Miss Prestwick's Crusade (23 page)

"Oh, do call me Aunt Emily, Helen. After all, you are family."

Helen could not help but wonder at the dowager's about face from her initial suspicion but attributed it to her affection for William, with perhaps a touch of desire to see the title go to the fruit of Chris's loins, legitimately or otherwise.

"In addition,” concluded Aunt Emily primly, “I have grown fond of you, as well. You may have been raised in Portugal, but you are a lady through and through, and I think I can speak for all of us when I say you are a welcome addition to the family."

At this, Helen found in herself a strong inclination to burst into tears, and she returned the older woman's embrace with genuine affection.

"This means a great deal to me—Aunt Emily. I may be leaving Whitehouse Abbey in the near future, but—"

"Leaving?” echoed the dowager in astonishment. “Why, whatever for? Where would you go? And why?"

Helen was loath to discuss the situation between Edward and her, but she found herself spilling the words. “Edward is very—angry with me. I should have told him about the art forgery when I first met him, but I felt it would cause him to deny my claim on William's behalf without a fair investigation."

"Oh, dear. And then, I suppose it just became harder and harder as time went by."

"Yes.” Helen almost cried out in her relief at being understood.

"And he has now ordered you to leave?” asked Aunt Emily, still in a tone of great surprise.

"Oh, no. He—he said he wished William to remain. He wishes to see Chris's child raised at Whitehouse Abbey, whether his claim is proven or not.” Helen watched for a reaction on Aunt Emily's part to this statement, but the older woman only nodded in vigorous agreement. “He invited me to stay as well—and Barney, of course, but I could not help but perceive that he would be happier if I left.” Helen could barely keep the tears in her throat at bay as she spoke. “That being the case, I would rather not stay here."

"Well, of course, you wouldn't.” Lady Camberwell's voice held nothing but sympathy, which was enough to nearly undo Helen's hard-fought composure. “I must say his reaction surprises me. I was under the impression that he had come to trust you. I cannot believe he is behaving so badly over this. I expect,” she added, with surprising shrewdness, “it's the fact that you didn't tell him at once."

There was much Helen could have added to the dowager's surmise, but at this point her voice foiled her, and she merely mumbled an acquiescence.

"Well, it's a great pity,” concluded the older woman, “but I'm sure he'll come around. In any case, you must not think of leaving us."

She rose in a rustle of silken skirts. “Now then, my dear, you have been holed up in this dreary attic for hours. You did not come to luncheon yesterday, and I am here to make sure that you join us today."

Once again, a lead weight dropped into Helen's stomach. Her acceptance into Aunt Emily's good graces was comforting, but she was not ready yet to face Edward.

"Edward will not be joining us today,” the dowager said, and Helen jumped. Had Aunt Emily read her mind?

"W-what?"

"No, he was called away late last night. Apparently some crisis has arisen at Windhollow, one of the Camberwell holdings a little north of Oxford. Something to do with a dishonest bailiff exposed a few days ago. At any rate, Edward left hastily, declaring he did not know when he might return. I do hope he will return soon. We shall be leaving for London in less than a week."

Helen breathed a sigh of relief, coupled with a sharp pain that lodged itself beneath her heart. Good Lord, had she hoped to see him? Had she hoped that somehow she might bring him around? She brushed away the idea as she did surreptitiously the tears that sprang to her eyes.

On entering the small salon that served as the luncheon chamber, Helen quickly noted that, though Artemis was seated at the table and looking unwontedly sober, yet another member of the family was absent.

"Why, where is Mr. Welladay?"

"Ah.” Aunt Emily squirmed uncomfortably. “Dearest Stanford has returned to London for—for an extended stay. I'm afraid he was quite cut up over the unpleasantness he inadvertently caused by bringing those dreadful people home."

"Let us hope he doesn't bring home any more such mushrooms,” chimed in Artemis. “I expect we shall see him in London before he comes home again.” She turned to Helen. “What an awful thing to have to go through!” she exclaimed.

