“You said you were just one of the soldiers tasked with escorting the women and children to the boats,” Helena said. “Which means there were others.”
“That’s right.”
“What happened to those soldiers? Were they all killed?”
“Not all.” He leaned back against the chiffonier, the bottle of brandy still in his hand. “Some managed to get across the river.”
“And where are they now?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea.” He took another swallow of brandy. He knew what she was getting at and he didn’t wish to hear it.
Not that that stopped her.
“I wonder if they take as much responsibility for what happened as you do?” she asked. “I wonder if they’re out there, enacting their penance somewhere, garbed in hair shirts and the like.”
“Helena…”
She folded her arms “Mr. Finchley told me that you take on everyone else’s burdens. That you would bear the weight of the world, if you could.”
“Did he.” It sounded like something Finchley would say.
“I believe he’s right. I’ve seen it myself. With Neville and the servants at the Abbey. With me. You take care of everyone. It’s in your nature to protect people. But a single soldier couldn’t have saved all of those women and children, Justin. You must know that. Not even if that soldier was you.”
He shook his head. “It’s not as simple as that.”
“Of course it is. You need only forgive yourself.” She moved toward him, her eyes searching his. “But you can’t, can you? You’re as unforgiving of your own failings as you are of those in other people.”
He flinched. It was the second time she’d mentioned his inability to forgive. Good God, but it was true. He had no forgiveness in him. He couldn’t remember if he ever had.
“I don’t count you among that group,” he said, his voice gone hoarse. “I never have.”
She stopped in front of him. The skirts of her dressing gown pooled about his legs. “Then why…” She hesitated a moment, looking endearingly uncertain. “Why did you stop wanting me?”
Her question rendered Justin temporarily speechless. Indeed, he couldn’t have been more surprised if she’d taken out a mallet and struck him over the head with it.
“After the night Mr. Glyde came to the Abbey, you never again attempted to kiss me. Or to try and persuade me to…” A blush suffused her face.
He groaned. “You think I don’t want you? You think it doesn’t kill me every time I see you—wanting to kiss you? To take you in my arms?”
Her blush deepened to scarlet. “Then why?”
Why? He’d asked himself that question hundreds of times in the past weeks. The answer was always the same. “What sort of blackguard would have relations with a woman who hasn’t chosen him of her own free will?”
Her brow furrowed. “Hypothetically? Any number of gentlemen.”
“No they wouldn’t. Not if they were worthy of the name.”
“You’re wrong. I know countless ladies who married gentlemen chosen by their fathers. Their own preference was never taken into account. And their husbands must have had relations with them because many now have children. Some of them two and three.”
“It’s not the same thing. When you came to me in Devon, it was out of desperation. If not for your uncle’s abuse, you’d never have answered a matrimonial advertisement. You’d have been free. Wealthy, titled, and free. I don’t believe you’d have married at all. And if you did, it would have been to a man like Wexford or one of those other lords or sirs.”
She gave a dismissive huff. “None of that matters now. The past can’t be changed. And the fact is, I did answer your advertisement. I did decide to marry you.”
“But you wouldn’t have done—”
“What difference does that make? We’re not living in the land of would have and should have. We’re living in the here and now. And here and now I’m married to you.”
“I won’t have you.”
Helena drew back as if he’d slapped her.
“Not physically,” he said. “Not until all of this is resolved.”
“I see.” She was still blushing mightily. Such topics weren’t meant to be discussed between men and women. Even if they were married. “Am I to have no say in this at all?”
“When this is over. When you’re free to choose what you truly want.”
“Very well,” she said. “But my feelings on the subject won’t change.”
Justin didn’t like to inquire what those feelings were. She hadn’t fully articulated them yet. Clearly, she’d wanted him to kiss her. That was something, wasn’t it? A physical attraction could be built upon. And, when coupled with a friendship, he supposed the two of them could be content, at least for a short while. If only…
If only he were a different man and the Abbey a different place. If only he could give her everything she deserved. Restore her life to what it might have been if things hadn’t gone so terribly wrong with her uncle and Mr. Glyde.
But he couldn’t do any of those things. It wasn’t in his power to make her happy. He realized that now. The truth of it had been driven home in the past weeks as he watched her move through fashionable society. She belonged here, with people of her own kind. People with grand titles who rode in lacquered carriages and danced in gilded ballrooms.
When this was all over, he was going to have to let her go. It was the only thing he could do. When you cared for someone, you made the sacrifice. They didn’t have to ask for it. You made it regardless. Even if it left you desolate. Even if it broke your heart.
After staying up the better part of the night, Helena slept until noon. The rest of the day, she spent with Jenny. They worked on their needlework in the parlor, sitting side by side on the plump chintz sofa. Helena needed something active to occupy her mind. She wasn’t going to force her company on Justin.
Not that he was seeking it out. He’d spent most of the afternoon answering letters from Mr. Boothroyd and other of his business associates. Indeed, he didn’t emerge from his room until nearly five o’clock, and only then in response to a note sent round by Mr. Finchley.
