Winning the War Hero's Heart

by Mary Nichols

  ‘Miss Wayland, we need to discuss the accounts. When will it be convenient to call upon you?’

  She hesitated. Did she really want to be so often in his company? He had disappointed her, inexplicably considering she had known all along that he was his father’s son, but she had hoped…Oh, she did not know what she had hoped. They were not in the same stratum of society. It could only end in tears. Tears on her part, not his. But in his defence she had to admit he was doing his best to promote the well-being of the men, even if he had not donated the land, and that was something close to her own heart. Whatever else was close to her heart, she repressed.

  ‘Not tomorrow—I shall be busy preparing the paper for publication and the day after is publication day.’

  ‘Monday then. I will call on you on Monday. Shall we say eleven in the morning?’

  ‘That will be convenient, my lord.’ By then perhaps she would have talked some sense into herself and remembered who he was: the son of her bitterest enemy, an enemy who thought nothing of throwing her into jail and three good people out of work. ‘I must go, the men are waiting for me.’

  * * *

  Miles watched her go, stiff-backed, head up, too proud and unbending for her own good. He hoped sincerely that James would manage to get her off. It would infuriate his father, but that could not be helped. He was glad he had thought of asking her to do the accounts. He would have an excuse to see more of her. Why he wanted to do that, he would not allow himself to conjecture. He only knew that his heart started beating a little erratically when he looked at her, that he enjoyed the cut and thrust of their debate and would not, for the world, have her anything but the fiery campaigner that she was.

  He heard the cart rumble away and went to find his horse, which he had tethered in the field. He could not let the animal roam free because the hedges were not secure and that was another thing the men would need to do. He mounted up and five minutes later was cantering home.

  His mother was waiting for him and so were Lady Somerfield and Verity. He had forgotten they were coming for tea. And here he was in riding clothes and muddy boots. They were pristine, her ladyship in forest-green taffeta and a huge bonnet and Verity in pink muslin with a high waist, puffed sleeves and a scooped neckline, filled with a scrap of lace. A pink straw bonnet, set back on her head and tied with ribbon, framed a perfect oval face.

  ‘I am sorry I am late,’ he said, bowing to them. ‘Something urgent cropped up I had to deal with. I will go and change at once.’

  * * *

  Half an hour later he rejoined them, wearing a green coat, white pantaloons, a spotted waistcoat and an elaborately tied muslin cravat. He repeated his apology, which was graciously accepted, though he noticed Lady Somerfield was sitting stiff and unbending, no doubt taking umbrage that he should neglect her and her daughter for something that had ‘cropped up’. He must try to restore her good opinion of him or he would earn a jobation from his mother. While the Countess dispensed tea, he set out to charm.

  ‘Allow me,’ he said, taking the cup of tea from his mother and carrying it to Lady Somerfield, bowing as he handed it to her. ‘I am truly penitent that you have had to wait for this, my lady,’ he said.

  She nodded, but did not speak. He did the same thing for Verity, but she had a smile for him. ‘I am sure you would not have neglected us for anything less than a matter of great importance,’ she said. ‘And truly we had not been here very long before you arrived.’

  He took his own tea and sat down on the sofa next to her. ‘Are you looking forward to your ball, Miss Somerfield?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, though I am a little nervous.’

  ‘Oh, there is no need to be nervous,’ he said. ‘I am sure every thing will go off swimmingly. How could it not? Your mama is famous for her entertainments and this ball will be extra special. It is not every day one brings out a beautiful daughter.’

  Her cheeks were faintly tinged with pink as she answered. ‘You are too kind, my lord.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Have you chosen your gown?’ the Countess asked her.

  ‘Oh, yes, we have had that for ages, but there are ribbons I must buy and a little lace to go in the neck.’

  ‘Perhaps such things can be bought in Warburton,’ her mother suggested. ‘It would save us having to go all the way to Norwich or Lynn.’

  ‘I believe there is a haberdashery in the town,’ he said. ‘Though how good it is, I do not know, having had no cause to patronise it.’

  ‘Miles, why not take Miss Somerfield to Warburton and see if she can find what she needs?’ the Countess suggested. ‘The day is fine. You could go in your curricle.’

  He looked at his mother in astonishment. The young lady ought to have a chaperon, but there was no room for one in the two-seater carriage as his mother well knew. She was throwing him at Verity. He wanted to refuse to take her, but could not do so without being intolerably rude. ‘It will be my pleasure,’ he said. ‘But will you be warm enough, Miss Somerfield? It is true the sun is shining, but there is little warmth in it.’

  ‘Verity has a shawl in our coach,’ her mother put in, convincing him it was a conspiracy between the two ladies. ‘Perhaps you would fetch it for her.’

  ‘Certainly.’ He put his cup and saucer on the tray and rose to his feet. ‘I will order the curricle to be harnessed at the same time.’

  * * *

  Helen was pasting a notice about the free library in the shop when she saw the carriage draw up at Mrs Green’s haberdashery shop next to the Three Cups. She watched as Miles jumped out, secured the reins to a post and turned to help an elegant young lady step down. She was beautifully attired; her bonnet was tied beneath her chin with a wide satin ribbon and framed a delicately pale face. Helen did not know who the lady was, but, judging by the fuss the Viscount was making of her, she must be someone special. She felt a dull thud inside her as her heart plummeted.

