Beauty Like the Night

by Liz Carlyle

  “Your concern is reassuring, sir,” she responded, her tone almost laughably demure.

  She still came as a shock to him, this new Helene. The hoyden he’d once known would have boxed his ears and shoved him into the river by now. But the new Helene was still speaking in her soothing governess voice. “However, if you will but inspect the rope and test the strength of the wood—as I was just in the process of doing—you will see it is in rather good condition. I fancy someone has replaced it since we ... er, since you would last have had occasion to use it.”

  Cam saw what she was up to. “I do not give a damn, Helene, if it is a newly forged chain strung up just this morning by my very own blacksmith. It is unsafe for Ariane. And it is unsafe for you.”

  The sudden rustling of Ariane’s skirts in the grass snared Cam’s attention. Standing beside Helene, his daughter crossed her arms and fashioned her lips into an uncharacteristically sulky pout which she immediately focused on her father with every intended effect.

  Good Lord, what a telling expression! Despite Ariane’s silence and Helene’s outward obedience, Cam felt beset on all sides by cunning females. But honest to a fault, Cam forced himself to consider Helene’s arguments. At once, a shadowy fate loomed up before him.

  Something unpleasant—and wholly reckless—was going to happen. Like a change in the weather, or the hum before a lightning strike, Cam could sense it. Ariane’s lip came out another fraction. Helene’s toe began to tap.

  Impatiently, Cam reached out and retrieved the rope, sliding his glove down its length. “Well, perhaps ... yes, it is relatively new, I’ll grant you that much.”

  Ariane’s pout began to recede.

  “Indeed,” added Helene. “And the wood looks strong enough—”

  “Strong enough?” protested Cam, watching the rope slide back and forth through his hands. “Strong enough for what?” The idea of a lynching came suddenly to his mind, only to be quickly replaced by an enhanced—and far more erotic—version of his Helene-in-black-leather fantasy.

  Bloody hell! He snapped his head up, dropping the rope as if it were a snake. “Strong enough for what?” he repeated, as Ariane caught the spinning slat of wood in her hand.

  “Well . . . strong enough to swing on,” admitted Helene.

  “Helene—!” Cam set his hands on his hips. “You are going to drive me mad. One of you could be hurt. Even drowned. That rope might snap, and that would be the end of you.”

  “With all due respect, my lord,” said Helene soothingly, “the water is neither deep enough nor swift enough for a drowning. Unpleasantly cold, yes. One would hardly wish to swim in it, unless the weather was absolutely sultry. But could one drown? I fancy not.”

  Cam could have sworn—absolutely sworn—that Helene de Severs winked at him. But her face remained as serene as an angel’s. He forced himself to ignore it. “Ariane cannot swim,” he stated bluntly.

  “Can she not?” asked Helene archly.

  “No.”

  “Then one of us must teach her when the weather warms.” Helene patted Ariane’s shoulder and smiled tightly. “However, I swim exceedingly well. And I seem to recall the same of you. So in the unlikely event she should fall, one of us must simply fish her out.”

  The feeling of doom drew nearer, but with it came a little rush of excitement. “Yes, well ... what if it scares her to swing so far over the water?”

  Helene gave her careless Gallic shrug. “Mais oui, it will scare her! Is that not the very idea of the thing?”

  Ariane had begun to bounce up and down on her toes. She seemed perfectly willing—almost eager—to be drowned. Fighting back temptation, Cam shook his head. “She could catch a chill if she gets wet. Or she might get rope burns.”

  Helene shrugged again. Cam was beginning to find the gesture annoying. “Well, for my part,” she remarked with a mischievous grin, “I should prefer to die of something other than boredom.”

  “Dead is dead, Miss de Severs.” But God help him, he was beginning to see her logic. Damn it, when Helene was around, the imprudent began to sound strangely rational.

  “Ah—! But to experience true joie de vivre ere one’s death, Lord Treyhern!” Suddenly, Helene laughed, and whirled about in a circle, snapping her fingers in the air like a gypsy dancer. “That is the secret, n’est-ce pas? Come!” She clapped her hands high above her head. “Be spontaneous! Be reckless!” Impudence danced in her dark blue eyes.

  Damn her, she dared him. She always did.

