by Anne Barbour
He addressed himself to the mail that had accumulated in his absence, but he had been at this task for less than half an hour when a tap sounded at the door. Miss Barnstaple whisked herself into the room at his call of assent.
She seemed unwontedly nervous and, at his gesture, seated herself on the edge of a leather chair opposite his desk.
“What a pleasant surprise, Miss Barnstaple.” When she said nothing, but merely stared at him, rather as she had done at luncheon, he added courteously, “What may I do for you, dear lady?”
She started but after a moment drew a long breath.
“I'm not sure.” As Edward lifted his brows, she continued hurriedly. “I want to talk to you about Helen.”
Edward stiffened, and the smile with which he had greeted Barney fell from his lips.
“I really don't think—” he began frigidly, but Barney plunged on.
“I don't know what has happened between the two of you, but you have made Helen miserable, and—and I won't have it!”
Astonishment overcame his natural reticence. “I? I have made Helen miserable? My good woman, perhaps it has escaped your attention, but it was Helen who recently confessed—and only when she could no longer avoid doing so—that she has been deceiving me from the moment she— and you and William—set foot in Whitehouse Abbey. In addition to which, she made supremely insulting suppositions about my character.”
“Yes, but can you not understand why?”
Edward slumped a bit in his chair. “Yes, I understand why, but that does not make it any better. You see, I thought we were friends.”
To his ears the words came out in a childish wail, and he flushed. “That is, she had given me the impression that . . .” He trailed off, unwilling to put his pain into words.
“That she liked you,” finished Barney. “Well, she does.” She hitched even farther forward on her chair. “Edward, I can't tell you how badly she wished to tell you of the painting scandal. It was tearing her apart.”
“Then, why didn't she?” Edward burst out. “Tell me, that is. Because she thought, a, I wouldn't believe in her innocence and, b, I would subsequently cease my investigations into William's claim and throw all of you out of the Abbey. Barney, she didn't trust me!”
For a moment. Barney did not respond. She gazed at Edward in compassion for some moments before continuing. “You know, before this Woman in the Window nonsense, I would have said that Helen Prestwick was among the most trusting people I knew. She was a laughing and happy young woman. She was secure in the love of her father and of the rest of us living in his home. She enjoyed a profession at which she excelled, and she knew the warmth and security of a host of friends. She had known many of the latter since childhood. Two or three of them she considered friends of the heart, to be relied upon in any crisis.
“Then came the calamity. She had used every argument at her disposal to dissuade her papa from selling that wretched painting to Colonel Foster, but he was not to be deterred. In turn, I used every scrap of reason I could think of to turn her away from her ruinous plan to take the blame herself. “This is driving him to his grave,’ she said. ‘If we can take the onus off him, he will come ‘round again,’ she said. ‘He will regain the trust of his friends and his professional associates,’ she said.”
“But that did not happen,” Edward said quietly.
“No!” snapped Barney. “Well, it did to a certain extent. He avoided prosecution for fraud, and some of his friends stayed by him. Helen, of course, suffered the loss of everything she held dear. She had expected her father to at least put up a protest at her action, but he was willing—no, more than willing—to throw her to the wolves. That's what hurt her the worst, of course, but the abandonment by her friends was almost unbearably painful to her. She confided privately to those closest to her what she had done. She was completely shattered to perceive that, although they murmured polite nothings, they did not believe her.
“I remember the afternoon I found her in tears because she had not been invited to Sally Rocheford's afternoon party. Ordinarily, she would have been first on Sally's list and would have helped with the planning besides.” She sent a piercing glance toward Edward. “Do you see my point here?”
Edward could only stare, appalled. “You mean there was no one to stand beside her in her time of such terrible need?” When Barney remained silent, Edward smiled slightly. “Except yourself, of course. For such a diminutive little woman, my dear, you are absolutely formidable.” He cleared his throat. “But what about Beatrice?”
Barney shrugged. “Oh, Trixie, of course, knew what Helen had done, but she was so involved with Chris that she scarcely gave two thoughts to the sister who needed her so desperately. When she failed to fly her flags in public in defense of her sister, that only solidified opinion against Helen.”
“I can see,” said Edward slowly, “that it must have been—difficult for Helen.”
"Difficult! Good Lord, she was devastated! She had known nothing but love and warmth and support all her life, and now she'd been cast into the frozen depths of hell. Well,” she amended as though ashamed of her bit of melodrama, “she was miserably unhappy, at any rate. And I think she still is, down deep.
“But what I'm meaning to say, Edward"—she shifted again in her chair—"is that she carried a terrible secret with her to England. She knew her story was already well nigh unbelievable and she feared the information that she'd barely escaped being carted off to prison for fraud might turn you sour altogether on her claim.”
“Yes.” Edward could barely form the words. “But afterward. After we had come to know each other, surely—”
“She'd left a lot of people back in Portugal that she thought she'd known, too,” snapped Barney. “And they all abandoned her—betrayed her love and her trust. Is it any wonder she was afraid to trust her own heart in regard to you?”
Edward was unable to reply, and Barney rose abruptly.
“That's all I came to say, so I'll leave you now.”
