by Mary Balogh
"You have asked me the same question a dozen times," he said. "Elizabeth merely said that the girl was unhappy and tired of London. Apparently she jumped at the invitation to spend some time at Hetherington."
"But Elizabeth was not planning the journey," his friend persisted. "You have both said continually since my arrival that you are here for the winter."
"Elizabeth loves the country," Hetherington said. "We both do, in fact. I am unable to leave at the moment. I have that big speech to deliver in the House the day after tomorrow, you know. I was quite delighted when she found a companion with whom to travel."
Mainwaring rode on in silence for a few moments. "Did Elizabeth tell you that I love Nell?" he asked.
"Nell? Is that what you call Lady Helen?" said Hetherington. "Yes, she did mention it. I must confess I was surprised, William. She is so unlike the kind of woman I would have expected you to choose."
Mainwaring reddened somewhat and forced a smile. "You mean she is very unlike Elizabeth?"
Hetherington laughed. "Well, she is, is she not?" he said.
"Yes, she is totally different," he admitted. "But I do love her, Robert. I wish you could know her as I knew her in Yorkshire. You would not wonder at my feelings, I think. She has not shown to advantage here. City life and the social round do not suit her. And I fear that I hurt her last summer. I left her, you see, because I did not think I had a whole heart to offer her and I did not feel it fair to offer anything less."
"Does she know this?" asked Hetherington.
"No," Mainwaring said. "She refuses to listen to any explanation. She is convinced, you see, that I shall merely make an excuse. I can hardly blame her."
Hetherington grinned suddenly and prodded his horse to a canter. "Females can be like that," he said. "When it happened to me, I merely kidnapped Elizabeth. This is the first time she has got free of my clutches since."
Mainwaring prodded his horse forward too until he drew level with his friend again. "She was your wife already," he said. "But did you really, Robert? Anyway, it would not work with Nell. I have done her enough wrong already. I am not even sure that there is not something else weighing on her mind."
"Oh?" said Hetherington. "Do you have any idea what?"
Mainwaring hesitated. "I had hoped that you might be able to enlighten me," he said. "I thought perhaps she would have confided in Elizabeth."
"Here we are back at the gates again," Hetherington sighed, "and I am going to have to ride right through them. 1 am still far from satisfied with that speech. I shall have to spend the rest of the morning going over it yet again. Are you coming with me, William?"
"No," his friend replied. "I am going to ride for a while. But I am inviting myself to Hetherington next week when you go. I have to make one more effort to see Nell and talk things out with her."
"I am not sure you will be very welcome," Hetherington warned. "Even Elizabeth might frown on your arrival if she has really taken a fancy to your little Nell and if she feels that the girl does not wish to see you."
"You are forbidding me to come, then?"
"Me? A self-confessed kidnapper?" Hetherington said. "If you ask me, I would say that the girl is probably pining for you, William, my lad. And nothing can be gained with the ladies, I am convinced, if one listens to what they say they want."
William Mainwaring smiled as he watched his friend ride out through the gates of Hyde Park and into the already busy traffic of the street beyond. Robert had given a lift to his spirits. If only he could be certain that the situation with Nell could be so easily solved. But there had to be more to her strange, sullen behavior than unhappiness in the city and anger with him. If that had been all, surely the evening in the garden at Richmond would have solved all. She had responded to him there, he knew. For the space of maybe two minutes she had given herself into his hands again. She had held him and kissed him. She had wanted him.
Yet she had pulled away from him once more, and she had totally rejected his suggestion that they start all over again, forget the improprieties and the misunderstandings of the past. It had been a bitter quarrel. He could never remember feeling so angry with anyone as he had felt with her on that evening, and he knew certainly that he had never lost his temper with anyone before. He had never said things deliberately to hurt as he had done with her. He had succeeded more than he could possibly have hoped, even during the height of his anger. He was still appalled to remember her reaction. He had almost believed her when she had cried out that she would kill herself.