  Obviously, the new Helene could not long repress the exuberance of the old. Yet her enthusiasm was contagious, and in the face of such a challenge, Cam felt his resolve slip.

  Lord, to be sixteen again! What would it feel like? To be blindingly happy and free, just for a few fleeting seconds? To swing across that glistening stretch of water with no earthly ties? It seemed so foolish. It seemed so—fun.

  Ariane must have sensed his surrender. The lip retracted, and her face lit up like a Vauxhall lantern.

  “Oh, very well!” he groused, stripping off his driving gloves and slapping them into Helene’s open palm. “Give me the bloody rope.”

  After yanking hard on the swing, then testing it with his full weight, Cam dragged it up the embankment, then turned to face the water. What in God’s name was he about? he wondered, staring down at the sight below. He must look an utter fool, standing atop this bank, and clutching a rope swing in one hand. But the shimmering water beckoned, while on the riverbank beneath him, Helene and Ariane gazed expectantly upward, their faces alight with anticipation.

  Well? What choice had he?

  In the face of Helene’s argument, he had begun to feel like a caviling spoilsport, while she, as usual, had begun to sound like the voice of reason. And temptation. Now that he had succumbed to their pleas, however, it would be the height of irresponsibility to permit anyone to use the bloody contraption without his having tested it himself. Indeed, if it could bear the burden of his hulking fifteen stone, he had to admit that it could safely carry either of them, or both.

  His hat and gloves already dispensed with, Cam toyed with the idea of yanking off his topboots, on the off chance that the rope might snap and drop him into the depths of the Coln. Deciding he could better grip the slat while shod, however, he left them on. Planting his left foot solidly on the left half of the wood, Cam shoved off hard with his right.

  And then he was soaring, and soaring ... into a rush of cool, clean infinity.

  The green sward of the embankment, the spread of the oak, and finally the sun-dappled water, rushed toward him, then shimmered beneath his feet as he swung out, out, and up into the height of the pendulum. All of nature flew past, borne on the autumn air which whistled past his ears. As the swing pulled tight into the apex of its arc, the rope groaned and the tree rattled, its near-skeletal branches clattering like dry bones.

  And then, for one infinitesimal moment, Cam stopped—suspended in time and space—as the rope yanked taut against the branch.

  Surging in on a wave of exhilaration, old instincts flooded back. Cam grinned, then pitched his weight deftly to one side, sending the swing into a wild twirl. As he turned, he caught a whirling glimpse of Ariane on the shore, hands pressed to her pink cheeks, mouth open wide with silent laughter. And then, the decent began in earnest.

  Cam skimmed back across the water, the wind flying through his hair, tugging at his coattails, and playing havoc with what had once been a neatly tied cravat. Helene, Ariane, and the steep green climb of the embankment rushed up to meet him, and Cam threw up his hands, leapt gracefully from the swing, and—missed his step.

  Tumbling awkwardly onto his back on the leaf-strewn riverbank, Cam finally managed to right himself, sitting up with a laugh just as Ariane launched herself into his arms, taking him back down again. Helene was smiling, too, as she came down to kneel in the grass beside him. Gracefully, she bent forward to pick a leaf from his hair, and Cam caught her gaze.

  “Well done,” she said s
oftly.

  Her eyes were laughing, yes. But they were veiled and introspective, too. Very definitely introspective. But it had been enough, this sweet, timeless moment of lighthearted intimacy. It was more than enough. Helene’s smile, and Ariane’s silent mirth, made it all worthwhile. And damn propriety to hell—it had been fun!

  They spent another hour in their merry diversions by the river, swinging on the rope and cavorting in the grass. And when at last it was time to roll up their blanket and return to Chalcote, an inner peace had settled over Helene. Cam was happy, too. She could see it. And despite the harsh words which had passed between them earlier in the day, she took great pleasure in his joy.

  It felt as if they had turned a corner in their strained relationship. Perhaps a few old ghosts had been laid to rest. Perhaps she and Cam could be friends again. The thought warmed her, even as she longed for more.

  Once upon a time, Helene had been a dreamer. And now, she foolishly found herself wanting her dreams back. Oh, she might devote her remaining years to the care of other people’s children—and do infinite good in the process. But they would never take the place of the children she’d once dreamt of having with Camden Rutledge.