She turned on her heel and left the room swiftly, leaving Edward to stare into the vacant air.
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Chapter Twenty-three
Edward remained sunk in reflection for some minutes after Miss Barnstaple's departure. The wound in his heart remained open and bleeding. The old woman could prattle all she wished about Helen's abandonment by her father, as well as the rejection of her nearest and dearest friends, but that did not alter the fact that she had betrayed their friendship. Theirs had, he thought, been a bond different from any she might have shared previously.
He paused. Good God, just listen to yourself, he thought. You sound like a child who thinks himself abused because his parents won't let him join them for tea. Was it possible he had expected too much of a woman who had been forsaken by those who meant the most in the world to her? She had said that if it were not for William, she would have come to him—told him everything. Could she be faulted for putting William's welfare above her own feelings?
And just what were those feelings? A vision rose before him of Helen sitting across the desk from him this morning. The anguish in her crystal gaze had been almost palpable. He had been so wrapped up in his own pain, he had not considered hers.
He shook his head. He could not think anymore about this now. The more he dwelt on the ruin of his dreams of love, the more his mind seemed to fall into some sort of yearning maelstrom. He straightened. In addition, he had an estate to run. He could not let Whitehouse Abbey crumble to dust while he nursed his broken heart.
He turned to the mound of correspondence before him. His fingers, riffling through the letters, stilled suddenly, his attention caught by a name on one of them. Hastily, he broke the seal and unfolded the missive. The next moment, he gasped a little, and his shoulders slumped. Dear God, this was all that was needed to set the seal on the current misery prevailing at Whitehouse Abbey. He rose heavily and left the room.
Severa
l minutes later, he entered Helen's workroom, carrying a small velvet pouch. She turned, startled, at his entrance.
“You did not appear at luncheon,” he said without preamble.
“No,” she replied quietly. “I was engrossed in my work, and—and I was not hungry.”
She lifted her brows questioningly. “Was there something I could do for you, Mr. Beresford?”
He sighed at her tone of cool propriety. And he winced at the “Mr. Beresford.”
He sat without being asked and proffered the pouch. “On my way up here, I was intercepted by Stebbings. He said this was found in the stable, behind some boards in the stall recently inhabited by Uncle Stamford's favorite hack.”
With a questioning look, Helen took the pouch and opened it. Her eyes widened in astonishment as she drew out the remains of a metal goblet, apparently identical to the one she had been shown shortly after her arrival. Unlike the cup she had drawn from the little cupboard, however, this one was unadorned by so much as an ornamental pebble. Instead, it was dotted with small craters where jewels had recently been embedded.
“Edward!” Helen gasped. “It is the second Poggini cup! Or, at least . . .” she trailed off uncertainly.
“Yes, it is. I detoured after my interview with Stebbings and found the original still in situ in its little cabinet, still with a full complement of jewels.”
“But the jewels that should be—!”
“Stolen, of course, and I think we can surmise the identity of the thief.”
“Uncle Stamford?” she breathed.
“It seems most likely.”
“But what are you going to do now?”
Edward leaned back slowly and drew a hand tiredly over his eyes.
“I have no idea. K he were not Aunt Emily's brother, I would have him hunted down and brought to justice. As it is—she would be devastated, and I'm not sure but that she would somehow blame me for Stanford's predicament, in which case, she would never speak to me again. The rift in the family would be permanent and damaging beyond words.”
“Yes, I see what you mean. Although I don't see how Aunt Emily could blame you.”
Edward smiled sadly. “But would you not agree, Miss Prestwick, that some of us find it easy to blame others for that which is not their fault?”
Helen felt a tide of heat rush to her cheeks. She could make no response but dropped her gaze.
“At least,” she said at last, “you have until Mr. Welladay returns before you must make a decision.”
“If he returns.”
“Oh! I had not thought of that. You think he may have fled the Abbey permanently?”
“I have asked Fellows to examine Stanford's room to see which of his possessions he has taken with him. I cannot imagine that he does not plan to remain in residence here, but after his disgraceful behavior in bringing the Belkers home with him, perhaps he feels he has worn out his welcome at the Abbey. He seems to prefer life in London— he may have decided to lodge there permanently.”
“Oh, Edward! Do you think he is responsible for the disappearance of all the other art works I have not been able to trace?”
Edward sighed. “I shouldn't wonder. Good God, we do turn up some rotten planks in some of our fine old families, don't we?”
Helen could only nod in rueful agreement. “I do feel for Aunt Emily. Although—she's known Stamford all her life. One would think she must have divined his true character by now.”
“That won't make his perfidy any easier to accept. Ah, well.” He sighed again. “I suppose I shall work it all out somehow.”
Helen's lips curved into an involuntary smile. “As you usually do.”
Edward's brows flew up, and Helen colored. “That is, y-you have been called upon to deal with so many . . .”
“Crises?” Edward smiled, and Helen, ignoring the familiar tingle in her midsection, reminded herself that exchanging smiles with Edward, though tempting, was probably not wise, given the circumstances. She smoothed her skirt.
“You said you were on your way up here when you met Stebbings? Was there something you wished to see me about?”
