Chapter Six

“Miss Marshfield! Miss Marshfield!” The Yardley household was in an excited uproar. Everyone looked to Helena to organize them on such an important day, which was just as well. Mrs. Yardley had taken her smelling salts and retired to the chaise longue in her boudoir. She had no intention of fatiguing herself and was conserving her energy for the evening’s entertainment.

Helena smiled wryly to herself. She might not be paid to be chatelaine, but somebody had to be responsible. Left to their own devices the servants would simply mill around looking for direction. Reining in the pandemonium as she went, Helena took time to talk to every one of the staff individually, letting them know what was expected of them. “Thank you so very much,” she soothed. “I know I can trust you all to do your best. If you have any further questions, please come and see me.”

Discussions with Stalley were all preceded with a sniffy “I have been used to dealing with far larger gatherings than this, Miss Marshfield” until Helena thought she might scream with vexation. Certainly, Stalley could cope. But was he prepared to obey her requests to the letter? He tended to disobey the Yardleys’ instructions if he did not consider them appropriate. Sometimes he obeyed them with an insolently challenging air. Helena understood that in his own way, Stalley tried to bring the Yardleys into line with acceptable behavior. She could understand his exasperation with Josh Yardley’s bluff heartiness and Mrs. Yardley’s misguided attempts to be ‘ladylike.’ Stalley was not impressed with people who flouted convention. But he really should remember who paid his wages, although it was unlikely he would be dismissed. No matter how truculent he became, the Yardleys would ignore it because they were thrilled to have as their butler an ex-employee of Lord Penningstone.

By dint of imploring him, “Please, Stalley, I do so rely on you,” Helena managed to garner his cooperation. Together they calmed the ebb and flow of hired helpers as Yardley House echoed to the sound of busy feet.

By mid-afternoon Helena was feeling limp, and had she been in the fortunate circumstance of being able to do so, would have lain down upon the sofa with her smelling salts. However, companions did not do such a thing, and anyway she didn’t own smelling salts. Instead she took a deep, calming breath and consulted the next item on her list.

By the time everyone had repaired to their rooms to dress, everything seemed at last to be in order. Helena prayed she had not overlooked anything. Hastening to Caroline’s room to offer encouragement, she checked on the threshold when she saw Betsy and Caroline peering at a card that had been delivered along with a pretty posy of flowers. Caroline turned shining eyes on her governess.

“Miss Marshfield! The flowers are from Sir Ivor. Was that not kind of him? And the card is so prettily penned too.”

Helena glanced at it, smiling. The message on the card could not be faulted. Sir Ivor begged to be allowed to offer a small token in respect of a young lady’s coming-out. The posy was of the palest pink and white rosebuds, not yet out. A subtle message most likely not understood by Caroline.

“How lucky you are, Caroline! The flowers have probably come from Sir Ivor’s succession houses. Your papa has often told us about Sir Ivor’s succession houses at his estate in Norfolk.” It seemed that Sir Ivor was interested in the propagation of rare and interesting flowers and fruit. As it was far too early yet for rosebuds, these would have been forced under cover.

But in spite of all the excitement, Caroline looked wan.

Helena managed to get Betsy out of the way. “Now Betsy, I want you to go and fetch Miss Caroline a hot chocolate and a wafer biscuit. Then when she has composed herself, you may help me to dress her hair.” Helena turned to Caroline. “My dear, how do you feel?”

“Miss Marshfield, I am so nervous.”

Poor Caroline. She looked as if she were facing the guillotine.

“Sweet girl, just take some deep breaths and relax for a few minutes. When your hot chocolate arrives, sip it slowly.” Helena rubbed Caroline’s shoulder. “Now, let me see to your hair. Are we still agreed that à la Sappho is the style you want?” She soothingly brushed Caroline’s hair preparatory to styling it in a fashion which was not so very different from the girl’s every day one. The slow brush strokes and Helena’s calm manner soon settled Caroline into her usual placid self.

The bronze tresses were artfully curled around Helena’s fingers and with a judicious tweak here and there from the hot curling tongs Betsy had earlier prepared on the fire, Caroline’s hair was styled.

“Caroline, you are still a little pale.”

Caroline gasped. “I’m all right, really. It is just when I think about…tonight…that I get worried.” The lovely eyes were over-bright.

“Could I suggest a tiny dot of color from the rouge pot? Because, my dear, on this night of all nights, you daren’t look haggard.”

“But, Miss Marshfield! Will not people notice?”

“No. People only see what they want to see. Nobody will notice. Just a little dab here and there. Now we shall rub it in with the haresfoot. There. Perfect.” Helena swiveled Caroline around to face the mirror.

As they laid the spangled gauze dress out on her bed there was a scratching sound at the door. It was Mr. Yardley with a special gift. “Oh, Papa! Thank you so much. Look, Helena!” Caroline stood on tiptoe to shyly kiss her father’s cheek.

He laughed and pinched her chin. “You’ll do, missy. You’ll do,” he told her proudly. He fastened the double row of pearls around her neck with the silver clasp that exactly matched the spangles on Caroline’s dress. A lot of thought had gone into that gift. Josh Yardley had consulted with Helena as to what would be the most appropriate coming-out gift for his daughter. She had suggested pearls. He must have managed to find a skilled jeweler to design and craft the exquisite necklace.

Many a father would not have taken the slightest notice of a daughter’s coming-out, Helena thought. Even in this enlightened age there were still a number of men about town who cared only for their sons—or at least for the son who would succeed to a title or an estate or business holding. Josh Yardley was not only an indulgent father; he was a conscientious and caring one.

Helena duly admired the magnificent pearls and adjusted the necklace so that the cleverly wrought silver clasp was to the side of Caroline’s throat where it could be seen to advantage but was not the cynosure of all eyes. Little tricks of style made all the difference. Josh Yardley grunted his satisfaction. “Excellent, Miss Marshfield. Chin up, my dear,” he whispered to Caroline. “You will take the shine out of them all.”

“Oh, Papa!”

Helena smiled and hurried to her own room to shake out her dress. As she began to untie her day dress, there was a loud crash and a raised voice from Ariadne’s room. Helena cast her eyes up and hurried, along with Mrs. Yardley in her wrapper, to see what had happened. They opened the door to the overpowering smell of a virulent perfume.

