An Impossible Confession

by Sandra Heath

  ‘If he did it.’

  ‘But, Miss Fairmead, the evidence is all there,’ protested the maid.

  ‘I still don’t believe it of him.’

  ‘No, miss.’

  ‘Well, you saw him at the Cat and Fiddle, Mary, do you think he’d do all that?’

  Mary said nothing, but the look on her face spoke volumes of her doubts.

  Helen saw the maid’s expression and sighed inwardly. Maybe Mary was right to be so mistrusting, maybe it was the height of gullibility to have faith in him simply because his smiles and kisses had kindled a fire within her. She was a green girl, fresh from school and without experience of the world, so how could she expect to judge such a man? Maybe she couldn’t, but she had a very firm conviction that he was innocent. She trusted her instinct where he was concerned, and above all, she trusted her heart.

  A little later, dressed in a lemon-and-white-striped lawn gown, Helen went down to join her sister for breakfast. Her hair was dressed in a pretty knot, with ringlets falling to the nape of her neck, and the ribbons of her tiny white lace day bonnet were untied, fluttering as she moved.

  Margaret was alone in the sunny peach-colored breakfast room, the French windows of which stood open toward the stables. The view was clear to the archway beneath the clocktower, and Gregory could be seen in the yard beyond, deep in conversation with his head groom. In the room the smell of coffee, warm bread, and bacon hung in the warm air, together with the sweet perfume of carnations from the bowl in the center of the white-clothed table. Margaret was reading the morning newspaper, and there was a silver coffee pot, a blue-and-gold porcelain cup and saucer, and a little jug of cream on the table immediately before her. She wore a coral seersucker wrap trimmed with many little frills, and her hair was brushed loose about her shoulders. She looked pale and fragile, and Helen didn’t need to be told she was suffering from the effects of morning sickness.

  ‘Good morning, Margaret, I won’t ask you how you feel.’

  ‘Am I that ghastly?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Margaret managed a smile. ‘Did you sleep well?’

  ‘Excellently, thank you. Would it be too much for you if I had some bacon?’

  ‘I’ve managed to watch Gregory devour kedgeree, and if I can do that, I can do anything.’

  Helen helped herself from one of the silver-domed dishes on the sideboard, and then sat down as Margaret poured her a cup of coffee. Through the French windows came the sound of hooves, as several racehorses emerged from beneath the clocktower archway. Their jockeys gathered them, and then urged them away across the park. Helen watched them pass from sight. ‘Are Gregory’s horses all champing at the bit in readiness for the big day?’

  ‘Most of them are.’

  ‘But some aren’t?’

  ‘Perhaps I should say they all are, bar one. Musket’s giving cause for concern. After running like the wind for months, earning himself a very short price for the Maisemore, he’s suddenly losing his edge. The last thing poor Gregory needs is another well-fancied horse suddenly losing form, especially for the Maisemore.’

  ‘After last year, you mean?’

  Margaret lowered her cup. ‘From which remark I perceive you’ve been making it your business to find out all you can?’

  ‘In the absence of any explanation from you or Gregory, yes, I have. I’ve resorted to servants’ gossip.’

  ‘Is that what you’ve been taught over the past five years?’ inquired Margaret dryly.

  ‘No, Miss Figgis wouldn’t dream of such a thing. You’d better put it down to my prying nature.’

  ‘I already have. So, you now know all about the Prince Agamemnon affair?’

  ‘I know of it, yes.’

  ‘I trust that that means you now accept Adam Drummond’s guilt.’

  ‘It means that I now know what he’s supposed to have done,’ qualified Helen carefully.

  ‘Supposed to have done? My dear Helen, he didn’t deny it when confronted, and he suddenly acquired an “inheritance,” and Sam Edney’s evidence was conclusive. Of course he’s guilty; he’s a crimper of the meanest order.’

  ‘Crimper?’

  ‘Someone who deliberately meddles to affect the outcome of a race, or to rearrange the odds. That’s what your precious Adam Drummond is, sister mine, and it ill becomes you to question incontrovertible facts, when on your own admission you met him only briefly while your chaise team was changed. Oh, he saved your life, but I doubt if that took him more than a moment, since he’s such a valiant hero!’ Crossly, Margaret poured herself some more coffee.