The smile on Edward's lips died aborning. He stood and ran thin fingers through his hair.
“Yes. I'm afraid I have news that is even worse than Uncle Stamford's perfidy-” From his pocket, he removed the letter from his man of affairs. “The search for the Reverend Mr. Binwick has widened. No one at Lambeth has ever heard of him. Our investigation has apparently prompted a second one from the archbishop's office, as there seems to be some possibility that if the Reverend Mr. Binwick ever existed, he was not a reverend at all, but some sort of fraud.”
Helen whitened. “Dear heaven!”
“My man also checked at Somerset House. It might be expected that Binwick would have sent a record of Chris and Trix's marriage to the clerk's office there, but there is nothing.”
Helen seemed to crumple into her chair. She put a shaking hand to her eyes and moaned softly. Edward's first instinct was to gather her in a comforting embrace, but he halted abruptly, his arms in midair. Instead, he took her hand, which trembled in his fingers.
“Don't, Helen,” he said awkwardly. “Don't cry. It is not over. Why, we have been searching for a scant month.”
“Yes, but if anything was going to turn up, it should have done so by now. Your agent has covered the most likely sources of information.”
Observing Helen's anguish, Edward would have given all he possessed to lighten her burden. The graceful column of her neck bowed in distress.
“Yes,” he said as briskly as he could, “but that's the key phrase—'the most likely sources.’ There are other sources, not so likely. I'll send people to cover the coach routes, for examples. Coachmen run into travelers from all over the country. We'll have them asking questions of every village postmaster in the country.”
Helen's lips curved in a watery smile. “Thank you. You're being very kind.”
“Not at all,” returned Edward. He sat, then, speechless, until Helen raised her brows.
“If there is nothing else, Mr. Beresford . . .”
Edward fairly leapt to his feet, cursing himself for his inability to craft even the most rudimentary of conventional phrases.
“No, of course not. I shall let you get on with your work. Shall we see you at dinner?”
A flash of what looked like panic appeared in Helen's gaze.
“Oh. Oh, no, I do not think so, sir. I would prefer to take my meals separately from now on. I think it more—fitting.”
Edward felt as though yet another crack had appeared in his heart. “But—” he began, but Helen shook her head.
“Things can never be the same between us, Edward. I do not wish to seem petty, but I believe it would be better for both of us if we were to maintain a strictly professional relationship from now on.”
Her eyes glittered dark as gunmetal in her white face. She was obviously waiting for him to go.
“We shall discuss this further—later.” Edward whirled and fled from the room.
Helen collapsed onto her chair. Dear God, she could not go through many more scenes like that She shivered. If only she were not so cold. She could not seem to think straight.
A sigh emerged from the depths of her grief. At least, now it was really over—whatever had been between her and Edward. He had offered no argument to her little speech about separation. Well, she certainly had not expected he would, had she? And was it not much better this way. In the future, she—
She was interrupted in her melancholy reflections by Barney, who swept into the room without so much as a tap.
“I met Edward on the landing,” she said without preamble. Helen merely nodded.
“Well?” Barney continued. Helen stared at her blankly.
“Oh, for mercy's sake!” exclaimed the older woman. “Are you two still at loggerheads? By the Lord Harry, do you both need hitting over the head with a roof beam?”
“What are you talking about?” He
len asked dully. She could not help wondering what the devil Barney was doing here. She loved the old woman dearly, but she really was not in the mood for a chat. She lifted a hand in supplication. “Please, Barney ...”
“ ‘Please, Barney, leave me alone?'” retorted Barney. “Is that what you're going to say? Leave you alone to molder like a ripe cauliflower? Good gracious Gertrude, my girl, when are you going to come to your senses? I vow I am losing patience with you. And that overgrown stick of wood you've fallen in love with.”
This last phrase grasped Helen's complete attention.
“Fallen in love with!” she gasped.
“Yes, as in smitten, head over teakettle, ‘til death do us part.'”
“Barney!” The chill that had enveloped Helen was abruptly replaced by a hot rush of embarrassment. “How did?—That is, whatever are you talking about? Edward and I had become friends, but now—that is all over. He cannot forgive me for my deception—and I can't say that I blame him. If I—”
“Friends! Are you trying to tell me that is all you ever felt for him? Friendship? Helen Maria Prestwick, if that isn't the biggest load of blather I ever heard in all my born days.”
At the evident distress in Helen's eyes, Barney's voice softened. “It is not a sin to fall in love with a man, you know, my dear. And Edward is an eminently lovable man, if you ask me.”
At this the tears that had been dammed up under Helen's heart for the better part of a week burst forth. Sobbing, she fell into Barney's open arms, and for the next several minutes she allowed her misery to pour forth. When at last she subsided in a series of watery hiccups. Barney patted her shoulder as she had done when Helen was a child, weeping over the death of a beloved kitten.
“There, there, sweeting. It will be all right. You'll see.”
At these words, not heard for so many years, Helen uttered a rusty chuckle. She drew back from the older woman's embrace.
“Thank you, Barney. Though it's never going to be anywhere near all right, you have always contrived to make me feel better.”