Yes, there was more to her strange mood. And had a terrible, sinking feeling that he knew what it was. He had made love to her on two separate occasions during the summer, to a girl as naive and inexperienced in such matters as he. It was a measure of his naivete that it had not once struck him either at the time or since that children were sometimes the result of such couplings.
Was Nell with child? The possibility hardly bore thinking about. He tried to imagine the terror she must have gone through if it were true-first the suspicion, then the gradually dying hope, and finally the certain knowledge. She would have to break the knowledge to her family, face the consequences somehow. And all alone! He had doomed her to face it all alone.
Although he still tried to convince himself that it could not be so, in his heart Mainwaring knew that it was. It was the only explanation that fit all the facts. How would a girl feel if she still nursed to herself such a secret? Surely she would be moody and sullen, given to bursts of temper. She would probably lose some of her physical bloom. She would start to put on weight even before the pregnancy showed in the most obvious place-perhaps on the face. And she would surely feel bitter anger and contempt against the man who had impregnated and then abandoned her.
Mainwaring was hardly even aware that he had spurred his horse to a gallop. Only the sight of a couple of maidservants walking ahead of him, one leading a massive dog by a lead, caused him to ease back on the reins and resume the brisk canter that was safer in the park.
The only fact that had seemed at first not to fit the theory was her refusal to accept his proposal. Surely if she were carrying his child, she would accept with relief the chance to marry him. But he could no longer comfort himself with this thought. Nell was not like other girls. She did not always take a practical attitude to life, he knew. He did not believe that she would have given in so easily to his wooing if she had. She had had very little to gain really from their liaison. It must have been only love that had prompted her to give everything.
Given that attitude, and given her very righteous anger against him for abandoning her without a word, it was not really surprising that she had refused to take the easy road out of her difficulties and accept his offer. In fact, it was very much in character that she would refuse. Poor, dear, stubborn Nell! How could he ever have doubted that he loved her? He had been thoroughly enchanted by her from the moment when he first saw her propped in such an unconventional attitude on the bank of the stream and she had turned to him and told him that she was learning water. If he had not fallen in love with her then, it must have happened very soon afterward.
If only he had realized it at the time! They might have been safely married by now and no one would ever be certain whether the child-if there really were a child-had been conceived before or after the nuptials. But he had been caught up in his long period of mourning for the loss of Elizabeth. He was not belittling that emotion now. He truly had loved her, he believed. But he might have recovered sooner. His grief had been thoroughly self-indulgent. He had known that Elizabeth really belonged with Robert. He had liked the picture of himself as the lovelorn, rejected lover, he supposed. Had he not been so caught up in this romantic image of himself, he surely would have known the obvious before it was too late. He had always loved Nell, no matter who she was.
Was it too late now? He had no doubt that his little wood nymph was in reality a tough-minded female who would not be easily persuaded. She would not be easily governed eve
n if she did finally consent to be his wife. Her parents seemed to have little control over her. But he must try. Even if there were no child, he must try. He could not leave her alone, knowing that he was to some extent responsible for her misery. And if there were a child, then she must be persuaded to marry him. He could not possibly allow her to face all the ignominy of bearing an illegitimate child alone. Anyway, it was his child she would bear. His child and Nell's. She had to listen. Even if he had to kidnap her as Robert had done Elizabeth.
Mainwaring grinned suddenly and quite unexpectedly. Only Robert Denning would conceive of doing such a thing. To Elizabeth of all people. She was such a beautiful, dignified, independent woman-or at least she had been that way when he had known her. Most people loved her and respected her, but most also stood somewhat in awe of her. Yet Robert had had the audacity to kidnap her. How Mainwaring would have liked to witness her reaction! That whole story, in fact, would be fascinating to hear.
What had Nell told Elizabeth? he wondered. Elizabeth, of course, and Robert were like a shield when he had questioned them. He could draw nothing from either, except what Hetherington had repeated earlier. But surely there must have been more. Elizabeth had had no intention of going into the country, despite what Robert had said, and there was certainly no reason why she would have chosen Nell for a companion if she had. Nell had not treated his friends with much courtesy. Again the evidence pointed all in one direction. Elizabeth was the sort of person who would turn all her plans upside down and overlook all personal feelings if she felt she could help a fellow creature in trouble.
