by Anne Barbour
The silence, again a hurtful entity, was smothering. At last, Helen said brokenly, “I'm so sorry.”
“You've already said that,” replied Edward curtly. “And I'm sure you are. Never mind, Helen, I'm sure you'll get over it. After all, I believe your story—because I trust you. What I can no longer trust is your declaration of friendship. You have betrayed me there, and—you see, that meant rather a lot to me. I don't believe I can forgive you for that.”
He drew a deep, shuddering breath. “Now, as I said, William will remain here while I continue my investigation. In fact, I've been thinking about that. I believe that no matter what the outcome of the investigation, William should remain here. He is Chris's son and, legitimate or not, he should grow up at Whitehouse Abbey with all the privileges such an arrangement would entail—schools, entry into society and a career in the army or whatever he chooses. As William's closest maternal relative, you may certainly live here as well—and Miss Barnstaple. If you should wish to live elsewhere, of course, you may feel free to do so.”
With that, Edward turned on his heel and left the room. The click of the door sounded with the finality of a crack of doom, and for several minutes Helen remained motionless, staring at the paneling. At last, with seemingly impossible effort, she rose from the chair and made her way to her chamber.
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Chapter Twenty
In the hours that followed, Helen had ample opportunity to ponder the scene that had just taken place in the Drawing Room. She spent the long hours of the afternoon undisturbed in her chambers, declining to appear for luncheon and dinner and finally accepting a tray in her room that was taken away later, untouched.
It seemed, she thought despairingly, that she had managed to misread Edward Beresford from the moment she had arrived at the Abbey. First, she had assumed he would be an unscrupulous monster. When she found that was not at all the case, she continued to assume that he would react cruelly to the story of the Woman in the Window. Even when it became apparent that something warm and wonderful was developing between them, she had persisted in her fear of his actions. She had worried needlessly and shamefully that he might turn William away from his inheritance.
Good God, Edward had proved that he was an honorable man and that he would do his utmost to discover proof of William's claim. He was not interested in maintaining his hold on the title illegally. In short, Edward was thoroughly decent and utterly likable.
Her thoughts swung dismally to his words regarding William. William would stay. He wanted the child to live at Whitehouse Abbey, which would assure him a life of privilege. Even if he was considered the earl's bastard, if the family accepted him, so would the rest of society—for the most part, at least. He would go to Eton and later to Oxford or Cambridge, and, if he were not proved to be the heir, from thence he could go into a respectable career.
Obviously, however, Edward did not wish her to remain at the Abbey as well. He had not said she was welcome to live at the Abbey, merely that she would be allowed to do so. It was painful enough that his love was forever denied her, but that she had destroyed his friendship was a snake in her belly, writhing and twisting and gnawing until she thought she might scream from the pain of it.
She forced her thoughts to her future. Once William's future was settled, she would leave the manor to make her own way in England. The cataloging and restoration of the Camberwell art collection should provide a leg up on a successful venture in her chosen field in London. That is— did Edward still want her to continue in that task? Now that he no longer considered her a friend . . . ?
It took her many hours to admit that it was not just the return of his friendship she craved. He had set a fire blazing with his kisses, and the feel of his hands on her body had sent her into a spiral of wanting. It was not just the heat of her response to him that remained with her, it was—oh, a hundred things—the light in his eyes, the laughter in his voice, the wonderful leather and spice smell of him, the connection she had felt at their first meeting, the—
She rose from her chair, determined to stem this unbecoming categorizing of Edward's virtues. But she remained where she was, unable to return to her tasks with the Camberwell art collection, or even to playing with William.
Bedtime brought no respite, for Edward's eyes stared coldly down at her from the ceiling, and his voice repeated endlessly, “I cannot rely on your friendship. I cannot forgive.” No matter how she tossed and turned beneath the bedsheets in an effort to escape, her anguish grew until she thought she would smother in a cold, sodden blanket of despair.
After a sleepless night of self-recrimination and fruitless maundering over what she had lost, Helen crept from her bedchamber at an early hour. Unable to face Edward, she made her way to the nursery and, for the first time in days, took part in William's morning libations. Afterward, she climbed the stairs to her attic workshop, taking care to avoid areas of the house where she might encounter Edward. She was discovered there by Lady Camberwell shortly before luncheon. The dowager appeared uncomfortable in the extreme and had obviously spent some time girding her loins before approaching Helen.
“My dear,” she began, after the appropriate greetings of the day were accomplished. “I'm sure I scarcely know what to say to you—except that I regret the words I uttered yesterday. You must realize, I hope, that I was completely taken aback by what those dreadful people said and then, later, by your own tale.”
Helen came to the surprising conclusion that the contrition in the older woman's eyes was genuine. The dowager could hardly be blamed for a certain initial doubt in Helen's veracity, and Helen was moved beyond words at this expression of affection and faith.
“Please,” she said hurriedly. “If you have come to tell me that you believe what I said, that would make me very happy.”