  ‘I realize you’re angry with me….’ began Helen.

  ‘That’s putting it mildly.’

  ‘It’s just that….’

  ‘It’s just that you’ve gazed into his incredibly blue eyes and been swept off your foolish feet,’ interrupted Margaret again. ‘Oh, I grant you he’s very handsome, and that he could charm the birds down from the trees with one of his engaging smiles, but for all his elegant and attractive exterior, inside he’s a toad of the first water.’

  ‘Margaret, will you please let me say something?’ cried Helen in exasperation. ‘All I’m trying to say is that I know you’re angry with me, but I can’t help being reluctant to believe ill of the man who saved me from a terrible accident. You can understand that, can’t you?’

  Margaret hesitated, and then nodded unwillingly. ‘Yes, I suppose so, but you do seem bent upon whitewashing him, which makes me feel you think Gregory and I are lying.’

  ‘I don’t think that at all.’

  ‘I trust so, for the whole business is mortifying enough already, without you adding to it. Adam’s diplomatic activities on Lord Liverpool’s behalf bring him constantly into the Prince Regent’s presence, and the prince thinks highly of him, which has made for some embarrassing moments during the past year.’ Margaret glanced at her. ‘Perhaps we should change the subject.’

  ‘Yes, perhaps we should.’ Feeling disloyal for being totally unable to believe wrong of Adam, Helen prudently started her breakfast. The bacon was already almost cold, and consequently unappetizing, but she applied herself with determination, anxious at all costs not to openly fall out with her sister, whose dark expression spoke eloquently of her deep displeasure.

  At last Margaret set her newspaper aside. ‘I don’t want to quarrel, Helen.’

  ‘I don’t, either.’

  ‘But you must understand how dreadful last year was. Horseracing means so much to Gregory, and he’s always prided himself on his complete honesty and integrity. The business with Prince Agamemnon called all that into question, and threatened to ruin his name in racing. You have to try to understand that, just as I have to try to understand that you aren’t going to accept the truth until it’s proved to you beyond any doubt.’

  Helen smiled ruefully. ‘Are you sorry already that you asked me to live here?’

  ‘Not quite.’ Margaret smiled too. ‘So, let’s to something else, to Ralph St John, for instance; he’s a much more agreeable topic of conversation.’

  ‘So you and Gregory kept insisting last night.’

  ‘Ralph’s an angel, it’s as simple as that.’

  ‘You seem inordinantly fond of him.’

  Margaret’s smile became a little rueful. ‘Well, perhaps that’s because he was my first admirer.’

  ‘I thought Gregory was your first,’ said Helen in some surprise.

  ‘I thought so too, but it seems that Ralph admired me as well, he just didn’t get around to telling me so.’

  ‘Would it have made any difference if he had?’

  ‘Good heavens, no, I adored Gregory from the moment I saw him, but I’m still very fond of Ralph, he’s such a darling.’

  ‘Last night you told me he was up to his adorable neck in gambling debts, with the duns positively hammering at his door,’ observed Helen.

  ‘It’s hardly a heinous crime for a gentleman to find himself in those particular financial s
traits, Helen. Besides, his father’s here at the moment from Jamaica, and Ralph confidently expects to soon be more than solvent again. Did we tell you last night that the St Johns reside in Jamaica? Their plantations are legendary, and one day it will all go to Ralph. He’s quite a catch, you know, even if he’s a little paupered à ce moment.’

  ‘If he was circulating when you first went to London, and if he’s considered such a catch, why is he still unattached?’

  ‘Because nothing less than a lovematch will do for him. Oh, I believe he’s suffered several unhappy affairs of the heart….’

  ‘Including you?’

  Margaret laughed. ‘No, not including me. I think he just liked me a great deal, without forming a passionate attachment. I don’t know who the ladies in his life have been, I just know there have been one or two.’

  Helen put down her knife and fork. ‘I can’t eat any more of this, it’s absolutely cold.’

