A Fallen Lady

by Elizabeth Kingston

  "Four days for the journey," Helen frowned. "And there's enough money and provisions for that long on the road, I think, in case of bad weather. I hope we're not forgetting anything." The coach fare, inns, meals... Her mind revolved around all the expenses she had counted on, and those that might crop up.

  Maggie silently took Helen's hand in hers, looking down and speaking in that comforting way she had. "You can't be worrying yourself all the time, Helen. Not everything that starts out as a promise ends up broken."

  It was only ever Maggie who could speak to her this way. Only Maggie who understood the depths of Helen's disillusionment with promises. She had been there when the world came crashing down, and saw the change it had wrought in Helen. Marie-Anne knew, but couldn't understand it completely. Alex knew, and didn't believe. But Maggie was the one who saw what had died inside of Helen. Without ever really speaking of it, Maggie had years ago guessed rightly that Helen believed in no one, ever watchful for the lies she was certain must lurk in every man.

  And Maggie would be leaving. It was like losing the best part of herself.

  "Oh, Maggie," she laughed at her own tears, "How will I ever live without you?"

  "You'll do well enough," Maggie said, with a little squeeze of Helen's hand. "There'll be Katie to keep you busy, and Marie-Anne to keep you laughing. And that Lord Summerdale to bring your brother back to his senses. He's a good man, that one."

  "Do you think so, Maggie?"

  Maggie gave her a patient look. "I do, as far as any man is good. I know you don't trust him, and it's smart enough to be cautious, wicked as all gentlemen can be. But I've the feeling he's to be trusted."

  That was reassuring, as they'd already trusted him to enter their lives. But Helen had already determined not to trust him with any knowledge of Katie. The fact that the girl came from Ireland could pique his curiosity, and she felt certain the questions he'd held back would flow forth. Or he could investigate through his secret ways, and somehow discover Helen had been Katie's patron for years. He would sense some subterfuge, and question her about it. She would not suffer any inquiry into her Irish ties, when they had begun, why she cared so deeply. The subject of Katie, in his hands, would open a door that she wished to keep firmly closed, and locked. Even, or perhaps especially, to him.

  The package came the next day, delivered by one of Summerdale's servants to her door. The servant said nothing, only gave her a bow and handed her a note before stepping up onto the carriage again. They did not leave in the direction from which they'd arrived, but headed into the village.

  Helen looked at the box suspiciously. Breaking the seal on the parchment, she read his missive in disbelief.

  Lady Helen,

  To celebrate the upcoming nuptials of Miss Emily and Mr. Tisby, I present you with a humble gift. Our triumph in the realm of matchmaking deserves to be marked with some gesture. Besides, it is entirely selfish of me, and can be rightly seen as a gift to myself. My desire for an intelligent discussion of Mssr Sismondi requires that you accept.

  -S

  She returned her scrutiny to the package at her door. Perhaps it was an innocent gift. He could have given her any number of things that would be welcome, but she couldn't imagine a single thing that would be proper. Champagne, maybe, to toast the couple on his next visit? But that did not explain his note. Despite her suspicions, she trusted his natural inclination to propriety, so she decided she must at least look.

  It took some time, necessitating a thorough search of the house for an implement to pry out the nails. When at last it was opened, she was trapped somewhere between laughter and outrage. Half the crate was packed with beeswax tapers, the other half with lamp oil.

  He knew she had none, and that it interfered with her reading. And so this was his solution, to provide a bounty so that they may be able to discuss his books, or so he said. He did not appeal to her vanity, or her sensibilities as a lady. Instead he appealed to her practicality. He knew her that well, and it filled her with a commingled sense of fondness and dread.

  Worse than anything, he presented her with a necessity that was beyond her ability to provide for herself. A snap of his fingers, and he provided enough to light her home through next summer, never thinking of the cost. He probably burned this much in a single evening of entertainment, and she had seven tallow candles to see her through the new year. He might just as well have given her jewels.

  She could not accept it. It was every bit as presumptuous as if he had sent jewels, and that thought sent her over to ask Danny if he would run to the pub and see if the Summerdale's carriage was there. It was, his servants partaking of the famous bubble and squeak.

  When they reappeared at her door, she explained they must take it back. The servant looked doubtful when she told him that the box was not meant for her, but she insisted it was to be returned to his master with all haste.

  She should have sent a note explaining herself, but had been unable to find the words for the offense she took. As she sat in the dark by the meager fire that night, she tried to think of a way to tell him that the things he did for her – the arrows, the books, the candles, all of it – only made her think the worst of him. It made her feel even more impoverished, more outcast. More like he wanted something in return.

  She never expected him to come the next day. She was sitting at the desk, spurred by his gift and this month's added expenses to reckon her finances until next quarter. It was quite dismal. They had nothing but the stocked cellars and the kindness of their neighbors to see them through. She was chewing at the pen in consternation when he arrived at her door.