“Oh, dear. What now?” puffed stout Mrs. Yardley.

It seemed that Ariadne had spilled her favorite toilet water and she could not possibly, no, not possibly, wear any other perfume. Betsy must go this minute to Clarges Street to the perfume mixer’s shop to fetch a fresh phial.

“But it’s nigh on six o’clock!” expostulated Mrs. Yardley. “Won’t another do as well?”

However, Ariadne’s cooperative behavior of the last few days had come to an end. She had decided to audition for the role as Mrs. Siddons’s understudy, and the entire household was treated to a histrionic display of talent hitherto unsuspected. Mrs. Yardley, ineffectually wringing her hands, begged Helena to do what she could.

“Yes, ma’am. Obviously Miss Yardley is too ill to attend her sister’s dress party. What a shame! She will have to go to bed of course.”

“Bed? At six o’clock? Absolutely not!” Ariadne stopped her shrieking and looked daggers at Helena.

“I’m afraid so,” Helena said. “My dear, you are obviously unwell. I shall have Thomas fetch Dr. Amos. Lie down, Ariadne, and wait for him.” Firmly she pushed Ariadne down on to her bed. Then she plucked Mrs. Yardley’s smelling salts out of her hand. Ariadne found herself lying down in her wrapper with smelling salts being waved under her nose.

“Take that away! I am not unwell, Helena. I will go downstairs just as soon as I am ready.”

“Then you had better make haste. It wants only an hour till the first guests arrive.” Lingering for a precious moment to check that Ariadne’s sulky mutterings were merely idle threats, Helena thrust a scared Katy back into Ariadne’s boudoir. She sped back to Caroline’s room where, fortunately, all was serene. Caroline was admiring herself in her new dress as she twisted and turned in front of the mirror, peering first at the front, then at the back. Betsy stood with clasped hands admiring her.

“Don’t she look lovely, Miss Marshfield?”

“Very pretty.” Helena ran a practiced eye over the details of Caroline’s dress. It was delightful, and its effect was precisely the desired one—that of an untried, sweet girl in her first evening gown. After a final primp Caroline followed Helena to her room so that Helena could scramble into her dress.

Caroline was very impressed with Helena’s new gown. “Why, Miss Marshfield! I didn’t know you had this. How lovely!”

As she fought with her wayward hair, struggling to tame it into submission under a cap, Helena remembered something she had meant to talk to Caroline about. She was about to broach the subject when Caroline asked, “Are you uh…going to wear a cap, Miss Marshfield? I’ve never seen you wear one before.”

“Yes, I think it is time. Caroline, my dear, I need to discuss something with you. Now that you have officially come out, I can no longer be considered your governess. You are a young lady, and I am by way of being a sort of servant, well…a companion.” Inadvertently Helena’s mouth twisted, and she hastily composed herself. “You must call me ‘Helena’, and I will now call you ‘Miss Caroline’ the same as Betsy does.”

“Miss M…Helena! You are my friend, not a servant. How uncomfortable! You must call me ‘Caroline’ the same as ever.”

Helena took Caroline’s cold little hands in hers. “My dear, now that you are ‘out’ there is more of a gulf between us. It is kind of you and typical of that kindness to wish to treat me as a friend, but it must not be so.” She smiled reassuringly. “We will leave your parents to decide the niceties.”

But when she descended the stairs behind Caroline, holding back to give her family and servants the chance to see Caroline at her best, Helena could not help but feel a certain tingling anticipation. It had been a long time since she had attended a gala party such as this. At Ariadne’s coming-out she had been just one of the chaperones. This time she would be part of the celebrations.

Mrs. Yardley exclaimed, “Eh, Caroline, you are beautiful dearie. Like a little dream, isn’t she Miss Marshfield? And Miss Marshfield, you look ravishing! But I’m not sure about the cap.” Mrs. Yardley glared at the offending article. “Look, Josh, doesn’t Miss Marshfield look a picture?”

Helena drew in a breath. She hadn’t meant to stand out in any way.

“Indeed she does.” He patted his daughter’s arm, but his eyes assessed Helena as though seeing her for the first time. “Now, Miss Marshfield,” he began, “Mrs. Yardley and I are quite decided on one thing. If any gentleman should ask you to dance, you must do so. We don’t like to see you sitting amongst the chaperones as though you were an old antidote. We are chaperones enough for our daughters in our own house. We shall be extremely angry with you if you relegate yourself to the background. And you will most certainly be asked to dance, no doubt about that, provided you take off that cap.” He guffawed at his little joke.

Helena felt herself blushing. What should she say? These kind people had always been unorthodox, and of course she wanted to dance, but what of the gossips? Just being her father’s daughter had been enough to cause some of them to shun her. Fortunately, there would be very few of those people here tonight. There would be bankers and merchants and a few minor baronets such as Sir Ivor Stafford. Then she remembered Lord Elverton. Pray he did not come.

Caroline whispered to her parents, and to Helena’s further consternation Mrs. Yardley plunged into speech. “Now, my dear. We understand you think it’s ‘the thing’”—Mrs. Yardley humorously emphasized the words—“to address Caroline as ‘Miss Caroline’ from now on. Well, you can stop that straight away. And if you would give us your permission, we could all be comfortable and call you ‘Helena’ as Ariadne does.” She stared archly at Helena, daring her to disagree.

Helena opened her mouth and shut it again.

“That’s settled.” Satisfied, Mrs. Yardley patted Helena’s arm, then bustled away to find her smelling salts. Helena had had the ground cut neatly from under her. Mr. Yardley grinned knowingly.

“I am ready on time!” trilled Ariadne, and everyone duly turned to admire her as she descended the staircase. She was striking in her new apple green overdress, though hardly demure considering that she had lavishly damped her chemise. There was a stunned silence. The Yardleys and Helena all stared at her aghast, but nobody made a comment. Not only was there no time to do anything about it—as Ariadne well knew—but nobody was prepared to face the consequences of scolding her. A tantrum now was not to be borne. Caroline instinctively edged closer to Helena.

Helena was mortified. She had been so busy caring for Caroline that she had completely forgotten to check on Ariadne before she came downstairs. She cast a harassed glance at Mr. Yardley. To her relief he merely shrugged. Helena bit her lip. In another household she could have been dismissed for such a dereliction of her duties.

