Once Beloved (2 page)

“M
ake way,” Daniel bellowed as he waded across the alcove. He had the advantage of bulk. In most situations, people moved out of the way when he approached. Why should London not follow the same pattern? “There's a lass injured. Make way.”

In retrospect, he had no idea why that matronly woman had caught his attention. She could have been anyone, just another nameless, nondescript woman. And yet, she wasn't. She had an air of fragility, a vulnerability that he could sense from yards away. He'd noticed her perhaps three-quarters of an hour before, standing with her companions, glancing periodically at the children who were undoubtedly her offspring. This mother and her boys all had the same dark hair, the same thin faces, the same high cheekbones and sharp noses. At first, she'd seemed somehow familiar, but he could not place her. What was most peculiar about her was that, unlike everyone else, she paid no attention to the actual exhibits. People came to the Great Exhibition either to see the myriad wonders or to see—and be seen—by the populace. At least that was what he'd observed thus far during his trip. This woman appeared to have no interest any of that. In fact, she appeared to be suffering, enfolding like a moonflower at dawn, intimidated by the vibrantly intrusive sun. If that were the case, why come at all? As a massive group invaded the alcove, her agitation increased conspicuously as she was separated from the rest of her party. When she clawed at her throat with a panicked expression, an alarm sounded in his head, urging him to close the distance between them. Could no one else see her distress? When the woman's head lolled back like a rag doll and she suddenly dropped from view, Daniel knew he had to move quickly.

A sharp feminine voice cried out, “Back away, all of you! You'll crush her!” When he was within a few feet of where he'd last seen the woman, the crowd parted enough for him to see one of her companions pushing people away from her lifeless body, slumped on the ground with dusty shoe marks on her skirt. He gathered the woman into his arms, careful to cushion her head. Her dead weight disturbed him, but her breath blew warm and regular against his jaw.

“Please, I say again, make way.” He used the voice he reserved for calling to farmhands across the Lanfield grazing hills. “This woman needs medical assistance.” When he used that voice, he expected to be obeyed. It worked about as well here as it did with the farmhands, the sea of people parting immediately as they murmured and gawked. He made his way out of the alcove toward a secluded bench, where he cradled her in his arms. Later, when he knew more about the woman in his arms, he would feel uneasy about holding her so intimately, so insistently. Something about her warmth and her softness called to his protective nature. But in this moment, the low whimper that escaped her simply made him clench her to his chest more tightly.

“Your assistance, sir, is appreciated,” said that same feminine voice, a bit more softly and gently, “but perhaps you might give her some room to breathe.”

He looked up to see one of the woman's companions looming over him, frowning, but with her eyes focused on the woman he held.

“Beg pardon?” he said, as his arms tensed.

“No need to beg pardon, sir. Simply unhand my friend so that I may attend to her properly. You might also make yourself useful by fetching a physician.”

He opened his mouth to object, but this singularly bold woman had already moved to untie the ribbons on her unconscious friend's bonnet. Some pins clattered to the bench and to the ground from the removal, and dark brown waves of hair, nearly ebony but glowing with red and gold and silver in spots where stray beams of light fell, went askew. He'd only caught a glimpse of the dark locks framing her face, but free of the bonnet, the soft strands that brushed his supporting arm may as well have been on fire, so visceral was his body's reaction to them.

“Helena,” the woman said, as she fanned her friend with the bonnet. “Helena, can you hear me? You must wake. Your sons are worried.”

That startled him, the mention of the boys he'd seen her watching. Her sons, of course. They now stood a small distance away, watching intently. Even if they hadn't looked so similar, anyone could tell by their seriousness that she was their mother. The younger boy looked as if he wanted nothing more than to run to his mother and cling to her, but the older boy took his hand and whispered something unintelligible in his brother's ear, something pacifying that straightened the young one's spine with resolve. Their controlled concern made him suspect they'd witnessed her collapsing before. Only then did the woman's words sink fully into his consciousness; he was embracing a total stranger, a respectable woman, in front of her children, no less. He ought to establish a proper distance, lest her people, including the husband she must have, be outraged by his familiarity.

