“I must have Helen. I cannot continue without her. Well, it is not exactly without her, but this other, it’s madness, and it has to stop or I will hurl myself over a cliff, and than where would I be?”
“I believe you would be dead, my boy.”
“Not at all a good finish. Please, sir. Have I your permission to court and wed your daughter?”
Lord Prith stared at him. “I have heard of your sire. His name was Gilbert Heatherington, was it not?”
“Yes.”
“My dearest Mathilda was a friend of his second wife. Poor Marianne died within five years of her marriage to him.”
“Yes, sir, I was there. My father was obsessed with building a dynasty. But I am the only child of his loins who survived. He had no caring at all for women, none really for the children except that they live, which they didn’t.” Lord Beecham stopped. There was no reason to continue this. His father was dead, all three of his wives, including his own mother, dead as well, and the innumerable offspring.
“I am not like my father.”
“But you speak of marriage as if it would be your downfall. Why would you consider marriage a bad thing just because your father mucked it up?”
“He humiliated my mother. He kept her pregnant every year until I could hear her begging him not to take her, not to force himself upon her, that she would die with the next pregnancy, but he just laughed and forced her, and that last time she did die, cursing him, but he didn’t care. I believe he was with a mistress at the time. But I was there, sir, and I heard what she said. I heard her death. I despised him. I swore never to impregnate a woman, but then I realized that I had to have an heir, so I decided to wait, wait until it was almost the end of my time, and then I would take a wife and beget an heir.”
“How old were you when your mother died?”
“Ten.” He stared at Lord Prith. He couldn’t believe at all that he had blurted that out of his mouth. It was said. It couldn’t now be unsaid. He waited.
Lord Prith sat back in his chair. “I am sorry for that, my boy.”
Lord Beecham continued to stare at the man he hoped was his future father-in-law. He had spilled every bit of blackness in his soul, laid it all out for Lord Prith to examine. Now Lord Prith would realize that he wasn’t the man for his beloved daughter. He had been stunted and embittered. He wasn’t worthy of someone pure and wholesome, the only woman to make him beg to give his all to his marital duties until he was called to the other side.
But he wasn’t worthy. It all came down to that. He waited to hear the ax drop on his neck.
Lord Prith said, “At least you are not short. That bodes well for you. Helen turns down short men.”
He blinked. Lord Prith was considering him? His confession had not set him irrevocably against him? He cleared his throat, and said, “No, I am two inches taller than Helen. She tries to pretend that I am not, but it is true. Two inches, perhaps even a quarter of an inch more than two inches.”
“You and Helen will have magnificent children. It is difficult, as you well know, my boy, not to impregnate a woman. You will not kill my daughter with too many birthings, will you?”
Even as Lord Beecham shook his head and said “No, I will not,” he remembered that Helen couldn’t have children. She was barren. He felt a very deep shaft of pain, but he felt it for just a moment. In the grand scheme of things, his second cousin, a ship captain who lived in the colonies, in a place called Baltimore, could have his title, or one of his cousin’s male children could have it. He was a good fellow, he wouldn’t blight the Heatherington escutcheon.
But truth be told, Lord Beecham didn’t care what sort of a man his cousin was. He wanted Helen and he wanted her forever. It was the oddest thing. He was standing in Lord Prith’s dining room, Flock likely behind him in the shadows, not moving a muscle for fear of anyone realizing he was still in the room, and it didn’t matter a single whit. He felt wonderful. He felt whole.
“I will protect Helen with my life. I am not a pauper. She will have everything she could possibly desire. I have a beautiful country estate in Devon. Paledowns. She will love it there, all rugged hills and valleys and the coastline, all jagged and old, sir, so very old.” He shut his mouth on his poetic outpourings. He was losing what few wits remained to him. He would make his summation pithy. Show the depths of his ardor with a few witty words. He cleared his throat and opened his mouth, and what came out was, “I have never met a lady like your daughter. She is radiant, sir. I cannot imagine how I could be so very lucky as to have her leap at me from her horse’s back in Hyde Park and hurl me to the ground.” He cleared his throat. What had that come from? “Ah, Paledowns, sir, she will be happy there. She will also be happy in London. I have three other houses as well dotted over the northern landscape. She will doubtless approve of those as well. If she doesn’t, she can discipline the caretakers and change things until she is pleased.