Helena looked up at him in nervous expectation as he broke the seal and unfolded the paper. He swiftly skimmed the contents. “Finchley says he’s heard from Mr. Pelham. The editorial will be printed on Monday.”
“Tomorrow?” Jenny glanced from Helena to Justin. “And what happens then?”
“We act as normal,” Justin said.
Helena set aside her needlework. Her hands had begun to tremble. Her stomach was trembling, too. “That might prove difficult.”
“Why should it?”
“People will naturally want to know why you look as if you’ve gone ten rounds with a prizefighter.”
Justin grimaced. He raised a hand to his face. “That bad, is it?”
“It’s not good,” Helena said frankly.
“Indeed,” Jenny agreed. She turned to Helena. “Perhaps Mr. Finchley can squire you about?”
Helena’s chest tightened in silent protest. She didn’t want Mr. Finchley to escort her anywhere. Much as she liked the man, he was a poor substitute for Justin. And, after tomorrow morning, she’d need Justin’s presence more than ever. How else, but with him at her side, was she to face the world in the aftermath of the editorial?
She rose and went to him. “Come into the light. Let me see.”
Justin obediently walked to the windows and turned to face her. She lifted a hand to his cheek on the pretext of examining his wounds; however, there was nothing clinical about her touch. Her fingertips brushed lightly over his brow and then down along his jaw to the swelling at the side of his mouth. She traced the pad of her thumb over his lower lip. “I suggest ice,” she said. “For the swelling.”
His eyes held hers, his smo
ke-gray gaze filled with a bewildering tangle of emotion. There was heat there and tenderness, but there was something else as well. Something which made her brows knit into a puzzled frown. It was sadness. Desolation. It flickered for an instant and then was gone, his expression shuttering.
“Do we have any ice?” Jenny moved to rise. “I’ll go down to the kitchen and ask Mrs. Jarrow.”
“I’ll go,” Justin said abruptly.
Helena dropped her hand from his face. She watched him stride from the room. He didn’t want to be alone with her. Foolish man. Did he really believe she didn’t know her own mind? That when things with her uncle were resolved she’d suddenly decide she no longer cared for him?
She went back to the sofa and resumed her seat beside Jenny.
“He looks an absolute ruffian,” Jenny remarked quietly. “Do you suppose Mr. Glyde looks better or worse?”
“Worse,” Helena said without hesitation.
“Good. He deserves whatever punishment Mr. Thornhill meted out.” Jenny threaded her needle. “I only wish I’d been there to see it.”
The following morning, Mr. Finchley arrived at daybreak with a copy of the London Courant under his arm. They were at breakfast when he came, the table cluttered with half-filled plates, pots of honey and jam, and cups of still-steaming coffee. He sat down to join them in the empty chair across from Justin and spread the newspaper out on the table.
“Here it is,” he said. “On pages 5 and 6.”
“Have you read it?” Justin asked.
“I have.”
“And?”
“It’s compelling.” Mr. Finchley folded over the page. He looked at Helena. “Shall I read it aloud?”
She clasped her hands together in her lap. Every muscle in her body had gone tense. “If you please.”
He cleared his throat and began:
“The position of a lunatic appears to be one of the most terrible in which a human can be placed. There is, however, a still worse condition, which is that of a person of sane mind who is treated by his fellow creatures as though he were mad—of one who, being himself of sane mind, is incarcerated in an asylum intended only for the insane—who is, therefore, subjected to bodily restraint, and, still worse, to the moral and intellectual indignities consequent upon a supposed deprivation of reason.”1
Helena stared down at her hands as Mr. Finchley continued. The editorial commenced by discussing the case of a young gentleman, heir to a fortune of thirty thousand pounds, who was committed to a private asylum by his greedy relatives. Next were three more cases of ladies and gentlemen whose relatives had likewise had them committed, albeit for much smaller sums. And then—at last—the editorial mentioned Helena by name.
“Another case of this kind has very recently been brought to light. Lady Helena Reynolds, sister of the late Giles Reynolds, 6th Earl of Castleton, was left an inheritance by her brother in excess of two hundred thousand pounds. In the course of the past year, her uncle, Edward Francis Reynolds, 7th Earl of Castleton, has attempted to obtain control of this inheritance by threatening his niece with committal in a private asylum.”
She listened, a sick feeling in her stomach, as Mr. Finchley read Mr. Pelham’s account of all the indignities she’d suffered at the hands of Mr. Glyde, the doctors, and the matrons at Lowbridge House. His writing was spare and efficient, reducing the particulars of her case to a bare and stark reality.
Her heart thumped forcefully in her chest. She was filled with an impending sense of panic. Never in her life had she felt so exposed, so utterly vulnerable. Everyone she knew was likely reading these very same words over their morning tea and coffee. They would be outraged. Disgusted. Even those who pitied her would have no sympathy for the method she’d employed for redress. No lady, however, desperate, would ever expose herself to the press in such a way.
As of this moment, her reputation was ruined beyond all hope of repair.