Helen was not sure if she referred to the matter of the fraudulent painting or the visit by the Belkers, but she nodded in gratitude. Really, the support offered by her new family was as gratifying as it was unexpected. She suspected that she was the beneficiary of William's charm, but she had no intention of inquiring too closely into their newly minted amity.

The rest of the meal was consumed to the accompaniment of innocuous chatter, concluding with a decision on the part of all the ladies to embark on a shopping trip to the village that afternoon. Helen was left with the feeling that if she weren't so wretchedly unhappy, she could be envisioning her future at Whitehouse Abbey with a reasonable degree of pleasure.

If only she hadn't fallen in love with Edward, she could enjoy the companionship of the members of her new family, and . .. Her breath caught, her thoughts rushing toward Edward once more like starlings toward the nest at evening.

The ache of loss was so strong in her that she would have liked to throw her head back in an animal howl of grief, but of course, a lady in company would never do such a thing. Instead, she smiled brightly and said that she would very much enjoy such an outing.

She did not, of course. The rest of the afternoon passed in a suspended blur, just as did the days that followed. At bedtime, she was scarcely able to recollect the events of the day just past. Her time was spent mainly with William or in her workroom. She conversed amiably with Aunt Emily and Artemis when she found herself in their company. She saw more of Barney but took little pleasure in her friend's company. Indeed, it seemed to her that the rest of her life stretched before her in one long, bleak, sunless corridor.

She tried to chivvy herself out of her doldrums with stern inward lectures. She pointed out that she had lived her life in reasonable contentment before the entrance into it of Edward Beresford, and she should, by God, be able to summon up the fortitude to complete the. rest of that life without him. All to no avail.

She wondered at length what would happen if she were to go to Edward, to tell him that the words she had spoken to him after that last magical kiss had been altogether false. That she wanted his friendship—that it was necessary to her. Perhaps she could intimate—in a ladylike manner, of course—that she was open to a more than friendly relationship.

Except that he had stated in the most painful of terms that he did not hold her declarations of friendship worth the smoke that curled up the chimney from the hearth across the room. Even if he could be made to believe that her dismissal of his overtures had been a lie, the ‘reason behind that lie would still crouch between them in all its ugliness.

For the hundredth time, the word
why?
echoed in her mind. How could she have let a fear of Edward's response hold her from telling him the truth about the forged painting? She had done nothing wrong! Even if he did not believe her, of course, she should have known that he would not take out his fury on a helpless child—one who might be the rightful Earl of Camberwell.

Why, indeed? Was she so conditioned by the behavior of the English gentlemen she had met in Evora? The same officers who had solicited her hand for the boulanger every Saturday evening at the Officers’ Mess apparently could not remember so much as her name following her near prosecution for fraud. Had she been so blighted by the behavior of those she called friends? They had turned away from her as one. Her own father had not denied her assertions; why should they believe her? Had these defections by those she had loved and trusted completely destroyed her faith that there were some people left on the earth who were steadfast and true, honorable and decent?

She sighed. She was doing it again—wallowing in self-pity and useless recriminations. She turned her attention to the pile of receipts in front of her.

Immediately, her gaze was caught by the record of a purchase of a marble figurine. Could it be the one she had found several days ago in a cupboard near the kitchen? Goodness, the ninth earl had paid a tidy sum for the little statue, though far below what its cost would be today.

Rising, she sped to the kitchen wing and flung open the small cupboard where she had discovered the art object days ago. It was not readily visible, and she moved aside the other statues, ancient vases and other impedimenta contained in the small area. She was eventually obliged to concede that whatever the cupboard had held five days ago, it no longer could boast a Franco figurine.

Well, for heaven's sake. Could she have mistaken the location? She spent the next two hours rummaging through closets, cupboards and remote chambers, with no success. The pretty little shepherdess had vanished.

She returned with a heavy tread to her workroom. Seating herself at the table, she began leafing through the receipts she had already perused. Several of these she set aside. They, too, represented objects that she had been unable to locate. Some of them she had not seen before, but a few had been examined by her but were now missing. She had thought little of this at the time, thinking that she must be mistaken in their locations—but she had been so positive about the Franco and had even mentioned it to ... To whom?

