British Brides Collection

by Hake, Kelly Eileen

  Franklin’s jaw dropped. “I shan’t do it! I shall tell Father.”

  With one hand, Oliver hoisted the boy to his eye level. “You will, and without another word unless you wish me to find a switch. You and I will exchange words in the near future.”

  Franklin wilted and nodded. When Oliver released him, the boy slumped off to collect his tools. Oliver watched him move out of sight.

  Helen wrapped her arms around herself and shuddered, dimly aware that her palms were stinging. While Oliver spoke with Franklin she had furtively attempted to pull her bodice higher on her chest, but it failed to conceal her drenched smock. Although most women would have considered her attire modest, Helen felt improper. Her neckcloths usually covered her almost to the chin. Embarrassment only fueled her fury.

  Crossing his arms, Oliver regarded her soberly. “Tell me.”

  “Do not insult me by offering again to share my burdens,” she said. “These many days I would have welcomed your listening ear, but no more.”

  Some emotion she could not identify rippled across Oliver’s face. Stepping toward her, he reached out a hand. Helen slapped at it and backed away.

  Oliver stopped short. “Helen, let me see your hands.”

  She looked down to see red streaks on her smock, blood from her scraped palms. Her bruised knee ached. Sobs kept her from speaking, which also fanned her wrath.

  Oliver gripped her wrists, and Helen panicked. “Unhand me!” Flailing with both arms, she struggled to free herself. She lifted her foot to kick his shins but could not bring herself to hurt Oliver as she had been hurt. He had done nothing to merit such treatment.

  “I set the boy to work, Oliver.” Quincy, the under-horseman, sauntered into the walkway, recognized that he had blundered into an interesting situation, and paused to observe.

  “Helen, my dear woman, calm yourself,” Oliver said. “I mean you no harm.”

  “Dost wish that I should tie her down, Oliver?” Quincy offered.

  “Get hence,” Oliver growled, glaring at the younger man over one shoulder. When Helen’s frenzy did not abate, he released her and held out both hands in entreaty. “I desire only to give you aid, Helen. Let me bathe and anoint your wounds.”

  His solicitous tone confused her further. Covering her face with both stinging hands, she wept. Words began to spew from her lips, garbled by sobs that jerked her frame. “I am a fool! You have shown me nothing but kindness, yet I misunderstood your intent. I am but a plain and humble spinster, never to expect notice from such as you.”

  One arm encircled her shoulders. His fingers pushed damp curls from her forehead, slid down to her ear, then cradled the nape of her neck. He rested his nose atop her head and sighed. “Nay, you are right to chide me. ’twas I, not you, who played the fool. Lord, forgive my senseless pride,” he groaned. “How blind I have been!”

  Helen could not comprehend his words inasmuch as his touch was sending exquisite fire through her veins. Feeling vulnerable and indecent, she was in no mood to be patronized. This splendid man could never want her as his bride; therefore his caresses were not rightly hers to savor.

  Oh, how I love Oliver Kirby.

  The terrifying realization gave her strength to push away. Shaking and panting, she stared into his face. “I–I scarcely know you! We are mere acquaintances. How long ere you once again forget my existence?”

  “She carries the field there, Oliver. You’ve spoken nary a word to her these three weeks. All us servants noticed. Seems a heartless way to behave toward a choice wench.” Leaning on the farthest stall partition, Quincy chewed the end of a long straw and gave Helen a broad wink.

  “Begone!” Oliver wheeled upon his assistant. “This is none of your affair.”

  Helen made a dash for the open doorway and plunged back into pouring rain. In her wake followed Quincy’s laughter.

  A shadow fell over her. Still running, she glanced up to find a cape fluttering above her head. Oliver jogged beside her, holding his cape at arms’ length.

  Helen stopped in the middle of a puddle on the entry drive. “Leave me be!” she shouted, pushing at his arms.

  “Not until you are safe inside,” he shouted back. “You will come ill after such a soaking.”

  “And the children need me, I know,” she said bitterly. She turned to run, but he caught her arm, tossed the cape over his own shoulder, and pulled her close. She felt his hands cupping her face; then his lips pressed against hers. Helen went limp. Her hands crept up his chest.