“Oh, my dear!” Lady Camberwell threw her arms around Helen's neck. “Those dreadful people! I wish you had told us all about your, er, experience when you first came to us, but I can understand why you hesitated. What an awful thing to have happen, and, believe me, I feel for your father as well.” She dabbed at her eyes. “And dear Stanford has assured me that he had absolutely no idea the Belkers were going to bring up such an unpleasant subject.”
Helen swallowed her anger, for she had been left in no doubt as to Mr. Welladay's motivation in bringing the Belkers to the Abbey. She said soothingly, “Of course, my lady, and—”
“Oh, do call me Aunt Emily, Helen. After all, you are family.”
Helen could not help but wonder at the dowager's about face from her initial suspicion but attributed it to her affection for William, with perhaps a touch of desire to see the title go to the fruit of Chris's loins, legitimately or otherwise.
“In addition,” concluded Aunt Emily primly, “I have grown fond of you, as well. You may have been raised in Portugal, but you are a lady through and through, and I think I can speak for all of us when I say you are a welcome addition to the family.”
At this, Helen found in herself a strong inclination to burst into tears, and she returned the older woman's embrace with genuine affection.
“This means a great deal to me—Aunt Emily. I may be leaving Whitehouse Abbey in the near future, but—”
“Leaving?” echoed the dowager in astonishment. “Why, whatever for? Where would you go? And why?”
Helen was loath to discuss the situation between Edward and her, but she found herself spilling the words. “Edward is very—angry with me. I should have told him about the art forgery when I first met him, but I felt it would cause him to deny my claim on William's behalf without a fair investigation.”
“Oh, dear. And then, I suppose it just became harder and harder as time went by.”
“Yes.” Helen almost cried out in her relief at being understood.
“And he has now ordered you to leave?” asked Aunt Emily, still in a tone of great surprise.
“Oh, no. He—he said he wished Wil
liam to remain. He wishes to see Chris's child raised at Whitehouse Abbey, whether his claim is proven or not.” Helen watched for a reaction on Aunt Emily's part to this statement, but the older woman only nodded in vigorous agreement. “He invited me to stay as well—and Barney, of course, but I could not help but perceive that he would be happier if I left.” Helen could barely keep the tears in her throat at bay as she spoke. “That being the case, I would rather not stay here.”
“Well, of course, you wouldn't.” Lady Camberwell's voice held nothing but sympathy, which was enough to nearly undo Helen's hard-fought composure. “I must say his reaction surprises me. I was under the impression that he had come to trust you. I cannot believe he is behaving so badly over this. I expect,” she added, with surprising shrewdness, “it's the fact that you didn't tell him at once.”
There was much Helen could have added to the dowager's surmise, but at this point her voice foiled her, and she merely mumbled an acquiescence.
“Well, it's a great pity,” concluded the older woman, “but I'm sure he'll come around. In any case, you must not think of leaving us.”
She rose in a rustle of silken skirts. “Now then, my dear, you have been holed up in this dreary attic for hours. You did not come to luncheon yesterday, and I am here to make sure that you join us today.”
Once again, a lead weight dropped into Helen's stomach. Her acceptance into Aunt Emily's good graces was comforting, but she was not ready yet to face Edward.
“Edward will not be joining us today,” the dowager said, and Helen jumped. Had Aunt Emily read her mind?
“W-what?”
“No, he was called away late last night. Apparently some crisis has arisen at Windhollow, one of the Camberwell holdings a little north of Oxford. Something to do with a dishonest bailiff exposed a few days ago. At any rate, Edward left hastily, declaring he did not know when he might return. I do hope he will return soon. We shall be leaving for London in less than a week.”
Helen breathed a sigh of relief, coupled with a sharp pain that lodged itself beneath her heart. Good Lord, had she hoped to see him? Had she hoped that somehow she might bring him around? She brushed away the idea as she did surreptitiously the tears that sprang to her eyes.
On entering the small salon that served as the luncheon chamber, Helen quickly noted that, though Artemis was seated at the table and looking unwontedly sober, yet another member of the family was absent.
“Why, where is Mr. Welladay?”
“Ah.” Aunt Emily squirmed uncomfortably. “Dearest Stanford has returned to London for—for an extended stay. I'm afraid he was quite cut up over the unpleasantness he inadvertently caused by bringing those dreadful people home.”
“Let us hope he doesn't bring home any more such mushrooms,” chimed in Artemis. “I expect we shall see him in London before he comes home again.” She turned to Helen. “What an awful thing to have to go through!” she exclaimed.
Helen was not sure if she referred to the matter of the fraudulent painting or the visit by the Belkers, but she nodded in gratitude. Really, the support offered by her new family was as gratifying as it was unexpected. She suspected that she was the beneficiary of William's charm, but she had no intention of inquiring too closely into their newly minted amity.
The rest of the meal was consumed to the accompaniment of innocuous chatter, concluding with a decision on the part of all the ladies to embark on a shopping trip to the village that afternoon. Helen was left with the feeling that if she weren't so wretchedly unhappy, she could be envisioning her future at Whitehouse Abbey with a reasonable degree of pleasure.
If only she hadn't fallen in love with Edward, she could enjoy the companionship of the members of her new family, and . .. Her breath caught, her thoughts rushing toward Edward once more like starlings toward the nest at evening.
