“Very well,” Christian said. “Delacroix, will you join us?”
“I think not. You forget I have an expedition with Miss Whitcombe-Hodge this afternoon.”
Ruefully, Shrewsbury wondered how he could have forgotten. He wished he could give the man a warning not to impose on Hélène in any way, but she had not given him the right.
*~*~*
The road was indeed good. The rolling green river valley lined with Cotswold stone cottages was exceedingly picturesque. Lady Virginia was in high spirits.
“The country round here is excessively charming, Lord Shrewsbury. So different from Dorset.”
“Ah, but we do not have the sea here.”
“I should not miss the sea. And I would not think of living here year round. But having a residence near the school would be handy for you, would it not?”
He was confused by her question, then astounded. Was she actually speaking as though a marriage between them was expected as a matter of course?
“I had not thought, to be honest.” He felt a spurt of panic. How could she not have sensed the attraction between him and Hélène? He would have thought it was so strong in the air one could have cut it with a knife. But then he remembered her brother. The larger, handsomer man. And he was making dead set at Hélène, even talking of marriage with her. Maybe she thought Delacroix had it sewn up.
“The innkeeper told me of a manor house for sale near the River Evenlode. Perhaps we could obtain an order to view sometime during our visit.”
He was silent, his thoughts racing. Then it struck him that perhaps this was the solution to one of the problems he and Hélène faced. They could buy an estate near the school, and she could teach when Parliament was not in session. It was worth mentioning to her. Perhaps they could give the students time off during the Season. They could apprentice at the wool mills and learn their trade.
So excited was he by this solution to that particular problem, that he agreed with Lady Virginia to obtain an order to view.
“What a very sound idea,” said Lady Delacroix.
At that point in their journey, they crossed the bridge over Evenlode River. Lady Virginia exclaimed, “Look! There on that rise. Do you suppose that is it? It is wonderfully imposing.”
“It might do very well for my purposes,” Christian said of the Cotswold stone manor house, partially shrouded in ivy. It was large, with two wings. It reminded him a bit of Frank’s house outside of Oxford. His own property in Yorkshire was so distant; it would be very agreeable to be settled within a day’s distance of Frank and Sophie. He desired that Hélène and Sophie should deepen the acquaintance they had formed at Ruisdell Palace. He was certain they would be friends.
Another hour brought them into Lovell Minster. During that time, Christian had plenty of time to contemplate the shrewdness of Lady Virginia. Thank heavens for Hélène! Were it not for her presence in his life, he might have drifted into matrimony with a woman who was beginning to reveal her character as conniving and manipulative.
The tour of the ruin was predictable. Like most ruins, it was crumbling and damp. There was only a partial corner of the hall remaining, so there was no safe way to explore it. However, Lady Virginia had brought a portable camp stool, which she unfolded and stuck in the ground. She then took out her pad and colored pencils and began to sketch.
“The innkeeper said there are two legends about this place,” she said. “Apparently, it contained a secret room that only Lovell and his servant knew of. There was some sort of rising in the late fifteenth century that necessitated his hiding in the secret room. The servant was killed, and poor Lovell was left in the room to starve to death. His skeleton was found in 1718!”
“What a gruesome tale. I suppose he haunts the place?” Shrewsbury asked.
“Yes. He is joined by a young girl, who hid in a trunk on her wedding night and was trapped, suffering a similar fate.”
“Dear me,” Shrewsbury remarked. “Will you put the ghosts in your sketch?”
“Of course!”
The ground was marshy and too damp for the rug he had brought, so he offered an arm to Lady Delacroix and they took a walk around the area.
“You do intend to offer for my daughter, do you not, Lord Shrewsbury? Your attentions have been quite marked.”
The question gave him a jolt. Had they? He didn’t think so. “You must know that I have never spoken to your daughter of marriage.”
“Not in so many words, perhaps,” the woman said, nodding. Her face wore a satisfied little smile. “But, Society expects it, you know. Particularly after this expedition to view your charitable works.”
