He regretted it instantly, even as he took the poker and pushed them deeper into the coals. The ribbon burst into flame immediately; the edges of parchment curled up and turning to black dust before his eyes. He leaned against the mantel, feeling nothing but the ashes of incinerated love blowing through him, knowing he could not turn around to face Helen yet. The surge of resentment was too fresh, the loss of what little of Clara was left to him like a blade in his heart.
He watched it burn in the quiet of the room until he could not stand another moment of it, wondering if it would be enough or if he would lose his wife no matter what he gave up to keep her.
It seemed like a lifetime before she broke the silence.
"You didn't have to do that."
He gave a bitter laugh. "Didn't I? Or is it not enough unless I throw myself in the fire?"
"I meant that you are entitled to keep your...friends. Please do not think that I wish to make any demands of you in that way."
He whirled on her. "No, you never make demands, do you?" His vehemence startled her, and himself. He stopped himself from saying more. She made no claim on him; she never had, and it drove him to desperation. Only in the night, when he held her and buried himself in her did she ever demand anything, and then it was total surrender of his body and soul, while she held herself back from him.
She recovered her composure, folding her hands tightly on her lap. "The only thing I have ever asked of you is that you will not spare me the truth, no matter how painful. You have changed your life for me quite enough already. I can have no objection to you keeping your mistress."
"She is not my mistress. She was never my mistress." He would give her that much of the truth, but moved quickly to interrupt whatever nonsense she would spout next. "And am I to allow you the same liberty? Do you hope to find satisfaction with someone else?" Stupid. Don't bring it up, you ass. He could not stand to lose both of them in one night. "Because you can abandon that notion right now. I will not share you, as much as you seem willing to share me."
She stood with a look of disgusted offense contorting her lovely face. "I did not say that, stop putting words into my mouth!" She strode to the desk and back, stopping at the end of the room furthest from him. "I am not blind to everything you have done for me, Stephen, and how little I have deserved any of it. And it will only be worse when we go to London. But I cannot possibly face it if you do not tell me what to expect! I only want to know if I will be followed by the whispers of my own past, or if there will be talk of some other woman in your life that I must contend with."
"There will be no talk about me for you to contend with," was all he managed to say. That's all she cared about. The idea of a mistress she would willingly live with, but God forbid she be bothered with the senseless gossip of London. It was hard to believe he had actually loved her practicality. He would give everything for even the hint of jealousy from her, some sign that it mattered to her at all.
She gave a brisk nod of her head as if that settled everything, frustrating him further, and he found his voice again.
"All I have asked from you, Helen, is a promise that you be my wife. That we not have the kind of marriage I have watched my parents and so many others play out. Have you forgotten it so soon that you would propose I keep a mistress?" he demanded, unable to control the way his voice rose.
Her face was carefully blank. "I have not forgotten."
She turned away to face the door, and the sight of it drained the anger from him in a sickening swoop. She would walk out. She could keep walking forever and he would lose the last thing that meant anything to him. The certainty of it left him hollow.
But she did not leave. She hesitated, stayed on the spot for an indeterminate length of time while his life waited in the balance. Finally she gave a little stamp of her foot, like a child in a temper tantrum. All her cool composure was gone, and her emotion released a warm flood of relief inside him.
"I don't want to care for you so much!" she cried. "Not if you will hide your heart from me. Can you not understand that?"
He understood it. They only wanted the same thing, after all – to keep her safe and happy. He crossed to her and put his hands on her arms, leaning his chest against her back, glad to feel her soften against him.
"It's not hidden from you," he said. This was one pure truth he could admit without hesitation. He reached forward and took her unresisting hands in his, running his fingers along her open palms. "It's right here."
And he turned her to him and kissed her, laid her down on the carpet and took her in the firelight, knowing it was not enough to bind her completely, but praying it would keep her with him for another night.
Chapter 15
Chère Hélène,
I give you the village business quickly, so that I can move on to what is more important. The Huxleys have acquired an enormous bull that frightens everyone from here to Hillside, little Agnes blushes whenever John Turner steps into the pub, and Mrs. Gibbons stunned us all by making a cake fit for a king to bring to The Reverend's annual picnic. Voilà. I am sure you're reeling with the excitement of it all. Fetch some salts and read on.
I will be in London to collect my quarterly allowance in a few weeks – is this soon enough? I don't like this writing to each other, you are too good at hiding things on paper. What is wrong, my dear friend? Except you say that nothing is wrong. I am supposed to think you want me to tell you stories of my darling Shipley? As if you have not heard them all a thousand times! You are worse than the Sphinx.
But you sound happy and it brings me joy to know it. Whatever else there is that you do not say, it worries you and takes away from the content you have found. I will not allow this. How I can help, I do not know, but I shall come to you (with discretion, of course). I will not object to seeing your handsome lord husband, as Bartle is become dismal without his devilish grin.
I hope that you are well settled by now. The townhouse sounds marvelous, will I have a room? Ooh, and servants! I'll do my best not to be outrageous.