The first guests were announced just then, and, wishing to make a good impression, Ariadne hastened to her parents’ side to be part of the welcoming party. Helena had had quite enough of the young baggage. She took Ariadne firmly by the arm and marched her into the ballroom, delivering a stiff lecture on the way. “We trust you will not catch your death of cold with those damp chemise and petticoats, Ariadne. Frankly it makes you look like a class of woman who—oh, never mind. Now, I want you to help by making sure that Stalley and the caterers have all the final details under control. Also, please see that the card-room has been set up satisfactorily. Send for me if there are any difficulties. I shall be here in the ballroom.”

“Isn’t that Mrs. Yardley’s job?” a well-remembered voice asked. Sir Ivor was an early arrival.

Drawing in her breath, she turned to greet him. “Good evening, Sir Ivor. No, Mrs. Yardley detests organization, and I’m happy to do it,” she explained.

“So, you are governess, companion, chatelaine, advisor and…what else?”

She smiled and shrugged. “Whatever needs doing, I am happy to do. The Yardleys are the kindest and best of employers.” Oh, how fine he looked in his evening breeches and cutaway coat. Many a young man would wish to emulate his ability with the intricate folds of his neck cloth. However, unlike some of the younger men, it seemed he did not slavishly follow the Prince of Wales’ style of ridiculously high, stiff shirt points. He was tall enough to look well in anything he wore, and of course those shoulders…no extra padding needed there. No doubt he spent many hours in Jackson’s Boxing Saloon and Cribb’s Parlor and all those other ghastly places that Robert used to hold so dear. Strange how such violent pugilistic sports appealed to normally nice men, she mused. She wondered if Ivor Stafford had intentions toward Caroline or Ariadne, or if he was in reality exactly what he seemed—a business acquaintance of Mr. Yardley’s who was well disposed toward the family.

Helena was curious about that point. She knew Sir Ivor had never been involved in trade, having inherited his title and lands from his father, his father having done the same before him. And she knew the Staffords featured in all of the histories of the gentry because she had surreptitiously searched the available reference books in both Hookham’s and Mr. Yardley’s miniscule library. Her family had featured in the Billington’s Almanac too, but all newer editions would merely make mention of their name. There would no longer be a description of their land and holdings. The Staffords’ lands were larger than her father’s had been, and Ryewolds near Norwich was cited as one of the best examples of early Georgian architecture available, though no doubt inconvenient and drafty as some early architecture was wont to be. Somehow, though, Helena couldn’t see Sir Ivor accepting lukewarm dishes and cold shaving water. He had a well-bred air of authority, which displayed a calm certainty that nothing in his household was expected to go wrong. Probably very comforting to those working for him. For that type of person nothing usually did go wrong. It wouldn’t dare. She smiled to herself.

“A penny for them?” Sir Ivor asked.

“Good gracious, no!” Helena blurted.

He smiled slowly then rescued her by saying, “I’m sure you are quietly deriving amusement from Mrs. Sowerby’s appalling coiffure,” but his eyes glinted. He knew darned well that he’d been the subject of her thoughts. She reminded herself that this man had been a great success with the ladies until he succeeded to his title, and he was much more experienced than she in the art of flirting. She took his offer of a polite gambit. “Yes, Mrs. Sowerby’s latest creation is certainly startling. Please excuse me, Sir Ivor. I must see to Ariadne and Caroline.” She had no wish to become fodder for the gossip mill and turned away from him. They should not be conversing like this, apart from other people. He had no need to worry about things like that. She did.

“Just one minute, Miss Marshfield.”

She paused.

“When you have done your duty by your charges, I should like to introduce my brother to you. We would like to talk to you about Robert, if we may. Perhaps we can find a secluded area away from the general mêlée? One where we could be undisturbed for a few minutes?” His glance scanned the room.

“Oh! Mr. Yardley’s study would be best,” she answered. What could Sir Ivor and Ned Stafford want to ask her about Robert? She smiled, always ready to talk about Robert. “I had another note from him last evening. He seems to be much better.”

****

Ivor Stafford smiled back, wondering if she had any idea how totally unsuitable she looked to be anyone’s governess or chaperone. As she was now, animated and dressed as well as any of the other young ladies in the ballroom, she looked every inch what she was—a beautiful, gently-bred young woman. He reminded himself to tread carefully. He had no wish to raise any expectations, nor was he seeking a permanent relationship of any sort. But he found it hard to think logically when he was close to her. “Excellent. Now remember that you must save me a dance.”

“Oh no, Sir Ivor,” she said, looking stricken. “I-I don’t think…” She indicated her cap. He glanced disparagingly at it but forbore to comment.

“You don’t need to think. I have already asked Mr. Yardley’s permission since he stands in loco parentis to you.”

Dammit. Now he’d have to mention it to Josh. What had made him come out with such a thing? What would the old biddies say? But God knew, he wanted to dance with her, to see that animation return to her face and watch the graceful body move through the steps of a sedate boulanger or cotillion.

He almost chuckled as he realized it was the first time he’d asked a lady for a dance and had them look at him aghast. She fiddled with her reticule.

Dependent on the hierarchy of the assembled guests, he might be obliged to stand up with any titled lady present for the first dance of the evening. Anyway, Miss Marshfield would have her hands full as the dancing began, chivvying young couples into position.

“It must be the second dance, I think. I expect you know what it is since you no doubt had the organization of the whole evening.”

She flicked him a glance. “It’s a cotillion.”

“Very well. Shall we meet here?”

****

She nodded, unable to do more, then thankfully escaped to see if all was well with Ariadne. But on her way she made a detour to stand quietly for a few minutes behind the conservatory door to fan her heated face. He made her feel like a tongue-tied schoolgirl. Her pulse raced like an uncontrolled horse, and it was not only her face that was heated; she felt excessively warm all over. Not just warm, either, but as if she had swallowed a hot pepper that needed a water hose to extinguish the flames. She might not know much about being bedded, but she had an inkling of what this heat was about. She would do best to keep well away from Sir Ivor Stafford. Her head told her that, but her heart and various other parts of her anatomy seemed to be in full rebellion. “Pull yourself together,” she admonished herself sharply.

She reminded herself that he had much experience in the art of dalliance, whereas she had experienced only one Season where she had been kept firmly under her aunt’s chaperonage and well away from any rakes. She sighed. She seemed to have a marked predilection for rakes.

