Once Beloved (10 page)

Mrs. Weathers looked shocked, and even perhaps offended, at the idea. “She won't go, you know.”

“She might not have a choice, depending on what's best for her health.”

“For those of us who know the meaning of home and family, leaving isn't a choice.”

Well, now she knew where the old housekeeper stood.

Helena sighed and said, “I would hazard a guess that my niece and I shall be here a month, at the most.” No longer than that. God help her, she wouldn't put up with this for more than a month. If Gran were willing, travel arrangements could surely be made quickly and the estate settled within that time. If Gran wouldn't go . . . well, they'd have to make things up as they went. “When is the physician due to check on her condition?”

The housekeeper's confused expression set her nerves on edge. “I don't—that is, she doesn't wish—that is, I can't really say.”

She let out an even heavier sigh.
Saints preserve us.
They hadn't even called a physician! Who knew what ailments Gran suffered and how they might be eased? What if a simple remedy existed? “Please send for one immediately!”

“You'll have to speak with her about that. She's not comfortable with the nearest physician's impertinent hands, she says.”

“Oh, I'll speak with her. There must be someone who can see to her medical care properly.”

Mrs. Weathers looked for a moment as if she'd been force-fed a bushel of lemons. “She won't like it.”

“My grandmother requested that I come see her in her hour of need. Here I am, and I shall see that she receives the best possible care.”

The lemons must have multiplied, because the woman's face screwed up even more tightly, as she said, “If you think our care's been inadequate or abusive, I wish you'd come out and say so. I've done my best to tend to the Grand-dame's needs, and it isn't an easy task. My husband and I have been in her service for over thirty years now, and we love her as if she were my own sister. If you want to accuse me of mistreatment, at least be direct about it.”

Helena recoiled from the defensive outburst. Taking a step back, she responded, “Oh, no, Mrs. Weathers. Honestly, I meant nothing of the sort! You've always taken excellent care of Gran and seen to her every need. And I remember well her distrust of people outside of our family. But there have been medical advancements, and someone well-trained in modern medicine could make all the difference in her condition.”

“Well, as I said, you'll have to discuss all that with her,” Mrs. Weathers responded, mollified but clearly not completely convinced.

“Indeed, I shall. Believe me, I have no desire to upset the apple cart here. But new approaches do sometimes improve upon older ones.”

“Yes, you would think so. Do as you see fit. I'm sure that's your plan in any case.” With that astoundingly impertinent remark, the old woman swept out the room, shutting the door behind her. Helena could hear her mumbling down the hallway about having to start cooking dinner earlier with more mouths to feed.

She hadn't expected a warm welcome, but she couldn't help being distressed by the harsh reality.

 

The sun was setting as Daniel finally approached his home, dark and solitary. A tall, reedy figure on horseback stood in silhouette against the barn doors. He'd known village gossip traveled quickly, but here was incontrovertible proof. He couldn't see his brother's expression, but his presence didn't bode well. Gordon didn't normally welcome him home. That wasn't their way. They always met at dawn at the Lanfield main barn for work. When was the last time Gordon had set foot on his homestead? And Ruth would have his hide—well, both their hides—if her husband was late for supper.

When he pulled up to the doors, Gordon dismounted and moved to begin unbuckling the cart's harness.

“Heard you were back,” Gordon said, his tone gruff and laconic, as usual.

“Aye.”

They continued the work of getting Talos unhitched. The only noise for a while was the dull clang of buckles and slaps of leather as they went about their task. Daniel wasn't in any mood to volunteer information. When he turned to lead his tired horse into the barn, Gordon spoke.

“Heard you had passengers with you.” Others might misinterpret the flat statement as casual conversation, but Gordon rarely spoke without purpose and direction. This was him being canny.

“Oh, aye.” Daniel stopped and looked back at his brother. He cocked his head as he waited patiently for the next comment.

“A mother and daughter, some have guessed.”

“You've heard a lot. Since when are you one to go gammering?” When his brother simply waved away his question, he decided there was no point in drawing out the inevitable revelations. Gordon probably already knew their identities, although a do-dance like this wasn't his brother's way. If he had a question, he would normally just ask directly. So maybe Gordon hadn't learned whom he'd brought back. Maybe Marksby didn't know, and the women were still a mystery. But everyone would find the truth of her identity soon; even if she stayed at the Thorton house, her presence couldn't stay hidden for long. “Niece, not daughter. And, in case you haven't yet heard, it was Helena Thorton, though now she's Mrs. Helena Martin. The girl, her niece, is Miss Elizabeth's bairn, nearly grown.”

