Wait here,” he instructed. “Hold the reins to keep the horses in check. They’ll obey you.”

  In fact, he had dropped the reins to seize her, but the horses, as though recognizing his wishes, had stood quite still. She took the reins somewhat numbly, and he jumped down, striding around the back of the curricle to his passenger.

  Phoebe Marshall.

  Helen blinked. It had turned into a strange day.

  Without a word, Marcus handed her down, took her two paces away from the horses, and then abandoned her, striding instead to Philip who stood still in the road gawping at him, quite unaware of the danger he was in.

  Instead, he was indignant. “How dare you, sir? That is no way to treat a gentle lady! I’ll thank you to keep your hands to yourself. I am escort—”

  Marcus’s fist took him full in the jaw, and he staggered backward, clutching his face before he fell over onto his back. Marcus swarmed in, bending and seizing him by the front of his coat and lifting his top half right off the ground with one hand. His other clenched and swung above Philip’s face. It was shaking.

  “The only reason you’re still alive,” he said between his teeth, “is because you didn’t touch her. I put that down to her ingenuity rather than your own chivalry, so one false move, and I will undoubtedly kill you.”

  His voice as much as his words chilled Helen’s blood. God alone knew their effect on Philip.

  Even Phoebe gasped, although she was not brave enough to approach him. “You cannot speak to my husband like that!”

  “I just have,” Marcus snarled. He did not even lower his fist. “This is how it will be. Mrs. Marshall and Miss Milsom will join you in the carriage, and you will drive with all haste to Audley Park. I will be directly behind you or alongside you the whole way, so there will be no stops, no detours. At Audley Park, you will plead illness or whatever you will and keep to your chambers. And first thing in the morning, you will depart for Brighton or wherever else you like so long as it is well away from Helen Milsom. If you ever come within ten miles of her again, I will hear, and I will kill you.”

  It was a threat he could not possibly support, and yet somehow, Helen believed him. So did Philip. And so did Phoebe, for she stomped past the two men and waited to be handed into the coach.

  At last, Marcus stood back and let Philip scramble to his feet. He almost fell over himself to get away and actually pushed Phoebe ahead of him into the carriage.

  “Wait,” Marcus commanded the open-mouthed coachman and strode back to Helen. “I’m sorry,” he said holding up his hand to her. “Can you bear to be in the same carriage with him for another hour? I can think of no other way to save your reputation but to make that odious woman your chaperone.”

  She grasped his hand, her own still trembling with reaction to everything that had happened, and alighted from the curricle, handing him the reins.

  “I’ll be watching them carefully, but I believe I’ve put the fear of God into them.”

  “The fear of Marcus Dain,” she corrected, aiming for lightness.

  He smiled encouragingly and kissed her hand hard. “I’ll see you all the way to the door and t
hen you’ll be safe. Until tomorrow.”

  She touched his lips again and then his cheek. “Until tomorrow,” she whispered, and when he reluctantly released her, walked on shaky legs toward the carriage.

  Keeping one eye on her, Marcus was already leading his horses, turning the curricle to face the same direction as the carriage.

  Helen seated herself opposite the Marshalls, whom she did not deign to look at. Marcus was climbing into the curricle, now lined up alongside them.

  “Go!” he ordered the coachman. “To Audley Park, with all speed.”

  The carriage began to move, increasing to a brisk pace as the horses broke into a gallop. Marcus kept pace alongside for a few moments and then dropped back.

  Inside the carriage was utter, tense silence. Helen had no intention of changing that.

  Chapter Sixteen

  If Helen had once found the Marshalls’ conversation trying, by the time they reached Audley Park, she almost wished for a return to the inanity. Not that she would have joined in, but still, the tense silence was oppressive.

  Darkness was falling when the footman let down the steps. Philip alighted first and handed down his wife with perfect courtesy before walking away as though he had forgotten Helen’s existence. The footman sprang forward to help her instead, but somehow Marcus was before him.

  His grip was firm. “Tell the whole to Lady Overton,” he advised. “The Marshalls should be out of your hair by morning.”

  She nodded once, and his fingers tightened.

  “Don’t come in, Marcus,” she begged. “I think we’ve had enough drama for one day.”

  “Do I still look so murderous?” he asked ruefully.

  “More than ever.”

  His hand clenched, and he forced it to relax. “I suppose it might be better if I stay out of the way tonight. You’re right. I’m far too angry for polite conversation, and if I even see that nasty little weasel again, I’m liable to beat him to a pulp. Which will help nobody and offend Lady Overton’s hospitality besides. But would you not be more comfortable with me there?”