  “I need you, Helen.” He spoke against her forehead. His hat’s broad brim protected her face from the rain; his embrace restored warmth to her frame. “Come.” Pulling the cape from his shoulder, he wrapped it around her and escorted her to the front door.

  She turned in the doorway, still in a daze. He smiled tenderly and touched her chin with his knuckle. “We will talk later when you are dry. I will send Franklin to you when he completes his labors.”

  She nodded and watched him fling the cape back over his shoulder as he strode toward the stables. Quivering hands covered her cheeks. Oliver had kissed her in plain view of anyone in the house who might have happened to be near a window. Fear and delight warred for prominence among her emotions.

  Lady Lillian’s entourage was late in arriving. “Muddy roads slowed our travel to a crawl,” Helen heard a hearty female voice proclaim as she watched and listened from the stair landing. The future mistress of Biddlesham Hall seemed to accept the delay without dint to her high spirits.

  “Cyril, this place is a delight! What a magnificent hall! The ideal surroundings for a magnificent man. I brought my faithful old nurse Middy and a few retainers.” Helen smiled at the description of a swarm of attending servants. “I hope we are no trouble.”

  Helen’s smile widened. No trouble to Cyril, perhaps, but she could imagine the turbulence in the kitchen. At least Helen had no immediate worries, for Cyril desired only that she keep his children unseen at present.

  While returning to her room, she thought she heard a door click shut. Franklin! Was that boy up to mischief again? Helen jerked open her chamber door to find … nothing. A small fire glowed on her hearth, and candles flickered in the draft from the doorway. She marched across the room, hauled open the nursery door, and extended her candle. The sound of peaceful breathing met her ear. Each bed held a motionless lump.

  Shaking her head, Helen returned to her room and prepared for bed. Her scraped hands still hurt, and her knee was turning blue. Recalling Oliver’s concern, she sighed. Reluctant though she was to pin her hopes upon a man who had proven himself less than dependable, she could not prevent dreams of marriage and family from creeping into her thoughts. Oliver had captured her interest from the first, she admitted. What woman would not find such a man irresistible? Not even his sarcasm had sufficed to discourage her interest.

  Slowly she combed tangles from her hair, frowning in thought. What if Cyril and Lillian wished her to remain as governess to the children? Would Oliver want his wife to work at the manor? Not that he had proposed marriage, she reminded herself.

  The idea of leaving Patsy and Avril brought pain to her heart. If only Cyril would learn to care for his children. Visions of her cousin as she had glimpsed him in the great hall that evening, clad in full regalia—lacy boot tucks, falling band collar, and beribboned lovelock—pranced through Helen’s mind. The peacock. Why did he not cherish his children? Did the man even know the meaning of love?

  And Lillian—would she love Sarah’s children? Franklin might be lovable if he tried, but Helen pitied any woman in the position of stepmother to that child.

  Catching herself in the midst of resentful thoughts, Helen squeezed her eyes shut. Lord, help me to respect my cousin, and please teach him to love his children. Bless Lillian, and help the children to like her. Much though I love them, they are not my children and I cannot direct their future. I cannot even direct my own.

  Helen wandered to the window and rested her forearms upon i
ts sill. Tonight the garden was clear and calm. The rainstorm had passed; moonlight silvered topiaries, walls, and statues. She could hear the garden’s fountain and the faraway cry of an owl.

  Helen’s thoughts drifted back to the night she had seen the “ghost.” A little smile twitched her lips. What a coward I am! Since her arrival at Biddlesham Hall she had encountered many frightening circumstances—among them several daunting people, an enormous dog, countless crawly creatures, a mysterious apparition, pervasive darkness, a recalcitrant boy, and one terrifyingly attractive man. Notwithstanding, I am yet living, sane, and functioning as a member of the household.

  Still contemplating this revelation, she pulled back her bed quilt to check for prior inhabitants. Her horrified gaze traveled around speckled coils to meet an unblinking reptilian eye.

  Chapter 7

  Dropping the quilt, Helen swallowed a wave of nausea. Franklin had outdone himself. Of all creatures, Helen most dreaded snakes.