Her stomach clenched. She had spoken of it at the Gil-ford dinner party—to Stanford Welladay. Dear Lord, ignorant of the rift between herself and Edward, was he planning yet another accusation to undermine her position at Whitehouse Abbey?

She could have laughed if she weren't in such despair. Poor Uncle Stamford, weaving his plots and schemes, all for naught. She doubted that Edward would force her to leave the Abbey even if the statue were discovered beneath her pillow. He had stated his intention to do his best for William, and that, in his mind, apparently included William's faithless aunt.

Blindly she turned to the tiny window that lent the attic room its meager light. She stared at the landscape below and out to the shadowed chalk hills beyond. It was a lovely scene, but she took no consolation in its beauty. There were surely other magnificent landscapes in England, and she must steel herself to relocating to one of them soon.

She was about to move back to her table when a movement on the drive caught her eye. She stiffened. Surely that was one of the Camberwell carriages. Was it . . . ? She craned her neck to look down as it neared the entrance. When it stopped, the door flew open to reveal . . . Yes, it was he. Edward had returned.

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"Yes, thank you, Aunt, the trip went well.” Edward accepted a cap of tea from the dowager's hands. “The damage inflicted by the thieving bailiff was not as bad as I had anticipated. Fortunately, before he'd had a chance to really plunder the place, the farm supervisor heard him boasting to one of his cronies at the local alehouse."

"Well, in any event, it's good to have you home, my boy."

Edward smiled. Aunt Emily's attitude toward him had certainly improved since William's advent on the Camberwell scene.

"Where is Artemis?"

"I believe she is attending to some correspondence in her chambers."

"And Uncle Stanford?"

"Returned to London.” Lady Camberwell peered at Edward uncertainly. “He felt simply dreadful at being the cause of such turmoil in the family. He, ah, he thought it might be better if he took himself off again.” She attempted a weak laugh. “This time, I feel we can be assured that he won't bring any of the Belkers’ sort home with him. Goodness, what an unfortunate farrago!"

"Indeed."

Edward could not bring himself to ask about Helen's whereabouts. He wondered, with a sinking feeling, if she were still on the premises. It would be more than understandable if she now felt unwelcome in Edward Beresford's home. If she had left—as he had almost expected—surely Aunt Emily would have told him as soon as he entered the house. Not that her departure would be a bad thing. He was quite aware that she did not have the funds to set up her own establishment, but surely she must know that as a family member she was entitled to his support.

But why would she think anything of the sort? he asked himself the next moment. What made him think she would expect any sort of kindness from him? It was all too apparent that, no matter his offers of friendship—and more—she still regarded him as a crass, greedy caricature of an upper-class English gentleman, else she wouldn't have assumed that he would not believe her innocent of the dreadful accusation against her. And, furthermore, that he would use her supposed iniquity as an excuse to throw her and William and their claim right out the front door of Whitehouse Abbey.

Edward set down his teacup and, pleading the press of paperwork awaiting him in his study, left the room. On reaching his study, however, he did not seat himself at his desk but moved past it to the doors that opened out onto the east lawn. The thoughts of a few moments before trickled through his mind like an icy rainshower seeping down the collar of his coat. Dear God, how could things have come to such a pass between Helen and him?
Not that her departure would be such a bad thing.
Did he really think that Helen's absence from the Abbey would drive her from his thoughts—from his soul?

He stepped through the doors onto the east lawn, reliving the moment just a few weeks ago when he had opened the doors to let Helen in from the chill night. The memory of their subsequent embrace and the shattering kiss they had shared swept through him, rendering him almost numb with grief.

The next instant he shook himself and returned to the study, shutting the doors firmly behind him. He had made a fool of himself over a gray-eyed sorceress who, for a brief moment, had shared his thoughts and his hopes and evenings full of talk and laughter before the fireplace. It was high time that he pulled himself together and got on with his life. He had duties to perform, after all, and obligations to his family.