  Briefly, she reconsidered Cam’s offer to make her his mistress. But it was a very brief consideration indeed. She wanted him, yes. But not on the terms he had offered. And not at the expense of her reputation and career.

  11

  A bitter homecoming, and a grievous truth

  Over the next fortnight, Ariane thought a great deal about what she had seen by the river. Not just the swinging part, though it had been fun flying through the air with Papa’s tight, strong arms wrapped all around her. What she thought about most, though, was her papa. About how he had looked with Miss Helene.

  Some people thought her papa was too stern. Obstinate, she’d heard Grandpapa say. A dull dog, Uncle Bentley called him. But Ariane did not think he seemed very dull when Miss Helene was around. And obstinate—well, Ariane was not sure what that meant, but Grandpapa had made it sound bad. So she was pretty sure he wasn’t really that, either.

  Anyway, Papa looked altogether different nowadays. His face changed all the time. Sometimes he looked cross. Sometimes happy. Sometimes fretful. But always, he looked at Miss Helene.

  Usually, Ariane got all Papa’s attention. But somehow, she did not mind sharing just a bit. Every day, Ariane went to the schoolroom with Miss Helene. Most days, her papa came, too. At least for a while.

  Sometimes, he just stuck his head in the door when lessons were over, to ask them to walk in the gardens or to go for a drive or to join him for tea. Sometimes the yellow-haired girls came with the rector. But then Papa would just go into his study and shut the door. Ariane knew what he was doing. He was hiding. Ariane did not hide anymore. Well, not much.

  In the schoolroom, they were doing something called counting. Ariane wasn’t exactly sure what counting was. But it seemed to involve little piles of beans and buttons. Two beans and two buttons together was called four. It certainly did not seem very hard. But Ariane had not yet decided if she would play the game called counting. It might be best not to. It would just lead to questions as it always did. And Ariane knew answers were supposed to follow questions. That was why she just pretended not to understand.

  Oh, it was all very hard! Sometimes, she wanted to ask some questions for a change. Sometimes she got tired of being quiet and pretending to be stupid. These days, there seemed to be a lot of things she would like to know. She would like to know if Papa was going to marry Miss Helene. She had heard Crane tell Mrs. Naffles that that was what ought to have happened a long time ago “if people hadn’t meddled in things they’d not understood.”

  Well, Ariane didn’t understand much either. But if Papa did marry, would Ariane have a new mama? Because you had to do what your mother said. Didn’t you? If a new mother told you something different from your first mother, what were you supposed to do? Talk? Or not talk? Ariane was so confused. And soon, it mightn’t matter. Because it was getting harder and harder to keep all these questions from bursting right out of her mouth.

  After their adventure by the river, Helene found that the days at Chalcote passed almost lazily, one into another, until one morning, Cam asked Helene and Ariane to ride with him on an errand to the cottage of one of his more distant tenants. It was a fair, sunny day, and Mrs. Naffles had stuffed a basket full of food for the farmer’s wife, who had just given birth to twins. The errand, therefore, was a happy one, and the trip back and forth was pleasant.

  During their return, the miles sped past. Ariane held Helene’s hand as Cam laughed, joked, and at one point, even whistled an Irish jig. When they pulled into the long sweep of the drive, however, Helene noticed an unfamiliar groom in the distance. He was leading a sturdy cob and a prancing, long-legged chestnut toward the stables.

  His mood obviously still light, Cam seemed not to notice the servant. Instead, he leapt down and took Ariane by the waist, lifting her from the curricle and spinning her gaily about before lowering her tiny feet to the graveled drive. Helene also climbed down, then lifted her chin to untie the ribbons of her bonnet.

  As she did so, a dash of dark color hovering near the entryway caught her eye. Helene looked around to see that a stranger, a young woman, stood just inside Chalcote’s Great Hall. Upon seeing Cam, the woman’s face lit with pleasure, and Helene suffered a prick of foolish jealousy.

  At once, the woman stepped down from the threshold, moving toward them with quick, bouncing strides. Dressed in an old-fashioned riding habit of gray serge trimmed in black, the young woman wore a rather shabby black hat perched crookedly atop an unruly arrangement of glossy brown curls. A warm smile seemed to spread across the whole of her face.

  “Ariane!” she cried, and the little girl flew to her, throwing both arms about the lady.