The ache of loss was so strong in her that she would have liked to throw her head back in an animal howl of grief, but of course, a lady in company would never do such a thing. Instead, she smiled brightly and said that she would very much enjoy such an outing.
She did not, of course. The rest of the afternoon passed in a suspended blur, just as did the days that followed. At bedtime, she was scarcely able to recollect the events of the day just past. Her time was spent mainly with William or in her workroom. She conversed amiably with Aunt Emily and Artemis when she found herself in their company. She saw more of Barney but took little pleasure in her friend's company. Indeed, it seemed to her that the rest of her life stretched before her in one long, bleak, sunless corridor.
She tried to chivvy herself out of her doldrums with stern inward lectures. She pointed out that she had lived her life in reasonable contentment before the entrance into it of Edward Beresford, and she should, by God, be able to summon up the fortitude to complete the. rest of that life without him. All to no avail.
She wondered at length what would happen if she were to go to Edward, to tell him that the words she had spoken to him after that last magical kiss had been altogether false. That she wanted his friendship—that it was necessary to her. Perhaps she could intimate—in a ladylike manner, of course—that she was open to a more than friendly relationship.
Except that he had stated in the most painful of terms that he did not hold her declarations of friendship worth the smoke that curled up the chimney from the hearth across the room. Even if he could be made to believe that her dismissal of his overtures had been a lie, the ‘reason behind that lie would still crouch between them in all its ugliness.
For the hundredth time, the word why? echoed in her mind. How could she have let a fear of Edward's response hold her from telling him the truth about the forged painting? She had done nothing wrong! Even if he did not believe her, of course, she should have known that he would not take out his fury on a helpless child—one who might be the rightful Earl of Camberwell.
Why, indeed? Was she so conditioned by the behavior of the English gentlemen she had met in Evora? The same officers who had solicited her hand for the boulanger every Saturday evening at the Officers’ Mess apparently could not remember so much as her name following her near prosecution for fraud. Had she been so blighted by the behavior of those she called friends? They had turned away from her as one. Her own father had not denied her assertions; why should they believe her? Had these defections by those she had loved and trusted completely destroyed her faith that there were some people left on the earth who were steadfast and true, honorable and decent?
She sighed. She was doing it again—wallowing in self-pity and useless recriminations. She turned her attention to the pile of receipts in front of her.
Immediately, her gaze was caught by the record of a purchase of a marble figurine. Could it be the one she had found several days ago in a cupboard near the kitchen? Goodness, the ninth earl had paid a tidy sum for the little statue, though far below what its cost would be today.
Rising, she sped to the kitchen wing and flung open the small cupboard where she had discovered the art object days ago. It was not readily visible, and she moved aside the other statues, ancient vases and other impedimenta contained in the small area. She was eventually obliged to concede that whatever the cupboard had held five days ago, it no longer could boast a Franco figurine.
Well, for heaven's sake. Could she have mistaken the location? She spent the next two hours rummaging through closets, cupboards and remote chambers, with no success. The pretty little shepherdess had vanished.
She returned with a heavy tread to her workroom. Seating herself at the table, she began leafing through the receipts she had already perused. Several of these she set aside. They, too, represented objects that she had been unable to locate. Some of them she had not seen before, but a few had been examined by her but were now missing. She had thought little of this at the time, thinking that she must be mistaken in their locations—but she had been so positive about the Franco and had even mentioned it to ... To whom?
Her stomach clenc
hed. She had spoken of it at the Gil-ford dinner party—to Stanford Welladay. Dear Lord, ignorant of the rift between herself and Edward, was he planning yet another accusation to undermine her position at Whitehouse Abbey?
She could have laughed if she weren't in such despair. Poor Uncle Stamford, weaving his plots and schemes, all for naught. She doubted that Edward would force her to leave the Abbey even if the statue were discovered beneath her pillow. He had stated his intention to do his best for William, and that, in his mind, apparently included William's faithless aunt.
Blindly she turned to the tiny window that lent the attic room its meager light. She stared at the landscape below and out to the shadowed chalk hills beyond. It was a lovely scene, but she took no consolation in its beauty. There were surely other magnificent landscapes in England, and she must steel herself to relocating to one of them soon.
She was about to move back to her table when a movement on the drive caught her eye. She stiffened. Surely that was one of the Camberwell carriages. Was it . . . ? She craned her neck to look down as it neared the entrance. When it stopped, the door flew open to reveal . . . Yes, it was he. Edward had returned.
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Chapter Twenty-one
“Yes, thank you, Aunt, the trip went well.” Edward accepted a cap of tea from the dowager's hands. “The damage inflicted by the thieving bailiff was not as bad as I had anticipated. Fortunately, before he'd had a chance to really plunder the place, the farm supervisor heard him boasting to one of his cronies at the local alehouse.”
“Well, in any event, it's good to have you home, my boy.”
Edward smiled. Aunt Emily's attitude toward him had certainly improved since William's advent on the Camberwell scene.
“Where is Artemis?”
“I believe she is attending to some correspondence in her chambers.”
“And Uncle Stanford?”