“Is this your mother, young man?” he said to the older child, who nodded solemnly. “She's breathing easy but should be watched. Your coat'd make a fine cushion for her head. Be a good lad and bring it here.”

The boy rushed over as he tried to shrug out of his coat without releasing his brother's hand. It would have been comical seeing them bluster along, if their expressions weren't so somber. Something nagged at him as he looked at them, that strange and fleeting sense of familiarity. As gently as he could, he laid the woman on the bench with her son's coat pillowing her head and moved a respectable pace away. He should go see if he could find a physician, as the other woman had suggested, but he found himself reluctant to leave her side, reluctant to lose sight of her.

She was lighter than she looked. When he carried her, he felt her soft, fleshy curves against his arms and chest, reminding him of a painting he'd once seen by some famous painter. Yet she felt light in his embrace. But then, ladies probably wouldn't appreciate knowing that they felt lighter than the average ram or on par with a ewe ready for breeding.

“Thank you, sir. This is most kind of you,” her companion said, her attention focused on her friend. She rapped the woman's hand and said firmly, “Helena, you must wake up.” But she didn't appear to be alarmed.

“Has this happened to your friend before?”

“Unfortunately, yes. She sometimes has these spells, especially when surrounded by large groups of people. Fortunately, they don't last long. She should wake on her own momentarily.”

That explained the unconscious woman's odd demeanor earlier. Still, why would she choose to come here voluntarily with such a condition?

“She could have been severely injured if you hadn't caught her,” the woman continued. “Is there some way I can repay you for your assistance.”

“No man worth his salt would ignore a woman in distress. Nor would he accept repayment for his aid.”

“I wish all men thought as you do.” He thought he heard her sigh and she straightened. Her flowered hat tilted rather precariously from all the activity. “I am Mrs. Frederick Clarke, and my husband and I would be delighted if you would join us for dinner.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Clarke. Daniel Lanfield. I'm in London only for a short time. Your hospitality is—”

The woman he now knew was named Helena gasped as she revived.

“I must get out of here!” she exclaimed as she tried to rise, only to be restrained by Mrs. Clarke, who admonished, “Mrs. Martin, you shall do no such thing. You've just had an episode, so you will now sit quietly until we are certain you have suffered no ill effects.”

“Marissa! I can't breathe! Let me go!” She pushed Mrs. Clarke away, her expression filled with unseeing panic.

“Ma'am, you've had a spell,” Daniel said quietly. When she focused her glazed eyes on him, he continued, still unsure whether she truly heard, “You were breathing just fine during your episode.” He knelt near her head, conscious of maintaining enough space to keep her from feeling trapped. “It appears you may be a bit overwrought. Mind you, your fine lads are just over there, quite worried for your health.”

A play of emotions ranged over her face as she listened, and then confusion and indignation shifted to clarity and concern when she turned to look at her sons. Slowly, she sat up and composed herself. He was struck then by her fine features, which conveyed a gentle demeanor and undeniable motherly affection. He wondered at the husband who must watch over her, wondered what type of man he was, wondered whether he roused his wife's fear or tamed it, and wondered why he would allow her to visit this place without his care.

That nagging sense of familiarity struck him again. He knew this woman somehow. Yet, strangely, his instinct told him he should leave. Immediately. With his first appointment for the day scheduled after noon, Daniel had sufficient time, he hoped, to enjoy what he'd come to London for. Of course, for the sake of furthering Lanfield business, he'd spent the past few weeks taking every meeting he could wrangle in order to propose supplying major London manufacturers with their family's materials. And, of course, he was much more adept at such business dealings than his elder brother, Gordon. But this was what he'd been looking forward to, the opportunity to examine all these clever machines up close, the opportunity to explore these modern engineering marvels, ones he should have been designing himself.