  Taking deep breaths, she told herself repeatedly that the snake must be dead or Franklin could not have carried it to her room. Using the edge of her apron, she scooped up the slender creature and shook the cloth until the snake lay coiled in its center. Just as she reached the window, her heart nearly stopped—it could not be … Surely the snake’s tongue had not flashed out for an instant! Cold and inert, the scaly nightmare lay limp upon her apron, but Helen knew in her heart that the beast was alive. Not even a snake should be dropped alive from a first-floor window. She must carry it downstairs and release it into the garden.

  Keeping one eye on the bundled apron, she donned her dress. At this hour she was unlikely to meet anyone in the hallway, but she would not take the chance.

  The great hall was still lighted. Cyril and his guest must be sitting up late. Like a wraith she passed the doorway, but Cyril spotted her. “Cousin Helen, come and greet my betrothed.”

  Shrinking inwardly, Helen obeyed, clutching her bundle beneath one arm. Cyril and Lillian sat near the fire; a gray-haired woman occupied a seat in the shadows. When Helen stepped into the hall, Diocletian rose from the hearth and approached her, tail waving. Helen patted his head, but he insisted on more petting. Pressing his nose against her bundle, he snorted.

  Without budging from his chair, Cyril waved an idle hand in Helen’s direction. “Lillian, this is my cousin Helen Walker who traveled here from Surrey to care for the children.”

  Helen curtsied, and Lillian nodded. “Good even, Helen.” The woman surprised Helen with a friendly smile. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance. Have the children retired for the night? I look forward to meeting them.”

  Helen’s heart warmed. “They are asleep, mistress. I will bring them to you on the morrow.”

  Lillian turned to Cyril. “She is a pretty thing, dear. Far too attractive to remain a governess. I am certain she could marry well if given a respectable dowry.” She spoke as if continuing a conversation.

  “And I am sure your beloved Middy would be an excellent nurse to my children. I told you before, beloved, that I am trying to convince my brother-in-law to take Helen to wife. The two would make an ideal match.”

  Helen kept her jaw from dropping with some effort. Fascinated by her bundle, Diocletian pushed against Helen’s side until she staggered. He gave another snort. Helen felt movement inside the apron. Her heart skipped.

  “But is he the best match for our Helen? I have heard rumors about the Kirby family. Did not King James confiscate their estate?”

  “Aye, but it was a trumped-up affair. Verily, Oliver Kirby never was Catholic. No Kirby was Catholic to my knowledge. That tale originated with Lord Holmquist—a neighbor who coveted the Kirby lands and discerned a way to obtain them at no cost.”

  “And King Charles has never amended the error?”

  Cyril waved his pipe. “He cannot be bothered.”

  “May I be excused, Master Cyril?” Helen quavered.

  “Not as yet.” Cyril turned back to Lillian. “I purchased many of Oliver’s horses to pacify Sarah. He has remained in my employ these several years, yet I know that he longs to move on. I have heard him speak with animation of the New World, the Virginia colony.”

  Lillian’s curls bobbed as she nodded. “Mayhap you could give him aid. It is unseemly to have a former gentleman working as servant, let alone the brother of your first wife. I would be uneasy in his presence.”

  Cyril puffed at his pipe and stared toward the vaulted ceiling. “An honest sentiment. I shall approach Oliver again. You may go, cousin. Take Diocletian out to the kitchen.”

  “Blessed dreams, Helen,” Lillian said.

  Helen curtsied and hurried from the room with Diocletian at her heels. As she reached to unlatch the back door, something touched her wrist. She looked down and nearly screamed. The snake had found an opening among the folds of her apron. Its head emerged, tongue flickering. Cringing, she shoved the narrow head back inside and tightened her bundle.

  Diocletian snuffled against her arm. Pushing his bulk away, Helen opened the door and stepped outside. At last she could be rid of her nightmare. But when she reached for the bundled apron she felt a sharp pain. Startled, she threw out her arm. The snake hung from her thumb.

