Once Beloved (25 page)

T
wo months earlier, Daniel would have sworn he'd never visit London willingly. He'd go to improve the family's business prospects, but he'd never relish it, never enjoy the rush of the great and terrible city. But now everything was changed. He fought his desire to urge Talos faster and weave through traffic, his anticipation and trepidation growing in equal measure as he inched closer to Helena's home. The overriding need to see her, to touch her, to hear her unbridled laughter and pleasure beat in his pulse. He needed to immerse himself in everything about her, and he could only hope to convince her that they could have a future together. Thankfully, he found traffic eased on her street. Hastily tying up Talos, he raced up the steps, trying to sort out how to begin. Good God, were his palms sweating? What should he say? Perhaps they wouldn't need words. God willing, perhaps she'd missed him as much as he'd missed her, and they would be in perfect accord. In that endless moment before the door opened, he tried to imagine every possibility, hoping beyond hope that she would simply throw her arms around him in welcome.

What he hadn't anticipated was the young man who opened the door and glared at him. Even at a glance, one could see this was another of Helena's sons. The same coloring. The same eyes. The same hair. Perhaps his masculine jaw and his broad shoulders came from his father, but generally he was Helena through and through.

“I—Where is—Are you—” He coughed and tried again. “My name is Daniel Lanfield. I've come from Marksby, and I'm here to see your mother.”

“My mother is not at home, sir. Good day to you.” The lad's tone could have frozen a beck in July. When the young buck went to shut the door in his face, Daniel blocked it with his boot. Whatever this boy knew or thought he knew, Daniel wasn't about to be deterred so easily.

“I'm a family friend. In fact, your mother's grandmother sent some packages along with me,” he explained, adding with a tinge of challenge, “Hospitality dictates that you should give me the opportunity to wait for her or at least take my card.”

“I don't know when she'll be returning. You wouldn't want to waste your day waiting. If you wish to leave a card, there's the tray for it.” The man-child flicked his hand at the table in the entryway. “In case you are unaware, my mother is still grieving over the loss of my father. She hasn't yet chosen to accept visitors. So, as a
friend
, you should be aware that your visit comes at a bad time.”

Daniel felt a pang of sympathy for him. Although the customary period was over, it was the family's prerogative to determine the length of their mourning. And this family grieved terribly. Helena's eldest son was now the man of the house, protecting his mother and his family. “I am well aware of your mother's situation, and I am truly sorry for your loss. She must be overjoyed that you've returned from the sea. You must be Bartholomew.”

The young man's hard expression softened infinitesimally as confusion crossed his face. “I am, and she is. What business do you have with her?”

“Your mother has recently returned from Marksby, and I have some unresolved concerns to discuss with her related to her visit.”

“Feel free to leave your card. I'll see that she gets it.” But his stony look wasn't entirely reassuring. “It seems my mother has told you a great deal. She is rarely so forthcoming with people outside our family circle.”

“Mr. Lanfield! I heard your voice! Did you bring your horse?” Tommy came bounding down the stairs, running to meet them and stopping only when his eldest brother placed a restraining hand on his chest. He stood bouncing on his toes, clearly bursting with energy and excitement.

Daniel patted Tommy's head fondly and said, “Yes, of course, Talos is my trusty companion. He's outside.”

“May I see him? Please please please!”

“That's for your mother to decide,” he replied, looking at Bartholomew pointedly. “Now,” he said through gritted teeth, his patience stretched beyond reason, a filament to which he vainly clung, “if you please, where might I find your mother?”

Bartholomew continued to glare at him, one alpha male's challenge to another, but he'd known enough rams and stallions, and their human counterparts, to be baited. He knew better, too, than to place Helena in yet another position where she had to pick either love or family. At this point, he didn't like his odds.

Bless his bright and shiny soul, Tommy piped up, “Mama's at the bookshop! I can take you!”

“No, you can't!” Mark and Bartholomew said as one, Mark's tone scoffing and Bartholomew's forbidding. Mark came down the remaining stairs, as he and Bartholomew scolded Tommy at the same time. “Don't tell this man anything! We know nothing about him or his intentions, and Mother has been heartbr—” the eldest brother railed until he swallowed whatever he was about to say. Meanwhile, Mark asserted, “Tommy, you can't possibly know how to get there! I'll take you, sir! It would be faster if we take your horse!” Out of all that chaotic commotion, Daniel obtained one clear overriding impression: hope.

“Boys, how has your mother been since her return? I was sad to see her go, but she missed you and needed you so. I have no desire to distress her.”

With fervent conviction, Mark said, “She's been crying at night when she thinks we've fallen asleep. She's her usual self during the days, but in the evenings, she seems to pine for something lost.”

Bartholomew flinched as if struck.

“What was that?” Daniel had to ask.