 

Warmth. Firm, secure warmth beneath her. A murmur seemed to grow louder, though, a discomfiting mélange of people, so many people. If she could just focus on the warmth surrounding her, she could ignore the mob. Then the warmth left, replaced by a cool, hard slab. A familiar voice cut through the chatter, Marissa's usual commanding tone. She adored her friend, but really Marissa could be so overbearing. For the first time in years, she'd felt comfort and relief, at least until the cold slab beneath her. If Marissa would quiet down, perhaps she could find that warmth again. But, no, of course, Marissa would not be deterred. And then a different voice entered her consciousness, a deep and resonating voice that warmed her from the inside. And that voice spoke of her sons.

Helena opened her eyes and sat up. It took her a few moments to comprehend the situation. Above, beams of light passing through clouds were crisscrossed by the iron grid of the roof. But something dark eclipsed half of the cloud-framing roof—a man's hat. A silhouette loomed above her, large and broad, and the faint but comforting scent of fresh wool that somehow made its way through the myriad odors that always seemed to accompany large gatherings of people.

She tried to stand, and a sharp pain reverberated through her skull as she heard her head crack against his. She reached up to rub her temple as strong hands grasped her shoulders. A string of curses flitted through her brain, sounding remarkably like what she heard the deep voice beside her muttering.

“Helena, dear, you must stay still and rest!” Marissa cried out. Right. Marissa was by her side so this couldn't be as bad as it seemed. Of all people, Marissa would not have left her alone with a total stranger, a stranger who even now felt too close.

“What happened?” she asked, as she inched away from the man crouching nearby. Now that she could see his face, she thought she could detect pity in his expression. She cursed inwardly at her weakness as she realized what must have occurred.

“Sweetheart, you had a bit of a fainting spell,” Marissa explained. “With the press of the crowds, we were quite lucky that this gentleman rescued you from being trampled.”

Trampled. The mere word filled her vision with the memory of Isaiah's broken and bloodied form, and along with it the impotent fear and rage as she knelt by him. She swallowed hard as a sharp pang hit her chest at the thought of him, a stab no less trenchant for the passage of time. Gone two years, he loomed large and close in her mind, the loss of him no less devastating. She'd soldiered on, of course, for their children, all of them lost and wounded, bereft of the sun around which their family had revolved. Over those years, this clawing panic when among masses of strangers had grown and dug deeper into her mind. She knew her reactions were irrational, but the fear became stronger, enveloped her faster at each succeeding occasion.

She'd thought being here would be different. Or at least, she'd wanted to believe her Needlework for the Needy partners when they'd said it was time, she would be fine, and the Exhibition wouldn't be as crowded now that it was winding down.

But something about the crowd sparked that ageless fear all over again. And now, Mark and Tommy looked so distressed. She'd ruined it.

“Come here, boys,” she said, as she sat up and reached her hands out to them. She cupped Mark's cheek. “No harm done. I suppose all this was just too much excitement for me.” She glanced at Marissa and inclined her head in question. Relieved by her friend's smiling nod, she continued, “You two should go on exploring. Just don't stray too far from Mrs. Clarke and Mrs. Duchamp. I shall rest here for the time being. Then perhaps we can stop for ices on our way home.”

She tried to sound strong, calm, unperturbed, and the boys seemed to take her at her word, both of them pressing Marissa and Honoria to return to the machinery exhibits.

Honoria went with them easily, but Marissa hesitated and said, “I would feel better if you received medical attention, dear.”

“You are sweet, but I assure you I am fine, especially in this quiet corner. The boys deserve to have their outing.”

Still, Marissa wouldn't leave. With a little shake of her head, she said, “Silly me. Introductions are in order! Mr. Lanfield, we really cannot thank you enough for your kindness. Helena, please allow me to introduce your rescuer, Mr. Lanfield, I believe?” He nodded and Marissa continued, “Sir, I am pleased to introduce you to one of my dearest friends, Mrs. Martin. I cannot thank you enough for coming to our aid. You handled her distress quite well. This world could use more thoughtful and capable men like you.”