The Baron and the Bluestocking (20 page)

Suddenly, Christian was possessed by furies. Racing out the door to the inn, he went to the stable and saddled one of his carriage horses.
Hélène can’t have drowned. She can’t be dead. I don’t believe it for a second. That devil, Delacroix, just couldn’t be bothered to search for her.

In moments, he was galloping into the dusk, down toward the river. By the time he reached the riverbank, it was full dark. The moon had not yet risen. Nevertheless, he walked the horse along the riverbank from the bridge downstream. The water was calm now. He could smell the dank odor of the wet grass at the edges of the bank. It was slippery. He could see no one washed up on this side of the river. The further he went, the further his heart fell.

Hélène. You can’t have drowned! You can’t have died. I would feel it if I lost you, and you are still alive in my breast. Your smile. Your haughty retorts. Your smoky eyes burning into mine. Please, God, let me find her.

When he came to another bridge, Christian took the horse across to the far bank and walked back the way he had come. Still no Hélène.

The frogs broke into a chorus, and he could see the moon rising, finally. He and his horse crossed the wooden bridge Hélène had fallen from. Christian examined the gap where the bridge had given way. It was hard to see by moonlight, but the rest of the bridge seemed sturdy enough.

He could see nothing to do but to continue to hike along the riverbank. If she made it out of the river alive, she could be too exhausted to move, and might take a chill. If she didn’t . . . well, the river had to give up her body sometime. He would deal with that eventuality only if he had to. At the moment, he was sure he would find her alive. Christian just had to persevere.

*~*~*

By morning, he and his horse were dropping from fatigue. They were far from the bridge where Hélène had gone over and Christian was forced to admit defeat, at least for the time being. He could not give up hope, however. There were a few small houses along the river’s route and as soon as the morning was further advanced, he planned on calling at each one to find out if his love had made it to one of them and was recuperating there.

Since she wasn’t lying insensate on the river bank this many miles from the bridge, he thought he might be able to sleep an hour or two before beginning his inquiries. Mounting his horse, he rode into Shipton-Under-Wychwood, found an inn, and left his horse with the groom, giving instructions that he be fed and rubbed down. Inside, he eschewed any offer of breakfast, hired a room, and fell into a dreamless sleep.

Hours later he woke. Looking around, it took him a moment before the weight of his mission settled back on his shoulders. He tried to tell himself that not finding Hélène’s dead body was a positive thing. She had to be in one of the cottages. The woman he loved was adept and capable.

By afternoon, he had called at every cottage on either side of the river. He had no luck. Christian was at a very low ebb, indeed. He was ready to strangle Delacroix. He could not believe that the man could not have saved her if he had tried hard enough. Christian had no recourse now except to go to the constable in Chipping Norton and ask him to institute a search for Hélène’s body further down the river.

This awful chore accomplished, he could not bring himself to go to the school or the Blakeleys’ with the news. Instead he stumbled into the White Hart. Fortunately, the door to the private parlor was closed, so the Mowbrays did not see him enter. He climbed the stairs to his room and gave way to despair.

Darkness fell, but he lit no candle and didn’t draw his curtains. He sat in his one chair, his mind a blank. Christian simply could not comprehend that his vital, sassy Hélène was gone.

He had just heard the clock chime nine o’clock when there was a knock at the door.

“Who is it?”

“Ginny and Lady Delacroix. We have supper for you. You must eat.”

Realizing he had had nothing to eat all day, he knew this was true, yet he had no appetite. And he certainly did not want to see “Ginny.”

“Just leave it by the door, please.”

*~*~*

The following morning there was no news from the constable. Hélène’s body had not washed ashore anywhere in the county. He did not know whether this was a basis for hope or not. Perhaps the body could be trapped under water somehow.

Ginny waylaid him on his way back from seeing the constable. Putting a hand on his arm, she said, “Have you eaten anything this morning?”

He realized he was exceedingly hungry. Walking over to the bar, he asked the innkeeper to have eggs, bacon, and porridge sent up to his room. Christian then excused himself with only the barest of civility to Ginny and climbed the stairs.