“It's much like the pattern she followed after Father crossed the veil. I remember. She tried to keep her grief hidden. I didn't realize Mark had seen.” The young man spoke in a neutral tone, but, judging by his troubled expression, he struggled to make sense of it, to reconcile past and present. He turned to Mark and asked, “Did the trip back to Marksby dredge up memories of Father's death?”

“Mr. Lanfield would know best what transpired there,” Mark pointed out. “Mother wasn't well even before she left. She . . . it's hard to explain. . . . This will sound foolish, but she reminded me of that turtle you had for a while, Bart. Whenever someone startled him, he retreated into his shell. Tommy was still a babe, and he got hold of Shelley and scared the creature so much that it wouldn't leave its shell at all.”

“I remember,” his brother responded soberly. “Nothing worked. I was convinced he would come out when he got hungry.” Bartholomew met Daniel's eyes with a dawning and wary comprehension. He explained, “Poor little Shelley died that way. Nothing would coax him out of his shell after that. He just shriveled up and ceased to function.” He gripped his younger brother by the arms and said, “What do you mean by this?”

Catching the way the middle brother winced, Daniel had to step in. “Easy, man. Your brother can't talk with you shaking his brain.”

Bartholomew released his brother immediately, obviously regretting his rough behavior.

“I think I have a sense of what Mark is saying. Based on several accounts from those closest to her, your mother has become increasingly fearful of crowds and public exposure. So fearful that she's prone to fainting and to attacks that render her virtually catatonic. I have witnessed such occasions myself, and I feared greatly for her safety . . . and her sanity.”

Bartholomew scowled, and Daniel was certain the young man was contemplating newly popular treatments for people diagnosed with some version of madness, namely some kind of electrical shock treatment. “Why are you here?” the young man asked bluntly. “What do you want from our mother?”

That brought him up short. What could he say to that? He wanted to be a part of her life. He wanted her to be a permanent presence in his. But there was still Nancy. How could you tell a woman's children you wanted her to be your wife but you weren't free to marry her? How would that look to them? Bartholomew's shields had only lowered partially. He'd be terribly offended by such a proposition . . . and well he should be. Daniel had nothing to offer her but himself, and that was a meager offering, at best.

“I care for her deeply, Mr. Martin, and I wish the best for her. As I said, we have unfinished issues to resolve. You can be sure I mean her no harm.”

“Of course not, Mr. Lanfield,” Mark replied dismissively before his brother could say a word. “You kept your promise, and she returned safely home. I think she'd be happy to see you. Bart is just being . . . well, Bart. I'll take you to Evans Books.”

“Over my dead body,” Bartholomew declared. “Nothing good can come of your presence.” His voice dropped to a snide whisper. “I'm not a child, and I'm well aware of how men think. Leave my mother alone.”

“There's simply no way I would agree to that, Mr. Martin, because I love your mother and intend to spend as much time in her presence as possible. So you may choose to assist me and encourage your mother to seek joy for herself and not just for others, or you may stand aside. I have no desire to sully your father's memory or replace him in her affections. But your mother still lives, and she deserves happiness still. Do you think it's right that her spirit be extinguished when she's already lost so much?”

Something he'd said must have finally resonated with Helena's eldest son, for the young man nodded slowly. While his expression remained stoic, he affirmed, “She does deserve happiness. She hasn't had much of that in recent years.”

“She tries,” Mark interjected. “For our sake, she tries.” But the child's slumped shoulders said what his words didn't. The boy shouldn't have to feel so resigned. These boys deserved the return of a mother who was vigorous and ardent and at ease. He'd seen glimpses of that version of Helena again, and he knew without a doubt that her world would be the better for it. Just as he knew, without question, that he wanted to be a part of that world.

Bartholomew took a deep breath and said, “You think you can bring her that happiness?”

“I don't know that anyone can bring such a change upon another,” Daniel answered honestly. “But, by gow,
I must try
.”

The eldest boy turned to his brothers and said, “Come along now. Let's go surprise Mother at the bookshop.”

T
his back corner of the shop had always been Helena's favorite. Even after the shop had been vandalized and remodeled, Honoria had maintained the oasis-like quality of this space. The alcove was filled with loaded bookshelves that surrounded a single upholstered chair and side table. Here, if only for a few moments, the rest of the world fell away. From her seat, she reached out and traced the spines on a shelf nearby. Her eyes didn't focus on any of the words or names. She couldn't focus on anything in particular, not after the bold declarations by Gordon and Ruth Lanfield. What was she to make of them? Ruth's admission of gratitude was simply unfathomable. Out of all the pain and suffering she'd caused her family and the Lanfields and the entire village, to think that something truly, undeniably positive had resulted as well—it was a mild balm to her soul.

She didn't take much notice when the bell of the shop door rang, announcing new customers. The Needlework ladies had assured her that they had everything well in hand. So she'd absconded to this corner, knowing they'd fetch her when they needed her.

