Miss Prestwick's Crusade

by Anne Barbour

  “Why, no, of course not,” replied the dowager. “But did you not know? He left this morning for London.” She laughed breezily. “He does that every now and again, you know. I fear dear Stamford is a city mouse by nature, and he can spend only so many weeks ‘tethered’ in the country before he must ‘take a bolt to the village.’ I expect he will return within a week or two. He does enjoy a sojourn with his old cronies.”

  Helen murmured appropriate expressions of disappointment at his absence, but she could not but feel a great sense of relief. She shot a look at Edward, but the connection between them had been severed. His only response was a noncommittal glance that told her nothing.

  The evening that followed seemed to go on for an eternity. The excellent meal set in front of her tasted like seaweed. Conversation ebbed and flowed about her like a chill breeze. She noted Barney's expression of troubled concern but could not bring herself to break out a smile of reassurance. She also noted that Edward seemed to have little difficulty maintaining his part in the family discussion. She knew a moment of unwarranted pique that he did not appear as destroyed by their estrangement as she.

  After dinner, she went to bed early, pleading a headache. When Barney made as though to follow her, she managed a light comment, telling her that, yes, she was just fine, and please not to leave the gathering on her account.

  Once in her chambers, she accepted Bingham's ministrations but dismissed her at the earliest opportunity. She did not retire immediately but fell again into the chair in which she had spent so much of the day.

  What in the world was she going to do now? She was reasonably sure Edward would not renege on his promise to look into William's claim. She supposed she could manage a civil relationship with Edward for however long it took to prove that claim. For a finite number of weeks she could be pleasant and cool and courteous and nothing more. Then she would leave. Once Edward had also taken his departure, she might return—for the occasional visit.

  She pulled herself from the chair and sank into bed. She reflected that she had not seen William all day. She had not been absent from him for this long since his birth and she was struck with guilt. A thread of anger began to twist itself through her mind, as well. Why was she behaving as though she had committed a heinous act? If anyone bad acted in an inappropriate manner, it was Edward. After all, she knew very well it was not the thing for a gentleman to kiss unmarried ladies living—no matter how temporarily— under his protection. Let alone set their pulses to humming and stir them to sinful delight. She was doing Edward a favor by spurning any further attempt at dalliance on his part. When he knew the truth about what she had done— or had been accused of doing—he would want nothing to do with her, and if she took care not to let the relationship run any further on its disastrous course, the final break would not be so painful.

  Aware that her reasoning contained what some might call holes, she turned her face into her pillow with a sigh. Such was her state of exhaustion that only a few tears followed the sigh before she fell into a restless sleep.

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  * * *

  Chapter Seventeen

  The next two weeks passed uneventfully—and every bit as painfully as either Helen or Edward had envisioned. They saw little of each other, their meetings confined to brief encounters at meals or occasional meetings in the corridors, as distant as icebergs circling in an arctic sea.

  Edward found that it is possible to keep on living while one's lifeblood trickles out of a jagged hole in one's heart. However, after two weeks of self-exile in the tundra that was life without Helen, he came to a decision.

  Shortly after breakfast one morning, he made his way to Helen's attic domain. He found her in the little area she had fashioned as an office, with desk, worktable, chair and cabinets. Before her lay a shaggy pile of papers, which she appeared to be sorting. She looked up, startled, at his entrance, and her eyes widened as she absorbed the identity of her visitor. She rose hastily.

  “Edward! That is, good morning, Mr. Beresford.”

  “And a good morning to you. Miss Prestwick, though I am sorry to hear we are back to Miss and Mr.”

  Helen flushed. “Um. Good morning, Edward.”

  “I do not wish,” Edward continued with a smile, “to bring up old unpleasantnesses, but I wish to speak of our, er, encounter in the Yellow Salon.”

  Helen lifted a hand, distress evident in her crystal eyes. “Please—”

  “No, I have not come to plead my case or indulge in puerile recriminations.” Edward felt itchy all over. He had rehearsed his little speech at some length, but now that the moment was at hand, he felt very puerile indeed. He swallowed and continued. “First of all, I must apologize for my behavior—my importunate behavior. I cannot deny that I am strongly attracted to you. I am sorry that attraction is not mutual, but I can scarcely blame you for that.

  “However, you and I will be living in the same house for an unforeseeable length of time, and I see no point in our taking pains to avoid the slightest social contact with each other. We had the beginnings of a friendship going, and I hope we can continue that, if nothing else.”

  Helen cast her gaze to the floor and was silent for so long that he began to think she was not going to answer. At last, she lifted her head. The flash of anguish be caught in her eyes surprised him. He supposed he should feel encouraged, for it indicated her realization of the distress she had caused him and was sorry for it. He had not thought of this before, but he supposed it was logical that any person with a reasonably kind heart would regret causing a friend pain.

  Who was the fool, he wondered, who had said half a loaf was better than none. He wanted to scream to the gods that, while he must consider friendship with Helen better than nothing, it would be like walking around for the remainder of his life with some vital part of his body missing.