Goaded, he said, “Lady Virginia is a very lovely person, but I have not asked her to marry me, have not trifled with her affections. My heart is engaged elsewhere.”
Lady Delacroix pulled herself up, suddenly resembling a haughty iceberg of a woman. “Your actions are certainly open to misrepresentation, young man.”
They said nothing more on the way back to the ruin. He cut short Lady Virginia’s sketching. “We must make a start if I am going to be in time for my appointment with the carpenter,” he said.
All the way back in the carriage, Lady Virginia prattled about the roses she would plant in her Cotswold garden, the role she would take in the school, and the figure she would cut in local society.
Finally, Christian could bear it no longer. He said, “Are you and your mother planning to relocate here, then?”
Without the slightest loss of face, she said, “Silly man! I am talking about when we are married!”
Her self-confidence clearly knew no bounds. “I am afraid you will have a long time waiting for me to come up to scratch, Lady Virginia.”
“I am a patient woman,” she said, her face wreathed with contentment.
{ 18 }
LORD DELACROIX WAS WAITING in the games field when the girls were dismissed for the afternoon.
“You must excuse me while I go don my habit, my lord,” she said.
Taking her arm in his, he walked her back to the school, saying, “Shrewsbury has taken my mother and sister on an outing to some ruin at Minster Lovell. Have you heard of it? It is reputed to be haunted.”
“I know where it is. I hope he will be back in time for his meeting with the carpenter.”
“My sister had a secret design in mind. There is a property by the river she wishes him to purchase.”
“Why would she wish him to do that?”
“Surely you have divined with your sixth sense that he means to marry her?”
Hélène was shocked. “No. I haven’t divined anything of the kind,” she said, her voice sharp with irritation. “I shall be back shortly.”
Proceeding into the ladies’ retiring room, Hélène retrieved her mulberry riding habit and quickly changed into it and pulled on her riding boots. Unlike her school uniform, the habit was tailored to fit her curves neatly, and this color flattered her skin and hair. She must arrange to go riding with Christian sometime soon. After smiling in the looking glass, she went back outside. There she met Lord Delacroix who now had two chestnut horses with him.
“I have packed our tea things in the saddle bags. I thought we could have our refreshment by the river. It is a lovely place, down at the bottom of this valley.”
“That sounds lovely. I am looking forward to this ride. It seems forever since I have had proper exercise.”
He helped her to mount the mare, who was feeling a bit frisky. “I think you will enjoy it,” he said. “I came this way with your friend, Samuel Blakeley.”
They rode down a path that took them through a little spinney, and then suddenly the valley was before them.
“I’ll race you down this hill,” she said, feeling reckless.
“A sixpence says I will beat you,” Delacroix said with a laugh.
Kicking her horse’s sides, she leaned forward over her mane, breaking into in a full-out gallop. Hélène was exhilarated. The sky was a cloudless blue while
the leaves in the forest that ran down the valley were turning red and gold. The wind whipped her cheeks and her hair began to come loose from its schoolteacher’s bun. She laughed and the breeze caught the sound, carrying it away from her. The only thing that could have made it more perfect was if it were Christian riding the other horse.
A half hour’s ride brought them to the river bottom. She had succeeded in besting Delacroix and was in tearing spirits. Stroking her horse’s sweaty neck, she crooned to her, “Good girl! We showed him!”
Her companion was practically on her heels. His smile was broad as he tossed her a sixpence. She had never noticed before, but his smile made him look more devilish than ever. A little shiver went through her.
“What have we for tea?” she asked, turning so she could see the river. It was running high, nearly over its banks. Not one of those slowly meandering sorts, it rushed loudly to its destination. Perhaps a sluice gate had been opened upstream.
“Scones and jam,” he replied, spreading a rug out over the grassy bank. “And a jar of lemonade.”
