Winning the War Hero's Heart

by Mary Nichols

  ‘Yes,’ she said, wondering how she was going to pay the man. Something would have to be sold. But what? Almost everything of any value had already gone.

  ‘Ask for good-quality glass or you’ll end up with inferior that will be broken again as soon as someone leans against it.’

  She was suddenly angry again. Did he not know how much the best glass cost? ‘And if someone else decides to throw a brick through my window, will it avail me to have bought the most expensive glass?’ she snapped. ‘It will still shatter.’

  He realised his mistake at once and called himself all kinds of a fool. He should have let her buy what she could afford and tipped the glazier to substitute a better quality. Too late now. ‘Let us pray you are never subjected to this treatment again,’ he said.

  * * *

  Jack returned, pulling a handcart containing a folded canvas, several good strong planks and a box of nails. The two men set about nailing up the canvas and then fastening the planks over it, so close together that even if someone ripped the cloth, they could not squeeze between the bars. The result was a shop in complete darkness. Miles left Jack finishing off outside and went indoors. In the dark, he bumped into Helen. She gave a little squeal of fright. He grabbed her to stop her falling.

  ‘It’s only me,’ he said gently, feeling the softness of her in his arms. Whatever made her think she was mannish? he asked himself—she was every inch a woman. He could feel her heart beating erratically against his chest and realised she was far more frightened than she admitted. He put one hand up to the back of her head, which nestled comfortably in his shoulder. She made no move to back away and he did not put her from him. This woman, this lovely woman, needed him and who was he to complain about that? He hadn’t had a woman in his arms since…Oh, since that brief affair in Lisbon. It had come to an end when Maria, visiting him in hospital after the surgeon had dug the shrapnel from his thigh, had seen the bloody bandages and fled in disgust, a foretaste of what he could expect in the future. It had made him very wary of close contact with women, yet here he was, embracing one.

  Her curls were soft as a baby’s and smelled of rose water. He wound one round his finger and let it spring away before stroking the back of his hand down her cheek and taking her chin gently between finger and thumb. She made no move to free herself and he was about to succumb to temptation and bend his head to find her lips with his own, when he suddenly came to his senses. Instead he said, ‘You are safe now.’

  ‘Yes, silly me.’ She was shaking, sure that he had been about to kiss her and wondering why he had not. Chivalry again? Or the sudden realisation of how far beneath him she was? ‘For a moment I thought it was Mr Blakestone grabbing me again. It could only have been you or Jack, couldn’t it?’

  ‘I am glad it was me.’ She had still not moved backwards and he would not be the one to break contact while she was content to stay there. ‘Do you think it was Blakestone who threw the brick? Or that idiot, perhaps? He seemed very interested in what was going on.’

  ‘I do not know.’ Slowly she backed away. His arms felt suddenly empty and he was tempted to reach out and grab her back again, but she was retreating into the darkness, talking as she went. ‘It must have been something I wrote in the paper, though apart from writing about the hunt and Mrs Watson’s garden, and reporting the militia riding onto the common and laying about them, I cannot think of anything. Your father has his own way of punishment, so it must have been the organisers of the meeting, or perhaps one of the soldiers. I did lambaste them rather heavily.’

  He heard a flint being struck and then the room was feebly lit by a taper. He saw her hand reach out and put it to the wick of an oil lamp and then they could see each other again. Her cheeks were bright pink and her hair tousled. There was a spot of dirt on one eyebrow and a slight scratch on one cheek, but she was beautiful in the soft glow of the lamp. He felt his heart give a sudden lurch. She was dangerous, this one, dangerous and desirable. And not for him.

  He pulled himself together as Jack joined them. ‘That should hold out intruders and keep the place dry,’ he said, fracturing the fragile moment. ‘Is there anything else you want me to do?’

  ‘No, I do not think so.’ It was Miles who answered. Helen seemed not to have heard him. Her expression had a dreamy quality about it and her eyes were unfocused, as if she had only just woken from a dream.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Byers,’ she said, pulling herself together. ‘If you wait, I will pay you.’

