by Susana Ellis
“Ah!” said Lady Sarah, with a knowing glance at her husband. “So your career is caring for children, then. Perhaps things haven’t changed as much as you think.”
“Er-no. I mean, yes, they have,” Helena began, but closed her mouth when the carriage halted in front of the entrance to the castle, and a footman came forward to assist with their descent from the carriage.
Henry VIII’s long dining room had been laboriously transformed into a glittering ballroom, the timbered ceilings obscured by gold and white draping that brought to mind the sky on a bright summer’s day. Lit by an abundance of wall sconces and a large candelabra on the mantel, the room radiated wealth and privilege.
“Sir Henry Newsome and Lady Sarah Newsome,” said the elegant liveried footman reading from their invitation cards. “Miss Helena Lloyd.”
The five-piece orchestra at the far end of the room was already tuning up, and soon after greeting them in the reception line, Mr. and Mrs. Wykeham excused themselves to open the dancing. They were both elegantly dressed, Mrs. Wykeham in a blue sarcenet gown trimmed in gold, and her husband standing tall and proud in black with an embroidered gold waistcoat. Helena looked around for a glimpse of the younger Wykehams, but they were not to be found. Perhaps they had returned to Hertfordshire and their Bible schools, she thought. No doubt they would have been distressed by the evidence of lavish expenditures necessitated by such an event.
To her surprise, a line of half a dozen young men formed before her almost immediately to request dances. Marcus was not among them, she noticed with relief. He stood near the fireplace chatting with a small, chestnut-haired young lady in white who seemed enthralled by him. She looked to be young, no doubt just out of the schoolroom, plumpish but pretty. Marcus certainly did not seem to be bored by her company, Helena thought. His betrothal to Miss Beatrice Hill had been arranged by their parents, but it had been done only after both parties consented. Lady Sarah had confided that she felt Marcus’s inappropriate behavior with Helena upon her arrival was due to wedding nerves, since the ceremony was set for the end of summer, only a few weeks away.
“Have you a waltz left on your card, Miss Lloyd?”
A flush of adrenaline raced through her body as she recognized the voice behind her. She whirled around to see James, looking boyish and handsome in fawn-colored pantaloons with a matching vest and bottle green jacket. She took a deep breath as he bent over her hand.
“Good evening, Mr. Walker. Indeed yes, I do have dances left on my card. But as for the waltz, you shall be forewarned that I have only just learned it this week, and Sir Henry will testify that during the lessons I trod on his toes more than once.”
He squinted over her dance card. “Seeing as he has bespoken one himself, I daresay he must believe the pleasure of dancing with you is well worth a few crushed toes.” He scrawled his name next to the supper dance and a quadrille later in the evening.
“May I compliment you on your appearance this evening, Miss Lloyd?”
She blushed at the intense look in his eyes, but was prevented from responding when a youth rushed up to claim her as his partner for the next dance. Shrugging apologetically, she left him to follow her partner to the dance floor.
Mr. Walker danced with several pretty young ladies while she made her way through a succession of charming young men, but she noticed that his gaze was frequently directed toward her. She was enjoying herself so much that her inhibitions seemed to fly out the window. It seemed as though nothing could spoil her mood, not even when Marcus Newsome approached her for a dance.
“Of course,” she said, allowing him to scribble his initials on her card. After all, what could he possibly do on a dance floor in full view of his betrothed and future in-laws? And when he claimed her for their dance, he seemed a thoroughly different young man, apologizing profusely for his behavior and begging her not to distress his fiancée by relating the incident to her.
“I do care for Miss Hill, in spite of what I said to you,” he confessed. “She believes me a paragon of virtue, and I suppose I was feeling the pressure to live up to her expectations. Of course,” he hurried to say, “that is no excuse for my shabby behavior to you. I hope you will see yourself clear to forgive me and believe me when I say that I intend to be a worthy and faithful husband, as my father has been.”
