‘It’s a vile habit, I know,’ she said, balancing the thin cigar between her gloved fingers. ‘You must not tell anyone.’
Charles laughed. ‘Your secret is always safe with me.’
Helen laughed, too, and it sounded like music on the cold breeze. ‘You are clever to find such a hiding place, Charlie. Sometimes it feels as if there isn’t one place left to disappear in all the world.’
‘I’m surprised you would ever want to disappear. Are you not the belle of every ball?’
She smiled, her oval face wreathed in smoke. ‘How can I live with such a thing all the time? It’s amusing sometimes, of course. But never to get away from everyone watching...’ She broke off and shook her head. ‘One has to always, always smile, or the rumours will fly.’
That sounded intriguing. ‘What sort of rumours?’
‘Oh, you know, Charlie. I am sure that you, of all people, know.’ Her smile turned bitter again.
‘Helen,’ he said carefully. ‘What was it really like, being married to Fallon?’
Helen took a deep inhale of the smoke, not looking at him. ‘Oh, you know. It is an old title that opens every door. Is that not what every girl wants? A title, a place in society, a role as a leader of fashion.’
Charles nodded. A marriage to Harry could not have given her that, it was true. ‘Was it what you wanted?’
She shrugged. ‘Of course. What else is there? To be a woman like Miss Parker, forced to be a companion or a governess?’ She glanced at the party behind the windows, an unreadable expression on her face. ‘But she is kind, isn’t she?’
‘Who?’ Charles asked, unable to follow the meander of Helen’s thoughts.
‘Miss Parker, of course. She is sweet. Pretty, in her quiet way. She makes people around her want to smile, to feel that the world can be good, just as she is. She has such power, but she doesn’t know it. Nice people like her never do.’ She studied the stars high above their heads for a moment. ‘Sometimes I wish I could be like that. Could deserve—more.’
Charles felt his heart ache at her sadness and he longed to take it away, to erase it as if it had never been, even as he knew he was not the person for such a task. He had too many ugly burdens of his own, hidden inside. ‘Helen,’ he said roughly. It took all the self-control he had left not to add the word darling, not to take her into his arms and hold her close against the cold world that seemed to hold them both prisoners. ‘You deserve so very much. You deserve everything.’
She turned to look at him, her pale, perfect face filled with surprise. Her eyes were wide, startled. But she quickly covered it with that hard, brilliant smile. ‘Charlie, you are a dear. But you don’t know what I’ve done in my life.’
‘Nor do you know what I have done, what I have seen. You can tell me anything you want, Helen, anything at all and I won’t be shocked.’
‘No, I don’t think you would.’ She glanced in the windows behind them, watching the shadows of the dancers pass beyond the glass. ‘But what of Harry? What do you think he would think?’
Was that it, then? Helen still wanted Harry after all this time? Charles felt something he had not in a long time—sadness. ‘He is your friend, too.’
She gave a bright little laugh. ‘Oh, yes. My friend. Harry is so good, so like Miss Parker in some ways, isn’t he? He has always put others before himself. His country, his duty. Once I thought that so boring. Didn’t you, Charlie dear?’
‘Maybe I did, once.’
‘But we are all older now. Isn’t that supposed to make us see so much clearer?’ She turned away from the dancers and smiled up at him, a beacon of pure, bright light in the dark night. ‘Tell me, do you still paint?’
‘No. The will to see clear enough to put something down on canvas seems to have deserted me.’
Helen tilted her head as she studied him. ‘I am indeed sorry to hear that. I loved your paintings. You made the world look so beautiful, like a place where one could be at peace. Do you remember a scene you did once of your mother’s rose garden?’
He nodded, his thoughts going back to the summer beauty of the garden, the scent of the roses on the warm breeze—and Helen walking along the paths, a solitary figure in white he tried to capture. ‘Yes.’
‘It was wondrous. Like heaven should be, I think. I have never found a place to equal it. Nor, I suppose, have you.’
He shook his head. Her smile faded and she turned away to crush the end of her cheroot under her satin shoe. She slid off his coat and held it out to him.