By the time she caught up with Ariadne, that young lady was enjoying herself without caring one jot about anybody else. She had left several young ladies to their own devices as she chattered excitedly to two young men. The young men looked dazzled both by her beauty and her animated conversation. Ariadne was giving them no chance to interpolate comments or questions. Helena gathered up the abandoned young ladies and smoothly introduced them into Ariadne’s group. “Miss Yardley, do you remember Miss Charlton and Miss Greaves? We have not seen them in an age. And of course, the Misses Goodenough came on our trip to see Lord Elgin’s marbles recently.” She nodded firmly to Ariadne to follow her lead but was not optimistic. Ariadne was rarely interested in pursuing social chitchat with young ladies. She had always shown a marked preference for the male of the species. Women bored her, unless they were sycophantic.

“Oh, yes,” she said carelessly, leaving her audience in no doubt that she neither remembered nor cared about Miss Charlton, Miss Greaves or the Misses Goodenough. Helena’s heart sank. Miss Greaves flushed with embarrassment and anger.

Fortunately, good manners on behalf of the youths saw to it that everyone was included in the conversation, and after a short time Ariadne tired of the competition and drifted away. To the young gentlemen’s credit, their eyes did not follow her. That might have been due to the fact that her behavior had been distinctly overpowering. She was apt to be overbearing when in full flight.

Helena shuddered. If they only knew what Ariadne was like in one of her temper tantrums!

She found Caroline conversing painfully with a group of young people and as she approached, Caroline gratefully excused herself murmuring, “I really don’t think I enjoy this sort of thing Miss…Helena.”

“It will get better, I promise you,” her mentor replied. “You’ll see. I was dreadfully shy for the first two or three weeks of my Season, but then I became used to the way people conversed, and their usual topics of conversation. After that it became easier.” She ref­lected that the easy-going socialization which the Yardleys and their friends practiced would help Caroline find her feet a lot more easily than Helena’s environment had.

At that moment a blushing young man approached Caroline to ask her for the second of the country-dances. He said that of course he knew she would stand up with her father for the first one, but he would deem it an honor to lead her on to the floor for the second. Caroline blushed too and whispered “Yes, thank you.”

The musicians began to strike up their instruments, and Helena moved to Mrs. Yardley’s side to check that all was well. As they conversed, they caught sight of Ariadne taking her first champagne of the evening from one of the hired waiters moving amongst the throng. “Lord!” Mrs. Yardley hissed. “If she gets any more excitable, we shall have to send her to bed with a dose of laudanum.”

“I shall keep my eye on her as much as possible, Mrs. Yardley. But first—would it be possible for me to meet with Sir Ivor and Mr. Stafford in the study? They have requested me for news of my brother, ma’am. I feel I must talk to them, particularly Ned Stafford, since he used to be a friend of Robert’s.”

“Of course, my dear! Mr. Yardley and I will watch out for Ariadne, and Caroline don’t need much attention.” Joshua Yardley had heard the gist of their conversation and smiled encouragingly over the top of Mrs. Yardley’s head.

With a clear conscience Helena hurried to Mr. Yardley’s study where Sir Ivor introduced her to his brother. Helena smiled at Ned and said, “I know you must be Sir Ivor’s brother. You have the look of him.”

“Everyone says that,” Ned responded cheerfully, shaking her hand.

“I wonder whether that could be termed a compliment or not,” Sir Ivor mused, apparently to himself.

His brother playfully punched his arm. “Ivor! Take no heed of him, ma’am. Now sit down and tell me all about Robert.”

It seemed that Robert, like Helena, had not kept in touch with old friends, feeling that the chill winds of disapproval so common in their acquaintance might also have extended to their closest friends. It was only when Ned had read in the Observer that Robert had been posted to the Peninsula that he discovered where Robert was.

Apart from their steward and Miss Fichton, nobody had expressed any interest in Robert or Helena since their father’s demise. She was touched that this young man, who must have many friends, should remember Robert with kindness and affection. Overcome, she blinked rapidly as tears threatened. Knowing that most gentlemen became extremely uncomfortable around watering pots she raised her chin and attempted a misty smile. A large gentleman’s handkerchief was pressed into her hand, and Helena gratefully wiped her eyes.

“What do you know about your brother’s injuries, Miss Marshfield?”

“Hardly anything, Sir Ivor. He is reticent at the best of times, and I know he would strive not to worry me. I believe his shoulder was badly wrenched, may in fact have been dislocated and is taking some time to heal. I understand his leg is broken in more than one place. He said in his letter that he did not think he would ride or dance again.” She sat for a moment with her hands folded in her lap.

She saw the brothers exchange looks.

Sir Ivor broke the silence. “Have you made arrangements for Robert to see a surgeon?”

She swallowed. “I have done nothing at all yet, and indeed I don’t know which way to turn.” She pleated and re-pleated Sir Ivor’s immaculate handkerchief until it resembled one of Ariadne’s attempts at stitchery.

“Then that is easily settled,” Ned said firmly. “Ivor and I have decided that Robert must stay at Stafford House until he is well enough to be shifted to Ryewolds. I have lodgings in Duke Street and can see him often. Ivor has a huge staff standing around doing nothing because Mother spends most of her time at Ryewolds. It’s only when our sisters come to town that she spends any time in London. She prefers the country. Our sisters will not be up for the Season for another couple of weeks. Ivor can arrange for Robert to spend a few weeks at Eaton Square. It’s a peaceful part of town, too peaceful for my liking anyway,” he laughed, “so it will suit an invalid. And you, Miss Marshfield, may come and go as you please. Isn’t that right, Ivor?”

“Yes. All is arranged, Miss Marshfield, provided that is what you wish, and what you think your brother would wish for?” queried Sir Ivor.

“I-I scarcely know what to say,” she murmured. She looked from one Stafford to the other. “Your unexpected kindness…”

“Pho!” Ned clicked his fingers. “Robert was a good friend to me. And just wait till I tell Tally that Robert is back! We will have some good times again!”

She smiled uncertainly at him and turned to Sir Ivor. “Sir Ivor, is this really what you wish? It must be an inconvenience. Robert is a stranger to you.”