“I will worship her, sir, until I cock up my toes and pass to the hereafter.”
Lord Prith said comfortably, “You don’t have to worry about things like that, my boy. My dearest Nell nests wherever she happens to find herself. Your home sounds like an excellent place for her, any and all of them. You know, now that I reflect upon things, my little girl did seem a bit on the quiet side whilst you were gone, my boy. Dare I say that she moped? Flock, are you still about, your ears all sharp?”
“Yes, my lord, but I have been staring at the epergne, my lord, wondering how best to clean all the little hidden crevices amongst all the grapes. I have barely heard a word anyone has said.”
“Good. Do you think that Miss Helen was moping—or is that too strong a word?”
“Miss Helen moped as I have also moped, my lord. I perhaps taught her through example how to mope properly. It is not too strong a word.”
“Good, I didn’t think so. She was also distracted. I would catch her looking off into nothing at all, as if dazed. One of her lads at the inn let a thief steal several bridles from the stable. She disciplined him, but her heart wasn’t in it, all could tell. She has lost flesh, which isn’t good for her, since she is well nigh perfect just the way she is.”
“Yes, she is perfect.”
“Hmmm,” Lord Prith said, drank more champagne, and looked off toward a painting on the wall. Lord Beecham glanced at the painting, a line of rabbits hanging from a skinny rope in a sixteenth-century kitchen, ready for the cooking pot. He didn’t like paintings like this though they were so very popular in nearly every dining room in London. They always put him off his feed.
“Helen isn’t perfect, my boy,” Lord Prith said. “I must be honest with you, since it appears that you see her only with honey flowing from her mouth. She is her own woman. Perhaps one could call her occasionally obstinate and, rarely, just sometimes, a bit on the stubborn side. Those words aren’t too strong, are they, Flock?”
“They are perhaps shaded by your loving parental eye, my lord.”
“She is used to doing precisely what she wants when she wants to do it. She is strong-willed and strong of limb as well. I have seen her knock a suitor from one side of the room to the other when he chanced to offend her. She didn’t break anything, but the fellow had a black eye for a week.
“She has opinions, my boy, opinions that are her own, not necessarily gently formed by her dear father. She is interested in all sorts of things, as you very well know, what with this lamp business. She is a mistress of discipline. Yes, even I know this about my dearest Nellie. Her lads always strive to please her, but when they run afoul of what is right and proper, she does discipline them. Come to think of it, they sometimes beg for it, but she is fair in her judgments and doesn’t always give them what they want.
“She won’t let you tread on her like a rug, my boy. In short, my sweet little Nell is a handful, just like her dearest mother, my precious Mathilda.” Lord Prith looked over at Flock, an eyebrow arched in question.
“Well and accurately stated, my lord.”
/> “Thank you, Flock.”
Lord Beecham couldn’t help himself. He asked, “Have you ever seen any of her lads in the stocks?”
“Certainly. Other villagers rent the stocks from her to carry out their own punishments. She is considered a goddess of justice in Court Hammering. Wives adore her because she won’t allow their husbands to drown their livers in her taproom.”
Lord Beecham said, “She is much more than a goddess. I must have her, my lord.”
“Yes, I can see that you must. Very well, you have my permission. Do you agree that you know what you’re getting into? That you aren’t all afloat in a man’s lust and blind to the very few nearly meaningless foibles my sweet Nellie occasionally exhibits?”
“No, not really, but I know enough to realize that I want to find out everything about her and each of her foibles during the next fifty years. Perhaps I will even wed her again upon occasion.”