Well, he would go with Robert the following week, even though he did risk at best a very cool welcome from the two women. It was a temptation to go immediately, in fact, but he thought it best to curb the urge. Nell had been very upset. He should give her a few days alone in the country with the soothing company of Elizabeth before renewing his campaign.
Yes, she had been upset. And what had caused her finally to break? His cruel-and quite untrue-declaration that he would not want a woman like her to be the mother of his children!
Chapter 15
Elizabeth found after a couple of days at Hetherington Manor that she was pleasantly surprised by Helen. She had felt great compassion for the girl earlier, so much so, in fact, that she had inconvenienced herself and her husband a great deal in order to help her. And of course she had been willing to give the girl a chance for William's sake, though it puzzled her to understand what he could see to love in her. But she had not really expected to like Helen. She was willing to concede that the sullenness and the rudeness that had so set her against the girl at first were easily explained now that she knew the truth. But still, she expected to find her guest humorless and not overly intelligent or interesting. She had been wondering how she would entertain her.
Yet the first thing that had happened when they entered the house was indicative of what was to happen for the coming days. In the large hallway of Hetherington Manor, displayed on the wall facing the main door was a painting by Joseph Turner. It was Robert's pride and joy, a picture of sunset on a turbulent ocean. Most visitors commented on it. There was nothing unusual, then, in Helen's stopping to do so. But the intensity of her reaction was unusual.
She had dropped the one hatbox that she carried, just inside the door, without even noticing that a footman stood with hand outstretched to take it. She had not stopped to remove her heavy cloak and bonnet as Elizabeth had done. She had walked forward, almost like a sleepwalker, her lips parted.
"Oh!" was all she had said at first.
Elizabeth had smiled and joined the girl after handing her things to the footman. The nurse, who had been traveling in the baggage coach behind them, had already taken the baby upstairs to the warmth of the nursery.
"Do you like it?" she had asked.
Helen had not immediately replied. "Who did it?" she had asked at last without withdrawing her eyes from the painting.
"Mr. Turner," Elizabeth had said. "Have you seen any of his other paintings?"
"Oh, no," Helen had replied. "There are more? How I envy him!"
Elizabeth had laughed. "Do you paint?" she asked.
"I thought I did," Helen had said, "but I see now that I only dabble. Oh, I have tried and tried to be like this. But everything is of the surface. I cannot get beneath the surface to the real life. This man has done so. Look! He has become part of that sunset. He has been into it and into that ocean. He has painted it from the inside out. Oh, how envious I am."
Elizabeth had looked at the girl, startled. "You take painting seriously, I see," she had said.
"Oh, I did," the girl had replied. "But I can never be this good. What a failure I am."
"And what a foolish thing to say," said Elizabeth. "If you love painting, Helen, and if you have an earnest desire to reach perfection, then you are a failure only if you give up. That would mean that you do not have the courage to try."
Helen had seemed to be aware of her presence for the first time. She had given her hostess a look of bright interest. "Of course you are right," she had said. "Self-pity has become such a habit with me lately that I am afraid I have become overindulgent. You do understand too, do you not? My family has always ridiculed my paintings. Papa says they look more as if I had attacked the paper than painted on it." She had laughed suddenly. "Perhaps you will agree with them if you ever see any of my work."
"We shall have to put it to the test," Elizabeth had said. "And it is fine for you to be standing here talking, Helen. You are still wearing your cloak. I am feeling decidedly chilly. Let us go up to the drawing room. I have been told that tea and scones await us there."
On the following day, when Elizabeth was in the sitting room writing a lengthy letter to Robert, Helen had come into the room carrying a roll of paper. Elizabeth had smiled at her.