  ‘That be Miss Verity Somerfield,’ Edgar said beside her. ‘You know, daughter of Lord and Lady Somerfield, the one the ball is for. Grand affair that’s going to be by all accounts. I did hear tell there might be an announcement…’

  ‘Announcement?’

  ‘Yes, you know—a betrothal. The Viscount and her.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Mighty cosy they look, don’t they?’ he went on. ‘And her with no chaperon. Seems like the rumours are true or why are they out together like that?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Let’s get back to work or there will be no paper on Saturday.’

  He sighed and went back to his desk. Miss Wayland was in a strange mood these days, sometimes as chirpy as a cricket, other times down in the mouth and snapping at everyone. He never knew how to take her. Not that she didn’t have something to be down in the mouth about, what with the court case and worrying about the cost of repairing the broken window, but she didn’t ought to take it out on her staff. And she should never have thrown that book at the Viscount, though he had laughed it off. It was bad enough having the enmity of the Earl without inviting that of his son. She was going the right way to have them all thrown into jail.

  Helen knew perfectly well what Edgar was thinking and knew he was right, but she didn’t seem able to do anything about it. Her head was so muddled, her emotions so confused, she could not think straight. It would be a miracle if the paper came out on time. Forcing herself away from the window, she returned to her desk to begin writing a report of the meeting in the barn. At least something was being done to help the unemployed men and she meant to tell the world about it, even if she did have to withhold Mr Mottram’s name. Better to do that, than mope about a man for whom she was nothing more than a nuisance.

  Chapter Six

  ‘Bellamy tells me the men have been gathering on the wasteland over by the brook,’ the Earl said over dinner that evening. ‘I reckon they’re going to have another of their infernal meetings. Do they never learn? It is up to you to stop it, Miles. It is your land.’<
br />
  Miles had safely delivered Verity back to her home, but declined to go in for refreshment, saying he was expected at home for dinner at five. He was beginning to wonder if it might have been better to stay away. His father was in one of his grumpy moods, but it did not sound as if the bailiff had seen him with the men, for which Miles was thankful. ‘No, sir, it is not. I sold it.’

  ‘Sold it. Whatever for?’

  ‘You said it was useless, unproductive, so I rid myself of it.’

  ‘Unproductive or not, it is land. No one sells land unless the dunners are at their door and then only as a last resort. You are not pinched in the pocket, are you?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Who bought it?’

  ‘A gentleman called James Mottram. I knew him at Cambridge.’

  ‘What does he want with it?’

  ‘I imagine he means to cultivate it.’

  The Earl laughed. ‘He will come home by weeping cross, then. The man must have more money than sense.’

  Miles shrugged. ‘That is his affair.’

  ‘What were all those men doing down there?’

  ‘Perhaps he means to employ them.’

  The Earl roared with laughter. ‘Oh, that is a joke,’ he said. ‘The land is useless and the men will have worked for nothing. But still, that is neither here not there. They will soon realise their mistake.’

  ‘It is better for the men to be employed than holding seditious meetings,’ Miles said.

  ‘Oh, no doubt of it,’ the older man agreed. ‘Did you say the man who had bought your land was a James Mottram?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘I am sure that is the name Sobers mentioned. Is he a lawyer?’

  ‘I believe he is.’

  ‘Strange, that. Sobers tells me he has been roped in for Miss Wayland’s defence.’

  ‘Has he?’ Miles tried to sound indifferent.

  ‘Do you know anything about it?’

  ‘I know nothing of Miss Wayland’s affairs; as for getting mixed up with lawyers, I leave that to you, sir.’

  ‘There is something smoky going on here. How can someone like her afford a lawyer?’

  ‘She has a thriving business.’

  ‘Thriving? Pah! She is barely making ends meet and people are becoming bored with her way of giving them news. There is nothing of interest in that rag of a paper, no court news, very little reporting of national affairs. It is all her complaining and stirring up trouble and telling people what they know already. It is about time she began behaving like a female and gave the whole thing up. What she needs is a husband. That would shut her up.’

  Miles was not sure it would and the idea of Helen with a husband inexplicably unsettled him.

  ‘Someone is behind this,’ his father went on. ‘And I mean to find out who it is. Mottram must be persuaded to drop the case.’

  ‘Why? Do you think he might win it for her?’

  ‘Of course not. I shall win. Never doubt it.’

  ‘Miles,’ his mother said, ‘I think we have said enough about Miss Wayland and court cases for one day. Will you ring for Rivers to clear away these plates and bring in the next course?’

  Miles obeyed, but he wondered if his father could stop James. Mr Sobers was his senior and could make life difficult for him if he had a mind to. Would he give in? And if that happened, what chance did poor Helen have? She was constantly in his thoughts. He found himself at odd times of the day wondering what she was doing, imagining her in her plain grey gown, sitting at her desk surrounded by shelves of books, writing furiously. Or getting her fingers covered in ink as she helped Tom work the printing machine. At other times his imagination placed her in Mrs Watson’s cottage, nursing the sleeping Eddie. That little domestic scene had touched a chord in him and he could not get it out of his head. If only…But what was the use of dreaming?