“Not for long, Miss Marshfield. And remember, ’tis but a short walk for you to Eaton Square, and you may visit your brother every day, circumstances permitting. I expect to see you often—no polite excuses. As Ned says, you may come and go as you please.”

Helena was overwhelmed by their kindness. She fluttered her hands nervously, knowing that she should not accept the invitation but deeply grateful that they had offered her and Robert such an excellent solution to their problems.

“Robert would do the same for me,” Ned averred, and suddenly she knew this to be true. She and Robert would be beholden to the Staffords for a time perhaps, but one day it might be in their power to repay the debt. Time would tell. She relaxed a trifle, then not wanting to detain them any longer, rose to her feet. “I think you gentlemen must be the kindest men in all London,” she told them unsteadily.

“Enough of that,” Sir Ivor said abruptly. “Now, Miss Marshfield, don’t forget that cotillion you promised me.”

Bemused, she realized that the dancing was well under way. Quickly she hurried to introduce some of the youngest couples to each other. Caroline and her father were the first couple on the floor, and there were six other couples lining up. With such a number of people going through the set pieces, it would be a long while till her dance with Sir Ivor.

She stood to one side, watching the Morris girls and quite a few other young women eyeing Sir Ivor. It had not occurred to her before, but Sir Ivor was undoubtedly the target of many an ambition. Seeming not to notice, he adroitly sidestepped the attempt of a matchmaking mama to snaffle him as he passed. Helena stifled a giggle. She was close enough to hear part of the conversation.

“Sir Ivor! Do you not remember us?” Very coy.

“Of course, Mrs. Brentwood. How could I forget you and your charming daughter? But I had not realized she was out of the schoolroom yet.”

Helena blinked. But Mrs. Brentwood was on the hunt and was impervious to insult. “How naughty of you, Sir Ivor! You know very well that Harriet has been out of the schoolroom for some time. Is such a charming complexion and a neat figure found on schoolroom misses? Hardly.”

Sir Ivor however had bowed and moved on. Lord, if Helena had realized how every eye followed his progress around the room, she would never have been so stupid as to agree to stand up with him. Not that she had agreed, precisely. His invitation to dance had sounded suspiciously like an order.

Half an hour later she found herself with her hand through his arm going toward the ballroom to join the next set. She glanced back over her shoulder at Ned who nodded and smiled and asked her to keep him a dance too.

“Do not fret, Miss Marshfield. Your employer has given you permission to dance. You have a very expressive face, you know. It is bad for my confidence that you evince such concern about dancing with me.” Ivor Stafford’s pained expression pretended chagrin, although Helena doubted he was serious. She couldn’t help it. She giggled like a schoolgirl then hastily pressed her gloved fingers over her mouth. She blinked with surprise at her own exuberance.

“Much better.” The glint in his eyes, looked for but rarely seen, flashed for a second. Dimpling, she curtsied as the cotillion began, then stepped gracefully into the movements of a dance she hadn’t danced for almost five years. Lately of course she had assisted the dancing master by demonstrating to Caroline various country dances, but she had not danced publicly since her father’s death. She gave herself over to the pleasure of each stately measure, meeting with Sir Ivor at the end of each promenade. How she had missed it! She hadn’t realized how much until the dance came to a close and Sir Ivor escorted her off the dance floor. She withdrew her hand from his arm, smiling shyly up at him, her inhibitions about the differences in their status temporarily forgotten. “Thank you, Sir Ivor. I wouldn’t have danced except for your persuasion.”

“That would have been a pity. You are an elegant dancer, Miss Marshfield,” he rejoined. “Seldom have I danced with a young lady who is able to look at me when I speak rather than down at her feet as she counts the steps, and who can actually converse rationally. Most refreshing.”

From which she judged that he must have had a hard time of it with some of the débutantes he had danced with. Then she blushed, wondering if he was insinuating that she had been perhaps a little too exuberant or if he just meant the compliment as it sounded. She was aware that sometimes she felt her circumstances deeply and was apt to read hidden meanings into perfectly polite conversations. Naturally, that didn’t happen often. Did it?

“I have a question, however.”

“Sir?”

“You are a beautiful woman.” He stated it as a fact, not expecting any dissension, and she felt herself blushing an even deeper crimson. “Why do you think you should pay for your father’s sins by hiding yourself away?”

“I don’t. But I have had experience of…well, governesses are not expected to—to put themselves forward in any way.” She took a deep breath. “It was a hard lesson to learn. I think I must have been much indulged when growing up.”

He clicked his tongue impatiently. “I doubt that. Social usage need not turn you into a wallflower. Perhaps now that your brother is returning you will be able to set up house together and you could leave this companion business behind. Obviously, life may never again be what you were used to some years ago, but it could be more tolerable than this half-life you seem determined to live,” he said. “Mrs. Yardley is a pleasant lady, but it irks me to see you like this, well educated, and with far more breeding than the woman employing you. You are passing your life as a drudge, at everyone’s beck and call.”

She stared at him in surprise. “Not at all!” How dare he? “In spite of your kindness to Robert and myself, Sir Ivor, I fail to see what business it is of yours. The Yardleys spoil me as you can see.” She spread her hands to demonstrate that with very few employers would she be allowed to engage in social discourse or dance at a soirée.

“If you say so.” He did not look convinced.

Helena discovered that it was disconcerting to be grateful to someone yet be annoyed with them at the same time. She was not only angry on her own behalf, but also for the Yardleys. What right did this man have to dictate how she lived her life? Had she made a dreadful mistake in accepting his hospitality on behalf of Robert? That comment of his was insufferably condescending. Perhaps he thought she should have remained in a boarding house somewhere, politely awaiting Robert’s return whilst attending to her stitchery. A lot of good that would have done her. She would have been hungry within a se’ennight.

There was a burst of laughter from across the room, and she was reminded of her duties. “Excuse me, Sir Ivor. I must go.” And she fled to the familiarity of duty, her feathers ruffled, still puzzling over the enigma that was Ivor Stafford. After checking the card-room, then ensuring that no wallflowers had been left to wilt alone in the ballroom, she signaled the caterers to begin serving supper. The Yardleys of course were renowned for their generous spreads, and although Helena had endeavored to tone down the large and somewhat vulgar variety of refreshments originally proposed, there were still cold meats, hot vegetable pastries, smoked oyster patties, sweetmeats, jellies, and candied fruits ready to spread before the guests. Josh Yardley, frustrated at what he saw as Helena’s cheese-paring notions of an elegant array of foods, had balked at being denied his smoked oyster patties.