  Helen could only stare. At that moment, she would have sold her soul simply to blurt out the truth—about everything. That she had not meant what she said earner, that it was merely a ploy to avoid what she knew would lead to disaster. That she had been involved in a scandal not long ago that would shake his affection for her like a tornado uprooting a tender young tree. She wished, she could tell him the truth of what had happened, in the faint hope that his affection would weather that storm.

  She could do none of those things. Indeed, she did not know if she could speak at all, for her tongue had attached itself to the roof of her mouth and her jaw seemed permanently clenched in a closed position.

  “Helen?”

  She gasped with the realization that she could not turn away from his generosity.

  “I would like that above all things, Edward,” she whispered at last, extending a hand as she might if she were drowning.

  Edward took it, pressed it briefly, and released her.

  “That's good, then,” he said briskly.

  Helen felt as though he had just thrown a glass of water at her. Then, the next moment . . . You fool, what did you expect? That he would fling himself at your feet and kiss the hem of your skirt, pleading for a crumb of your affection?

  “What is all that?” he asked, pointing at the papers that fluttered with the slightest air currents over her desk.

  Again, Helen stared blankly for a moment before recovering herself. “Oh! These. Mr. Turner was kind enough to dredge up all the receipts for the artworks that he could find. Unfortunately, since they were never filed in any kind of order, he is not sure this is all of them. Right now, I'm trying to sort them by date, but I'm not sure that is the right tack. I may go back to my original policy of trying to place everything by country or artist's school.” She sighed. “It is a great pity that your grandfather thought so little of his collection that he did not see to it that it was properly maintained.”

  “I don't think Grandfather cared for any of that. He merely wished to possess what he considered beautiful things. He would rummage through his paintings and statuary every now and then, repla
cing some of the items he'd put on display with others that he felt had been hidden for too long. I don't think he cared a snap of his fingers for their value.”

  “I suppose that's the way art ought to be viewed, but,” she concluded somewhat austerely, “it makes things very difficult for the eventual cataloger of a complete mess.” She cast a darkling glance at Edward when he chuckled, then turned to the topmost piece of paper on the teetering pile before her. “But I have turned up one interesting piece of information. Do you remember my asking you about the jeweled cup in a cabinet in—I think—one of your unused bedchambers?”

  “Yes, I believe you said you thought there should be a companion cup.”

  “Yes! And here is the proof that I was right. This receipt shows the purchase of a pair of goblets, purporting to be by Poggini.”

  "Poggini?"

  “Domenico Poggini, a Florentine goldsmith of the sixteenth century. Although he worked in marble and bronze as well. He is not so well known as, say, Benvenuto Cellini, but his work is highly valued today. The goblets are described as being of gold, inlaid with emeralds, rubies and pearls.”

  “Good God!” Edward blurted in astonishment. “Are you sure they are genuine What's his name-inis? And that the jewels are real?”

  “I cannot verify the creator of the goblets, although the style is certainly that of Poggini. I cannot now recall what his mark looks like. Luckily, I brought many of my reference books with me. And, yes, I am sure the jewels are . genuine.”

  “And here all these years we assumed the gold was brass, the jewels faux and the artist of no account. I shall resurrect them immediately and have them displayed in proper grandeur in the library.”

  “Not them, it. Remember we only found one. And that reminds me, I've been unable to find several other artworks for which I've found receipts. Are there more paintings and figurines stored in other chambers—that you forgot to show me?”

  “N-no.” Edward shook his head. “Of course, there very well may be other stuff that I know nothing about. Well,” he concluded, “the other goblet, as well as the things you can't find, must be around someplace. We shall set up a search.”

  “A search for what?” Edward and Helen both turned to the door to behold Barney entering, with William on her hip. She was breathing heavily.

  “Whew!” she continued, setting the infant heavily on the floor. “The next time you request an audience with His Majesty, you'd better make the trip downstairs instead of vice versa. Hauling that little behemoth around the house is enough to give an old lady a heart spasm.”

  “Oh, Barney,” gasped Helen. “I'm so sorry. Of course I did not mean for you to bring him up here yourself. I assumed you would send for me. At any rate, thank you and do sit down.”

  She hurriedly vacated her chair, but not before Edward had risen from his.

  “Search for what?” Barney repeated, settling herself comfortably.

  Helen moved to scoop William into her lap, and a few moments were spent in greeting the young earl with murmured endearments.

  “Do you remember that goblet I told you about?” she said at last in reply. At Barney's nod, she held up the bill of sale and explained its significance.

  After expressing suitable gratification at the news. Barney continued, “Well, the missing cup could be in any one of a hundred places. Perhaps in that storeroom in the west corridor. There are any number of trinkets there—statues, porcelain pitchers and such—and even a couple of silver epergnes that would be quite lovely if they were given a good polishing.”

  Edward lifted questioning brows.

  “Barney has been helping me in my sorting efforts,” explained Helen. “I've been putting the paintings in different rooms from the other objets d'art, and she has been of great assistance placing figurines and jewelry and wall hangings each in its own niche.”

  “I can only say,” said Edward with a chuckle, “that you are fortunate in your friends. I can't think of any among mine whom I could coerce into such a tedious task.”