“A charming thing to say, lad. Very well. Champagne, Flock. Bring a fresh bottle. Ah, and for my future son-in-law here, some brandy, nasty stuff. We don’t want to force him to drink champagne and have him puke on Helen’s slippers, now do we?”
21
GEORDIE HAD SPILLED twenty pounds of oats into a huge mud puddle. He knew he would be punished, he was whimpering in a corner, knowing it would happen, and here Helen just didn’t appear to care. She was just staring off at nothing at all. Actually, Helen couldn’t stop thinking about why Spenser had grabbed that hunk of bread and run out of the inn. Then Gwen said, “Miss Helen, the stupid clumsy lout deserves at least a Level Six.”
Geordie shuddered with both anticipation and dread.
“What? Oh, a Level Six, Gwen? Isn’t that a bit on the harsh side?”
“Twenty pounds of oats, Miss Helen, feed for the mud, not the horses.”
“Very well, then. Level Six.” Helen turned and walked back into the inn. It was nearly nine o’clock at night.
There was enough of a moon so that Geordie was clearly visible to all who wished to watch his punishment. When she heard Geordie yell, then moan, she just shook her head and went back into the small private dining parlor. She built up the fire. She took a cup of hot cider and sat there in her wing chair staring into the flames, seeing him striding out of the small parlor, practically reeling.
“Helen.”
She turned very slowly to see him standing in the doorway. “You ran away, with the bread.”
“Yes, but I came back. I ate the bread.”
“What do you want, Lord Beecham?”
“There is a naked man in the inn courtyard. His wrists are tied by a rope looped over the lower branch of that immense elm tree, and Gwen is whipping him. There were three other women in line, waiting their turn. They have switches, not hollyhock bunches.”
“Yes. Geordie spilled twenty pounds of oats in a mud puddle. It demands a Level Six punishment. Gwen believed that was appropriate.”
“I see. It all makes sense now. Will you marry me, Helen?”
She dropped her cup of cider. She sat there, stunned, watching the cider snake over her exquisitely polished oak floor toward the small rectangular Aubusson carpet. She moaned, jumped to her feet, and looked wildly around.
Lord Beecham untied his beautiful white cravat and handed it to her.
He watched her go down on her knees and wipe up the cider. She continued to wipe long after the cider was gone.
“Helen, it is all clean now.” He held out his hand. “You will rub the wood away.”
She ignored his hand and jumped to her feet, tottered a bit because she was dizzy, then sat down heavily back into her chair.
“I didn’t run away from you. I rode to Shugborough. I have just returned from there. Your father gives me his permission to court you. Actually, he also gives his permission to marry you. Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
There was another yell from Geordie, followed by a deep moan. Helen said absently, “That was probably Miss Millbark. Did you notice how the moan was louder than the yell? She always teases before she strikes.”
“Helen, I don’t care about Geordie’s discipline at this particular moment. How many strokes does he get?”
“Only ten. Then he is forced to stand naked in front of the inn, holding a lamp, for three hours, unless it rains, in which case it is postponed until it is sunny again.”
“I see. Will you?”
She was shaking her head at him, saying, “This makes no sense. You desire me, I will grant you that, since I feel the same about you. But you don’t love me. How could you? You don’t know me.”
“Don’t know you? My God, woman, if ours is not a marvelous beginning of knowing, I don’t know what is.”
“That is something I still don’t understand. I am coming to believe that you are a sorcerer, sir. You have but to touch me and I am suddenly mindless.”
“Yes, it is rather nice, isn’t it?”
She looked suddenly lost.
He was at her side in an instant. He came down on his haunches beside her chair. “Helen,” he said. “I know we only met each other a month ago. I know that I never wanted to marry, at least not until I was nearly ready to cork it. But now everything is different. We are different. Marry me, Helen. We will deal well together. We will find this bloody lamp and perhaps become joint rulers of the world through its magic. What do you think? Is that enough power? There are lots of mysteries in the world, just waiting to be discovered. We can search out our fair share of them. Say yes, Helen.”