  Maggie showed him into the house and then left them there, being late for her job at the Huxley's. He was ready with a smile, as always, and Helen felt the familiar jolt at the sight of him. That he should be comfortable here, that he always seemed pleased to see her, never failed to amaze her. Weeks ago, after the dinner at his home, he had begun dressing more simply, in subdued colors, foregoing any kind of embellishment. It had put her at ease until now, when she recognized it as one more way he had subtly made himself part of her world, to what ends she did not know.

  "Lady Helen." He bowed to her when she did not offer her hand.

  "Lord Summerdale," she nodded. "I congratulate you on your work with the Marquess. Emily must be ecstatic."

  "Yes," he said warily, eyeing her as though expecting an outburst.

  "I thought you were not to come again until Tuesday."

  "I hope my coming today doesn't inconvenience you. It seemed there were things we should discuss."

  She supposed he was giving her the upper hand by allowing her to bring the subject forth. Well, there was no use pretending. She shrugged. "If you mean my refusal of your gift, there is nothing to discuss. I cannot accept it. It would not be proper."

  He raised his brows. "Come, Lady Helen, it's not as if I presented you with a petticoat. As I wrote, it was an act of selfishness. I only wished you to be able to read more."

  His gentle exasperation did nothing to soothe her agitation. She stood looking at the ashes in the hearth, stiff with pride.

  "It seems to me like a gift of charity, my lord. I know that you likely spend more on candles in a day than I spend all year, but it is a gift of great value in my estimation. I know little enough of economics, sir, but the notion of comparative wealth is something I understand. A box of lamp oil is the same as diamond earbobs to someone in my situation."

  He spread his hands before him, as though to ward off the onslaught of her words. "Do you mean to say that beeswax and oil are as presumptuous as jewels?" He let out a disbelieving laugh. "I shudder to think what you would have done had I sent the Welsh longbow I found in my armory."

  "I would have sent it back even more quickly, I assure you!" He did not take her seriously. He thought it harmless to shower gifts on her, only because their cost was a mere pittance to him. "Do you not see? It would be like...like..." she struggled for an apt analogy. "Like the czar of Rus
sia giving you half his kingdom, only because he could do it easily, and because you had no lands there. Could you believe that such a gift would come with no expectations of you?"

  "Expectations?" He looked nonplussed, almost angry. "Do you think I expect anything more than your friendship?"

  "I don't mean to imply that you intended an insult to me. Not in that way, not that kind of expectation." She was flustered at the thought, dancing around the topic without naming it. "Nevertheless, I do take insult. I want no charity."

  He was staring at the toe of his boot, as if understanding were etched there. "So I can't convince you to accept something as harmless as a box of candles?"

  "I cannot. Your gifts – the arrows I should never have accepted, save that you so cleverly presented them as replacement. And your books, your visits, your notion of repairing my relationship with my brother…" Words failed her as she perceived the number of his kindnesses. There was so much, and his reasons for it all were obscured to her.

  He crossed to her, suddenly and swiftly, his frown deepening. "Am I to pretend that it does not affect me, to see you living in poverty?" he asked. "I come here and I see how you live, with no help from anyone, and I know what you were born to. Not this," he waved his hand around the room, "this imitation. I have seen that you are worth more, Helen. I see it every time I call."

  "You are wrong!" She was spurred to anger by his blithe mention of her former station in life. "You forget that the world has judged my worth, and found it wanting. It is your world, my lord, and you should be familiar enough with its requirements."

  "It is your pride that keeps you poor," he persisted stubbornly. "Your brother would give you adequate means to live here or anywhere, but you will not accept it from him. Just as you will not accept a humble gift from me."

  "My pride is all I have!" She was breathing heavily. It was all tumbling out now, the things they had scrupulously avoided for weeks, all the feelings she had held so close for so long. "I will not accept anything from him so long as he doesn't accept me, do you understand? And I will not accept anything from you, because it will only prove that I am what everyone believes." She should not speak of it. It would only lead to questions she didn't ever want to answer again. "I am nothing more than a villager here, with an unusual lineage. That is all I wish to be."

  "You are more than that, I know it." He stepped closer to her, speaking earnestly. "You cannot hide your worth from me."

  She felt his fingers touching softly on her elbow, where she knew the fabric was ragged and in need of repair. With him so close, staring down at her arm, she could see the fine lines beside his eyes, left from years of smiling in the way that took her breath. But he was not smiling now.

  "How can I believe that you are no more than what you pretend to be?" he asked, as though he truly hoped she had an answer to it.

  She had no answers at all. She could not think clearly when he stood so close. It was as if all else had fallen away, and all the candles in the world were snuffed, leaving them in smoky silence.

  "I suppose," she found herself whispering, "I suppose I could have accepted one. But a whole box seemed too … extravagant," she offered weakly.

  But he was not looking at her. He seemed not to be listening to her defense, staring instead at a place below her ear where she felt a curl of her hair falling out of its binding, coming to rest against her neck. He looked like he had just discovered something, there in the strands that tickled her skin. She should pull away, at least disengage her elbow, but she seemed unable to move. It felt amazing, miraculous, to be so close that she could feel the warmth of him. There was something in his face, something she almost recognized, but she could not fix her thoughts on what it was before his hand rose.