She sat down, remembering to tuck her legs and habit beneath her. This was no outing with her brothers where she could behave like a hoyden. “My hair is a lost cause,” she said with a laugh.
“It is quite lovely. Enchanting in fact.” He took a lock of it in his hand. “Like mahogany-colored silk.”
She laughed again, albeit nervously. Taking the package he had laid on the rug, she untied it and found four scones, split, with jam in the middle.
“It is not ladylike to admit it, but I am starving. And thirsty, as well.”
Opening the jar, he poured lemonade into an earthenware mug and handed it to her. She tried to sip, but ended by drinking the whole thing down at once.
“Hélène,” he said, fixing her with his cobalt eyes. “You are a most extraordinary woman and I am head over heels for you. Will you marry me?”
Though he had been full of hints, this outward proposal at this very moment, took her by surprise. “But Lord Delacroix, I have told you that my affections are otherwise engaged. I am dreadfully sorry. I have no wish to pain you, but there it is.”
His features grew tight with an emotion that looked very like anger. “Are your affections returned then?”
She did not suppose he had ever been turned down in any instance by a woman. She softened her voice. “Yes, they are returned. Most definitely.”
“And there is nothing I can do to change your mind?” The words sounded remarkably like a threat.
She shook her head, suddenly aware that she was very much alone with an angry man. But surely he would not do her an injury?
He stood up. “If you are finished with your tea, perhaps you will oblige me by walking with me?”
It was more of a command than a question. But it was the least she could do, considering she had handed him such a disappointment.
She stood, and he put her arm through his. They walked in silence down to a wooden bridge that crossed over the river into a grassy meadow. He seemed to be struggling with strong emotions and all at once, she was sorry for him. Did he really care for her then? She found it difficult to believe.
The bridge was an old one, but looked quite safe. They stepped onto it and he said, “You do not know all that I was prepared to do for you.”
She looked into his face and saw that it was unaccountably grim. Before she could ask him what he meant, he had picked her up, one arm under her neck and the other under her knees. Surprised and panicked, she kicked out with her legs. “Put me down this instant!” Smiling like a devil, he said, “Very well.” He held her over the river and dropped her.
Hélène screamed all the way down. With an icy shock, she hit the water. He was trying to drown her!
Her heavy habit pulled her under as a terrifying current carried her down-river. She went under. Tugging at her heavy boots, she was unable to pull them off. Hélène struggled to the surface and grabbed a gulp of air. Then the current grabbed her and slammed her painfully against the rocks on the bottom of the river.
Years ago, her father had taught her and her brothers how to swim, but she could do nothing against this current when confined by her tight-fitting jacket. When she managed to surface for another bit of air, she looked upstream. The bridge was empty. Delacroix had indeed left her to drown.
{ 19 }
CHRISTIAN HAD A PRODUCTIVE MEETING with the carpenter, Mr. Knowles, who advised him the best place to add on the required space.
“Depending upon the weather, I could have it done by Christmas,” the strapping man with the bushy beard told him.
Taking out his notebook from his inside breast pocket, Christian asked him what his estimate of the costs and labor would be. Mr. Knowles scratched his head and gave him some figures for Christian to share with the board. He told the carpenter he would be in touch by post, after taking down his direction.
Shrewsbury rode back into town, loath to take tea anywhere in the vicinity of Lady Virginia and the party of teachers at the Blakeleys. Instead he went to the inn and ordered a pint of ale, some cheese and biscuits. He wondered how long it would be before he could expect Hélène to return. He longed to see her again, and to give her his idea about purchasing the manor house.
He wondered what his mother would have to say about her protégé’s boldness in virtually proposing to him. He still had difficulty taking it in.
With nothing else to do, he joined a darts match, was badly beaten by the local champion, then treated all the players to a round of ale. He decided to see what the innkeeper knew about the manor house in the valley.
“’Twas lived in by the old Mr. Cheney for time out o’ mind. Then he died and his sisters lived there ’til recent. May need some repairs, but ’tis a good, solid house.”