Helena smiled and nodded. “I understand,” she said. “But I do hope in future you are honest with your wife about such things.” She laughed at his startled expression. “You will fall off your pedestal soon enough, Mr. Newsome. But if you truly love each other, you’ll learn to trust each other with the truth. Keeping secrets only leads to trouble later on.”
Marcus’s brows drew together. “Do you really think so, Miss Lloyd? I should think there are some things a wife need not know about her husband. For her own protection, of course.”
Helena’s blood pressure skyrocketed. Two hundred years later, that same pretext, that of “protecting” the woman from unpleasantness, was still used by men to keep the females in their place. She opened her mouth to say something, but was prevented from doing so when James Walker approached them in the middle of the dance floor.
“Is anything wrong, Miss Lloyd?” He glared at Marcus, as if to accuse him of importuning her again.
Marcus drew away, his face the image of confusion.
Seeing that they had become the subject of attention in the room, Helena put her hand to her brow. “It’s nothing,” she assured him, “just a slight headache. Perhaps some fresh air?”
James took her arm and led her off the dance floor, followed by the younger man.
“Could I get you some ratafia, Miss Lloyd?”
“No thank you, Mr. Newsome.” Helena felt foolish for putting him on the spot like that. He was a product of his time, after all. He wasn’t Richard Earskine, who had much less excuse for his perpetual dalliances.
“I shall take over from here, Newsome.” James Walker’s voice was authoritative.
Helena’s feminist side wanted to protest, but something prevented her from doing so. Perhaps it was the desire she saw in his eyes when he looked at her, a lock of dark hair trailing boyishly down to his brow.
“The garden is just through here,” he said as led her out of the ballroom and down the lighted hall. “Not perhaps the most convenient place, but then, it is a Tudor castle, originally built to repel enemies, not enable social interaction.”
The garden was lit with Chinese lanterns, which flickered on the water from the lake beyond.
“It’s beautiful.” Helena breathed deeply of the fresh air as she took in the sight and aroma of the charming vista.
“We are not the only ones to think so,” observed James as feminine laughter drifted to their ears. “Let’s stroll down this path. Unless you’d prefer to sit after your exertions on the dance floor?”
“No, no, I’m fine. Truly I am.”
I’d be ever so much better if you would kiss me.
She cleared her throat. “The Wykehams have done a fabulous job decorating the ballroom.”
“I suppose so.” He stopped and turned to face her. “Although I must admit I haven’t seen anything but you since you made your entrance, Miss Lloyd.”
Her breath quickened. It's the same with me. “Call me Helena,” she said breathlessly.
“I’m James,” he said as he tightened his grasp of her upper arms and drew her closer. “Would you be shocked to know that I want to kiss you, Helena?”
“Not terribly,” she responded, as she raised her lips to his.
Their lips touched lightly at first, and then with more pressure as his hands moved down to caress her back. Her nerve endings tingled, wanting more. She clasped her hands around his neck and opened her mouth for his seeking tongue. She was close enough to hear the rapid beating of his heart, and yet it wasn’t close enough.
Breaking away, he clasped her head in his hands and gave her a searching look before he took her lips again, not tentatively this time, but wi
th the force of possession. Warmth radiated through her body. All inhibitions faded away in her hunger to merge her body with his.
“Lucinda!”
Startled at the interruption, they drew apart and looked at each other in bemusement.
“Unhand her, young man! Lucinda, you know better than to cavort with young men in the shadows. I daresay your father will be furious when he finds out!”
The luckless Lucinda followed her mother out of the garden, and Helena made an effort to repair her hair.
“I suppose I should apologize,” James began, and then stopped when he saw the confusion on Helena’s face.
“You are under my friend’s protection, Helena. No doubt he would expect a proposal of marriage if he knew that I treated you dishonorably.”
Helena felt her ire rising. “It was a kiss,” she said shortly. “I kissed you too, remember? I don't recall Sir Henry being present at the time.”