  ‘That’s apt to be the way of it when one chatters instead of getting on with the serious business of eating,’ said Margaret, sitting back and taking a deep breath. ‘Why, I do believe the wretched queasies have departed for the time being.’

  ‘It’s all that talk of the blessed Ralph, it’s guaranteed to settle the most lively stomach.’

  ‘Facetiousness was always one of your failings, Helen, but you’ll come around quickly enough once you meet him. Gregory and I just know you’ll take to each other.’

  Helen looked sharply at her. ‘Do I detect a hint of matchmaking?’

  ‘Why not? You and he would be perfect together.’

  ‘I’d rather decide that for myself, thank you, just as you and Gregory decided for yourselves.’

  ‘And so you shall decide for yourself, truly, but in the meantime there’s no reason why Gregory and I shouldn’t entertain certain, er, hopes, is there?’

  ‘None at all,’ replied Helen slowly, for there was a note in her sister’s voice that warned her there was more to this than idle hopes. ‘Margaret, you and Gregory wouldn’t by any chance have already intimated anything to Mr St John concerning this, would you?’

  Margaret shifted a little uncomfortably. ‘Well, I….’

  Helen stared at her in dismay. ‘Oh, Margaret, how could you!’

  ‘Please don’t misunderstand….’

  ‘I’m not, I understand perfectly well. You, Gregory, and this Mr St John have been discussing my marriage, and without so much as a word to me. I begin to wonder if the date’s set, or even if my passage to Jamaica is booked.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Helen, it isn’t like that at all. It’s simply a matter of an idea that cropped up during after-dinner conversation a few weeks ago. At first it was just a chance remark, but somehow we began talking about it, and then it seemed such an excellent idea that we, well, we began to hope it might become a reality. Ralph really is a good friend – he’s excellent company, kind, thoughtful, generous – and he’s an excellent catch. Helen, he’s quite perfect, and I know that in the end you’ll think so too, just as I know that he’ll be bowled over by you when you meet. So don’t fly off the handle just yet, give him a chance. Please.’

  ‘I’m not flying off the handle, I’m just incensed.’

  ‘There’s a difference?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Margaret sighed. ‘There really isn’t anything to be incensed about.’

  ‘Then we’ll have to agree to disagree.’

  Margaret glanced at her. ‘Yes, and not for the first time since you arrived yesterday,’ she observed.

  Helen said nothing, for in truth the disagreements were connected. She was irate about Ralph St John as much because he’d been the one to first point a finger at Adam as because she resented discussions about her future taking place without her knowledge or consent. She was predisposed against Ralph St John. Maybe her judgment was flawed where Adam was concerned, but she couldn’t help the firm set of her bias against the unknown Mr St John.

  Mararet smiled a little sheepishly. ‘So, once again we’d better change the subject to something less contentious, the Farrish House ball, for instance.’

  Helen smiled too. ‘The Farrish House ball it is.’

  CHAPTER 7

  While Margaret rested that afternoon, Helen went out to the gardens to read Mansfield Park for an hour or so. She was still a little displeased to think that discussions had been going on behind her back about a possible match with Ralph St John, but at least the discovery had served to clarify her thoughts, for one thing was now crystal clear: the only man who would ever do for her was Adam, Lord Drummond of Wintervale.

  The air was warm and scented in the gardens, for the wallflowers were in full bloom, their rich colors bright and velvety. She sat on a wrought iron bench beneath a laburnum tree, the pendulous golden flowers of which moved gently in the light breeze. Leafy shadows dappled her lemon-and-white-striped lawn gown as she opened the book and removed the embroidered marker, but she hadn’t been reading for long when she heard someone hurrying toward her. It was Mary.

  ‘Begging your pardon for disturbing you, miss, but you said if I heard anything more I was to come to you straight away.’

  ‘About Lord Drummond?’

  ‘Yes, miss. It isn’t much, but I thought you’d want to know. It’s about a lady.’

  A lady? Could it be the one whose brief adulterous affair Adam was at pains to protect? The thought flashed instantly into Helen’s head.

  Mary pursed her lips for a moment. ‘Perhaps she wasn’t a lady exactly, for she was an actress.’

  ‘Was?’

