A Fallen Lady

by Elizabeth Kingston

  He still did not move, but seemed to draw himself up.

  "Is that what keeps you from trusting me? I'll tell you, then." His was a controlled anger, betrayed only by the tightness of his words. "I came to discover the truth of why you threw Henley over, even after you had given him your virtue and knew it would be your ruin."

  Trying not to betray her thoughts on that, and all that it implied, she lifted her shoulder. The cold was stealing over her limbs, exhaustion making her flippant in the hopes of his departure. "It's as everyone says, of course. That I did not like the sound of Helen Henley for my married name."

  "I find I am not in the mood for humor, Lady Helen. Tell me this and I will leave you. I see I have been a fool to think that we could be friends." There was nothing of the man she had come to know in him. He was hard, and cold, more disdain in his voice than he had ever revealed to her. "I'll not plague you with my romantic ideas or my unwanted affections any longer. Only tell me. Was it because you loved another?"

  She actually found it in her to laugh at that. "Oh, no. Not that."

  "They said you were an excellent match. That you seemed to care deeply for one another."

  "You should know as well as I, Lord Summerdale, that they say anything at all which pleases them."

  He was silent for the longest time. She made herself return his stare in spite of the burning dryness in her eyes. At least they had come to the truth. She found no happiness in knowing she had been right, that he had hidden his true purpose. For weeks, he lay in wait, cajoling her into relaxing her defenses to hear her pointless story. As if Alex's version of it was not enough for him. That she had been such a fool as to believe in his friendship for an instant made her want to weep, to tear her hair out and berate herself for having learned nothing in the course of her life.

  "Is that it, then?" He looked hard at her. "You never loved him?"

  She looked away from him, her fingers curling around the poker at her back. "On the contrary," she said with soft conviction, "I was foolish with love for him. We argued, and I was foolish, and that is all you need to know."

  He stared at her a long time before he picked up his coat and hat. Without a word, he left her, closing the door softly behind him while she wondered what possible construction he could have put on her words. She didn't really care, so long as he didn't come back.

  He didn't.

  Chapter 7

  My dearest Stephen,

  I do not believe you when you say that your country manor wants improving, that this is what keeps you from Town. How long will you rusticate?

  Life goes on without you, days dragging by. His Grace occupies himself with his mistress and I occupy myself with nothing at all. I spend much time composing letters that I never send to you, knowing as I do how impatient you would be to see page after page filled with descriptions of your every virtue. Or to read how sorry I am, how foolish I was to refuse you, how I would give up everything to go back to the time when our thoughts were as one.

  But you hide yourself away from me. You never write me anything of importance, and that so infrequently and in such distant tones that you make me believe everything between us was only a dream. If you stood here before me, I might know if that depth of feeling was only my imagining. Do you wish to forget me? You cannot. I will not let you. Say you will come before Spring. Say that we are still friends. My heart aches to think that you distance yourself from me.

  Do not make me beg to hear from you. This is a cheerless existence (of my own doing and by choice, no one is more mindful of this than I am) and a word from you brightens even the darkest day. Write to me.

  Ever Yours,

  Clara

  It had taken hours of searching among the dusty boxes, but they had found the three remaining dresses of Helen's trousseau. The gowns lay on Marie-Anne's sofa, undergoing a strict evaluation of their worth and usefulness.

  "The pink is most appropriate for such a young girl, I think." Marie-Anne stroked what was left of the gray riding habit before pronouncing her agreement with Helen, that it would make the most practical dress for daily wear. Her hand then moved to the green gown. "It is a shame not to use this for something, even if not for Katie. So lovely. But perhaps when she is older."