  ‘‘Tis already been done,’ he said. He touched his forelock. ‘Goodnight, Miss Wayland.’

  Jack left and Miles hurried after him, delving in his pocket for more coins. His inclination was to send him on his way and stay with Helen himself, but he knew that would be reckless in the extreme. She was right to say she depended on the goodwill of the townspeople. He could not, would not, do anything to jeopardise that. ‘Can you keep an eye on the place tonight? The Three Cups is directly across the road. You could watch it from there. I’ll have a word with the landlord before I go. And fetch the glazier for Miss Wayland in the morning.’

  ‘Yes, my lord, ‘tis a pleasure.’

  Miles handed him some money and watched him cross the road to the inn, then went back inside.

  ‘My lord, you must tell me how much I owe you,’ Helen said.

  ‘Nothing. Whoever did it should pay.’

  ‘But we do not know who it was.’

  ‘I will find out, if only to clear my father.’

  ‘Oh.’ She realised her accusation had rankled, but it had been said in the heat of the moment when he turned up so unexpectedly; she could not, in all conscience, imagine his lordship ordering anyone to throw a brick through her window. He had far more effective weapons.

  ‘I will take my leave now,’ Miles said, before she could put that into words. ‘I suggest you lock and bolt the door after me and then go up to your rooms and rest. You have had a trying day. I will come back tomorrow and see the glazier has done his job properly. And you will need help returning the books to the shelves.’

  ‘My lord—’

  ‘I will hear no protests.’ He took her hand, a grubby, careworn hand stained with printer’s ink, and lifted it to his lips. ‘Until tomorrow.’ And then he was gone, leaving an emptiness behind him. The light flickered, casting strange shadows on the walls and over the stretched canvas, making her shiver. If only he could have stayed. She still felt nervous.

  But her nervousness was not only because of the fright she had had, but because she felt something momentous was happening to her. It had begun when she fell against him and he had held her close for far longer than was needed to be sure she had safely regained her balance. She should have pulled herself away and maintained her independence. Instead she had clung to him, felt his gentle fingers tracing the outline of her face and didn’t want him to stop. It had sent unexplained shivers down her body and a strong desire to press herself even closer to him. That was what was happening, she decided, her independence was being eroded. And she could not have that happen, could she? Not for worlds.

  Just to prove she could resist, she took the lamp to her desk and began writing a piece about the plans to provide the unemployed men with land to work. The newspaper had to be printed the following day and she had not yet assembled all of it, something she always did the day before publication. The scratching of her pen seemed extraordinarily loud. All the sounds in the street were loud: footsteps, dogs barking, cats yowling, an empty bottle being tossed along on the wind, which seemed to be stronger than ever, rain pattering on the canvas. The Viscount would not be home yet; he would be soaked and catch a chill. The idea that he might be made ill on her account was worrying. Why had he stayed so long? And why did she wish he had stayed even longer? It was not only fear of whoever threw that brick; it was something far more profound than that.

  She gave up and put down her pen. Picking up the lamp, she toiled upstairs with it, suddenly so tired her feet dragged with every step. Wa
s it worth all this upset and hard work and animosity, just so that she could tell herself she was a purveyor of truth? It was a question she did not attempt to answer as she tumbled into bed. Her last thought before she dropped into an exhausted sleep was not of the Warburton Record, but of Miles, Viscount Cavenham, holding her in his arms.

  * * *

  Her sleep was disturbed by unusual sounds coming from downstairs. She rose, lit a candle, put on a dressing gown and, carrying the light in one hand and a poker in the other, went down, stopping on every step to listen, her heart in her mouth. The wind was gusting and rain was beating on the canvas, making it bellow in and out. The planks were creaking, but the nails were holding them. No one had broken in. With a sigh of relief, she put the candlestick and poker on the table and subsided into a chair beside it.