  ‘Yes, miss – Mrs Maria Tully, who was killed in a carriage overturn early last year.’

  Helen knew of Mrs Tully, for she’d been a leading light of the Theater Royal, Drury Lane, and her most famous part had been that of Mistress Fuchsia in To Find True Love. Her tragic death had been greeted with the utmost dismay, and the journal to which Helen had subscribed while at Cheltenham had published a likeness of the actress as Mistress Fuchsia. Maria Tully had been very beautiful indeed, and fascinating enough to win the attentions of a man like Adam, but she couldn’t possibly have been his unnamed lady, who was still alive and had children, neither of which things could be said of Mrs Tully. Helen looked at the maid. ‘Are you about to tell me she was Lord Drummond’s mistress?’

  ‘No, miss, although she wanted to be. She pursued him, but she wasn’t successful. Mr St John had admired her first, as it happened, but she left him in order to devote her full attention to his lordship.’

  Helen slowly closed her book. ‘There was bad feeling between Lord Drummond and Mr St John because of it?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t think so. Mr St John apparently didn’t show any resentment, and anyway, she was being kept by the Marquess of FitzRichard when she was killed.’

  ‘Quite the butterfly, wasn’t she?’ murmured Helen.

  Mary glanced back toward the house, where her duties awaited. ‘That was all I had to tell you, miss, except perhaps….’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It wasn’t about Lord Drummond, but I think you should know anyway. Peter tells me they all know in the servants’ wing that you and Mr St John are to be married.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Helen got up angrily. It really was too bad of Margaret and Gregory, who’d obviously discussed the matter far more with Ralph St John than had been indicated at breakfast.

  ‘Everyone thinks it’s an excellent match, miss,’ ventured Mary, recognizing the flash in her mistress’s green eyes.

  ‘It’s an odious match as far as I’m concerned.’

  ‘But….’

  ‘Mr Ralph St John could be the finest catch in all the world, but it wouldn’t make any difference to me because he’s not Lord Drummond.’

  ‘No, miss.’

  ‘I know you think there can’t be all that smoke without there being a fire of some sort, but I don’t have any doubts. He’s all I ever want in this world, Mary Caldwell, and one way or another
I intend to have him.’

  The maid was taken aback by such a blunt and forward statement. ‘Oh, Miss Fairmead, you really shouldn’t say things like that.’

  ‘I know, but it happens to be true.’

  ‘But Colonel and Mrs Bourne think him….’

  ‘I know what they think him.’ Helen turned away, the hanging blooms of laburnum brushing her shoulder. ‘I also know what I think. He’s invaded my life, Mary, and I’ve thought of little else since the moment I met him. I mean to see him again, as soon as I possibly can.’

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t even think of seeing him again, miss,’ said the maid unhappily. ‘You shouldn’t, have done all those things at the Cat and Fiddle, and now it’s best you put it all behind you. You have your reputation and your future to consider….’

  Helen nodded. ‘I know, and you’re right to try to make me see sense, but I’m afraid I’m already quite beyond redemption where he’s concerned. Anyway, there’s nothing much I can do for the time being, he’s not in Windsor yet, and even if he were, I don’t know how I could manage to see him.’ She smiled. ‘But I will see him, Mary, I promise you that. For the moment, however, I have Mr Ralph St John to deal with. I’m not in the least interested in a match with him, but it seems that he’s interested in a match with me. I shall be polite, of course, but I shall leave him in no doubt that I’m not the bride for him. I’ll make it clear when he escorts me at the Prince Regent’s dinner.’

  But her first encounter with Ralph St John was destined to take place sooner than she thought; indeed, he called at Bourne End that very afternoon.

  Margaret had had her rest, and she and Helen had enjoyed an amiable hour taking tea in the drawing room, discussing the Prince Regent’s imminent visit and the very strict etiquette Helen would have to learn in the meantime, for it was unthinkable that she should set a foot wrong during the time he was present. The touchy subject of Ralph St John was left well alone, as was the even thornier topic of Lord Drummond, and in a while the sisters strolled out to the stables, where they were to join Gregory and Helen was to be shown some of the prize thoroughbreds.