Once Beloved (11 page)

M
emories of her recent humiliation fresh and vivid in her mind, Helena hesitated in the doorway of the village shop, her hand trembling as she reached for the doorknob. Meeting her niece's gaze, she said, “We shall be quick. No time for frivolities or trinkets.”

“Yes, Auntie. As you said earlier, I shall keep to the list and only the list.”

She'd warned Vanessa in the most general terms about how standoffish the villagers might be, but she couldn't bring herself to tell anyone about the shunning. Mrs. Weathers had begun to soften toward her, showing her tiny kindnesses by allowing her to help in the kitchen, suggesting things she might find useful in the house, pointing out things she and her sister had left behind that they might enjoy. But perhaps that was a result of the diligence she and Vanessa had shown since their arrival. From sunup to the snuffing of the lights at night, every waking moment was devoted to Gran's well-being, including anything in the household that needed doing in order to promote her comfort. With Vanessa's help, she'd thoroughly scrubbed the sickroom, washed and aired the linens and window hangings, made the windows sparkle. They'd cleaned every inch of that bedroom. All that work did wonders, it seemed. Sun streamed in the windows, no longer impeded by cobwebs and dust. The very air, while still tinged with antiseptic and mustard poultices, was no longer musty and dank. It wasn't much, but it was a start. The doctor's visit was reassuring, and he'd thankfully not advocated any bloodletting. Instead, he'd provided them with several natural remedies for treatment, as well as a list of necessary items for her grandmother's comfort. After he departed, Gran dismissed his ideas as muckment. But Helena didn't think it would do any harm to try.

She didn't miss her niece's precocious tone, and she hoped Vanessa would conduct herself in a dignified manner. This wasn't London, and these people wouldn't understand her forthright, sometimes impish nature. She smiled tightly as she gestured for her niece to lead the way into the store.

Yet again, the past collided with the present. When she'd first come to mail the letter to Elizabeth confirming their safe arrival, she hadn't bothered to look around much, so preoccupied had she been worrying about the reactions her reappearance would incite. Now, she was at leisure to observe. So much of the large room was as she remembered it, the shelves packed to the ceiling, the tables piled with incongruous items. Here was a basket of ribbons next to bottles of lamp oil. There were lollipops next to sewing needles. She hadn't recognized the postmaster. The store used to belong to Mrs. Robinson, but she'd surely be in her nineties by now. That remarkable woman had always known exactly where to find any item in the store, always seen the order beneath the seeming chaos. As Vanessa went directly to the counter with the list in hand, Helena moved quietly toward a corner stacked with fabrics. Perhaps a bright new nightgown or a small pillow might brighten Gran's day. A simple item would take less than a day to sew. She rifled through the materials: cottons, wools, even a silk. A lovely yellow calico caught her eye, and then a simple blue worsted . . . so many possibilities. Immersed in the colors, patterns, and textures, even the distinct scents, she didn't realize how much time had passed until she felt a tap on her shoulder.

“Auntie, our order is ready.”

She straightened and made her way to the counter at the rear of the building. A woman she didn't recognize stood packing their items into a crate. As she and Vanessa approached, however, the woman looked at her and froze with a sour expression and narrowed eyes. Helena's stomach dropped, but she continued to move forward. Just before she reached the counter, the woman picked up the half-packed crate without saying a word and went through a curtained doorway into a back room, leaving the remaining items on the counter. The moment the clerk was out of view, Helena heard what she had to assume was the woman's voice, loud and vociferous.

“Louis, can you believe that Thorton strumpet has the nerve to show her face here? Again?”

Louis? That wasn't the name of any of Mrs. Robinson's sons, at least not that she could recall. He must be the postmaster she'd encountered. Now she could only hear the deep indistinct mumbling of his voice, not his actual sentiment. His rough tone was not reassuring. Then she heard the woman say, “Well, if you won't get those whores out of here, I will! They can rot, for all I care.”

“Auntie, what is happening?” Vanessa whispered. “She was so helpful before. Is she talking about us? What could have changed her demeanor so abruptly?”