“Miss Marshfield, we must have smoked oyster patties and cold meats for the men. We must. Otherwise as usual we shall be left with a sticky sweet array such as you ladies prefer. But gentlemen don’t like that sort of stuff.”

Helena, well used to catering for large gatherings of males at Marshfield Manor had laughed and assured him that oyster patties and cold meats were already on the menu.

The ballroom was busy with murmured conversation and the muted sounds of the orchestra. So many couples were joining the dancing it was unlikely that anyone would be departing for many hours. The card-room was alight with laughter and the click of dice. When supper was brought in ceremoniously on huge trays, the seal of approval was final. The evening was a success.

Too nervous to eat anything, Helena checked here and there, ensuring that all the guests were looked after. She threaded her way through the throng and was accosted by Mrs. Morris, Anna and Charlotte’s mama.

“Congratulations on an excellent evening, Miss Marshfield. I know full well who had the ordering of all this.” Mrs. Morris twinkled. She was used to Mrs. Yardley’s indolent ways.

“Thank you, ma’am. I have been dreadfully nervous,” Helena confided. Mrs. Morris smiled. She was a sensible woman, always civil and generally liked.

“Don’t worry, Miss Marshfield. If Josh Yardley had had any doubts about your ability to carry this off, you can be sure he would have hired somebody else to do the job.”

That was true, Helena thought. She turned to check that Mrs. Sowerby’s plate was laden with the fruit jellies she so enjoyed. Mrs. Sowerby of the strange coiffures was a bosom-bow of Mrs. Yardley and was an inveterate gossip. Helena usually evaded her sharp tongue by treating her with an air of deference. At the moment the woman’s mouth was crammed full of sweetmeats and she could not therefore chatter about any of the other guests. Helena smiled and moved away. She had found that it was always best to be extremely busy when the Mrs. Sowerbys of the world wanted her attention. Having been the subject of much gossip herself, Helena shrank from discussing others.

She turned as a plate was pushed into her hand. Ned Stafford’s voice whispered, “Ivor and I thought you might be able to manage a little ham, Miss Marshfield. We realize you’re busy, but you must eat something.” She smiled gratefully at them. A few slivers of wafer-thin ham would be just right. No doubt they were used to looking after their mother when she entertained. They would understand that anybody who had the organizing of an evening like this would be extremely nervous and unable to eat heavy foods.

Just then Mr. Yardley pushed through the crush of people toward her with a glass of champagne in his hand. “This is for you, Helena. You’ve done us proud, young lady. Such a success! Isn’t she a right one?” he demanded of Sir Ivor who, with his brother, had propped his shoulders against the wall.

Embarrassed, Helen fought to suppress a blush. Sir Ivor had perforce to agree. The poor man had no option. Mr. Yardley was practically throwing her at him. She didn’t know which way to look and effaced herself by murmuring softly and drifting vaguely away to check on Ariadne. Vulgarity could be viewed with amusement when she was not personally concerned, but it became unbearable when it involved a person whose good opinion she valued.

“Miss Marshfield!” She was accosted by one of the musicians. “Is the new waltz to be played this evening? We have had several requests for it.”

Here was a quandary. Although the waltz, recently introduced from the continent was popular in some quarters, it was still considered by many to be not quite the done thing. Normally, a young girl’s coming-out was not the place for it. However, that had to be balanced against the fact that the Yardleys were not of the top rung of society. Probably nobody except the highest sticklers would consider it noteworthy that the waltz had been danced at the private dress-party of a merchant’s daughter.

Helena chewed her lip then shrugged and guided the musician toward Mrs. Yardley. This was not a decision for her to make.

“Oh, dearie, we should have thought of that. Of course they should have their fun! Why not? We’ll ask Mr. Yardley, but I’m sure he’ll agree. Won’t you, my dear?” she demanded as she approached her husband. She had literally cut a swathe through the people thronging about the supper tables. She sailed along in her puce gown like a fat little sailing ship with Helena trailing behind her.

“Yes indeed, Helena. A capital idea! Instruct the musicians to strike up an impromptu waltz after the next country-dance. That will keep our guests happy, eh?” Josh Yardley was full of bonhomie, or perhaps he was full of some of the contents of his excellent cellar below-stairs.

Ned and Ivor Stafford watched from the sidelines. “Stands out from the mob, doesn’t she?” Ned murmured.

“Who?”

“As if you didn’t know. Miss Marshfield, of course.”

“Mmm.”

“Like a lily in a field of daisies.”

“Good Lord, Ned! You’re waxing poetical. Some men prefer daisies.”

“Yes, but not you.”

Ivor tried to look bored and refused to rise to the bait, but he approached Helena with intent as soon as he saw she was not busy. “Do you waltz, Miss Marshfield?”

“Not very well. I’ve not really had the chance.”

“No you don’t, Ivor. It’s my turn,” interrupted Ned who had sauntered up behind him. “Please let me have the first waltz, Miss Marshfield. Remember—you promised me.”

“I did?” She smiled at Ned. “If you don’t mind a clumsy partner then. But I must talk to my charges first.”

She rounded up Ariadne and Caroline and, directing a quelling frown at Ariadne, said, “I don’t want the waltz turned into a mad romp, Ariadne. Otherwise your father may forbid us any more waltzing this evening.” Well, anything was possible.

“I love to waltz,” Ariadne said, almost bouncing in her dancing slippers. “Of course they will play more than one.”

But Caroline held back, looking miserable. “I have only a sketchy knowledge of the steps. We did not think…”

No. Nobody had thought it necessary that a girl not yet out would need to know the steps of the infamous waltz. Helena hesitated. “I think the best thing for you to do is to sit the first waltz out. If any young man requests you to dance, why not suggest that your first one is taken? Then watch to see how it’s done. You will see how the steps you practiced with the dancing master look when danced properly. But as this is your first evening out, much will be forgiven you.”

Caroline nodded, committing this to memory, then bubbled over with laughter. “Oh, Helena. That gentleman over there said that my eyes were like diamonds! Did you ever hear anything more ridiculous?”

Helena chuckled. “My goodness, he did empty the butter-boat over you, didn’t he?”