‘Thank you, Charlie,’ she said simply and then she was gone, hurrying back into the crowded assembly and leaving only a trace of her exotic jasmine perfume behind.
Find an heiress for Hilltop, Charles had told Harry so blithely. So foolishly, as if heiresses were mere pieces to be moved around a chessboard. Surely their old friend Helen would do. How he regretted those words now. Helen was no mere heiress, no mere solution to a problem or childhood memory. She was so much more, had become so much more. And she deserved a fine man like Harry to make her truly smile again.
Charles look up at the cold, hard stars and found that they seemed even further away than ever before. Just like Helen herself.
Chapter Eleven
Harry stood back and studied the façade of the house with a careful, critical eye. Hilltop was not as modern or comfortable as Barton, he had to admit that. It had retained the look of an earlier time, with its rough stone walls and old towers, its wavy, thick-glass windows gazing out at the world, but letting little of it in.
But he liked the look of it and he hoped Rose would, too. She seemed to enjoy old tales, stories of fairy-tale castles. Hilltop did have just such an appearance.
Why did he care so much about whether or not Rose liked his house?
He picked up the holly wreath that lay at his feet and hung it on the old, stained, stout wooden door. It gleamed there, all glossy green leaves and bright red berries, brightening the grey stone and sending out a welcome on the cold day. It made him think of Rose herself, so warm in a cold world.
* * *
The day of the planned visit to Hilltop dawned bright and clear, cold but with a rare turquoise sky arching overhead. Rose was mesmerised by its beauty, by the prospect of the lovely day ahead, the rare treat of a ride, the chance to see Harry in his own home. She wanted to enjoy it to the fullest and not think too hard about what her feelings meant, what hurt they might bring her in the future.
Harry had ridden ahead and only Jane and Hayden elected to come along on the excursion. All the others wanted to stay near the fireplace with their cards and newspapers. Jane and her husband lagged behind Rose on the short ride, whispering and laughing together, like a pair of newly wed lovebirds free of their children and duties for a few hours.
Rose, too, felt a rare sense of freedom, of lightness. It was something she barely even remembered feeling before. She hadn’t been able to ride in a long time, and at first she felt quite uncertain in the saddle, even though Jane assured her this was the gentlest mare in the Barton stable. But it had all come back to her in a wonderful rush, the power of the reins in her hands, the freedom of speed. The deliciousness of forgetting everything else for a moment.
It was so much like dancing with Harry, that feeling that her feet could leave the ground and she could fly free.
She urged her horse into a gallop along the pathway, winding their way up a hill beyond the Barton woods. She laughed as the cold wind caught at her hat and rushed over her cheeks. Yes—it was indeed like dancing, but only dancing with Harry!
She reined in her horse at the crest of the hill to wait for Jane and Hayden. From that vantage point, high above the pale rolling fields, she could see for what seemed like miles and miles. Barton Park, with all its fine, noisy company, and even her calmly dutiful life with Aunt Sylvia, were left
far behind, and there was only that endless sky above her.
She remembered how she had felt once, so long ago, when she had been impossibly young and the world full of all the opportunities she had read about in books. It hadn’t turned out that way at all, of course. But here, now, at Christmas, she did recall how it felt to be that girl.
Her horse pawed restlessly at the frosty ground as Rose twisted around in the saddle to look towards where she knew the chimneys of Hilltop lay. She didn’t know what she expected to see beyond the grey-stone walls that bisected Barton, Hilltop and Emma’s home at Rose Hill. Perhaps a different land, a fairy land of clouds and mysterious groves, like in the story Harry had said his nursemaid once read to him.
Yet it all looked much the same, fallow winter fields, hills and half-frozen streams, all laid out like a patchwork blanket sewn together with those stone walls and fringed around the outside with woods.
In the distance, though, she glimpsed old brick chimneys and towers, and a curl of smoke that seemed to beckon a welcome. The house at Hilltop, just as Harry had pointed it out to her on their sled ride.
