by Cheryl Holt
“My thoughts exactly.”
“He won’t come back,” Patricia felt it important to mention. “Not even if you beg.”
“I realize that.”
“You could write to him, though. He might send money or—”
“No,” Helen interjected. “I pestered him before he went—about the possibility of a babe—and he was quite blunt. He couldn’t care less. I won’t humiliate myself by contacting him.”
“I wouldn’t, either, but what will you do?”
“I can’t decide, but I have to think of a solution—and fast.”
Which was a definite understatement. In Helen’s world, an illegitimate pregnancy was an unpardonable sin. Her life as it had passed up till now was over, and she had meager, degrading options. She could move far away, establish herself in a new village, and pretend to be a tragic widow. She could go off on holiday, have the baby, and abandon it at a church or orphanage. And, of course, there could be an ominous trip to the barber.
Most likely, she would have to seduce some poor sod, marry immediately, then claim the child was born early—while hoping her husband was an idiot who never learned otherwise and murdered her for her betrayal.
On pondering the terrible jam Westmoreland had created, Pat was shaking with fury. At that moment, if he’d been standing in front of her, it would have been pistols at dawn.
Helen had no one to speak for her, except her spoiled, queer brother, which was the same as having no one. Patricia knew about being alone, and it grieved her, having Helen reduced to such a pitiful circumstance. She was too fine for the likes of Westmoreland, too fine to be deserted and facing calamity.
Well, the Captain might have totted off, but Patricia wouldn’t.
“Don’t fret, Helen.” Patricia rose and walked over to her. “I’ll be here with you. We’ll figure it out.”
“You’ll stay? Despite what I’ve done?”
“It’s not as if you killed someone. You’re simply having a baby.”
“Yes, I am.” She appeared frightened and thunderstruck.
“I’ll stay, Helen. I’ll stay as long as you need me.”
And longer than that, Patricia mused. Much longer than that.
“She’s pregnant!”
“You’re positive?”
“I was listening through the keyhole. I heard them talking.”
“My, my, Peg, aren’t you a marvelous spy.”
Under Mr. Bennett’s approval, Peg preened with satisfaction. She’d been scared about traveling to London on her own, but obviously, she’d made the proper choice.
“Look what I have.” As she drew out her prize, she rippled with excitement. “It’s a letter Miss Mansfield penned to Captain Westmoreland!”
Mr. Bennett was suitably impressed. “How did you come by it?”
“She wrote it when the other one, that Miss Patricia, was out. She asked me to post it for her in secret.”
Mr. Bennett took the letter and read it over and over. “She sounds desperate.”
“She is! They’re whispering constantly, trying to devise a method for hiding the scandal.”
“As well they should. What have they planned?”
“They can’t determine what’s best, although I’m sure Miss Mansfield is assuming the Captain will receive her message and rescue her.”
Mr. Bennett stuck the letter inside his coat. “We both know that won’t happen, don’t we?”
Successful conspirators, they grinned in unison.
A frigid wind whipped at her cloak, and she pulled it tighter. She was cold and hungry and wished Mr. Bennett would invite her inside. The bastard!
It was growing dark, the rain falling harder. She’d spent her small cache of savings to purchase her seat on the mail coach, so she hadn’t any coins to rent lodging or buy a hot meal. She was cranky and frozen and ready for a grand reward, but with their conversation concluded, she was seriously questioning whether compensation would be forthcoming.
If he didn’t reimburse her—and generously—it would be the last bloody time she ever assisted him!
“You’ve been extremely helpful, Peg.” He patted her on the shoulder, and he smiled the slick, nauseating smile that used to be handsome and endearing but that now only made her want to go home.
She shouldn’t have come to London. What had she been thinking?
“I’d better be off,” she murmured. “Could I have some money for the coach back to Mansfield?”
“Of course,” he said without hesitation, which surprised her. “You should have a little extra, too, for delivering such intriguing news.”
“Yes, I should.” She was unable to keep the petulance out of her voice.
“I must retrieve my purse. Why don’t you wait in the stable while I fetch it?”
“I will.”
She turned toward the building, relieved to have a chance to get out of the rain. After he paid her, she might sneak in and sleep there, might snuggle down in the hay and tiptoe out at dawn. No one would be the wiser.
She’d stepped to the door when she was hit on the head, numerous ferocious blows landing in quick succession. The force knocked her to the ground and had her so disoriented that she couldn’t react. She struggled to stand, but her arms and legs wouldn’t work.
“Thank you, Peg, for all you’ve done,” he eerily soothed, “but I have no further need of your services.”
She tried to call out, but as he bound her wrists and stuffed a kerchief in her mouth her brain was scrambled, and she couldn’t form any words.
“I have to move you away from the house.” He was dragging her down the alley. “When your body is located, we can’t have any connection traced to us. You’ll merely be another poor, unfortunate girl who’s met with a bad end.”
He peered down at her, his face barely visible in the dim light, but he was evil personified, as if the Devil had entered him.
“You won’t be missed, Peg. You realize that, don’t you? No one will search. No one will care.”
You’re so right.