One day stretched out. Then two. The first day he took his meals in his room, the second he slept round the clock. When there was no word from neighboring counties, he told Delacroix to take the carriage with his mother and sister and depart for London. The baron told him they wished to stay in case they could be of any help.

“What are you doing here?”

“The same as you. Waiting for word. I was fond of her, you know.”

With bad grace, Christian settled to a game of piquet with Delacroix to pass the time.

“What will you do now?” the man asked him.

“Wait. There is nothing to do but wait until the body turns up.” Suddenly, he stood up and threw his cards on the table. “I’ve forgotten. Hélène has sisters. I must call on them.”

“Miss Hewitt took care of that. They are with Mrs. Blakeley. She is a comfort to them. The shape you are in, you would be no comfort at all. Leave them be.”

“Hélène would want me to reassure them that they shall be properly cared for. Ruisdell is their benefactor, but they will need someone to watch over them. I shall write to the duchess.”

Christian went upstairs and composed what proved to be a difficult letter to Elise, telling her the news and asking her advice about Hélène’s sisters. Once the letter was posted, he felt as though he had crossed a Rubicon. He had virtually accepted Hélène’s death.

Riding out to the school, he saw that Miss Hewitt was teaching Hélène’s morning reading class. When the girls had been dismissed for lunch, he asked, “Is this too difficult taking on Hélène’s work as well as your own?”

“For now, I can manage. But we shall need another woman eventually.” Her eyes wore an expression of deep sadness.

Heart heavy, he looked at the girls as they walked out. Hélène had been so good with them. She had cared so much about their future.

“When Hélène’s body has been recovered, I will consider the matter. I am still holding on to a tiny thread of hope.”

“You loved her, did you not, my lord?”

“I do love her. I still love her.”

When he returned to the inn it was to find a small stooped man who required speech with him. The fellow waited patiently at the public bar, nursing a pint of ale.

The innkeeper informed the visitor of Lord Shrewsbury’s identity and said, “This is Mr. Knobbs. He has come a long way and wishes to speak with you privately.”

A tiny flame of hope lit in Christian’s breast, but something cautious in the man’s manner urged him to keep it to himself. “Let us take a stroll outside, Mr. Knobbs. It is a pleasant enough day.” The man was appropriately named as he was quite thin, and all his joints protruded as knobs. He seemed all ankles, wrists, and knees.

When they were about five hundred yards from the inn and any listening ears, the little man said, “I come from Miss Hélène. She wanted you to know that she is alive.”

Christan’s heart leapt in his breast so quickly he became dizzy. He steadied himself by placing a hand on Knobb’s shoulder. “Alive? Hélène is alive!”

“Quiet, sir. There is someone here who must not know that she is alive. A Lord Delacrow?”

Shrewsbury stopped his exulting.

“This lord, he tossed her in the water, she said. Left her to drown.”

Anger invaded Christian’s chest with great force, and he felt it would shoot out of his head. “Delacroix! I knew he was a wrong ‘un. Tell me what happened!”

“Well, it seems he proposed to her. She told him she was in love with someone else. He took her for a walk over the bridge, picked her up in his arms and threw her over the rail.”

Christian’s anger spread through him like fire, but a warning stopped him from going after Hélène’s would-be murderer: the minute Delacroix suspected Hélène was alive, her life would be in danger. “You must come with me to the constable, Knobbs. We must get the man in gaol before I go with you to Hélène.”

“I will. Gladly. Just let me finish my tale. The young miss managed to tear off her riding jacket and her habit. That is all she remembers. My mistress found her as she was washed ashore at Shipton-under-Wychwood.” He stopped and looked up at Lord Shrewsbury. “At first, my lady thought she was dead. But she was breathing, so the coachman helped her haul the miss up into the carriage and she took her home to Taynton. Girl had a monstrous knock on the head. Probably hit a rock. She didn’t wake up until yesterday. And it wasn’t until this morning that she remembered aught.”

“How is she? She must be terribly weak.”

“As you say. But she sent me right out to find you. Knew you would be in a taking.”

“She had the right of it. How did you get to Chipping Norton?”

“ In a wagon. Room for you on the bench.”