Her fingers twisted together as Mr. Finchley read the editorial’s conclusion:
“Private lunatic asylums are the bane of our system. They are mere commercial speculations run for the benefit of the proprietors. All that is required for admittance are two certificates, signed by two medical men unconnected with each other, and a statement signed by a relative—too often the hungry expectant of an inheritance. Under these arrangements, any sane English man or woman may, without much difficulty, be incarcerated in a private lunatic asylum. These are but five cases following one upon the other in rapid succession. How many remain behind of which we know nothing?”
The breakfast room fell into silence. They all sat, grim-faced, no one venturing to utter a word.
“Well,” Jenny murmured finally. “That was…chilling.”
“It was powerful,” Mr. Finchley said. “And very persuasive.” He folded the newspaper and set it aside. “But you’re right, Miss Holloway. It’s going to send a chill of fear through anyone with greedy relatives.”
Helena unclenched her fingers, flattening her hands onto her lap. Her palms were damp against the white cambric skirts of her morning dress.
“This is all precisely according to plan,” Justin assured her. “Nothing at all for you to worry about.”
She gave him a bleak look. What could she say? No gentleman could ever understand.
Jenny set her napkin beside her plate. “Is it your reputation that’s concerning you? Are you thinking it’s beyond repair?”
Helena’s gaze found Jenny’s. “I know it’s stupid.”
“Concerns about one’s reputation are never stupid.”
Mr. Finchley regarded Helena with concern. “If there had been any other course of action…”
“There wasn’t,” Justin said.
Helena knew Justin was right. There had been only one course available. “Yes, well…it’s too late for second thoughts, in any case. Everyone will have read it by now.”
“Don’t be silly,” Jenny said. “Half the ladies we know are still abed.”
“They’ll be awake soon enough. By luncheon, all of London will be buzzing about me.”
Jenny reached out to cover Helena’s hand with hers. “Please don’t refine on it, my dear. You know it was the only way. And so what if society shuns you? You never cared for their good opinion.”
“No,” Helena admitted. “But it’s easy not to care when one is in a position of strength.”
“You’re still in a position of strength,” Mr. Finchley said. “You’ve told the truth. What can be stronger than that?”
Since coming to reside in Half Moon Street, Helena had become accustomed to receiving callers between the hours of one and three o’clock in the afternoon. But on the day the editorial was published, nobody came. She sat in the parlor and waited as the little mantel clock delicately chimed one hour and then the next.
“Not even the shamelessly curious have dared show their faces,” she said tightly. “Do they suspect my uncle was right? That I might truly be mad?”
“They’re cowards,” Justin growled. He paced the room, too restless to sit with Helena and Jenny. “They won’t make a move until they see which way the wind is blowing.”
“Mr. Thornhill’s quite right,” Jenny agreed. “They’ll wait for someone suitably influential to visit and then they’ll follow after like lemmings.”
Helena acknowledged the truth of this. It was the way of polite society. There weren’t many who’d risk putting a foot wrong. They required a leader. Someone to set the fashion.
At a quarter to three, that someone arrived.
“The Earl of Wolverton,” Mrs. Jarrow announced.
Helena scrambled to her feet as Lord Wolverton entered the parlor. His face was set in stern lines, his keen eyes blazing. She crossed the room to greet him. “My lord.” She extended her hand.
He took it in his. “What’s the meaning of these allegatio
ns in the morning paper?” he demanded. His gaze flashed briefly to Justin’s face, his brows lowering in disapproval at the sight of all the cuts and bruises. “And what’s happened to you, Thornhill?”
Justin came to stand beside her. His posture was unwelcoming. “A minor altercation,” he said. “Nothing to speak of.”
“Please come and sit down.” Helena ushered Lord Wolverton into the parlor. He waited for her to resume her seat before lowering himself into a chair.
At his arrival, Jenny had withdrawn to a button-back chair near the fire with her needlework. She never participated in entertaining guests, preferring to take on the role of humble—and silent—companion.
Justin was equally silent, but he didn’t withdraw. He sank down in the chair opposite Lord Wolverton.
His lordship didn’t mince words. “Your father would be appalled, madam.”
Helena lifted her brows. “Because I have gone to the press?”
“You’ve exposed yourself. Made yourself an object of ridicule. It was badly done.” He frowned at her. “You’d have done better to come to me.”
“You? Why on earth would I have done that?”
“You father was my oldest friend. Granted, I’ve not been a fixture in your life these many years, but you might have sought me out as a courtesy. I flatter myself that I still have some influence.”
Helena inclined her head. “A great deal of influence, my lord. But this was an issue of madness.”
He gave a disdainful grunt. “An issue of greed, more like. You forget, I knew your uncle when he was a lad. He was a conniving opportunist at the best of times. I wouldn’t put anything past him. Had you come to me, I might have intervened.”
Was it true? Would he have helped her? Helena tended to doubt it. “How was I to know you wouldn’t have adjudged me mad yourself? You advised my father to have my mother committed to a private asylum. There was every chance you would recommend the same fate for me.”
“Your mother?” Lord Wolverton scowled. “You were a child. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
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