Bisous,
Marie-Anne
They had been in London only two weeks when it happened. Much of the country staff had traveled with them to the city, and Helen was grateful that she didn't have to adjust to any new names and faces. No need to explain to a new cook that Helen occasionally enjoyed looking in on the kitchen sometimes, or to insist to yet another butler that she disliked being doted on continually.
The butler, Collins, was one of her greatest conquests. He had been stiff and formal when they'd met at the country estate, a faint but recognizable gleam of judgment in his eye that told her instantly he knew of her past. But he had thawed at the first evidence that Helen had a strong aversion to her mother-in-law, and she had found in their ensuing alliance that he made an excellent friend.
She teased him mercilessly over his penchant for gossip, which he never hesitated to share with her if he thought it could be useful. Lady Cashley had been the first to call at the townhouse only a week ago. When Collins brought the calling card to her and saw her blanch at the impending first foray into good society, he informed her she need not worry. Lady Cashley was indebted to Lord Summerdale for some service about which the butler remained tight-lipped, and she would not have come calling to cause trouble.
It went well, as did other visits. Stephen was with her through most of them, but left her increasingly on her own after the first week. The London season was not yet in full swing, and the real test would come later. For now the trickle of visitors were her husband's nearest associates, who would share an interest in welcoming her into society without reserve.
She had been thinking that perhaps it would not be so terrible. Perhaps, despite everything she had learned from life, they could manage to succeed in escaping the jaws of her past.
Silly girl. In one blinding moment, she finally understood that there could be no escape. It was a monster from the deep, dedicated to pulling her down into the depths and smothering her.
Collins had the day off, over his own protestations. Helen had insisted he must have one day to himself before the season was upon them, had insisted it for most of the staff. Stephen would be back in time for tea and any visitors that may come, and there were enough servants left to tend to their needs.
But it seemed there were early visitors, from the sounds issuing from the entry hall. Helen sent her maid to tell Foster to show the visitor into the salon. It must be that kind-faced American woman calling; she'd have no notion that it was far too early, but Helen didn't mind. Only yesterday she'd received a letter from Jack, saying that Katie had improved beyond anything and they now considered emigrating. She could hope the American lady would know something of Wilmington, where they proposed settling.
She made her way down the stairs, her mind filling with all the questions she had. Passing by Foster's slight scowl, she gave a roll of her eyes to show her acknowledgement and acceptance of the irregularity of it.
"Send for tea, please, and don't worry," she murmured as she approached the drawing room. "It's only a social call."
She turned with a bright smile of welcome prepared on her face, her hands outstretched in greeting, straight into a nightmare made flesh and blood. It spoke her name and robbed her balance and laid waste to six years of freezing calm.
Through the silence that pounded on her ears, she heard her own voice, sounding as though she had never spoken in her adult life, creaking with rust and disuse. It escaped from numb lips with the one word she wished never to say again.
"Henley."
It seemed impossible to think beyond the sound of his name. Impossible that he was here, in this home where she had thought herself safe, impossible that he looked precisely the same. In the instant she looked in his face, she experienced the strangest sensation – as though all the evil in him were only a dream, that such darkness could never exist behind his handsome face and bright blond hair.
But it was gone in a flash when her own words came back to her. They came to her like a haunting, like no time had elapsed at all and they only continued where they had left off. The last words she had spoken to him, as she pressed the miraculously found blade against his throat: Get out of me.
The echo of them erased the unreality of it all and replaced it with a tidal wave of terror. Do not turn your back on him. The command came clear to her mind, stopping her from whirling around to the door when her legs strained to flee.
She stood rooted to the spot, petrified, a rabbit going still in the grass as it tried to escape the notice of a greater and more cunning creature. She could not find a scrap of courage. She was distantly amazed that she had ever screamed at him, refused him, defied him – that she had ever thought she could win against him.
She felt a sharp pang of grief for the girl she had been, the girl she had chastised as silly and stupid, who had not been afraid and had suffered for it.
"It pleases me to see you have done well for yourself, Helen," he said with apparent sincerity.
He gazed at her, and the blue of his eyes was the color of lies, brimming with affection. It made everything real again, reminded her that he had truly loved her, had been frantic at losing her. And she had loved him to desperation. All of it… it had all happened, and he stood in her drawing room as if he were greeting an old friend.
"Why are you here?" she choked out, the weakness of her voice betraying her terror. "Leave. Leave now, and I will not tell my husband you have come."
He raised an eyebrow, the arrogance of his expression ushering in a host of forgotten memories. "But it is your husband I have come to discuss, my dear."
The anger came so quickly that she could not stop the waspishness of her words. "I am not your dear!" She pulled in a breath as her mind began at last to function. A weapon, something, she must find something in case he came too close. But do not turn your back to him. She edged toward the writing desk.
"Leave. You are not welcome here." She tried to speak it in a low warning, tried to summon the protective rage, but it came out tremulous and thin. She felt shamefully close to tears. He reduced her to a cringing child.
"Helen, please, I must speak to you. You must hear me!" He looked to her with a longing that she recognized well but reminded herself was poison. Everything about him was a lie, from the coaxing in his voice to the air of harmlessness about him. She reached the edge of the desk, but did not look down.