“You follow me as inconspicuously as possible. I’ll be on my horse. We’ll go to the constable first, and then off to Taynton.”

*~*~*

Constable Wilkins met Christian and Mr. Knobbs in his front parlor.

“I am sorry to say we still haven’t recovered the Whitcombe lady’s body, my lord.”

Christian shook hands with the tall man, thin as a pipe stem, who was also the squire of Chipping Norton. “I have some good news, sir. The reason we could not find her is because she is alive! Mr. Knobbs, meet Constable Wilkins.” The former removed his blue wool cap and gave a short bow of his shiny bald head.

“Mr. Knobbs has quite a story to tell.”

“That is good news, indeed. Suppose you tell us your tale, Mr. Knobbs. Let us be seated.”

Knobbs told his tale for a second time, this time starting with his mistress finding Hélène and ending with her account of her attempted murder.

“That is a grim tale, to be sure. Unfortunately, I shall have to hear it from the source before I can take action against a peer of the realm.”

Annoyed, Christian said, “We must make off at once then for Taynton. At any time, Delacroix could leave for London, where we should have a very difficult time laying a hand upon him.”

“Is he the kind of man who would take such action merely upon a lady’s rejection?” asked the constable.

For the first time, Christian thought about the man’s motive. “It is very extreme, I admit. He seems to be a very cold man. I would never have guessed his feelings go that deep.”

“The House of Lords do like a motive when prosecuting a peer. It would be helpful if we could find one,” said Wilkins.

“Perhaps Hélène can furnish us with something,” Christian said. “Are you prepared to leave now? She is in no condition to come back here.”

“She is from Chipping Norton? I do not believe I know the young lady.”

“She is one of the new teachers at the girls’ school. She is originally from Derbyshire. A vicar’s daughter.”

“Let me just confer with my wife and my groom, Tubbs, then we can be off. He sometimes undertakes investigations for me. I’ll have him start a watch on Lord Delacroix. Where is he likely to find the man?”

“He is lodging at the White Hart.”

“Very well. I will be with you in no time.”

*~*~*

When Christian entered the chamber where Hélène was recovering, she was asleep. Not wanting to awaken her, he drew an immense feeling of well-being at merely seeing her alive. Sitting down in the ladder-backed chair beside the bed, he drank in the sight of her poor, battered face. It was scratched in several places, and there were dark circles under her eyes. A white bandage covered one side of her head, and her glorious hair was now dull and plaited. She had lived through a harrowing ordeal, and to him, it seemed nothing short of a miracle that she was alive.

Hatred for Delacroix coursed through him. What was behind the attempted murder? Hélène held no place of influence in the world, had no money, no connections.

Unable to resist any longer, he stood and bent over her, kissing her lightly on the brow, on her various cuts, and then on her lips.

{ 20 }

HÉLÈNE WOKE TO SEE Christian’s face leaning over hers. “You’re here.”

“More importantly, you’re here. Oh, my darling, I had very nearly given up any hope that you were alive,” he said. Bending down, he kissed her lightly again on the forehead and the tip of her nose. “If I had ever had any doubts of how very much I love you, this experience certainly would have put paid to them.”

“You were the first thing on my mind when I regained my memory. Thank you for coming so speedily. It is wonderful to see your face.”

Putting his arms around her shoulders, he pulled her up to meet him for a lingering kiss. Hélène felt warm for the first time since she had regained consciousness. She had thought for what seemed like forever in those cold, treacherous waters that she would never see Christian again. Now, seeing his face, grown drawn with worry, she could not believe she had ever had qualms about marrying him. For strength, she took the hand that lay on the bedcover and held it in both of hers. Now that her memory had returned, it was hard to banish that awful, seemingly endless period when she had fought to rescue herself. She knew that getting herself above the current and onto her back had saved her life.

“Now, darling. I have brought the chief constable with me. He is waiting in the other room. May I bring him in? Are you up to being questioned?”

“Yes. I am eager to get this over with.”

A sober-looking gentleman accompanied Christian when he returned. “Mr. Wilkins, I would like you to meet Miss Whitcombe-Hodge. Hélène, this is Chief Constable Wilkins. Can you tell us what happened, darling?”