As if he'd mumped his sibling or slammed him in the stomach unawares, Gordon went slack-jawed. He knew the feeling well himself, especially as it related to Mrs. Martin. He nodded in sympathy as his brother began imitating a fish out of water, his mouth gaping, wavering, grasping at words instead of air. Finally, Gordon spoke, his voice hoarse, as if he had to push the words out. “What do you mean? Miss Helena? Returned?”

“For all the world, brother, I wish it weren't so, but I met her by chance in London. When she received a letter from Grand-dame Thorton, she set herself to returning. What do you know of their grandmother's illness?”

“Word is she's near death's door,” Gordon said, looking serious, almost reverent. “Never thought I'd see the day.”

“She has the heart of an ox, Mrs. Thorton does.”

“No doubt,” Gordon agreed, gruffly, “but I was talking about that strumpet, Miss Helena. Never thought she'd be so brazen as to show her face here again.” His voice held a strange mix of anger and wonder, shot through with bitterness. “Maybe just after she ran off, realizing her mistake, or maybe when her mum passed . . . but it's been so long. Never would've thought to see her again.”

“You needn't see her,” Daniel replied. It would be best if Gordon didn't, if his shock was any indication. He knew his brother had been devastated by her betrayal, but they hadn't spoken of the woman in years. Gordon's rancor now was palpable. Best for both he and Helena that they pretend she wasn't near. “She's here to care for the Grand-dame, that's all. I already warned her to avoid the village.”

“Why did you bring her?” Gordon asked accusingly.

“If you'd told me when I left that I would come back with the likes of her and her kin, I'd have said you were cracked. I still don't gaum how it happened. When her Gran sent for her, she couldn't refuse. She needs to be here. As to why I drove them, I was there when the decision was made. She has very determined, very persuasive friends who said she and the lass wouldn't be safe traveling by rail.” He hesitated and decided instantly that Gordon didn't need to know about Mrs. Martin's fears and fainting spells. He summarized, “They were in need, and it seemed only right to bring them when I was traveling to the very place they needed to go. I couldn't turn my back on them.”

“Sure, you could,” Gordon said firmly. “If that—if she were so determined, she could've made her way on her own. If she had trouble, why, it might've convinced her not to bother.”

He considered telling his brother that was exactly what he'd intended. But it wasn't what he'd done in the end so it wasn't worth rehashing. Mrs. Martin was here now, for good or ill. He could only hope the woman would be judicious enough not to draw attention to herself.

“Best keep your distance from the Thortons while they're here,” Gordon proclaimed as he stood in the stance Daniel had come to recognize when they were much younger. His brother was laying down the law or at least trying to. He never took Gordon's imperious orders well.

“Think I don't already know that?” he responded, matching his tone to his brother's. “What need have I to seek their company again? You know me better than that.”

“Aye, I do know you. And that's exactly why I said it. Does she know about your homestead? About the property line?”

He cringed inwardly. Anyone with eyes could have seen how Mrs. Martin had reeled from the changes she'd seen here.

“Nay. I haven't said anything. She's here to care for her Gran, not the Thorton lands. The knowledge of the land transfer would only bring her pain. And there's naught she could do to change it now.”

“That bodes well,” his brother said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “You should have convinced her to stay in London. She doesn't belong here.”

“Gordon, be calm. What's done is done, and she won't be here long.”

“Easy for you to say, brother. Just stay away from her.”

“That's my plan.”

A
fter confirming with Mrs. Weathers that the post office was where she remembered and that the path there was the same, Helena rushed out after breakfast, leaving Vanessa to help the housekeeper clean up and see to Gran's morning needs. Anxious to assure Elizabeth and the children that they'd arrived safely, Helena penned a letter to them the night before. She'd have to be prudent about sending missives in light of her limited funds and her grandmother's need of medical attention, but this letter should go as soon as possible to reassure everyone at home. She'd chosen her words carefully, not wanting to alarm her sister about Gran's severe condition but needing to vent some of her shock at the changes she'd encountered.

So alarmed was she by her grandmother's difficult breathing that she'd spent the night in the rocker by her bed, dozing lightly and awakened by every cough. It reminded her of nights she'd kept vigil over the boys when they caught sniffles. That same post-vigil fatigue had settled into her bones, and every step felt like she was weighed down with stones.