“Did Lady Virginia, the young woman with my party, ask about it?”
“She wanted to know about places for sale hereabouts. I told her about it. She seemed most interested. Getting leg-shackled, are you?”
Christian felt his anger stir. “Not to Lady Virginia,” he said.
At that moment, a disheveled and wet Lord Delacroix staggered into the inn. Christian was immediately alarmed.
“What has happened?”
“Drowned, Hélène has drowned.”
Christian stared at the large man, unable to take in his words.
“In the river,” Delacroix continued. “Leaned against the rail of the bridge. It broke. She fell.”
“Drowned?” Shrewsbury sat down suddenly. Fortunately, there was a chair beneath him. “How could she drown in a river?”
“Sluice gates must have been opened. It was a torrent. She went right under. I went in after her, but it was no good. She was washed away by the current. Never came back up.”
Blackness descended on Christian, and he felt quite numb. Going up to Delacroix, he grabbed him by his lapels. “Damn you for a knave. Couldn’t you have kept her from falling?”
“No chance,” he said, backing up. “I checked a ways downstream, but she didn’t get washed up.”
Suddenly, Christian was possessed by furies. Racing out the door to the inn, he went to the stable and saddled one of his carriage horses. Hélène can’t have drowned. She can’t be dead. I don’t believe it for a second. That devil, Delacroix, just couldn’t be bothered to search for her.
In moments, he was galloping into the dusk, down toward the river. By the time he reached the riverbank, it was full dark. The moon had not yet risen. Nevertheless, he walked the horse along the riverbank from the bridge downstream. The water was calm now. He could smell the dank odor of the wet grass at the edges of the bank. It was slippery. He could see no one washed up on this side of the river. The further he went, the further his heart fell.
Hélène. You can’t have drowned! You can’t have died. I would feel it if I lost you, and you are still alive in my breast. Your smile. Your haughty retorts. Your smoky eyes burning into mine. Please, God, let me find her.
When he came to another bridge, Christian took the horse across to the far bank and walked back the way he had come. Still no Hélène.
The frogs broke into a chorus, and he could see the moon rising, finally. He and his horse crossed the wooden bridge Hélène had fallen from. Christian examined the gap where the bridge had given way. It was hard to see by moonlight, but the rest of the bridge seemed sturdy enough.
He could see nothing to do but to continue to hike along the riverbank. If she made it out of the river alive, she could be too exhausted to move, and might take a chill. If she didn’t . . . well, the river had to give up her body sometime. He would deal with that eventuality only if he had to. At the moment, he was sure he would find her alive. Christian just had to persevere.
*~*~*
By morning, he and his horse were dropping from fatigue. They were far from the bridge where Hélène had gone over and Christian was forced to admit defeat, at least for the time being. He could not give up hope, however. There were a few small houses along the river’s route and as soon as the morning was further advanced, he planned on calling at each one to find out if his love had made it to one of them and was recuperating there.
Since she wasn’t lying insensate on the river bank this many miles from the bridge, he thought he might be able to sleep an hour or two before beginning his inquiries. Mounting his horse, he rode into Shipton-Under-Wychwood, found an inn, and left his horse with the groom, giving instructions that he be fed and rubbed down. Inside, he eschewed any offer of breakfast, hired a room, and fell into a dreamless sleep.
Hours later he woke. Looking around, it took him a moment before the weight of his mission settled back on his shoulders. He tried to tell himself that not finding Hélène’s dead body was a positive thing. She had to be in one of the cottages. The woman he loved was adept and capable.
By afternoon, he had called at every cottage on either side of the river. He had no luck. Christian was at a very low ebb, indeed. He was ready to strangle Delacroix. He could not believe that the man could not have saved her if he had tried hard enough. Christian had no recourse now except to go to the constable in Chipping Norton and ask him to institute a search for Hélène’s body further down the river.
The Baron and the Bluestocking Page 15