  “Ah, but you are a man.” Barney grinned mischievously. “Women are used to tedious tasks. Sometimes,” she added irritably, “I think men consider us nothing but beasts of burden.”

  Edward laughed but flung up a hand. “Point taken. But speaking of which, I have received a report from Mr. Ffulkes, the man I commissioned to look into the Reverend Mr. Binwick's whereabouts.”

  “Ob!” cried Helen eagerly, while Barney sat bolt upright in her chair. “And?”

  Edward sighed. “I'm sorry, but he has brought nothing to light. He has spent most of the time since I sent him off at Doctors’ Commons—and Lambeth Palace as well, sifting through records, but can find no mention of the Reverend Mr. Binwick. Do you have any idea what year he retired from active service in the church?”

  “N-no.” Helen's face was somber with disappointment, and her forehead creased. “It seems to me he had lived in Evora for about ten years when he married Chris and Trixie, but I don't know if he had taken up residence there immediately after his retirement, or if he'd lived elsewhere. Oh, Edward—” She lifted her face. “What am I to do now? It all seems so hopeless.”

  Edward grasped her hands in his. “What we are going to do is keep soldiering on. Just because his name isn't in any of the church lists doesn't mean he didn't serve someplace. Records are not all perfectly kept, after all. Mistakes are made and documents can be misplaced.”

  Helen forced a smile. “You are no doubt right.”

  “But,” he said thoughtfully, “while I have you both together, I wish to ask if there are any other items—items you might have left in Portugal—to indicate a legal union between Trix and Chris. An account of the ceremony by one of the witnesses, for example, might help.”

  Helen frowned. “No. As I told you. Barney and I were the only witnesses to the ritual—and much good that seems to be. After Chris was killed, I thought he might have told a particular friend among one of his fellow officers that be had married—perhaps shown him the certificate—but all my queries resulted in naught.”

  Edward spoke again, a trace of exasperation in his tone. ‘Tell me again how this ridiculous pair managed to keep their wedding a secret, even after Beatrice became enceinte.”

  Helen felt a surge of irritation but could scarcely blame Edward for his view of Trix and Chris. They had been ridiculous in their melodramatic fear of being discovered.

  “Chris told no one of his plans to marry. He and Trix agreed that Chris should remained domiciled with his brigade. He was not quartered permanently in Evora, of course, but was sent there frequently on temporary duty with Colonel Foster's brigade. He visited Trix only on the weekends and any other time he could get away. He had made no secret among his friends that he was seeing Trix. Even Colonel Foster knew of the liaison and, though he frequently expressed his disapproval, did nothing to hinder Chris in his visits.

  “When Trix found herself with child, she went about her usual routine until her condition became evident. Then, she simply sequestered herself. We put it about that she had gone to visit friends in the northern part of the country. This occasioned a few knowing glances from their acquaintances, but no one mentioned the possibility that they had married.”

  Helen sighed, a good deal of her own exasperation surfacing in the sound.

  “It was all such a stupid muddle,” Barney chimed in. “When Chris was killed, we all urged Trixie to make her situation known. As Chris's widow, she was entitled to a stipend. It wasn't much, but it would have come in handy— especially with the way your father's business—” She broke off, putting her fingers to her mouth. She sent an apologetic glance to Helen.

  “Yes,” continued Helen hurriedly. “And, given the fact that Chris's career was no longer an issue, there could have been no harm in revealing all. But, no. Chris had so thoroughly impressed on Trix the need for secrecy that nothing we said could induce her to reveal her situation.”

  Edward would very much have liked to hear what Barney
had been about to say but contented himself with the subject at hand.

  “And there were no other documents or items . . . ?”

  “Oh, there were many items. Chris positively showered Trix with gifts—gifts a man would not properly have given to any female other than a wife—or a fiancee. He gave her a pretty reticule on one occasion, and—oh, a vinaigrette, some valuable ear bobs in a lovely little box, bracelets, necklaces, that sort of thing. I brought only those items with me that had been engraved.”

  “Did she keep the jewelry in a special container?”

  “Oh, of course. She kept everything in a plain wooden box, carved for her years ago by our gardener, who possessed a special skill at that sort of thing.”

  “You don't suppose—” began Edward slowly.

  “No,” replied Helen regretfully. “I searched the box thoroughly and there was nothing there except the jewelry.”

  “What about important papers?”

  “Yes, she had another box for those. Actually, she had little in the way of important papers. Notes from Chris. Letters from friends. A few notes from our mother. It was the first place I looked, of course, for the marriage certificate, but again, of course, it was not there.”

  Edward slumped in his chair. “I must confess myself stumped. I find it virtually impossible to get inside the mind of a young woman—particularly one like Trixie—that is,” he added hastily, “a young bride so very devoted to her husband's wishes.”

  Helen clearly heard the unspoken word “mindlessly,” that Edward had inserted just before “devoted,” but she held her tongue.

  “However,” Edward went on, “perhaps it would be productive if all three of us spent a few minutes together in that effort. What do you say we adjourn to my study for another perusal of the portrait, wedding ring and so forth?”

  “Very well,” said Helen, “but we'd better return William to Finch. Heaven knows what he would get up to in such a fertile field as a gentleman's study.”