  The door closed behind her just as Helen emitted a scream releasing all the pent-up horror of weeks of torment. Waving her hand and shrieking, she ran barefoot across the lawn with the two-foot-long snake streaming behind her. Barking in a thunderous bass, Diocletian raced beside her until a scent in the nearby shrubs jerked his head to one side. He skidded to a stop while Helen pounded on.

  “Helen!” Oliver called from somewhere behind. “Helen, what are you doing? Stop!”

  Running blindly, puffing labored sobs, she blundered across pebbled walkways and velvet lawns. Oliver caught her around the waist. She stepped on his boot and lost her footing. He staggered and fell, bringing Helen down upon the wet grass with him.

  Rolling over, he came to his knees and pinned Helen to the ground by her wrists. “Have you lost your mind, woman? Did you run from the dog?”

  Helen shook her head, still gasping and whimpering. At that moment, the snake released her thumb and slithered across Oliver’s hand. He let out a yelp and pulled away. “A snake?”

  “It bit me,” Helen moaned and began to cough.

  Oliver helped her sit up, then pursued the snake and snatched it by the neck. After a quick inspection, he released it. “A grass snake. Undoubtedly more frightened than we are.” He glanced around. “It should escape before Diocletian returns. He is a poor hunter.”

  Helen tucked her knees and curled into a ball. “I care not what happens to it. Just keep it away from me!”

  “Let me see where it bit you.” He squinted at her hand, turning it back and forth in the moonlight. “Plenty of scratches, but no bite mark. Grass snakes have small teeth. Now come, get off the wet ground, my dear. Let us talk.”

  Helen allowed him to pull her up. “I have never before visited the garden after dark. Is it safe?”

  Oliver placed an arm around her shoulders and led her to a bench beneath a bower of climbing roses. “Quite safe when taken at a moderate pace. I walk here with Diocletian every night.”

  Helen looked up. “You do?”

  Oliver sat beside her. “Aye. Head dog-keeper I am as well as head horseman. Diocletian likes Cyril, but he spends more time with me and Quincy than with his master.”

  “You walk here every night—even in the rain and the fog?”

  “Aye. This surprises you? The dog needs exercise.”

  “I believe I saw you near the lavender hedge one misty night and mistook you for a ghost.”

  “A ghost?”

  Helen bowed her head. “Cyril told me that night of a spirit that haunts the garden. I know better than to believe in such things, yet the sight of you sent me cowering to my bed.”

  “Typical of Cyril. Was that the night you dropped a handkerchief from your window?”

  “You saw me?” Helen’s
head popped back up. “Franklin had put a dead toad in my bed. I used the handkerchief to pick it up but accidentally dropped the kerchief out the window with the toad.”

  “A toad in your bed?”

  “Tonight it was the snake. I find some creature in my bed nearly every night.”

  “I shall throttle that young rascal,” he declared grimly. “I have oft seen you at the window of a night and wondered why. I thought …” He sounded embarrassed. “I confess, that first night I thought you saw me. But when I approached your window and called, you had disappeared.”

  “I was quaking beneath my quilts in fear of the haunting spirit.” Helen chuckled at her own foolishness.

  Oliver reached into his doublet and pulled out a lacy bit of fabric.

  Helen touched it lightly. “You kept it? But why?”

  “I thought you dropped it for me.” His voice was gruff.

  “But why would you want it?”

  He shrugged, then leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, head bent. “Have you not guessed? I adore you, Helen Walker.” Suddenly he rose and paced a short distance away. “I wish to ask your cousin for your hand in marriage and have the banns published as soon as possible. If this is not agreeable to you, let me know at once, and I will never again bother you with my foolish hopes.”

  Helen could scarcely speak. “Even though Cyril advised you to marry me?”

  He turned abruptly. “You know? Oh Helen, it was pride that turned me from you for a time. I would not allow Cyril to choose my bride, yet I was miserable without you.”

  “I thought my heart would break when you seemed to forget my existence.”

  He rushed back to kneel before her on the wet grass. “Then you do care for me? Today you said we were mere acquaintances.”

  “I spoke in anger. It is true that we do not know one another well, but we will have ample time for acquaintance while the banns are being read.”

  “And after we wed, for the rest of our lives,” Oliver added. “Kiss me, Helen, and I will believe that you love me.”