Caroline giggled and would have continued but Helena raised her finger. “Tell me all the details tomorrow, my dear. Now is not the place.”

“Oh…of course.”

When Helena took the floor with Ned Stafford she discovered that she felt awkward and embarrassed to have his arm about her in the style of the new dance. The waltz was so…intimate. Even though Ned was a nice person and she trusted him, she did not feel quite at ease. It had been a long time since she had stood this close to a man. Perhaps if it were Sir Ivor that she was to waltz with she would feel a little safer. For some reason he imbued her with a sense of security that no other person had ever done. Even her father had been more her indulgent friend than her protector. She had no idea why Ivor Stafford should have this effect on her.

And it was such a shame really, because Ned was by far the nicer man. It was strange how one could feel so anxious and yet inwardly excited with one gentleman, and yet feel nothing but polite acceptance of another. Ned had plenty of address and was a likable young man. Like his brother he dressed well, although he had not quite left behind a young man’s leaning toward dandyism. His shirt points were a trifle too high, and his cravat was a complicated affair. As they’d arrived she had heard his older brother quizzing him. “Good God, Ned! What do you call that?”

“It is an invention of my own.” Said with dignity.

“I think you’d better work a little more on your invention.”

“Ivor! It’s not so bad. I was in the devil of a hurry this evening though.”

“Yes. That’s precisely what your cravat looks like. Perhaps you’d better name it ‘Vite, vite’.”

“What do you mean?”

“Quick, quick.”

Good-natured Ned exploded into laughter.

Helena had smothered a smile and purported not to have overheard. She decided that Ned was an engaging scamp and was very like Robert. He would be fun to have as a brother.

However, she could not see Sir Ivor in the light of a brother at all. It was obvious he had had plenty of experience in engaging the emotions of young ladies. He was a man who understood women. He was different from Ned. Ned was not like that at all. His jaw was every bit as square as his brother’s, and he certainly was just as determined. He had organized Robert’s homecoming very efficiently. But he seemed to be of a more easygoing nature than Ivor. That was the way of many second and third sons. They knew they would not have to succeed to their father’s responsibilities, and their lives were far less complicated than those of their elder brethren.

Helena cast a swift glance around, wondering if Sir Ivor intended to dance the next waltz with her as he had said. At present he was not dancing, just leaning against a pillar, deep in discussion with a man she had never seen before. He was, however, looking in her direction. Quickly she looked down, pretending an inordinate interest in the polished parquetry as it spun past.

As the first waltz finished and Ned stepped back to bow, Sir Ivor took his place. It was as smooth as that. She tensed and was immediately very aware of him. He held her exactly as Ned had done but… She steeled herself and fixed her gaze on his cravat—not ‘Vite, Vite’ but an elegant Waterfall—and endeavored to appear serene. It seemed that they danced together extremely well. For once she was glad she wasn’t a little dab of a thing, that she was quite tall. In fact, several couples around them fell back to give them room. When she realized this, Helena blushed painfully. Again. Thanks to Ivor Stafford she had blushed more this evening than she had in her whole life.

As the waltz drew to a close, Ivor Stafford glanced down at her and said, “You dance beautifully, Miss Marshfield. In spite of the wretched cap, you will be inundated with partners after this.”

“I had not expected to dance, you see. I wore the cap because I am a chaperone.”

Nevertheless, his words turned out to be prophetic. As soon as she had finished one dance, a partner would approach her for the next one. Had that been Ivor Stafford’s intention to make his point about not withdrawing from the world? Had he only danced with her in order to establish her as a desirable partner? Well, he had certainly succeeded.

An hour later she swung breathlessly into the third and last waltz with Mr. Yardley. Mrs. Yardley watched them fondly, and when the dance was finished, she clapped her hands saying, “Eh, but you two do look elegant! You must give these girls of ours more lessons in the waltz, Helena. Now, here is Lord Elverton waiting to lead you into the country-dance.”

Helena’s euphoria came crashing down as, stricken, she looked up into the haughty face of her father’s erstwhile ‘friend.’ Fear had her stammering. “M-my lord…I must decline, I’m sorry. My first d-duty is to my charges.” She had no desire to brangle with this man in public. She mistrusted him intensely and knew that if he criticized her father as he had done before, she would not be able to contain herself. Even though her father had seemed to like him, she had never been able to stomach the man. He had treated her with a haughty but indulgent air, much like an adult with a child. It had always raised her hackles. Underneath that smooth, polished address she sensed a harsh, unforgiving nature allied to an overdeveloped sense of self-worth. Confirming her opinion he snarled, “It didn’t seem to bother you a moment ago that you had duties to attend to.”

“I was given permission, but now I must go.” She would have brushed past him, but he gripped her arm painfully.

“Yes, and you have just been given permission to dance with me by your employer. I say you shall dance with me now,” he hissed, his swarthy countenance furious.

Helplessly Helena looked about her for aid. She could no longer see the Yardleys. She tried to tug her arm away. His fingers bit painfully into her skin, and she pulled harder. The puffed sleeve of her carefully sewn gown tore as she wrenched herself from his grasp and hurried away. Embarrassed and horrified, she heard his raised voice follow her. “Forgetting who you are, Miss Marshfield? I knew your father, remember that. I still hold one of his vowels.”

She hesitated, then turned and unwillingly retraced her steps. Several people had overheard and were staring at the two of them, avid for gossip.

“Not so hoity toity now, are you, Miss Marshfield? Surely you realized I’d come to collect one day?”

Holding fast to her torn sleeve, she stared up at him, stricken, unable to gather her wits. Was he speaking the truth? Could it be “the” vowel over which she’d spent many sleepless nights? Was he talking about something else entirely, or was he trying to terrorize her?

She inhaled deeply, trying to gather her thoughts. His statement did not ring true. With his vindictive nature he would surely have approached her before now to collect from the estate. He had become one of her father’s most vociferous critics and had been on their doorstep even before Papa was buried to collect monies owed. Why had he not then declared this other debt he was talking about?

Grabbing a fistful of courage she blurted, “I don’t believe you.”

“What?” he roared.

Oh God. She should not have said that. Desperately she sought for an innocuous phrase with which to pacify him. But her mind was a blank and she stood at the edge of the dance-floor, her hand clenched over her sleeve, staring at him as people brushed past.