Traversing the fields, she had that same sense of time slippage, as if she were in her youth again. Only occasionally did small changes strike her consciousness as odd, and even then she wasn't sure if they were new or simply not remembered. The small stone bridge arched over the beck where she expected it to be, but it looked and felt a bit different than she recalled. Farther along, on a slight rise, she encountered a low wall she was sure hadn't been there before. Then, as she stepped over the stile, she saw a compact house framed by a grove of trees. A barn sat a few yards beyond it. She was absolutely certain these structures were new, and she looked around in confusion. This was Thorton property, was it not? Who could be living there? She would have to ask Mrs. Weathers about this new occupant.

These new surprising features lent her imagination convenient fodder, distracting her from her body's morning aches and twinges. With each step toward the village, she pictured the stone wall and imagined building it higher and wider and thicker. In her mind, it could withstand any onslaught, any criticism, any insult lobbed at her. This mental exercise had served her well for many years with but a few exceptions. Whatever derision or enmity she encountered in her former hometown, it would not change who she was and what she valued. It wouldn't change the love she'd found and the life she'd built.

When she entered Marksby, brimming with confidence and resolve, the lane through the village was quiet, no man nor beast in sight. As she approached the shop where the post was run, some women exited laden with packages. They stared at her as if she were some kind of museum exhibit, so she greeted them pleasantly and proceeded into the building. She remembered that too, the wariness with which Marksbians viewed strangers in their midst. Isaiah had noted it during his stay long ago, claiming that what made the Thorton household so particularly appealing was their ready hospitality in an area so forbidding. From today's fleeting encounter, she didn't recognize the women, and she was sure they didn't recognize her or else there would have been more explosive reactions, at least according to Mr. Lanfield. But then, she still suspected he'd been exaggerating for effect.

Her interaction with the postmaster was likewise mundane. When he inquired about her business in Marksby, she explained her grandmother's situation, and his reaction was neutral and polite as he wished Mrs. Thorton well. Surely, Mr. Lanfield's perceptions of the village's condemnation must have been clouded by his own animosity.

Just before she left the shop, she heard a low female voice whispering furiously thorough a heavy curtain behind the counter. The postmaster pushed through the divider, saying “Now, now, dear . . .” She couldn't discern the trouble, but she refused to believe that it had anything to do with her. Shopkeepers had many concerns.

As she closed the shop door firmly behind her, she was shocked to find that the main thoroughfare was no longer deserted. Various men and women, some of them in tight groups and others standing individually in doorways, dotted the lane.
How odd
, she thought, as her breathing quickened. Even odder, she couldn't help but notice, was that they all appeared to be watching her. Everywhere she turned, the people along the road were looking at her. A woman at the curb down the way whispered something to her companion, whose eyes widened as she stared and stared. Later, when she recalled the incident in the safety of her bedroom, she would realize that there had been no more than two dozen people out there, but in the moment, they seemed legion. Helena's stomach turned over as she looked around at all the unfriendly faces, and that familiar surge of anxiety shot up through her throat. She turned toward home, focusing on moving her feet forward. Keep walking. One step, then another, then another. Ignore everything else. Just keep moving forward.

“Helena Thorton!” someone called out behind her. She stopped, her heart pounding so hard she feared it would burst out of her chest where she stood, and she turned in the direction of the high feminine voice that carried to her. Her throat dried and seized, but she couldn't swallow.
I'm Mrs. Martin now. Mrs. Martin. I have a family; I have young children who need their mother.
She opened her mouth but couldn't get any words out. An older woman who looked vaguely familiar nodded and said, in a shrill, cutting voice, “I heard you'd come. You should be ashamed to set foot here! Now you can bear witness to the ruin you left behind.” With that, she slowly and quite obviously turned until she presented her back. The woman stood with one hand on a thick cane and another on her husband's arm. Yes, suddenly she recognized them, this couple who'd been friends with her parents, although she could not guess their names. The wife must have said something to her spouse because he nodded, looked at Helena sharply, and then very slowly and deliberately turned his back. Then, one after another, without a word, the villagers along the street followed suit. Not a single person spared her a merciful look or gesture. An awful silence filled the air. She'd never felt so mortified.

She rushed out of the village.
Keep moving forward. All will be well. Keep moving forward. All will be well.
Only after she'd crossed a few stiles and several hills stood between her and the village did she stop to lean against a tree and catch her breath. She would not cry, would not allow the village the satisfaction of insulting her. If any hot tears fell, she wouldn't acknowledge them.

When she arrived at the Thorton house, Vanessa asked, “Is something wrong, Auntie? Has something upset you?”