  Helen agreed completely. It had been her favorite dress: an emerald green made of silk with a shimmering lace-trimmed overlay, delicately puffed short sleeves, the neckline dipping low in a way that was out of fashion now. There had been a hat to match it, and gloves too, both sacrificed years ago to pay for the services of Katie's doctor. Helen had never worn the dress in public, but had spent months dreaming of how she would wear it as a married woman, at the first ball they would attend together after the wedding. Now the memory filled her with disgust for herself, for the Odious Henley, for the modiste who had designed the dress with immodesty in mind, and most of all for childish dreams.

  But she did not hate the dress. It was beautiful, and she had been beautiful in it, once, standing in front of the cheval glass, marveling at how adult she had become. She had had other dresses that were much more valuable, and even the pink gown had undergone the salvaging that the others had. But the green gown remained whole, and perfect, and Helen was afraid to question her own motives in keeping it thus.

  "Well, we should set to work on the gray first," Helen declared. "We can guess at her size well enough to begin on it, anyway."

  "Hard to believe she will be here so soon," Marie-Anne muttered as she pulled the scissors from her pocket. "Even more difficult to believe that Maggie will be leaving us."

  Helen occupied herself with packing the green gown away, trying to hide the sadness that overcame her. She could scarcely think of Maggie's leaving without becoming teary-eyed. She did not know how to take leave of Maggie, how to put into words what she felt at this parting, much less what she felt for Maggie herself. She had the hysterical idea that she would collapse beneath the weight of her gratitude and love in the midst of trying to express it, or in trying not to express the lonely self-pity that consumed her when she considered the impending absence of that love.

  "Maggie will stay in touch," she said instead, struggling as always to focus on the positive. "We'll miss her of course, but we cannot grow maudlin over it. One loses friends over the course of time. It's only natural."

  She sat across from Marie-Anne on her customary chair and began to remove the piping from the sleeves of the riding habit. They worked in silence for a while, until Marie-Anne at last spoke.

  "Hélène, I do not wish to upset you, but I must ask. Will we never see Lord Summerdale again?" She was so carefully casual, in how she asked it. "It has been so long, and he never said goodbye. At least, not to me."

  It had been a month since he had walked out her door, and Helen had never offered a reason to Marie-Anne or Maggie for his sudden absence. She found it too difficult to lie to her friends, and so much more difficult to tell the truth of the matter. If she were brave, she would say: He frightens me, Marie-Anne. But she couldn't say it; it was too upsetting in either language. Instead, she sought to find the words to imply as much to her friend.

  "He said goodbye to me. I'm sure he regrets being unable to say so to you." She hesitated, then plunged ahead. "But he left at my request, and I asked him not to visit here again."

  Marie-Anne showed no surprise at her words. "Why did you do that?" she asked mildly.

  "I..." Helen could feel the flush creeping up her neck. "He insulted me." Even if she had not said it in such a tentative way, it would still have sounded unlikely reason. Lord Summerdale was not the insulting type. His courtesy was too well known.

  Her friend still did not look up, but answered quite normally, as though it were the most natural thing in the world to say, "So he must have shown you how he feels for you, no? Perhaps he told you of his affection, or even dared to kiss you?"

  Helen's mouth fell open. Her mind was utterly blank, incapable of forming a response to this unexpected insight. She gaped at
her friend until she managed to choke out, "He told you?!"

  Marie-Anne at last looked up and laughed outright at Helen's expression. "Oh, no, ma chère, he has told me nothing. Do you think anyone needed to tell me? Recover yourself, Hélène, or your eyes will come right out of your head." She had stopped laughing now, settling into a quiet amusement as she spoke. "I am very Gallic, as you tell me, and see these things even when they are more subtle. It was plain to me he wanted you from the moment he saw you."

  An instant denial was on Helen's lips, but she did not give voice to it. She had seen nothing in Summerdale when they'd met, except the threat he presented. She had only felt his censure, his disgust. It was impossible that there was more than that, and she said so to Marie-Anne, cautiously. But all her arguments were dismissed with an impatient flick of the hand.

  "I saw the look on him when you met, and again every time you were in front of him. Many times he looked at you with more than courtesy or friendship, so don't pretend to me that you never saw it."