“Undoubtedly, me, dear. My very appearance, as Mr. Lanfield so accurately predicted,” she replied tersely.

“What is wrong with your appearance? You are dressed quite normally.”

“Oh, my sweet, don't joke. Some people here have very long memories. It is as Mr. Lanfield predicted.” She could hardly stand to let the words pass through her lips. He'd been absolutely right.

“What should we do now?” her niece asked.

“What can we do? We wait for her to return. Gran needs those remedies.”

They didn't have to wait very long. As another shopper entered, the bell attached to the door rang out, and the clerk poked her head out of the curtains. Her jaw set and her eyes icy, she met Helena's gaze before shifting away to find the newcomer.

“Oh, Mrs. Carter! How nice to see you! I shall be with you momentarily.” Then the clerk disappeared into the back room again.

Standing at the counter, Helena spied Mrs. Carter, an older woman she recognized from her youth. “Good morning,” she called, and the other woman merely narrowed her eyes. Had she been on the street that day? Had she been one of the ones to turn her back? When the clerk returned, Helena braced herself. That sick feeling in her stomach grew, and heat prickled her cheeks.

“You won't be able to purchase what you want here,” the clerk said. “You should go.” The clerk moved toward the end of the counter, her attention focused on Mrs. Carter. Helena stepped into her path, equal parts embarrassed and determined.

“May we at least purchase the essentials we need, Missus . . . ?” she asked, dipping her head. She could swallow her pride for her grandmother's sake.

“My name, not that it is any of your concern, is Mrs. Wyatt, and my husband and I run a respectable shop. We reserve the right to decline to serve customers, as prudence demands,” the woman replied, frowning and unyielding. “Your money is no good here. I objected to his even taking your letter, but he's a duty as postmaster that he can't ignore.”

“But we need at least the mustard seed and herbs and flour for my great-grandmother, Mrs. Thorton,” Vanessa interjected. “As you may know, she's very, very ill, and the physician is not hopeful. Her breathing has become labored. We desperately need anything that can give her some ease.”

“That is not my concern,” the clerk said, but her expression weakened.

Helena whispered to her niece, “If you think you can convince her, I shall step away. Clearly, my presence is the problem. She treated you as a normal customer. Whatever the cost, see if you can at least get what is necessary, for Gran's sake.”

When Vanessa nodded slightly, Helena turned to the clerk and said, “Please excuse me, Mrs. Wyatt. I am sorry to disturb you and your patrons.” She made her way to the door, bumping against a table in her haste and nearly toppling a lantern on display. She hated the thought of leaving her niece to deal with the transaction, but she was certain there was no way the woman would concede in front of her. She couldn't but notice that, as she wound through the tables toward the door, Mrs. Carter watched her aptly and maintained a wide berth. How lowering.

As she exited the shop, she heard Vanessa pleading quite prettily. Sweet, headstrong girl.

Outside, she took a deep breath, the air refreshing her spirit and clearing away some of the miasma that had pressed upon her in the shop. Mr. Lanfield had warned them; only now did his words coalesce into reality. All the anger and resentment she'd attributed to her parents and the Lanfields—it wasn't just them, and it wasn't just a matter of strong emotion. Emotion translated to action, action that affected not only her but anyone attached to her. She'd been prepared to be treated as a pariah. Yet it hadn't occurred to her that such malice would be extended to innocents—to her vulnerable grandmother, to her sweet niece. Had her parents been thus condemned by everyone? Had her grandmother been abandoned, leading to her condition?

She worried her lip as she waited for Vanessa and breathed a deep sigh when the girl opened the door carrying a small package. It wasn't large enough to hold even half of what they'd originally wanted, but it was better than nothing. One look at Vanessa's pale face raised her internal alarms again, however, and she quickly led the girl in the direction of home. Vanessa's quick but wavering smile only worried her more.

 

As if by tacit agreement, Helena and her niece walked out of Marksby at a swift pace. Ribbons of fluffy clouds now filled the sky, making odd shadow patterns on the land around them. She saw darkening skies far ahead of them. That was all the day wanted—for them to be caught in a storm on this road.