  * * *

  The paper had come out as usual on Saturday and on Sunday Helen and Betty went to church. They were in their pews some time before Miles and his parents and she made sure she did not turn towards them as they entered, but kept her gaze straight ahead. Thankfully the sermon was not directed at her this week, but to men who put their faith in false promises instead of trusting in the Lord. She supposed he was referring to the men taking up the promise of the land, which meant the Earl must know about it. She wondered if the Viscount had told him. When the service ended, she slipped past the parson who was standing in the porch talking to the Earl and his wife, gave a brief nod to the Viscount and made for home, thankful to escape.

  Once there, she set about her accounts as usual. They made worrying reading. Circulation was down; if that went down, so would the advertising revenue. When she checked she realised they were printing fewer pamphlets and notices. Many of her customers lived in property owned by the Earl or worked directly or indirectly for the estate—were they afraid to be seen supporting her? It was lucky she owned the freehold of her shop and the apartment above it, but without a steady income it did not help to keep body and soul together or pay her employees’ wages. The citizens of Warburton might achieve what the Earl wished before any case came to court.

  She was still in the suds when Miles arrived on Monday morning to talk to her about the Co-operative’s accounts. There was very little work to do downstairs and, having made sure both Edgar and Tom were gainfully occupied, she had gone upstairs to wait for him in the drawing room. Her chair was near the window, which looked out on the street, so she saw him ride up and dismount. A minute later Edgar showed him up.

  ‘Why so glum?’ he asked when her greeting of him was less than cheerful and he had been invited to take a seat. He chose to draw a chair up to the table and she sat opposite him. ‘Not more writs, I hope?’

  ‘No, thank goodness. One is enough.’

  ‘It is worrying you, is it not?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you be worried if you were me?’

  ‘Yes, I expect I would.’ He did not think it was wise to remind her that she had brought her troubles on herself—there was a handy vase on the table. ‘Are you going to allow Mr Mottram to help you?’

  ‘Yes, if he still wishes to.’

  ‘I am sure he will. I have heard he is fond of a challenge.’

  She gave a wry laugh. ‘And it is certainly that.’ She did not want to talk about the writ because that would remind her that he was the son of her adversary and she should not be associating with him at all. In spite of that his presence was soothing. When he was near, nothing seemed so bad as it did when she was alone and the cloud hanging over her seemed to lift a little, only to descend again as soon as he left her. ‘The Co-operative will be a challenge for him, too, so let us get down to business.’

  He had brought a ledger with him, in which she was to enter all the expenses and income for the Co-operative. ‘Mr Mottram does not wish the men to have to bear the expense of the setting up of the venture,’ he said. ‘And there is no need for them to know how much that amounts to, so we will not enter things like bricks, timber and glass for the conversion of the barn and the building of the hothouses, but we will put down the purchase of the pigs and chickens, fertiliser, seed and oil for heating. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, I understand. Mr Mottram wishes to leave the men with their pride. They must believe they are paying their way and looking after their families.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They are not stupid, you know. They will ask.’

  ‘Then we shall tell them that any new structures and alterations to the barn are putting value on the land and do not count.’

  ‘Are you saying that on the instructions of your friend?’

  ‘Naturally I am.’

  ‘My lord, I cannot help but feel that you have more than a hand in it.’

  ‘I am a go-between, nothing more, and do not even hint of that in your newspaper. My father is already suspicious…’

  ‘And you must not upset your father,’ she said sharply.

  ‘No, I must
not upset my mother. She has a weak heart and is very delicate. The least upset could trigger an attack and I would not, for the world, bring one on.’

  ‘I am sorry. I did not know. She does not give the appearance of being ill.’

  ‘Most of the time she is not, but that is because everyone is so careful of her. It is particularly important now because she has set her heart on going to the Somerfields’ ball.’

  ‘I understand that is going to be a very grand occasion.’

  ‘Yes. Miss Somerfield’s come out.’

  ‘I believe I caught a glimpse of the lady the other afternoon when you brought her into town. She is very pretty, is she not?’

  ‘Delightful.’

  The heaviness in her heart increased. No one had ever called her delightful. If anyone praised her, it was for her strength and strong will, her forthrightness and common sense, all traits she had learned from her father. They had stood her in good stead until now. It was her forthrightness that had got her into trouble and her strong will that made her refuse to buckle under when confronted with injustice. Her father’s words had become a kind of mantra to her: ‘Do not let anyone browbeat you into denying the truth, daughter.’ And there was another truth she could not deny. She had become far too fond of Miles, Viscount Cavenham, and if she were not careful it would break her heart.

  ‘Our little dance in the Assembly Rooms will seem tame by comparison,’ she said, keeping her voice light.

  ‘I do not see why it should. When I was in the army, the men’s entertainments were always more enjoyable than those arranged for the officers and their ladies. The other ranks did not have to remember to stand on their dignity and their womenfolk were as gusty and gutsy as they were.’