  She should have gone back to bed, but she knew going back to sleep was impossible. There was too much going on in her head. She had made enemies, just as her father had, but she was no longer sure who they were. The Earl, yes, but what of the son? She did not understand him. He defended his father and yet everything he did belied that: helping Mrs Watson, preventing a riot, thinking of ways to help the unemployed. But that did not mean he was on her side, did it? His methods were far more subtle. He used kindness as a weapon and that was much harder to resist than hate and threats. But resist she must or he would weaken her.

  In despair, she put her arms on the table and her head on her arms, only to be roused by a furious knocking on the front door. She rose and groped her way to it and was about to pull back the bolt, when caution made her hesitate. ‘Who is it?’ she called.

  ‘Jack Byers.’

  She opened the door and a gust of wind swept rain onto the mat as he stepped inside and stood peering into the room behind her. ‘I saw a light flickering…’

  ‘It was only me. I thought I heard something and came down, but it was only the wind and rain on the canvas. What are you doing here? I thought you had gone back to Ravensbrook.’

  ‘No, his lordship asked me to stay and keep watch from the Three Cups.’

  ‘He did?’ she asked in surprise. ‘Why?’

  ‘Perhaps he thought the fellow would come back, though I doubt it myself. Foolish thing to do, that would be.’

  ‘He said he wanted to catch him.’

  ‘I doubt he’ll be caught now, if no one saw him. But if you do not need me, I will go back across the road.’

  ‘You could go home. I am sure I shall be safe now.’

  ‘Miss Wayland, you forget, I have no home; as his lordship has paid for me to stay the night in the front bedroom of the Three Cups, I might as well take advantage of it. It will soon be dawn anyway. Lock up again after me.’

  She was alone again, more confused than before. Why had the Viscount asked Jack to keep an eye on her premises? To catch someone who was probably miles away by now? Out of the goodness of his heart? Did a Cavenham have a heart? Oh, she knew he had because she had felt it beating against hers when he held her. Why did she keep remembering that and how it had felt? How warm and safe. She did not want to be warm and safe, she wanted to be cool and angry.

  She bolted the door again, went upstairs and decided to dress and do some work. Sleep was out of the question.

  Helen had taken a lamp downstairs and gone into the back room. It had a window in there, a window mercifully undamaged, and as she had worked, the sky had lightened and the lamp became unnecessary. She laid aside her pen, flexed her stiff fingers and stood up. It was time to open up. She unbolted the front door and propped it wide open, to let in the light and tell everyone that a little thing like a broken window would not deter her.

  Tom and Edgar arrived at their usual time and she had to explain to them what had happened before they could get down to work. They were both shocked and said she should have sent to them for help. ‘I had some help,’ she said.

  Betty came down, worried that her mistress was not in her bed, and was despatched to bring breakfast down for everyone. They were in the middle of eating it, sitting at the worktable, when Jack Byers arrived with a glazier. The two men removed the planks and canvas and set about repairing the window. Light streamed in. The rain had stopped, but the clouds were still too lowering for the sun to break through. Tom and Edgar began the day’s work while Helen started to rearrange the books on the shelves.

  She had barely begun when a skinny little man in a black suit of clothes arrived and thrust a sealed document into her hand, bowed and was gone. She knew what it was.

  Chapter Five

  Her hand shook as she opened it. She was summoned to attend the quarter sessions at Norwich on Tuesday, the eleventh day of June, to answer a charge that she, on Wednesday, the twenty-second of May, unlawfully, wickedly and maliciously did cause to be published a certain defamatory libel concerning his lordship, the Earl of Warburton.

  She had been deliberately not thinking about it in the hope that the Earl might change his mind, but here it was and she had no defence. She knew there was a law that allowed defendants to engage an attorney to represent them in court, but she could not afford to do that and the scales of justice were weighted against her. And in spite of their support she must think of her employees. The answer was to retract publicly, humiliate herself in front of the judge and beg for leniency. Oh, how the Earl would gloat! And what would the outcome be? A newspaper that published only milk-and-water articles with no depth or fire and dare not say a word against the oppressors. She could almost hear her father admonishing her, ‘Which is more important, to tell the truth as you see it, or let the Earl walk all over you? You are not my daughter if you let him bully you.’