“I have never encountered such viciousness, Auntie!” Vanessa burst out. “Well, at least not personally. That woman was unbearably rude! It galled me to hand over our money to her.”

“Did she insult you again after I left the building?” She could bear any insult against her, but she wouldn't allow her innocent niece to be the target of such ugliness.

“No . . . not really. Not exactly.” Her niece's clenched fists belied her words, as did the way the girl's chin jutted out defensively.

“What did she say, dear? You can tell me.”

“She didn't say anything to insult me personally, but she defamed you horribly.” Vanessa's hands rose in fists, surely without her awareness, and she spoke with such righteous indignation. “She was so bitter and angry and used such coarse language. I've heard worse but only on the streets of London.”

Helena could only imagine the woman's string of complaints and epithets. Her stomach twisted at the thought of her niece suffering abuse on her behalf.

“Don't give her another thought. Her words mean nothing to me.”

“She called us whores, didn't she? When she was in the back?” Vanessa shot back, indignantly. “No one has ever called
me
a whore. And you are one of the most admirable women I know. She doesn't know a thing about us, and yet she spewed such slander!”

“Shh. It's over now. Perhaps if we need anything else while we're here, we can take a small jaunt to Bradford instead.”

“That is how you plan to respond, Auntie? You cannot be run off by such horrible people. That's not right. It's not fair.” Her niece looked at her, affronted and resolute.

“Dear heart, as unpleasant as the streets of London can be, you haven't seen this kind of nastiness up close. I can only hope Gran's health will improve soon, and we won't have to seek supplies again. If I've caused so much trouble that it hasn't dissipated over the past twenty years, I don't expect to mend such a massive breach in a week or two. It would take too much valuable energy to combat that level of animosity now. Gran needs our attention, not this ancient history. Believe me, all will be well.”

“If you say so,” Vanessa replied, as if tired of the conversation. “But it's still not just, and you shouldn't have to suffer it. Oh, look at those lovely flowers! They would certainly brighten Gran's rooms!” With her characteristically swift shift in attention, Vanessa veered into the field and quickly picked a handful. They continued on their way in what Helena hoped was a companionable silence, having left the village and its unpleasantness behind them.

The clouds had thickened considerably by the time they reached the milestone Helena knew was their halfway point. The sun was no longer visible. The gray skies and shadowed hills were achingly reminiscent.

“What are you thinking of, Auntie? You look so far away, suddenly.”

“I'm just missing your uncle. We first met along this road to Marksby, you know. Or perhaps you don't. My boys have heard the story countless times with endless amusement, but I don't know if you ever heard it.”

“I don't think so. Was it romantic?”

“Hardly, unless mud and embarrassment are now considered romantic. One never knows with you young ones.” She flicked a flower petal in the girl's direction and caught a distant, dreamy look in her niece's eye. Was it put there by thoughts of whoever had prompted her parents to send her out of London? All too well she remembered the feelings suggested by that look, and she wasn't exactly in an authoritative position to chastise her niece for developing impulsive romantic attachments. A heavy cloud slipped in front of the sun again, placing them in a small circle of darkness while the rest of the hill glowed. An answering darkness slipped over her heart as bittersweet memories flooded her mind. “I was returning home from visiting my grandmother, in fact. This was when my grandfather was alive, and they lived at the Grove. I'd brought over some of my mother's wonderful pies, and in return Gran sent me back with a package of very special treats she'd received from a friend on the Continent. She assured me they were like nothing Elizabeth and I had ever tasted. She went on and on about them, making me promise to treat them with care.”

“Didn't you just want to tear into them on your walk home?”

A pang shot through her. How like Vanessa she'd been!

“Oh, absolutely! It was temptation such that I'd never known before,” she admitted. “After all, Gran's words made it such a challenge. What could possibly be that good? But I wasn't a child anymore, so I was determined to behave appropriately.” That was perhaps the last thing she'd done back then that her family would deem appropriate. “I never did get to taste them.”