  He brushed the back of his fingers along her cheek to her temple, watching the movement intently. Not knowing why she did it, she tilted her face slightly against his hand, feeling close to tears at his tenderness. He made her feel that she would like to move closer to him, to feel his arms strong about her, as if he could shield her from the world and all the things that frightened her. He could protect her with only a word from anything that threatened.

  When his lips brushed gently across hers, she was surprised and not surprised at the warmth that blossomed deep inside her. His mouth barely touched hers, moving softly, waiting for her hand to come up to the stark line of his jaw, the hard smoothness of his skin filling some aching place inside her. He pulled away slightly, looking down at her with the heightened intensity she had felt in him before. But this time it was stronger, and he did nothing to move them back to safer ground.

  Her heart stopped as she realized she did not want him to move away. He needed no words to interpret her mood. He never needed words, this mysterious man, who looked at her lips parting and answered her with his touch, spreading his fingers across her cheek and pressing his lips to hers. She had not been kissed in years, and she had never been kissed like this – like he meant to give as much as he took, even when his tongue parted her lips, a hot invasion that set her heart to beating again with a vengeance.

  She returned the kiss with a passion she had thought dead in her. When he pulled her closer she did not resist as she would have expected of herself, but leaned against him and relished the feel of him. She could not think past the sweet pleasure of his kiss, the way he moved his lips now over her cheeks, her forehead, and back again to her waiting mouth. It was like a drink of water after years of wandering in the desert.

  When his hands curved around her ribcage, his thumbs meeting just beneath her breasts, she slackened her hold on him. It was a struggle to think why she should not be doing this, why it was wrong. The space between their faces was a magnetic field, pulling her back when she told herself to turn away. She tried to find her breath as his hands rested there, so close to her breasts. It was her response to his touch, the heavy yearning that filled her, that brought her back to reality.

  She knew this feeling, this painful need to be close to him, how the earth stopped spinning when he walked into a room, the way her body strained closer when her mind told her to keep a distance. She knew it, and it frightened her more than his touch.

  She pushed back from him abruptly. Her back met the stone of the fireplace and she stared at him, staring at her. Both of them were breathing raggedly, and he looked... dazed, which frightened her so much that she feared she'd never breathe properly again. Just so, Henley had looked on that day so long ago. It set her mind racing. How could she defend herself? Maggie was gone, and the nearest house was not in shouting distance. She began a frenzied search of the room without moving from the spot, feeling the panic rise up in her. Why, why had she ever fallen out of the habit of identifying possible weapons in every room she entered? She used to always do so, but had stopped sometime, because she was silly and stupid and she never protected herself when she should.

  There, the poker. It was just inside her reach. She moved in front of it, gulping air to still the frantic pounding of her heart as her hand closed about the cold metal behind her back.

  "Go. You must go, please." It was a plea when she wanted to scream at him to leave.

  "Helen–"

  "Please!" He was not Henley, she told herself. She knew he wasn't, but all rational thought had fled with the realization of what she'd done and how he'd touched her, of the thousand terrible things he could be. Her mind fixed again on how little she really knew of him. "Leave me! I will not see you anymore. Go and never come back!"

  He looked bewildered. "Never come back? When this is the only place I wish to be?"

  "I don't want your gifts or your kisses or your romantic notions!" she cried wildly. "You make no sense! I want you gone from here. Go bother someone else. Seduce your way into someone else's life, you must leave me be. You have no place here."

  She must calm herself. There was no reason to be so vehement. He had not moved since she'd pushed away from him, and the look that flashed across his face at her words
stirred a regret that wrenched at her heart. But it was better to make him leave now, before she came to care more deeply or to depend on him. Katie would be here soon, and she tried to soothe herself with that thought as she always did. Katie will come. I will have Katie. We will be happy like a family. That will be my life, that is my life. Katie will be here.

  It did not calm her. It only reminded her that she could not risk his suspicions if he knew about the girl. He must never come back. If ever he touched her again, she did not know what would happen.

  The confused haze in his features faded, replaced with a kind of determination.

  "What of the romantic notion that your brother might forgive you?" He spoke it quietly enough, with no inflection. But a kind of madness in her grasped at his words, pulling them apart until she found a focus at last for the suspicion that had plagued her.

  "Is this all part of your plan for my brother and me?" she demanded, the thought coming full-blown into her mind and taking immediate hold. "Did you think to come here, and kiss me, and see if I would yield so you could tell Alex I am the whore he thinks me?"

  It echoed in the room, the vulgar word that no proper lady would use. Whore. An hour ago, she would have never thought to insult him so, but now she wanted him gone. When she said the words, it seemed the likeliest reason behind his intent. He would never want her for himself. His disdain of her at their first meeting forced its way back into her consciousness as she watched him standing silently before her.

  "I was right that first day, when I said you had come to judge me," she said. The blankness in his face was all the answer she needed. She felt suddenly very tired. "So go, then. Go back to my brother and tell him what you have learned. Just leave me."