  Helen thought back to the dinner at his house, his eyes alight with a mischievous flirtation as he slid his glance in her direction through the candlelight. No, she couldn't pretend she didn't know that look, or the many others he had given her. She had told herself that it was his way, that he enjoyed the challenge of making her laugh, purely for the sake of friendship.

  But she knew those looks, and what they really were, and had hidden their meaning from herself. It had been pleasant to indulge in a light flirtation; she never dreamed it was anything other than perfectly safe, like sighing over the gallantry of Sir Galahad when she was a girl. Fictional knights didn't lament her poverty while standing in her home, though. They didn't look at her like he had. They certainly never leaned out of the picture book and kissed her.

  "I suppose," she admitted slowly, "that I saw it, but did not recognize it. And when I did, I told him to leave."

  "Only because he desired you? He would never act without encouragement, from what I have seen of him. You blush, Hélène! There is nothing in this to be ashamed of, so it must be..." She stared hard, almost squinting at Helen, and a look crossed her face – amusement, chagrin, delight and incredulity all at once. "It must be that you desire him!"

  Helen stood abruptly, trailing the gray material behind her as she walked a few paces toward the window. "It is not a joke, if you please, Marie-Anne."

  "I'm sorry, ma chère, I know it is not," she answered. Instead of teasing, her voice took on a gentle, maternal tone. "But I thought you understood that it is nothing but natural."

  She had told Helen, long ago, that what had happened in Ireland was a perversion of love. That it was not like that, truly, between those who cared for one another. Even if she had not said so, Helen would have understood it only by seeing the look that came over Marie-Anne when she spoke of her Shipley. There was no discomfort there, or anger, or fear. Through a combination of fate and her own stupidity, Helen had experienced the twisted version of passion, and Marie-Anne had made it clear that it need not always be so. She didn't know whether to be grateful for the knowledge, or even more furious to learn the extent of what she had lost that day.

  "I understand that, Marie-Anne. I suppose I do. In my mind, at least, if not in the rest of me." She fought her way past the usual desolation that filled her thoughts when she turned her mind to her own feelings about Summerdale. "And though I doubt it, perhaps I could have invited him back one day, if it were only that which had upset me. But he told me why he really came here."

  "This sounds ominous," Marie-Anne said cautiously.

  "Indeed. He sought me out only to know the truth of why I broke my engagement. He is not our friend; he was only after any sordid details which Alex may have left out." She closed her eyes and spoke past the pain of the admission. "He is sent here as judge, my virtue once more on trial, so that Alex may learn if I am any less a whore than he has believed."

  Marie-Anne did not speak at first, absorbing this news that no doubt came as much of an unpleasant surprise as it had to Helen. Finally, she gave a deep sigh. "Well, that is disappointing, and I wouldn't have thought it of him. You were right to send him away, then, if you won't tell the tale."

  Helen gave a snort. "Why should I try again to tell it? It's no different than what Alex already knows, and I doubt I could give any better rendition of it now. God knows it's as unbelievable now as it was six years ago, so I won't open myself to Summerdale's scorn over the affair."

  She picked up the scissors again and blindly attacked the fabric, nearly slicing her thumb. Ignoring the tears that threatened and the hard lump of injustice that swelled inside her, she took a deep breath and thought of Katie. This dress was to be for the girl. She must be calm.

  "I think he would not scorn, my friend. He is a better man than your brother." Marie-Anne picked at the thread to pull a seam apart, her head down and her voice mild. "But it is your story to tell, and yours to never tell again if you don't wish it."

  Helen frowned at this, suddenly doubting. "Do you think I did wrong to refuse?"

  Marie-Anne looked up swiftly, and spoke firmly. "There is no wrong or right in this. It is in your power to choose what you will or will not share, and that is the only thing of consequence. It is you who made the choice," she shrugged, "and that is good."

