by Mary Nichols
* * *
Miles rode home, feeling strangely dissatisfied, the clopping of his horse’s hooves a rhythmic accompaniment to his thoughts. Women, in his experience, were timid creatures who fainted at any sign of violence, who obeyed when told to keep out of it. They sat at their sewing, drank tea and gossiped about fashion and the latest on dit and left the men to govern and keep order among the people for whom they were responsible. Helen Wayland was not a bit like that. She plunged in where others feared to go and spoke her mind when she would have done better to remain silent. How could you tame a woman like that? Why, in heaven’s name, did he want to tame her? She was not his wife. She was not even eligible to be his wife.
Why, then, did he enjoy their meetings so much? Why did he savour the cut and thrust of her debate, even welcome her fiery temper? He remembered his mother looking sideways at him and asking him if he had developed a tendre for her, and his sharp denial. Now, if she asked him again, he would not know how to answer. Miss Helen Wayland had him in thrall, so much so that he had been fool enough to ask her to dance with him. He had not danced since he had been wounded and did not know if he could. And what would she make of it if he found he could not? Why, in heaven’s name, had he said he would go?
Chapter Seven
‘Miles, what are you going to wear for the Somerfield ball?’ his mother asked at breakfast the next morning. ‘You really should be thinking of it, if you want something made up.’
He had been trying not to think of the ball, but he supposed his mother was right. Like it or not, he was committed to going, so he would have to do something about clothes. ‘I haven’t decided. The evening clothes I had before I went to war no longer fit me and are no doubt out of date. I would be glad of your advice.’
‘If you are not busy today, we could go into Lynn and choose something,’ she suggested.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘That is, if we may have the carriage.’
‘I was going to take it to the Assizes,’ his father said. ‘The verdict is a foregone conclusion and I wouldn’t go, but Sobers thinks I ought to put in an appearance, even if I do not give evidence.’
‘I had forgotten about that,’ the Countess said. ‘We could go another day.’
Miles had certainly not forgotten it. He had changed his mind about going himself several times over the last twenty-four hours, but finally decided that if he did, Helen would almost certainly assume he was there to support his father, and that was far from the case. He needed something to try to take his mind off it and going shopping with his mother might help.
‘No, you go,’ the Earl told his wife. ‘I can take the curricle. The ball is an important occasion for everyone and I want Miles to make a good impression, so do not stint.’ He paused to look his son up and down. He had come in from an early morning ride and was wearing riding clothes. ‘Do not have your breeches made too tight, Miles.’
‘Shall I wear cossacks?’ he queried with a smile.
‘Those monstrosities! I should think not. And while you are out go and see Dr Graham and ask him to give you a clean bill of health.’
‘There is nothing wrong with me.’
‘Nothing wrong? You hop about with one leg shorter and skinnier than the other and say there is nothing wrong.’
‘Nothing can be done about that,’ Miles said, keeping his temper with an effort. He did not need to be reminded of his shortcomings—they were with him night and day. ‘My thigh is scarred and has lost some muscle, but not all, and the more I exercise it, the stronger it becomes. It does not affect my general health, nor my ability to do whatever I want physically.’
‘Glad to hear it. Get Graham to confirm it. It would be a pity if Verity Somerfield rejected you on the grounds you cannot perform. She will need reassurance, or rather her father will.’
Miles’s hold on his temper snapped. ‘You take too much for granted, sir. I have not said I will offer for her. I will choose my own wife in my own time, and when I do, I shall be open about my shortcomings to the lady herself. I do not wish it to be made a feature of the marriage settlement. You may tell her father that.’
‘Very well, but you are not making it easy for yourself.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll go and order up the carriages.’
Miles watched him go, still so angry he could hardly contain himself. ‘He is insufferable,’ he told his mother. ‘I will not be treated as if I were some monster. There are men back from the war much worse off than I am and they are not required to produce certificates of manhood.’
‘Would it hurt you so much to do it?’