  She was torn in two. Bow the knee and grovel or try to defend her actions? What defence could she offer that a judge would accept? That she did not intend to defame the Earl; that he had misunderstood what she had written? That would be laughed out of court. Besides, it wasn’t true. She had intended to humiliate him, to stir up the population against him. Not only that, she had exacerbated it by writing what she had about the behaviour of the militia on the common. ‘Uncontrolled violence against innocents,’ she had called it. ‘Bloodlust.’

  Somewhere, in the back of her mind, there stirred a doubt. What was she hoping to achieve? Had her father’s hate and contempt spawned hate and contempt in her that had nothing to do with justice? Her mother would have deplored that. She had been a gentle soul, able to curb some of her husband’s wilder statements. When she died, that influence had been lost and he became more vitriolic than ever. ‘It is for the good of the townspeople,’ he had told Helen. ‘They have no one else to fight for them.’

  Were the people of Warburton and its surrounds any worse off than those in the rest of the country? Life was hard for labourers and ex-soldiers everywhere. All over East Anglia there were riots, men marching, destroying machinery, burning barns, threatening the farmers, the parsons and the squires. Only the week before, there had been serious disturbances in Cambridgeshire and several arrests had been made. Before long it would reach Warburton and certainly would if Blakestone and Hardacre had their way. The government was terrified of revolution as had happened in France and the courts were being kept busy. What chance did she have in that kind of atmosphere? How was she going to pay a fine? How could she endure a spell in prison? It had as good as killed her father—would it kill her, too? And what ought she to do about Edgar and Tom and Betty?

  * * *

  She was still worrying about it when the Viscount arrived to help her restore the books to the shelves. His smiling countenance was more than she could bear. ‘You…’ She had a book in her hand. Before she knew it, she had thrown it at him. His reaction was swift. He lifted a hand and caught it deftly. ‘I suppose that is one way to restore the books to the shelves,’ he said, laughing and putting it on the shelf behind him. ‘Shall we do them all that way?’

  ‘You may laugh.’

  ‘But you looked so furious. What has happened to put you in such a
taking?’

  ‘Nothing.’ She did not want to hear him telling her it was her own fault for refusing to retract, which he would undoubtedly do if she told him about the summons. ‘I was upset…’

  ‘I am sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do to help?’

  ‘No, my lord. I shall recover directly.’

  ‘What about the books?’

  ‘Tom and Edgar will help me with them.’

  ‘Then I will leave you and come back another time when you are more yourself.’ With that he turned on his heel and limped away.

  ‘You didn’t oughta ha’ done that,’ Jack Byers said quietly.

  ‘I know.’ She wanted to rail at him, too, and at Edgar whose mouth was open wide enough to catch a whale, but it wasn’t their fault. Mortified by her burst of temper, she took a deep breath to steady herself. ‘Thank you for your help, Mr Byers. I can manage now.’

  He left and she turned to her staff, calmer now, though no less worried. ‘Come on, we have work to do if we are to get the next edition out on time. Edgar, finish that report on the market auction. Tom, the front page is ready so you can make a start on setting that up. Betty, clear away this tray and see to your work upstairs.’

  Betty picked up the tray and fled to the upper regions. Edgar bent to his work and Tom disappeared into the back room. Helen put the writ to one side and set to work laying out the pages for the next edition. It took all her will-power not to look at the summons and keep her mind on what she was doing.

  * * *

  An hour later a stranger arrived in a spanking curricle. He was in his early thirties, she guessed, dressed in a black tailcoat, grey-and-white striped pantaloons, pristine white shirt and black waistcoat. He doffed a polished beaver hat. ‘Miss Wayland?’

  ‘Yes,’ she answered warily, wondering if he might be delivering another summons.

  ‘My name is James Mottram. I am an attorney.’