“Is Mother in the sanctuary?” When she heard Bartholomew's question, she had to smile. It was an old family joke, even before she'd truly had need for a sanctuary. But the word was all too apt, especially now, when her thoughts and emotions were in such tumult. She closed her eyes. Any minute, her garrulous sons would find their way here, and they'd all be off into the hustle and bustle of the afternoon.

“Helena.” That dear voice fervently whispering her name—her mind teased her with memories she couldn't keep. She closed her eyes tighter, wanting to cling to that warm voice just a moment longer. Then she heard a masculine clearing of the throat, and her eyes flew open. Daniel! Could he really be standing before her, cap in hand, looking so adorably vulnerable that she had to restrain herself from running to him and throwing herself into his arms?

“I missed you, Helena,” he said, and her heart broke afresh. “I'm here for no other reason. It's horribly selfish of me, and I've nothing to offer you, but I need you. I need your warmth. I need your laughter. I need your reminders that there is so much more to this life than my work.”

It took her some time to comprehend his rushed and loaded statements.

“You abandoned all your responsibilities to come after me?” she said, smiling up at him. “How reckless of you, darling!” She couldn't resist the delicious reversal, but she knew better. They were both older and wiser now, and Daniel would never turn his back on his responsibilities or leave his family in need.

He looked abashed. “Aye, well, to be honest, I haven't abandoned them entirely.”

“Of course not! Let me see. . . . You arranged for neighbors to assist in keeping an eye on the flock? And you're planning to represent Lanfield textiles in London? And you're planning to make trips back to Marksby for lambing and shearing and whenever your brother needs extra hands?”

“Aye.”

His terse responses could be maddening, but she understood—what else was there to say?

“I am long past the ripeness of youth,” she said.

He studied her for a long moment and said, “It's true that you are no spring bud.”

She smiled self-deprecatingly at his immediate confirmation. His hand touched her hair gently, hesitantly, soothing her ruffled feathers. Alas, she could hardly take offense when all he did was agree with her own blunt claim. She tipped her head and turned away, but he would not let her be. His hand slid down along her cheek, her jaw, brushed her chin and guided her to face him.

“Neither of us is in the dewy green stage of life. What you are is so much better than the rawness of youth. You are in full bloom, open and welcoming, bursting with color and life, for all the world to see. Yet you've been furled by grief and loss. I want to see you in all your glory.”

“You are suddenly a poet. Pretty words, but they are delusional.”

“Wait here. I've brought you a gift.” She heard him ask someone for glasses. When he returned, he held one out to her and put the other on the table in front of her. Afternoon sun angled just so made the liquid in the glasses glow like polished amber. “Taste that.”

She doubted whiskey would make this conversation any clearer, and she was surprised he would even consider trying to placate her with spirits. She took a cautious sip and the aggressiveness of the drink made her throat seize for a moment. What it lacked in complexity and depth, it more than made up for in sheer potency. She'd be bowled over if she finished this one glass.

She looked at him skeptically and said, “It's nice, but whiskey won't make me forget the loss of my youth or the impossibility of our situation, you know, not even temporarily.”

“It's not meant to make you forget. Set that one aside and try the second one.”

She picked up the glass he'd set on the table and sniffed at it. She could already detect subtle differences—the color was darker, the liquid flowed differently as she tilted the glass, the scent strong but somehow fuller, richer. When she sipped this one, an image flashed through her head of her father, sitting by the fireplace at the end of a long day's work, a dram of whiskey in his hand as he told stories from the day before sending her and Elizabeth to bed. No wonder the scent of this one was familiar. The intense flavor washed over her. This was quality. This whiskey had character, bold but not overwhelming. History in a glass. She relaxed back in her seat, waiting.

“This one is quite good,” she said. “What's your point?”

He smiled so broadly, one of those rare full smiles that made her feel as if the sun had burst through a wall of clouds.

“It is very, very good, yes. Care to guess how old this vintage is?”

“Twenty years?”

“Older.”

“Thirty?”

“Older.”

She took another sip and raised a brow at him, unwilling to continue this game indefinitely.

“That one on the table is fifteen years old. Would you believe this one is fifty-two? It's true. My grandfather brought some barrels of this stuff home with him from one of his trips to Edinburgh. We're down to our last barrel. That rotgut you tasted first isn't really so bad, until you have this to compare with it.”

“I see the direction of your thoughts, but this is an imperfect analogy. People do not just sit preserved in casks or barrels as time passes. We work. We wear away over time. We dry up, and our pretty petals fall away.”

“What do I know of analogies? I just enjoy a fine whiskey.” He winked. He actually winked.

Before she could reply, his mouth was on hers, the taste of him mixing with the whiskey. Her thoughts spun apart.