She’d left Mansfield without giving notice. She had no family in London to anticipate her arrival. She was an anonymous servant, her appearance already forgotten by those who’d seen her. Any catastrophe could transpire.
The depressing thoughts flowed through her mind, but she couldn’t concentrate, so they didn’t bother her overly much. She could sense water nearby—was it the river?—but she didn’t comprehend the significance.
“Let’s hurry and finish this,” Mr. Bennett said. “I must pack my bags so I can proceed to the country with all due haste. I’m about to be married.”
Was he? She couldn’t recollect hearing any such gossip. With his perverted tastes and habits, what woman would have him?
He was pulling up her skirt, his cock between her legs, and suddenly he was thrusting with a viciousness that should have been painful, but she felt so peculiar, as if she were floating in the air, so it didn’t hurt.
He produced another cord and tied it around her neck. As his lust spiraled, he was squeezing it tighter, tighter. She couldn’t breathe, but it didn’t seem to matter. There was a splash, and it occurred to her that he’d vanished, that she was in the water, though she couldn’t deduce how it had happened.
She meant to kick her feet, to flail her arms, but they were fettered. Not that it would have done her any good, for she’d never learned to swim.
She sank to the bottom, and then, she felt nothing, at all.
20
Helen, are you all right?”
Helen saw Adrian approaching on the path from the house, and she fought down a groan. She wanted to be alone, but of late, solitude had become a tricky commodity.
Without invitation, her brother had arrived, with Adrian in tow, and Archie had swiftly established himself in his old suite as if he’d never been gone. He’d been awkwardly solicitous, and she had the sinking feeling that he expected her to give Mansfield Abbey to him. In his convoluted mind, it would seem
the only appropriate course, but she refused to be at his mercy ever again, so she couldn’t do it.
At any moment, he was likely to broach the subject of ownership. Then there would be fighting and rancor, and in her delicate condition she couldn’t abide any quarreling.
She’d considered speaking with Adrian, convincing him to remove Archie from the premises. She was positive Adrian would assist her, but due to Patricia’s strong opinions in the matter, she’d hesitated. Patricia kept warning her not to trust Adrian, and Patricia disliked him for reasons she wouldn’t clarify, merely saying over and over that Captain Westmoreland didn’t like him, either. Westmoreland’s views no longer held sway with Helen, and she found Patricia’s dire predictions about Adrian to be silly.
Patricia was also pressuring her to kick Archie out the door, and Helen knew she should demand his departure, but he was her sole kin, and she’d always felt such a heavy sense of responsibility toward him. He’d proved repeatedly that he was incapable of caring for himself, so she had shouldered the obligation. As far as she could see, in the interval that he’d been away nothing had changed between them, except that he was penniless and in desperate need of an allowance and a place to stay.
“Hello, Adrian,” she welcomed as he neared. “What brings you out in the cold?”
“I was worried about you.”
“Me? Whatever for?”
“Since we came home, you’ve been so . . . so . . . sad.”
“I have?”
“Yes, and I was wondering if there’s anything I can do.”
To her shock and horror, tears welled into her eyes. His concern was a soothing balm, a bracing tonic. It had been an eternity since anyone had fretted over her, and suddenly it was just what she needed. There was a bench next to her, and she sank down onto it.
“Could you take Archie away from here?” she asked.
“Why, yes,” Adrian agreed without hesitation, and he joined her on the bench. “Has he upset you? You should have mentioned it sooner. We’d have gone immediately.”
“I’m such an ingrate. What sort of sister doesn’t want her brother to visit?”
“He’s difficult at the best of times, but it’s clear that this is a particularly distressing period for you. I’ll persuade him to leave tomorrow.”
“Would you? Oh, Adrian, thank you.”
“I’m your friend, Helen, and I love you like a sister—as much as Archie does himself. You know that. I’d do anything for you.”
“You’ve been so kind to me, when I’ve done so little to deserve it.”
As usually happened anymore, she was swamped by emotion. The tears that had threatened dripped down her cheeks. She couldn’t stop them.
“Helen, what is it? You must tell me.”
“I can’t . . . I can’t . . .”
“Surely you can confide in me. Perhaps I can help. I’m not without experiences that might permit me to provide guidance.”
“It’s so futile.”
She collapsed into a humiliating torrent of weeping that he tackled with his typical aplomb, patting her wrist in commiseration and murmuring softly as he discreetly passed her a kerchief. It wasn’t a pretty picture, no diplomatic cry over spilt milk but a full-on deluge that was mortifying in its lack of restraint.
She wept for the loss of her innocence, for the loss of Captain Westmoreland. He’d blazed into her life like a wildfire and had left scorched earth in his wake. Her world was so quiet without him, and she didn’t know how to carry on.
Up until that instant, she’d believed that he would return, that her letter would have had him rushing to her side. Though she’d told Patricia she wouldn’t contact him and had pleaded with Pat not to contact him, either, panic had caused her to relent. In impatient anguish, she’d watched for the mail to be delivered, her pulse racing whenever a horse went by out on the lane. Her certainty—that he wouldn’t fail her—had prevented her from making decisions that had to be made.
How long did she intend to wait? How long could she keep hope alive?