She shook her head. “Nothing at all, dear. Perhaps I'm not so accustomed to this fresh country air anymore. It will pass, I'm sure.” The rest of the household need not know about her humiliation. As soon as her grandmother's health was resolved, she and Vanessa would happily escape the confines of this petty, small-minded, vindictive little village.

 

News tended to travel with remarkable speed through these lands, and so it was no surprise to Daniel when some of the neighboring farmers rode out to meet him as he went along the Lanfield perimeter, reacquainting himself with the flocks. By the time he paused for lunch at the northernmost point, half a dozen men had found reason to greet him and share their perspectives on the return of the pariah Helena Thorton Martin. More importantly, they'd felt it necessary to share their wives' surprisingly strong and vocal objections to her presence in the village. Half a dozen times he explained that she only intended to care for the Grand-dame and that he'd done only his Christian duty in assisting her and that he, of all people, was as irate about her return as anyone else.

A heavy ball of dread settled in his wame as he caught sight of his brother galloping toward him. Gordon handled the books and oversaw the farm's operations, which meant he rarely rode out this far.

“What's wrong, brother?” he called out.

“You need to fix this situation with Mrs. Martin and quickly!”

Daniel resisted the urge to roll his eyes at his brother's urgency. “This was so urgent you needed to ride up here? We had this discussion last night. My association with the woman is done. There's naught to fix.” Except for a few concerned neighbors, whom he'd set straight.

“Have you any idea how many people have already been to the house this morning? Prattling like fishwives. If it wasn't the men coming to me spouting things about injustice, it was the women coming to commiserate with Ruth.”

“Aye, I got an earful from some of our neighbors along the wall.”

“People keep asking about you too. Why did you have to bring her yourself? Let her make her way as any stranger would. Folks are confounded and none too happy with you.”

He'd been asking himself the same thing for days now. He thought back to the sight of her helpless and insensible at the Great Exhibition, of her standing vulnerable and defenseless in the courtyard of the inn. Any woman in such circumstances would draw sympathy, wouldn't she? He had cause to despise her, but he needn't turn into a monster and abandon his own values in return.

“It was a simple twist of fate, Gordon. Who would have guessed that, in a city of thousands, I would have encountered her? And in such a time of need?” Unaccountably, he was reluctant to mention her fainting spells. That seemed too personal, not his to share. “The Grand-dame was practically our own grandmother once. Mrs. Martin has persuasive friends in London, and one of their husbands might yet prove to be a fortuitous connection.” Even as he said it, he could hear the weakness of his arguments. But he couldn't fully convey the imperative he'd felt in his breast to do her the simple courtesy of a ride in his cart. Gordon's lips quirked skeptically. “You would have done the same, Gordon. Despite everything, you would have brought her here yourself. There were . . . other factors, and it wouldn't have been right to leave her and her niece without escort.”

“That damn noble protective streak of yours.”

“It's been a long time, and Mrs. Martin has changed, I think. What she did to you was inexcusable, but all our lives have changed a great deal since then.”

“She would be wise to stay out of sight as much as possible. Have you heard about her visit to the Wyatt shop this morning?”

As his brother related the story about the villagers shunning her, a chill ran through Daniel. What had possessed her to parade herself in Marksby the day after her arrival? She was lucky they'd treated her so cordially, compared to what they might've done. An unwelcome image of her insensible and injured, even bloodied, flashed before his eyes, and his entire body tensed.

He couldn't help the odd sense of admiration at how Mrs. Martin blithely dismissed the negativity she encountered. She soldiered on. He'd expected her to collapse into a helpless mess and run back to London weeping, but she'd held her head high and faced her critics honestly, bravely.

Despite himself, he appreciated how she'd negotiated a space for herself here. And he had to admit too that his visceral reactions to her reawakened a fire in him that he hadn't felt toward a woman in a long time. Perhaps it was the fact that there was no chance of emotional attachment between them. Perhaps it was his native protectiveness spilling into something more. Perhaps it was the intensity of his animosity seeking a different outlet. Whatever it was, he could no longer deny his body's heightened awareness of her. Nor his increasingly insistent desire to be in her presence, to watch over her, to shield her. A heat he hadn't felt in years surged through him at the thought of her delicate neck.

He shifted in his saddle as a particular body part awakened. What irony that he'd be aroused by this woman. The feel of her hair, her soft pillowing flesh—the memory of even the lightest touch set him alight rather inconveniently.