She glanced back over her shoulder to see that Jane and Hayden still lagged behind, making slow progress up the hillside. They waved at her, laughing as if they too felt the precious, fragile power of the day, and she waved back.
She urged the horse forward, down the slope of the hill and on to a wider path, lined on either side with railed fences. Down there, in the shelter of a small valley, the light seemed greyer, more shadowed. Over the fields stood a clutch of cottages, the whitewashed and thatched houses of Hilltop tenants. When she turned through an open set of gates, once finely wrought iron in a pattern of pineapples and pomegranates but now rusted, she found Hilltop itself.
She remembered the fanciful thoughts of fairy tales and almost could have vowed she had truly found herself inside one. Unlike Barton, which had been renovated and redecorated over many years, Hilltop looked like something from a medieval world. It was built of old grey stone, overgrown with yellowing ivy, round crenelated towers still guarding its four corners, with mullioned windows staring down at her like ancient eyes. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see a moat and a drawbridge, with knights galloping over it and swords drawn.
As if to prove she had entered a medieval dream, she heard the pounding of hooves behind her, like those knights. She glanced back to see that it was only Jane and Hayden, catching up with her. They were laughing, as if they had been in a merry race, and it brought her back to the present day, to the reality of where and who she was. Just plain Rose Parker, lady’s companion with cloudy dreams of romance.
She turned back to the house, suddenly nervous to see Harry again.
‘It is a tiny bit gloomy, is it not?’ Jane said, studying the great, thick, nail-studded fortress of the front door. ‘But then again, so was Barton once. It only takes a bit of style to bring it into the comfortable modern day.’
Hayden laughed. ‘Only when the style has your impeccable taste, my love.’
‘Nothing so easy, as you well know,’ Jane said. ‘What do you think, Rose?’
Rose looked up at the towers, so much like some place a fairy queen would really live in, magical and ancient. ‘I think it looks enchanting. Like Sleeping Beauty’s palace.’
‘How right you are!’ Jane exclaimed. ‘One kiss and all would be well again.’
The doors opened with a great, rusty squeal and Harry appeared at the top of the cracked stone steps. In his tweeds and doeskin breeches, he looked like the country squire he was, not the solider he used to be. Rose found she liked both personas equally.
He had that wry half-smile he wore so often, but the bright gleam in his eye gave her hope he was indeed happy to see her there at Hilltop. Just as she was happy to be there, to see him and his home again.
‘So you found your way here at last,’ he called, making his way down the steps.
‘Oh, you must blame our tardiness entirely on me, Harry!’ Jane said merrily as she and Hayden entered the courtyard. ‘It is too lovely a day to be inside, but we are so excited to see Hilltop again. You and Charlie have become much too reclusive.’
‘I fear the old place is in no shape for fine parties,’ Harry said. ‘But I hope old friends can start to darken this warped old door again. The housekeeper is beside herself with excitement and has laid on a splendid tea.’
‘I’m happy to hear that, for I am quite famished,’ Rose said. ‘I don’t know how you fine military men ride for weeks! I’ve only been in the saddle for an hour and am thoroughly exhausted.’
‘We can’t have that, now, can we?’ Harry reached up to help her down from her horse.
They stood there for a long moment, his hands warm at her waist, their bodies mere inches from each other. Rose couldn’t seem to stop herself from leaning into him and inhaled deeply of his scent, cool wind and citrus soap lingering on his coat. How wonderful it felt to be so close to him again, like a delightful, delicious forbidden treat. She had a fierce longing to throw her arms about his neck and hold on to him, to let that lovely new feeling wash over her and carry her away. She felt his shoulders stiffen under her touch, as if he could read her thoughts.
She stepped back reluctantly, feeling a sharp pang at losing his closeness. She knew she had to enjoy such feelings in the moment, to store them up for memories in the lonely future. She turned to study the house before her.