“I am as strong as you are.”
“Possibly.” He grinned up at her.
There was another very long yell and a short moan.
“Who was that?”
“The vicar’s wife, Mrs. Possett. She enjoys more the pain end of things. I believe she is seeing the vicar in Geordie’s place. He isn’t a very tolerant man. I have heard her gnash her teeth.”
“Tell me yes, Helen.”
“I was married before.” There was a deep and dangerous pause. “I didn’t care for it.”
“You were young, your exquisite mind unformed. The man was an idiot. But it doesn’t matter now. He is long dead. You and I are different, Helen. We are no longer children. We know what we want.”
“No.”
He looked like she’d shot him. He rocked back on his heels. He rose slowly then and stared down at her. The shadows cast off by the fire made a halo around her blond hair. She looked like an angel. She had just had the gall to turn him down.
He felt disbelief. He felt outrage bubble and roil in his belly. “This makes no sense at all. You want me out of my britches all the time.”
“Yes, well, that I can’t seem to help. Come, Lord Beecham—”
“Damn you, call me by my given name—Spenser.”
“Spenser, admit it. It is lust, boundless, mindless lust you feel for me—just as I do for you—nothing more, nothing less. Just lust. What would happen if we married and in six weeks you were over your lustful cravings? What would you do then? We would be bound together forever. No, I don’t want that.”
“You have written an amazing tale, madam. You have plucked an ending out of the ether that has no substance or meaning or validity. I devoutly pray that our lust for each other wanes just a bit or else we will never get anything accomplished outside of our bedchamber.
“Now, let me propose quite another ending to your amusing tale. We will love and fight and yell and laugh and have a very nice time of it well into the foreseeable future. What do you think about that?”
“It is a good ending,” she said, sighed, and looked away from him, into the fire.
“And have you had other lovers, madam? Other men who gave you such pleasure?”
“No.”
He wished he could think of more to say. “Why are you saying no to me, Helen? What is it I cannot give you? I don’t for a moment believe that ludicrous tale you have spun. I believe you would very much like to become my wife. We would be partners and lovers
for life.”
Her hands were folded in her lap. She wasn’t moving, just sitting there, staring down at her hands. “I don’t wish for another husband. I don’t want to lose what I have, what I am.”
“For God’s sake, what kind of a man do you think I am? I wouldn’t take anything from you. I would hope that what I would give you would enhance your happiness.”
She didn’t look at him, simply shook her head.
He was so frustrated, so disbelieving that she would actually turn him down, and for no good reason that had yet come out of her mouth, that he was momentarily speechless. Then, finally, he said, “I wish that were all there was to it.” He threw himself down on the chair next to hers. He leaned his chin on his fist, stretched out his long legs, and stared into the fireplace.
“There is nothing else to it. Just lust, nothing more.”
“You’re being a blockhead, Helen. Obviously this man you were married to, when you were too young to have even the beginnings of a brain, gave you a very bad opinion of men and of marriage. It won’t be anything like that between us. Use your sense, woman.”
She shook her head.
“I too have always had a very bad opinion of marriage, given the utter devastation my father wrecked on three women’s lives, but it fades into the shadows when I think of having you at my side, in my bed, sitting across from me at the breakfast table. Why don’t I banish your bad experience from your mind, Helen?”
She was shaking her head even before he had finished speaking. He wanted to strangle her. Instead, he rose, walked to the dining room door, shut it, and to his immense delight, there was a lock and a key. He turned it.
“Now,” he said, turning around. “Now.”
He heard her breath whoosh out. She stood, made to run, then stopped, her hands fists at her sides. “No, Spenser, I don’t want to make love with you. You will not coerce me in that way. It is low.”
The Sherbrooke Series Novels 1-5 Page 150