‘Hurt?’ He barked a laugh. ‘No, it will not hurt anything except my pride, but I will not do it.’ He paused, unwilling to argue with his mother as forcefully as he had with his father. ‘Let us say no more about it,’ he said.
‘As you wish.’
The Countess went off to change and Miles went to his own room to divest himself of his riding clothes and put on pantaloons and tailcoat. He felt calmer, but no less determined not to be dictated to. Verity Somerfield was pretty and amiable, but he did not love her. And in spite of his mother’s assurances, he felt sure she did not love him. He knew many marriages survived perfectly satisfactorily without love, including that of his parents.
His mother and father lived in the same house, but they had separate spheres of influence within it and different ways of passing their time. His mother was dominated by his father and would not have dared to contradict him, however outrageous his statements. Miles did not want a marriage like that.
He wanted to be at one accord with his wife, able to discuss his problems and ideas with her, to listen to her own ideas and share their life together in every sense. And that was his problem. Ladies like Verity Somerfield would not understand that, any more than they understood about his scars or how they affected him. Lord Somerfield was excessively wealthy and he might be prepared to pay handsomely to marry his daughter to the heir of an earl, limp or no limp, provided, of course, he could do his duty as a husband. Miles knew he could, but that was not the point. The point was how the lady he chose was likely to behave when she caught sight of his damaged thigh. How could he be sure she would not flee in horror as Maria had done?
An image of Helen bandaging his arm came unbidden into his mind; she had never once questioned him about his limp or even appeared to notice it. What, in heaven’s name, was he thinking of? It could not be. He shook himself and went to join his mother.
* * *
The journey to Lynn was accomplished in just over an hour and during that time he conversed amiably with his mother, but his thoughts were miles away. What was happening at the quarter sessions? Was Helen following James’s advice or firing up in a temper to repeat her defamation? Or was she being sensible and remembering other people relied on her for employment: Tom, Edgar and Betty, as well as the news carriers who delivered the paper. If she were fined, would she allow him to pay it? He doubted it. She would be furious if she knew he was paying James for her defence.
He pulled himself together as they arrived in the town and left the carriage at the Globe before setting off on foot to visit the shops. They spent an hour or two choosing fripperies for his mother’s ball gown, which had already been made, and then went to the tailor to order clothes for him. He rejected bright colours and fancy waistcoats and instead picked an evening coat in black superfine, black kerseymere breeches and a white-brocade waistcoat embroidered with silver thread, a silk shirt, white stockings and black dancing shoes with silver buckles. Returning to the inn, they had some refreshment before setting off home.
‘You will have all the young hopefuls green with envy when they see you standing up with Miss Somerfield,’ his mother said, when they were on their way.
He was so on edge he felt like telling her he was not in the least interested in Verity Somerfield, that if she did not remember Helen was standing trial, he had and he could think of nothing else. But, as ever, he was polite and careful of her and let her ra
ttle on.
* * *
Helen had never felt more isolated or more vulnerable, even though the courtroom was packed with people: clerks, counsel, witnesses, the sheriff, an usher, the twelve jurors, and many others whose roles she did not know. Her only support was James Mottram and Betty, who had accompanied her on the early morning stage and had spent the whole journey weeping. Helen had become exasperated with her and then regretted it and apologised. As soon as they arrived, Betty had been directed to the spectators’ seats and Helen had been sent to a back room to wait until she was called.
The formalities dealt with, she stood in the dock while Mr Sobers listed her many crimes against the Earl of Warburton, culminating in her scurrilous attack on him over the hunt. He read that aloud and caused a few titters in the public gallery, which were quickly silenced by Mr Justice Phillips.
‘Do you deny you wrote that?’ he asked her.
‘No.’
‘And caused it to be published?’
‘I don’t deny it.’
Sobers did not try to disguise his satisfaction at this. ‘My lord, the accused condemns herself out of her own mouth.’
‘My lord.’ James rose to his feet. ‘There is the question of intent.’