Close up, she saw it was not quite the fairy tale she had first taken it for, though the sense of being a dwelling slumbering under a spell was still quite strong. The tiles of the roof were cracked and chipped, even broken away in places, shattered on the old cobblestones of the courtyard. Some of the windows of the upper floor were boarded up and the flowerbeds that had once lined the drive in colourful profusion were overgrown.
Yet there was a wreath of holly and evergreen hung over the door, a brave note of bright colour. ‘You have a holly wreath!’ she said. ‘When Lily and I were children, our father always said we must have holly at our door for Christmas. He said the holiday spirits would hide under the leaves to stay out of the winter cold and they would leave a blessing in return.’
Harry’s smile widened. ‘And did it work?’
Rose laughed. ‘I don’t know. Lily and I would stay up all hours of the night trying to glimpse them, but we never did. Though on Christmas morning, next to our breakfast plates, there were always extra sweets from the fairies.’ She paused for a moment and in her mind she saw Lily small again, their mother’s secret smiles with their father, the magical expectation of the day. ‘It is strange. I haven’t thought of that in so long.’
‘I admit I had no thought of spirits when I had it put up there. I merely wanted you to see something pretty at Hilltop. I fear you’ll be disappointed by the lack of festive decorations inside, though.’ He led her up the old stone steps and swung open the doors, and Jane and Hayden trailed behind them, arm in arm. ‘Most of the few servants we have left here have gone back to their families until Boxing Day and it’s rather bare and cold.’
Rose had to laugh. ‘You should see Aunt Sylvia’s home. It is bare and cold every day, not to mention deathly quiet. This is...’ She caught her breath at the sudden sight of the great hall she found herself in. ‘Not dull at all. It’s like something from King Arthur.’
She spun around in a circle, taking it all in. Just like the exterior of the house, the interior looked just as a fairy tale should. The great hall soared upwards, bisected by a wide stone staircase lined with an ornate iron balustrade that had fallen away in places. A huge iron chandelier hung high overhead, meant to illuminate the ancient, shredded pennants on the wall, the shields and swords hanging on the peeling walls, speaking of ancient times of St George glory.
‘How very unfashionable, Harry,’ Jane said with a laugh, removing her riding hat and gloves. Rose pulled her
thoughts away from the Camelot fascination and followed suit. They left their accessories on the one piece of furniture, an old mosaic table, and Harry took their cloaks.
Rose fidgeted with her skirt, wishing she had a more à la mode habit, not just her old green wool one. It felt so out of place in the grandeur.
‘Not much to be done about the fashion now, I’m afraid,’ Harry said, a rueful smile in his tone. ‘But I won’t force you to take your tea in this great, chilly room.’
He led them along a long, narrow corridor, past a series of closed doors. Where one or two were open a crack, Rose glimpsed chambers shrouded with canvas covers, windows covered with dusty, faded velvet curtains, bare spots on the walls where paintings had once hung, empty cabinets whose objets had once been displayed.
Rose remembered the rumours that Harry needed a rich wife for his estate, for his duties, and she wondered sadly if that was all too correct.
Harry led them into a small sitting room at the end of the hallway and it was like stepping into another house altogether. The wallpaper, though much faded, was a lovely yolk-yellow with matching curtains at the windows and yellow and white striped upholstery on the chairs drawn close to a blazing fire in the white marble grate. A woman’s portrait hung over the carved mantel, a lady with Charles St George’s curling hair and Harry’s eye colour, clad in yellow silk and pearls, smiling out at the world with her hands elegantly folded in her lap. A table was laid out with a tarnished silver teapot and china painted with small purple flowers, plates of sandwiches and iced cakes.
‘Is that your mother?’ Rose asked. ‘How elegant she was.’
‘Yes. This was her favourite room. Thankfully my father never touched it, or we wouldn’t have a comfortable place to sit,’ Harry answered, smiling at the painting. ‘Please, everyone, do make yourselves comfortable.’
Rose perched on the edge of one of the chairs, unable to be rid of the feeling that Mrs St George was watching them, judging to see if they were worthy to be in her sitting room, in her home.
The Wallflower's Mistletoe Wedding Page 11