What was I thinking? I can’t get involved with him. Even if I wanted to stay here and marry, how would I ever explain how I got here? He’d send me packing to the insane asylum first chance he got, and under the circumstances, I couldn’t blame him.
His nostrils flare. “You've been kissed before,” he drawled.
“I’m twenty-seven years old,” she bit out. “Did you think I’d never kissed anyone else?”
And more. But he doesn't need to know that. He's not for me. This is nothing but a passing fancy.
“Ah,” he said shortly. “Does Sir Henry know about your-er-kissing experience?”
Helena wanted to throw something at him. “Why should he? He has no authority over me.” Too late, she realized her mistake.
James started at her incredulously. “Has he not?”
Helena swallowed. “Well, he does, of course, as I am his daughters’ governess. But as far as kissing is concerned—that is my own private business.”
James backed away. “I’ve never known a governess to have such a permissive attitude. Is it possible that I have placed my daughter in the care of a woman who is—unchaste?”
Helena was so angry she could spit. Instead, she stepped forward and slapped him. Hard.
Let that be a lesson to her. She could never live in this antiquated time period with its obstinate, narrow-minded inhabitants. Never. Not in a million years. Not even if she were so brainless as to fall in love with one of them.
Fall in love? Not likely. She stalked off toward the castle, resisting the urge to look back and see his face. What was she doing in this place anyway? She hadn’t come here to play the leading role in a romance novel. Her mission had nothing whatsoever to do with James Walker.
She determined to write to Lady P and ask her to make haste in finding the permanent governess. As fond as she was of the girls in her charge, she’d been neglecting her primary purpose.
9
Melbourne Manor
Langley Heath
Kent
The next morning
What a bloody nasty day!
After spending the night in his study half-passed out from the brandy he’d consumed following his return from the ball, he’d thought a good morning ride might clear his head, only to be stopped at the door by a loud clap of thunder. Since then, it had been raining like cats and dogs. The expression she had used that day on the gardens at Leeds Castle.
Bloody hell! Why couldn’t he get that blasted woman out of his mind? She was—well, he wasn’t sure exactly what she was—a loose woman, a freethinker, a follower of Mary Wollstonecraft, or something else entirely—but one thing he did know was that she was not for him. Even if he were in the market for a wife—and he definitely was not—it wouldn’t be someone like Helena Lloyd, an opinionated, bad-tempered, odd-speaking, American harridan.
Nothing else signified, not the way she’d felt in his arms, the softness of her lips, the angry sparks flying from her green eyes as she’d struck him and strode away. He’d been left standing there, furious, indignant, scandalized and—bereft. He’d stood there for quite some time, long after she’d disappeared from view, attempting to sort out his emotions. By the time he’d returned to the ballroom, he’d nearly convinced himself that he’d done nothing wrong and didn’t care in the slightest about Helena Lloyd. However, all the time he danced with other ladies and chatted with his friends and neighbors, he found himself searching the ballroom for a certain green-eyed governess who was conspicuous by her absence. When she did not appear for their scheduled supper dance, Lady Sarah, in response to his inquiry, apprised him that Miss Lloyd had been stricken by a megrim and been returned to Newsome Grange by carriage. He’d sent his best wishes for her recovery and spent the remainder of the evening in the card room, where he’d drunk too much and lost nearly ten guineas too, which was not at all like him, after having sworn against gambling.
“Might I get you some coffee, sir?”
Mrs. Fenwick regarded him anxiously from the doorway.
“Your morning meal will be served shortly in the morning room, but since you are—" she swallowed as she recognized his formal attire from the previous night’s ball—“awake so early, I thought perhaps a wee cup might be welcome?”
“Coffee. Yes, Mrs. Fenwick, that would be most welcome." The very thought of food made his stomach roil like the storm that raged outside and also in his head.