  She and Marie-Anne did not talk of it anymore, turning their attention to the preparations for Katie's arrival. They took the ruins of the gown and bent all their concentration on making something new and beautiful out of it, salvaging the tattered remnants of the past to piece together a different, less magnificent but perfectly presentable future. They were both quite practiced at it.

  She dreamt of Lord Summerdale that night, of him standing below her with his arms outstretched, waiting for her to fall from a great height.

  She always did fall, in the dream, and he always caught her in strong arms before tumbling backwards with her, laughing and kissing her soundly. She was never afraid in the dream. It was only when she awoke that she became filled with a shivering fear, and the face and mouth in her mind changed to another's, leaving her awake and terrified until the gray dawn lit the room.

  In the end, when it was time for Maggie to leave, Helen did not even attempt to express her feelings at losing her dearest friend. They only held hands as the cart pulled away, letting the distance pull their arms straight before the grasp was broken. Helen kept her arm outstretched, the emptiness of her hand saying all the things that she could not voice.

  She walked back to the empty house, and the door closed behind her in an echoing boom. She leaned her back against the door and slid down to sit on the floor with her knees drawn up beneath her chin. She stayed that way for the rest of the afternoon and into the evening, sobbing as she had not let herself do for years.

  In the five days that followed, she had taken to walking. Even though it was gray and cold, and the cloak she wore was barely worthy of the name, she found comfort in the monotony of lifting one foot after another. She told herself she was seeking distraction from her thoughts, but in truth she only allowed herself to sink more deeply into melancholy. She saw the years stretch before her, without Maggie's companionship: she and Marie-Anne would be a silly pair of spinsters, playing the role of doting aunties to Katie, who would be Jack and Sally's child. It would be different, all of it.

  She quickened her step, frustrated with her self-pity. So it would not be perfect, but whatever in life was? There was no call for this ridiculous moping about. All of it, from the empty days in front of her to the penniless days behind her, would be worth it. There was only one goal: to see Katie safe and grown. Helen would give it all again, would give the rest of her days or anything else it cost, to take care of the child. It was the only task left to her, and she would pour everything of herself into it.

  Determined to turn her thoughts to anything other than Maggie's absence, she finally forced herself to think of what she had avoided in all her days of walking. She would
never see her brother again. He did not believe her, and was not more inclined to believe her, or forgive her, or care about her at all. Perhaps she should have lied. Truth seemed to matter very little. Easy enough to say she regretted her flighty youthfulness, or some other nonsense that would lay the blame at her own feet.

  But it galled her to think of playing a charade, when the truth was all she'd ever had. Her own truth, no matter what anyone else believed. It was hers, as Marie-Anne had said. All of the pain and injustice and anger, the whole experience, belonged to her, and she would not change it for her brother's peace of mind. Even if she could it would not mollify him, as there was no way to reverse time and honor her betrothal. And no matter how it had happened, she had lost her vaunted virginity. She could change that no more than she could change the course of the stars in the sky.

  And the stars would be out soon, she realized, as she noticed that the sun was sinking. She didn't at first hear the sound of her name being called across the fields.

  Shading her eyes from the low slant of the sun and trying to quell her alarm at the note of panic in the voice that called to her, she began to walk towards him. She couldn't imagine who it was, or how he'd gotten there, until she came close enough to see his face.

  "Jack! What's happened? What's wrong?" Her legs had almost given out beneath her when she saw it was him. He was supposed to be on the road from Holyhead, with Katie in tow, in a hired coach. But he stood before her, panting and holding his side.

  "Is it Katie? Is she all right? What's happened?" She was beginning to breathe as harshly as Jack was, her eyes watering in panic as she imagined the worst.

  "Miss Helen, it's all gone wrong something terrible and I'm sorry for it. The girl's fine for now, I think. Miss Maggie and her cousin are with her. I came as fast I could, I didn't know what else to do." He caught his breath finally and straightened, worry in every line of his face.