‘Quite,’ the judge said, annoyed at being reminded of that requirement. He turned to Helen. ‘What have you to say for yourself? Did you intend to write what you did?’
Helen was shaking with nerves and it was all she could do to stop it showing. ‘Of course I intended it.’
‘But my client did not intend defamation,’ James interposed before Helen could spoil her own case.
‘What did you intend?’ the judge asked her.
She took a deep breath, remembering the discussion she had had with Mr Mottram about her evidence. ‘To point out that the hunt should not be allowed to trample down poor people’s gardens with impunity.’
‘The hunt? Not his lordship, the Earl, particularly.’
A warning look from James made her answer carefully. ‘I meant any hunt that ran over other people’s property and caused damage, not necessarily the Warburton Hunt. Restitution should be made in such cases.’
‘I believe, in this case, it was.’
‘Only after I had pointed out the harm done.’
Mr Mottram was shaking his head. She refrained from adding more.
The judge went on. ‘Was that your only intention? Did you intend to make the honourable Earl an object of derision? Or bring him into disrepute?’
‘No. If it had been any other than the Warburton Hunt, I would have said the same thing.’
‘Then the jury must retire to consider their verdict.’ He turned to address them. ‘There is no dispute over who wrote the article in question. Miss Wayland admits they are her words and she caused them to be printed and distributed. What you have to consider, and consider carefully, is what she intended. Was it a direct attack on the Earl of Warburton? Or was it, as she maintains, a general complaint about hunts trampling down gardens?’
They filed out and Helen was allowed to sit while they considered their verdict. They came back in less than an hour and the foreman was asked if they had reached a verdict.
‘We have, my lord.’
‘Is the defendant guilty or not guilty?’
‘Not guilty, my lord.’
A huge cheer went up from the public gallery. James Mottram was smiling, the Earl was fuming and Helen was looking dazed. Had she heard right? Had the man said, ‘Not guilty’?
‘Miss Wayland, you are free to go.’
Still in a daze, Helen left the dock and was joined by James. ‘Well done,’ he said.
She shook herself. It was all over and she was still free, not even a fine to pay. She could hardly believe it. ‘I have you to thank and whoever it was who paid for my defence,’ she told him. ‘I wish I could thank them personally.’
‘You know I cannot tell you that,’ he said, as they made their way to the door where Betty stood waiting. ‘Suffice to say, you have been vindicated. Now go home and carry on with your daily life, bring out your paper as usual, but I advise caution in what you say against the Earl. There are other ways to make your point.’
She thanked him again and, taking Betty by the arm, went to take the stage back to Warburton. ‘Did you see the Earl?’ Betty said, happy again. ‘He was that angry his face turned purple.’
Helen did not want to talk about the Earl. She wondered why the Viscount had not been in the public gallery. Was he not even a little curious about the outcome?
* * *
Miles was not only curious, he was on tenterhooks all the way home. As soon as he set eyes on his father, he knew the outcome. The Earl’s face was like thunder and he was in a terrible temper.
‘That woman got off scot-free,’ he said, banging his fist down on the table at which he was sitting, making the coffee pot and cups on it rattle. ‘Scot-free! Not even a fine. Not even a reprimand or an order to watch her step in future. Phillips must be off his head; he cut proceedings short and more or less directed the jury to find her not guilty. She walked out of court free to do it all again.’
‘Do you mean Miss Wayland?’ Miles asked. His heart was joyful and full of gratitude to James. It would be worth whatever he charged to see Helen smiling again.
‘Of course I mean Miss Wayland. Who else would I be talking about? She need not think she has got away with it. There is still the business of the militia on the common.’
Miles’s heart sank. ‘Must you pursue that? Surely you have done enough? Miss Wayland has no doubt learned her lesson.’
‘But don’t you see?’ his father said, as if explaining something to a recalcitrant child. ‘If she had been punished, given a small fine and, more to the point, made to apologise, I would have let it drop, but the very fact that she has escaped punishment has made me look more ridiculous than ever. I need to make my point. That is Sobers’s advice and that is what I pay him for, after all.’