When she returned, his head was on the desk. She cleared her throat to alert him as to her presence, and then set the tray before him.
“Is there anything else, sir?”
James started to shake his head, and then he rubbed a hand over his temple. “Perhaps there is something after all. Mrs. Fenwick—Eliza—please take a seat.”
He opened a drawer and took out a pile of papers.
“These are all letters from applicants sent to me by the agency in London. I have read them all, but find myself reluctant to trust my own judgment. After all, I did believe Miss Ledbetter and all the others were good choices, and not a single one lasted more than a few weeks.”
He walked over and handed them to her. “I wonder if you would do me the favor of looking these over yourself, Eliza. Perhaps you have a better instinct when it comes to these matters.”
Gathering the letters with one hand, she rose and squeezed his arm with the other. “Sir, if I may be frank, what you need is not a governess so much as—a wife.”
James stiffened and his eyes were stormy, but his housekeeper was not finished with her advice.
“Yes, I know I've mentioned this before, but the young miss needs a mother. And you, sir, need a wife!"
The color rose in her cheeks, but she soldiered on. "I know you were disappointed in your first marriage. You were both young with unrealistic expectations and—well—it was a sad tragedy what happened with the young mistress. But you are older now, and more mature, and there’s no reason to suppose you cannot find a suitable wife at this stage of your life.”
Mrs. Fenwick risked a glance at James’s furious face, and continued. “Forgive me for speaking to you like a mother—I knew your own mother well and I’m certain if she were here it’s what she’d be saying, so I’ll have my say and hope it doesn’t cost me my position here, because I care deeply for you, Mr. Walker, and dear Annabelle too. It’s a helpmeet you need, someone you can trust to manage your household and your daughter, someone up to your weight, not a silly young miss with stars in her eyes.”
An image of Helena came to his mind, smiling across the breakfast table at him, skipping rope with Annabelle, strands of shiny golden hair slipping down from her coiffure, her lovely face brightened by exertion. Helena greeting him in the hall after a hard day’s work on the estate, holding her in his arms, ascending the stairs arm-in-arm to their bedroom at the end of the day, making her his in every possible way.
Then another face came to mind. Another pretty face, lighter hair, darker green eyes, facial structure curiously similar, figure tighter and smaller than Helena’s. Anne, the woman he’d failed. These feelings for
Helena must stem from her resemblance to his late wife. She was all wrong for him. He’d forget all about her once she returned to America or wherever she came from.
In the meantime, he’d seek a wife elsewhere. He wasn’t titled or wealthy, but after years of scrimping and saving and working hard, he was financially stable and connected—however distantly—with the Melbournes. Mrs. Fenwick was right—he was older and much better able to choose a wife, with his head and not his heart this time.
He’d go to London for the Little Season and find a suitable wife and mother for Annabelle, and Helena Lloyd would fade from his mind forever.
Relieved, he laughed shakily and bent down to impulsively hug his housekeeper.
“Mrs. Fenwick, you’re a genius! Whatever would I do without you?”
* * *
August 19, 1817
Newsome Grange
Kingswood
Kent
“Are you sure this is safe?” Helena asked skeptically. “I feel like I’m about to fall off.”
“Don’t be silly,” Theo said, rolling her eyes. “It’s really quite simple. Your right leg goes around the pommel and your left foot in the stirrup. Like this.” She demonstrated the position—again—and guided her horse forward.
“Can’t I hold on to something? I feel like I’m going to tumble to the ground the moment the horse begins to move.”
Theo laughed. “You need your hands to control the reins, of course.”
Helena took a deep breath and slapped the reins lightly to urge her horse forward, and squealed in near panic when it did, causing the horse to stop suddenly and nearly throw her off.
Theo snorted and her older sister glared at her. “You’re not helping, Theo. Why don’t you go on ahead and let us help Miss Lloyd?”
With a toss of her head, Theo cantered off, followed by the groom assigned to accompany them.