  “Old Will thrown you out again, minx?” asked Cam, leaning over Ariane to kiss the young woman soundly on one cheek. He then turned on one heel to face Helene. “Miss de Severs,” he said, “allow me to introduce to you my sister, Lady Catherine Wodeway—”

  “—Just Cat,” the woman interjected, tearing away from Ariane to extend her hand to Helene. “How do you do, Miss de Severs? It is such a pleasure to meet you.”

  The jealously receded at once. Catherine’s smile was bright, her voice sincere. There was no element of haughtiness or pretense in her handsome, open countenance.

  “I am well, I thank you,” Helene replied. “And the pleasure is mine.” She felt a moment of awkwardness as the long, cool fingers slipped from her own. But Cam’s sister gave no sign of recognition, and no hint of disdain.

  Helene breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps it was not surprising that Cam’s sister did not recognize her. Helene certainly would never have recognized Catherine, for she’d been quite young at the time of Helene’s exile. But in truth, Lady Catherine Wodeway looked very like her siblings, with Cam’s high, strong brow and Bentley’s full, good-natured smile.

  Catherine was fast approaching three-and-twenty, if memory served, and possessed a fresh-faced, traditional sort of beauty. Animated and energetic, she was a long-legged woman, fashioned very much in what Helene thought of as the English country style. One could find them from Sussex to Scotland, these candid, capable women who, with little deference to fashion or vanity, spent their afternoons riding, hunting, or occasionally, even farming. Undoubtedly, the lively chestnut had belonged to Catherine, and Helene did not doubt her more than a match for the horse.

  “Have you ridden all the way from Aldhampton, love?” her brother asked, reaching out in a paternal gesture to brush a bit of hay from her sleeve.

  Catherine wrinkled her nose. “Yes, and the long way ’round! I had the misfortune to trip over Aunt Belmont in Cheltenham yesterday. She bade me wait upon her for luncheon this afternoon, and of course, I could scarce refuse.”

  “A wise choice,” murmured Cam dryly. “You have, I hope, brought your groom?”
>
  “Rest easy, Saint Cam!” she flashed a saucy grin, and bowed to him in mock decorum. “I think I know what is due my lofty station. Lady Catherine Wodeway! Exalted personage! Pray pardon me whilst I scrape this morning’s pig manure from my boots so that your servants may better lick—”

  “Don’t patronize me, miss!” scolded Cam, flinging one arm loosely about her shoulders. “It’s already near dark!”

  Lady Catherine merely smiled, and in amiable silence, the four of them strolled across the drive and entered the hall together. It all seemed harmless enough until Cam paused just inside the threshold. “Do you know, I rather doubt the two of you will remember one another,” he said, turning to face them. “Cat, Miss de Severs is an old friend to us. Does she not look familiar?”

  Catherine looked Helene over quizzically. “Oh, my!” she exclaimed, clapping one hand to her cheek. A half-dozen emotions sketched rapidly across her face, ending with what looked like relief. “Helene! Helene Middleton! Oh, I am right, am I not? And how lovely you’ve become! As pretty as your mama! How glad I am that you’ve finally come back.”

  Helene felt her face flush at Catherine’s perplexing outburst. “Why, how kind you are,” she managed to murmur.

  As they crossed the Great Hall, Catherine appeared to forget her niece and brother entirely, and looped her arm around Helene’s. “Do you know, Miss de Severs, I was exceedingly fond of your mama. But I have not seen her since I was ... oh, what? Aged nine or ten, I daresay.”

  “Mrs. Middleton has passed away, Cat,” Cam murmured softly from behind them.

  At that, his sister’s face fell. “Oh, how sorry I am to hear it,” said Catherine kindly. “She always seemed so full of life. As a child, I thought her the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.”

  “You are most gracious, Lady Catherine, to remember Maman so warmly.”

  Catherine laid her hand lightly upon Helene’s shoulder for a moment. “Why, do you know, Miss de Severs, I used to hope we might become sisters. Indeed, I often laid awake at night, wishing that I could have such a pretty creature as my mama.” She gave a soft, self-deprecating laugh, and tossed her hand lightly. “Childish fantasies, I know. Still, I hardly remembered my own mother, so I suppose it was only natural?”