‘It is in Mr Sobers’s interests to keep it going,’ Miles said. ‘You pay him handsomely. If you had not sued Miss Wayland in the first place, the whole business might have died a natural death.’
‘And who are you to tell me what I should do and not do? I am beginning to think that young woman has you under her thumb. And why is that, I wonder? Do you fancy her for a chère amie?’
‘Certainly not! She is a lady.’
‘Of course she is, but you would never know it. That is the influence of her father. He has ruined her, especially since her mother died.’
Miles remembered Helen telling him her mother had been brought up in Warburton. ‘Did you know her mother?’
‘Of course I did. Everyone knew the Brents. They lived at Ravensbrook Manor.’
‘Ravensbrook Manor?’ he repeated, trying to keep the surprise from his voice. ‘But that’s derelict.’
‘It wasn’t then.’
‘What happened to it?’
‘There was a fire. The old couple died in the blaze and the house was left to go to rack and ruin.’
‘Old couple? You mean Miss Wayland’s grandparents?’
‘Yes. Lord and Lady Brent.’
‘Good Lord!’
‘You are surprised?’
‘In a way, yes.’ He had had no idea when he asked James to find out who owned the Manor that it was in any way connected to Helen. ‘Is Miss Wayland aware of it, do you think?’
‘I have no idea and it makes no difference. It’s all in the past and I don’t want to hear any more about it.’ He stood up and walked out of the room.
It was such a sudden ending to the conversation that it left Miles more puzzled than ever. He turned to his mother, intending to ask her what she knew of it when he noticed that she was very pale and struggling for breath. He knelt at her side, annoyed with himself for arguing with his father in front of her. ‘Mama, what is the matter. Have we upset you? Shall I send for Dr Graham?’
‘No, I shall recover directly. Ring for
Annie, will you?’
He did as she asked and the maid soon arrived and helped the Countess to her room, leaving Miles to ponder on what had happened in the past. Why had his father left the room so abruptly? Talking about the Brents had undoubtedly upset him. Did Helen know that her grandparents were titled and had lived at Ravensbrook Manor? If she had, she had given no indication of it. There was more to be learned about Miss Helen Wayland, much more. He told himself firmly that his interest was to bring the feud to an end so that everyone could live in peace, that looking after the poor and helping them to find work and keep their pride was more important that pursuing vendettas which benefited no one. But he knew in his heart there was more to it than that.
* * *
The Wednesday edition of the Warburton Record contained an account of the trial. Helen had written it herself in the third person and was scrupulously accurate. It went alongside the article about the Ravensbrook Market Co-operative. She did not mention the meeting in the barn, having decided she would give Hardacre no more publicity.
On Wednesday afternoon, with the paper out and the cloud of the court case lifted from her, she was able to give her mind to the dance at the Assembly Rooms. She had been speaking the truth when she told Miles she was only going to report proceedings and intended to go in a simple gown and take her notebook, but the prospect of dancing with Miles was too enticing to resist. She ransacked her wardrobe for something suitable to wear.
She had nothing herself, but there was a chest in her father’s room that contained one or two gowns of her mother’s and it was to that she turned. Some of the garments were moth-eaten, some too outdated even for the Warburton Assembly Rooms, but there was one she thought could be altered. It was of aquamarine silk and was so outdated it had many yards of material in the skirt, enough to make a dress in the latest classic style. She lost no time in unpicking it and cutting out the new shape.
* * *
For two days she and Betty plied their needles; by Friday evening, the gown was finished. It had a high waist gathered into a broad velvet ribbon, which was tied with a bow beneath her bust and had long floating ends. More of the same ribbon bound the edges of the little puffed sleeves and the boat-shaped neckline. Trying it on, she danced about her bedroom, watched by an admiring Betty. ‘Oh, Miss Wayland you will knock them all out, you surely will.’