He wasn’t coming back. Not today. Not ever. She’d tarried—week after agonizing week—but she’d been fooling herself. He hadn’t truly cared for her, and she couldn’t continue to dawdle while her stomach grew and rumor festered.
She was sick every morning, and the maids studied her with perceptive glances. They would be speculating among themselves, and the scandal would spread quickly. As she was a prominent female landowner, her behavior had to be above reproach, but her first act had been to shame herself. A bastard would never be accepted by her neighbors. She wouldn’t be allowed to remain in their midst to flaunt her disgrace. She’d be shunned, her child ostracized.
The new vicar was an agitator who saw sin lurking behind every tree and stone. He might have her charged with illicit fornication, might demand she be whipped in the village square, then jailed, and the prospect was petrifying.
“I’ve done a terrible thing,” she confessed.
“You?” Adrian scoffed. “What could be so bad as all that?”
“You must promise not to judge me harshly. Please.”
“I never could. Tell me what it is.”
Out on the horizon, the road wound through the hills toward London, where Captain Westmoreland was being feted as England’s hero. Did he ever think of her? Did he ever miss her?
“I’m going to have a baby.”
“A baby! Well . . .” There was a strained silence; then he inquired, “May I ask . . . ask . . . who is the . . .” As if to cancel the query, he waved a hand. “It doesn’t matter. It’s none of my affair. What is it you wish to do?”
“I don’t know.”
“You must marry.”
She laughed, but it was a wrenching, painful sound. “There are so many candidates who are dying to be my husband.”
“Have you talked to the man who . . . who . . .”
“He has no interest in the situation. He was very definite.”
“The bounder! Would you like me to speak to him for you? I could confer with Archie. He’s your brother, and we could—”
“No, no! You mustn’t breathe a word to Archie.” That was all she needed! To have her brother strut and chastise! The scenario didn’t bear contemplating.
Adrian scrutinized her, then vowed, “All right, I won’t, but where does this leave you? You can’t hide your condition forever.” He peeked at her tummy, checking for a condemning bulge.
They were silent again, lost in thought, when he cleared his throat.
“Might I propose a solution?”
“I’m open to any suggestion.”
“Swear that you’ll hear me out. Don’t automatically dismiss my idea.”
“Of course I’ll hear you out.”
“What if you were to marry me?”
“You?”
“Yes.”
“I could never saddle you with such a burden.”
“It wouldn’t be a burden.”
“But I don’t . . . don’t love you.” In light of her predicament, the remark was ridiculous. People frequently wed without love. Who was she to be choosey? She was drowning, and he was throwing her a rope.
“But I believe you feel some affection for me. We’re friends, with many likes and dislikes in common, and we could build on that strong connection. Many marriages have started with much less.”
“Yes, but I could never . . . never . . .”
She simply couldn’t discuss physical intimacy with him, and he saved her by jumping in.
“Nor would I expect you to.”
“Nonsense. You’re a healthy adult male. You should have a real marriage.”
“Helen, my dear . . .” He sighed and blushed. “This is so embarrassing.”
“What is?”
“I love your brother.”
“I know you do, but—”
“No . . . no . . . you misunderstand.” He hemmed and hawed and finally blurted out, “I love your brother, as a man loves his wife.�
��
“I guess I’m confused.”
“I don’t doubt that you are. My tendencies are so revolting; they’re beyond a moral person’s comprehension.”
A glint of awareness dawned, the outrageous possibility taking shape. How could she have failed to suspect? “Are you claiming that . . . ? Are the two of you . . . ?”
“Yes. I’ll always love him. I’m just different that way. Can you forgive me?”
At the admission he was so stricken, and she was so stunned, that she couldn’t seem to do anything but murmur, “Yes, I forgive you.”
“So you see, you’d never have to perform any wifely duties.”
“We’d have a marriage in name only?”
“Except I imagine I ought to stay here occasionally—so that our union appears legitimate—but I’d keep Archie away. We can’t have him underfoot and upsetting you.”
She assessed him, trying to figure out his motives. “This is such a sacrifice on your part. Why would you do it?”
“I told you: I love your brother. You’re his sister. How could I not offer to assist you in your hour of need?”
He was such a beautiful man, his blue eyes so frank and trusting, his smile so genuine, and she was so desperate. At that moment, she couldn’t conjure any reason not to assent. Still, she hedged. “If I agree—and I’m not saying I am—how would we accomplish it?”
“It probably ought to be right away. I don’t think there’s time to call the banns.”
“We’d elope?”
“Or we could inquire about a Special License, which would finish the process in a few days.”
“A Special License . . . hmm . . .”
It was the obvious solution, but it seemed so wrong, so calculated and dishonest. Could any good ever come from such a sad, fraudulent beginning?
She gazed out at the hills again, at the road meandering so peacefully to London.
Damn you, Luke Westmoreland, she thought. How could you do this to me?
“Let me reflect on it overnight, would you?”
“You certainly should. It’s a huge step.”
“We’ll talk in the morning.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” Adrian said. “You go on to the house now, and try to rest. Everything will be fine, and I’ll stand by you whatever you elect to do. Remember: You have one true friend.”