"Please. I know we parted horribly, but I do not deserve this treatment. If ever you cared for me before I so recklessly lost you, I beg you to help me." He reached up, and she gave a start before she realized he was only running a hand through his hair. "They are ruining me, Helen. The bankers will not act on my behalf. No one will extend me credit." He looked hunted, hungry for understanding.
"Leave!"
God, would her voice never gain strength? It was imperative that she not listen to him, inconceivable that he would be imploring her for help. He could dismiss it all as parting badly, and she knew herself susceptible to the delusion, knew that she wanted nothing so much as to pretend it had never happened. But she could not. Her panic would not let her.
She nervously ran her hand over the desk behind her, closed her fingers in a death grip around the paper knife at last, and opened her mouth to let out six years of hatred.
"Why did you kill them? Why? They did nothing to you!" Katie's face rose up in her mind, a reminder of the child he had killed. The solid handle of the paper knife in her hand was a reminder of the blade she had held so long ago, giving her courage. "They had nothing. They were not poaching on your lands, you fool, but you knew that. And you killed them anyway, only because you could! How many others have you killed?" The rage kept her afloat now, pounding through her, uncontrollable. "How many?" she shouted.
"Helen–"
"Keep my name out of your mouth!" she screeched. She dragged in a ragged breath, feeling hysterical fury flooding her. "It was a child. Just a little girl!"
"What do you know of it!" he burst out impatiently, resentment curdling his features. "They were nothing to anyone. Nothing. They are the filthiest beggars, I will not suffer them to live and breed like a pestilence on my land. And you left me for it. For that diseased rubbish! It was none of your business."
"Murderer!" It was nothing more than a frightened yelp, the depth of his depravity renewing her fear. "It was my business not to marry a murderer!" She wanted to close her eyes and shut out his face, to collapse on the floor and give in to the shaking nausea and fear and exhaustion. "I don't care why you came here. Whatever was between us is over and past. I want nothing more to do with you."
"I return the sentiment in full, I assure you," he said with a glower. "But the past has come back to you for a reason, Helen."
She heard nothing beyond that. Whatever else he said was lost as she understood that she would never be allowed to escape him. She watched his lips move in a litany of grievances that she did not bother attempting to understand, feeling the weight of her past bear down on her.
Unbelievable that he would come. But of course he would return to her life. Of course the past could not be buried, no matter if she bent herself to the task every moment of every day. She could not, she knew at last, steep the ugliness of it in the happiness she had found, expecting the stain to dissolve and disappear.
But she could use it, she saw now. If it would never leave her, then she could claim it as her own. If she was well and truly ruined, then let it serve her.
She gripped her fingers around the knife and looked inside herself for the thing she feared most. Her own violence, so deep and long denied, was waiting there. It had come to life only once before, in a flash of brilliance that she had sworn would never be resurrected.
When he stepped forward and put a hand on her shoulder, the sudden and vivid memory of leaves rustling beneath her nearly choked her. It came fast and furious, as it always did – the feel of his leg hard and insistent between hers, the uncomfortable weight of her skirt
s bunched around her hips, the sharp something on the ground scraping behind her knee.
Things she had forgotten, or never remembered. They all rose up as a lump in her throat, strangling her, carried there by his hand lifting to her shoulder, concentrated in her grip on the knife.
Foster seemed almost frantically relieved when Stephen walked through the door.
"A visitor, my lord," he said before Stephen had time to strip off his gloves. "He's in with Lady Summerdale. Come."
It marked the first time he had ever been ordered about by a servant, and the sudden lack of deference spurred him to action. He followed Foster down the hall. "Who is it?"
"He gave his name as Duncan, my lord. She wants him gone, but he does not leave."
They had reached the salon. A maid stood outside the door, holding a tea tray and staring into the room as though watching a crucifixion. As Stephen ran through a mental inventory of names, searching in vain for any Duncan he knew, the scene burst into view. A man held Helen's shoulder, giving her a little shake as he tried to break the look of ice calm that she wore.
"What must I do to convince you I do not come here to hurt you, Helen?" He was pleading in earnest. "I loved you!"
This is when he should have said something, done something. But at the mention of love, he could not help looking to his wife, whose face became a mask of disgust and loathing.
"Were you loving me more when you forced my skirts up and covered my screams, or when I held the razor to your throat to stop you?"
Her voice was little more than a whisper, low and deadly. But Stephen heard it. It stopped him where he stood next to the maid, mired him in stunned confusion. There was no time to absorb what she had said, to allow anything more than the bare fact to register. There was only the sharp reality of what it meant, and that Henley stood before him.
In three long strides he was across the room, propelled by an animal rage. It was the work of a moment, to rip the man's hand from Helen's shoulder, to knock him to the floor and watch with satisfaction as he cringed away. But he would not let him get away, hauling him up so that he could deliver blow after blow to Henley's face, elated when he felt the nose shatter under his fist. Above the blood pounding in his ears, he heard himself let out a bellow. He struck Henley again and again – once for having ever touched Helen, again for the nightmares he had given her, again for putting the shadows beneath her eyes. Over and over again, for the unspeakable horror that Stephen could not bear to think about.
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