“Women aren't short-lived flowers plucked from a garden,” he said, when he pulled away for air. His lips still brushed hers as he spoke. “You grow finer with age.” He punctuated his words with teasing kisses. “Stronger.” Another light brush of his lips. “More complex. And I want to drink you in. I want to drown in you. I love you.”

She pulled him toward her, deepening their kiss, and no words were exchanged for quite some time. Still, she couldn't forget that they were in Honoria's shop, nor that her boys were somewhere nearby, possibly even in the next row. And so, too soon, she pulled away.

“I love you too, Daniel. I didn't think we'd have a future together, but with each passing day away from you, I couldn't bear the possibility of a future without you. I'm so glad you found me!”

More kisses, ardent and clumsy and needy.

This time, Daniel retreated. He released her and took a step back, as if bracing himself. “Before we go further,” he began with a sweet look of chagrin, “I should tell you that I recently received word that Nancy—well, I thought all this time after never hearing from her, even for funds, I thought she'd died. And, anyway, in all this time, I never thought it would matter even if she were still alive. I never thought to have the chance to try again.”

She went to him, taking his face in her hands and pushing away the dread that tried to find purchase in her heart. “What's happened?”

“I received a letter from her. She's alive.”

“And does she want you—? Why did she contact you? What does she want?” Daniel loved her as he'd never loved his wife. This, she knew in her bones. Whatever Nancy wanted, they could weather it.

“She loves another and has asked me for a divorce
a mensâ et thoro
. Even that would be an expense I might not be able to afford.”

“Do you still care for her? Do you want her to return as your wife?”

His glare warmed her heart. Her laconic sweetheart didn't bother to spare a word in reply.

“My dear, sweet Daniel, at our age, we have little need for formal legalities, don't you think? We've both been through the reading of banns and the signing of certificates. I believe you love me, and I don't need a piece of paper or a decree from the Church of England to confirm your commitment to me nor mine to you.”

“Are you certain? I'll grant her the divorce she requests, but I still wouldn't be free to marry.”

“Rest easy, love,” she replied with a smile, struck by the true sense of freedom and volition between them. “There is no need for all that. Such unmarried but devoted relationships are commonplace. We have both experienced marriage in the traditional sense, and it seems to me that our lives are already complicated enough. Why add a fresh layer of difficulty on top?”

“So you would agree to be my wife in action, though not in name?” He looked and sounded stunned.

“I would! But . . .” She had to be clear. On this one point, her sons, she had to stand unequivocally. “For the sake of the boys, we would live here in London for school terms.”

“That might conflict with some of our busy periods at the farm, but Gordon and I have talked about the possible benefits of having more regular presence here in London, to meet with textile manufacturers and distributors. It could be a new economic avenue for Lanfield.”

“Well, you two can discuss that after dinner this evening.”

“Pardon?” He looked so adorably confused that she couldn't help but laugh.

“Didn't you know? Your brother and his wife are here in London,” she explained, an incredible lightness flowing through her. “They came to see me yesterday, and they're invited to dine at Elizabeth's house this evening. She sets a fine, full table, and I'm sure she wouldn't object if I brought you.”

“Nay, wait a moment. Gordon and Ruth are here?”

“Yes! And they're delightful! I look forward to getting to know Ruth much better. I already suspect the other Needlework ladies would adore her.”

He muttered a creative curse but grinned. “Hal, that little—he must have known his parents had already gone, and yet he said not a word to me about it! Now he's minding all at home by himself.”

“He seems competent to the task, and he knows the neighbors well. I'm sure you and your brother found yourselves in such circumstances when you were his age.”

“Aye, and it's true that Hal takes to responsibility well.” Daniel looked both amused and stunned as he thought about these developments. “Well, it's only right that he and Ruth should be here to share a toast with our family's whiskey. I can't believe my brother has come to the big, bad city. He's always called it a cesspool, teeming with vice and corruption.”

“Well, now he can see for himself that it's not all fire and brimstone.” She felt suddenly hesitant, reluctant to hope, to believe her desires could be fulfilled. “So you're staying, at least for a time?”

His insistent kiss was answer enough.

“But, Daniel, what about—?”

He interrupted her question with another kiss, longer and deeper than before. Those telltale flutters began in her belly. She had to voice her thoughts before they fell right out of her head, pushed out by mind-numbing bliss.

“Wait! What about—?”

Again, a silencing kiss that left her legs shaking.

“Shh,” Daniel replied. “I've learned a thing or two from you. First and foremost is this: all will be well.” He punctuated the Thorton motto with delicate kisses along her jaw, kisses that melted her very bones. “'Tis true. Whatever problems or conflicts we face, they are surmountable. Whatever we have to do in order to make a life together possible, we shall do. I promise you. All will be well.”

“Yes,” she agreed, “we shall make it so.”