"I thought you might like to see one of my drawings," she had said. "I did not bring any of my paintings. This one is not good. It is the only portrait I have ever attempted. And it does not really look like him. But I like the picture anyway." She had unrolled the picture almost apologetically and turned it for Elizabeth to see.
Elizabeth had been almost speechless, as she wrote to Robert afterward. "Oh, Helen," she had said, "how did you know? How could you know him so well? Yes, that is William; that is his very essence. I don't think I even knew it myself until this moment."
Helen had looked doubtful. "But do you not think," she had said, "that I should have sketched him with a serious expression? He is far more often serious than smiling."
"Oh, yes," said Elizabeth, "but this is the real William. All his inner kindness and gentleness show through here. This is as he should look always, Helen. And this is how he was when you knew him?"
"Yes," Helen had said, "but it is not a good portrait, after all. I was deceived. I loved him, you see."
"And love him still," Elizabeth had stated gently. "It will not do to deny the truth, you know, Helen. Do you carry this picture around with you only because it is a good work of art? I do not know the truth of last summer, but I do know William Mainwaring. For all the evidence to the contrary, I cannot believe him to be the heartless villain you consider him to be. Don't suppress your bitterness. Face it and think about it. Perhaps you will find a different answer than the one you have accepted so far."
Helen had rolled the portrait in her hands. She had looked sullen again. "I want to forget," she had said. "I want to think only of my child and how I can best prepare to give him a good life."
"I am sorry!" Elizabeth had leaned forward and placed a hand over one of Helen's. "I do not mean to preach at you or be forever handing out unsolicited advice. I shall never refer to the matter again, Helen. Let us be friends and try to make each other happy here, shall we? I must finish writing to Robert and then I must visit John for a while-I have seen him only briefly this morning. After that, shall we go for a walk? It looks overcast and cold out there, but the fresh air will do us good. And the la
nd around here is very picturesque. Perhaps you will get some ideas for painting again. If it is true that you have done none since leaving Yorkshire, I suspect that it is high time you got back to it."
And that is exactly what had happened, Elizabeth reflected rather ruefully a few days later. Helen had not actually done any painting yet, but she had made copious preparations. She had been hardly indoors, but had trudged around the grounds, sketchpad in hand, staring and touching, trying to get behind the outer surfaces to the reality within, she told a fascinated Elizabeth. The latter felt very much alone without her husband and without any companionship except that of her baby and the occasional meeting with her guest.
But she was pleased, nevertheless. Helen was clearly not the insipid, moody little girl that she had expected. In fact, Elizabeth suspected that she was a highly intelligent and artistic girl, whose talents had never been either appreciated or encouraged. And the change of scene was obviously doing her a great deal of good. There was a new sparkle in her eyes, fresh color in her cheeks, and a welcome intensity in her expression. Elizabeth was beginning to like her and she was beginning to understand why William had fallen in love with her. She even felt she had a glimmering of understanding of how those two had come to flout convention to such a shocking degree as to have created a child outside marriage.
She longed for the arrival of Robert at the end of the first week. She wanted to share her discoveries with him, and she wanted to discuss with him how they might best bring together again these two people who so clearly loved and needed each other.
***
Helen had indeed become absorbed again in her painting, but not quite to the extent that Elizabeth believed. She was enchanted by the scenery of the Hetherington grounds. There were no formal gardens, and Helen was glad. She could admire formality, but she could not love it. It seemed almost sacrilegious to take nature and try to subdue it to man's idea of beauty and symmetry. Nature was perfect in itself. Man could not improve on it. There seemed to her almost an absurdity about constructing little hedgerows, all carefully cut and shaped so that they lacked any spontaneity, and flower gardens, where flowers were given strict instructions to grow a uniform color and a uniform height. And marble statues of Greek gods or cherubs always seemed to her totally inappropriate in an English countryside. The rains and the temperate climate of England produced vegetation enough and color enough that it did not need embellishment. It was not that the Hetherington grounds were uncared for. She had discovered that the gardener had four helpers and that all five of them were constantly busy. But their efforts were used to aid nature rather than to distort it.