As usual he was dressed in black. Only his cravat was white. It looked sickly against his swarthy skin. She had always thought of him as a malignant crow. His sloe-black eyes bored into hers. Why had Mr. Yardley invited this terrible person to his house? Probably because Elverton had a title, and the Yardleys, in all their naïveté, adored titles. Helena bit her lip, conscious of a hushed murmuring as a circle of people began to form around them.

“Is everything all right, Miss Marshfield?” a voice asked.

Thank goodness! Sir Ivor. Without thinking, she turned blindly toward him, trying to summon up a wavering smile. “Sir Ivor, Lord Elverton and I—” She looked imploringly at Sir Ivor, willing him to understand.

He did. One minute Lord Elverton was sneering down at her; the next he was being moved firmly through the throng by Sir Ivor in the direction of the conservatory.

“This way, Foxhyth,” she heard Sir Ivor say briskly. And that was the last she saw of Lord Elverton that evening.

It was much later that she heard from Mrs. Yardley what had transpired. Sir Ivor had apparently escorted Lord Elverton only as far as the conservatory where he had asked him to leave the premises. After some sharp questioning as to what right a Stafford had to evict a Foxhyth from premises that did not belong to either, Lord Elverton had dismissed the whole incident with a shrug and sauntered away, leaving behind his cloak, hat, and cane. Mrs. Yardley was much entertained by this tidbit of gossip, though appalled to think that a lord should have received such treatment under her roof. Along with most of her guests, she was avidly curious to find out what Lord Elverton had wanted from Helena Marshfield.

Helena did not hear about that until the following morning. After the incident she had endeavored to paste a pleasant smile on her face and pretend that she had not a care in the world. She had pinned up her dress and sought solace in performing her duties. Ignoring the whispers and stares, she had tried to show only her efficient, serene façade. Nobody watching could have suspected that her pulse was fluttering erratically in her throat and her hard-won confidence lay in shreds.

She had seen the Stafford men only for a moment when they left. As she stood behind the Yardleys, she had received a wink from Ned, and Sir Ivor had murmured quietly, “Pleased to be of service in that matter. Let me know if he troubles you again.” This was followed by a quick bow, then he turned from her to address someone else. She was grateful for his help, but what a ninny he must think her, unable to deal with an importunate man at her age. After all, it was not as if she were a schoolroom miss. At four and twenty she should be able to deal with difficult situations with aplomb.

Fortunately Mrs. Yardley was so ecstatic about the success of the evening that she lost the opportunity to question Helena about Lord Elverton. Helena endured an hour of a lecture on all the smallest details Mrs. Yardley could recall, from listing the various attendees who had paid her compliments on the evening’s enjoyment right down to the high quality of the mushroom patties and the fortuitous card-table seating. Helena smiled patiently and eventually managed to escape and drag herself upstairs to bed.

As she poked at the fire in her room, she brooded on the dent her reputation had just received. It was no use pretending that her argument with Lord Elverton was unimportant. Many people had overheard his comments.

It was starting all over again—the hushed whispers that culminated in disparaging glances. The past five years of carefully effacing herself in social situations had all been for nothing. She had swallowed jibes from those who were as equally in debt as her father had been, but who lived on tick or on expectations. To think she had endured grinding boredom in her chosen occupation and denigrating comments from Ariadne for it all to come to this. She had been so sure that she had finally left behind her those days of being the butt of gossipmongers.

Resolving to be sensible and set the matter aside, she spent a sleepless night worrying her problems like a dog with a bone. One moment she worried that the unsigned vowel hidden in her drawer applied to Lord Elverton; the next she worried that her wanton behavior in dancing in such an abandoned manner with Sir Ivor twice had been noted by all and sundry. Not that the cotillion when they had first paired together could be described as ‘abandoned’ precisely. But their waltz, although decorous, had, by its very nature, been…invigorating.

Instead of remembering all those hard-learned lessons she had slipped her leash well and truly with one waltz with him. Even now her body thrummed with the warmth and delight of giving herself up to the music and the shelter of his arms which said to her quite clearly “safe, you are safe now.”

No, she was not safe. She rued her wayward nature which had whistled down the wind two boring but worthy suitors five years ago. Now that she was no longer on the marriage mart, she had found the man of her dreams—well, not exactly of her dreams—he was too arbitrary for that. But he could be kind when he chose. She preferred that to the too-easy manners of his brother. Ned was a pleasant man, but he did not challenge her.

And anyway, what was Sir Ivor Stafford about, dancing a cotillion and a waltz with a mere companion? She did not understand him.

Had she comported herself more like a companion and less like the favored daughter of the house, none of this would have happened. It was not that she had behaved with impropriety. It was just that for a short time she had forgotten what she had become.

And that was the crux of the matter. It seemed that even five years later she must still pay for her father’s foolishness. Not for the first time, Helena wondered at her father. He had been a likeable man, self-indulgent and careless of responsibility. He had also been completely self-centered. How could he not have considered what would happen to his children after his suicide? Helena’s greatest fear was that he had promised her hand in marriage to Lord Elverton. That promissory note she held was ambiguous and vague. But she remembered how her father had repeatedly requested her presence when Lord Elverton called on them, even though he knew Helena detested the man. Elverton’s strange attitude toward her of a bizarre mix of indifference and avarice had made her cringe. Worst of all had been the cold, proprietary glint in his eyes every time he looked at her. That was the way he had looked at her this evening too.

At the time she had been presented to the Queen, a rumor was circulating that Lord Elverton had ‘uplifted’ the sixteen years old daughter of one of his friends and disappeared with her for several days. The marriage announcement was expected daily but somehow did not eventuate. Speculation ran rife because he was an undeniable catch. Some murmured that the young lady had prevailed upon her father to release her from any obligations. She had preferred perpetual banishment to life with Lord Elverton. Helena could understand that.

What had Sir Ivor said to Lord Elverton as he led him away? His face had been impassive as usual, and she could read nothing in it.

Wriggling beneath the bedclothes she sighed, exhausted but unable to sleep. It seemed as though she was now paying for cutting herself off from the world for the past five years. Yes, it had been a form of self-indulgence, but it had been for her protection too. Tonight she felt as if she had been stripped of several layers of skin.

The brightest star on her horizon was the Staffords’ kind invitation to Robert. It would be wonderful to see Robert again. She desperately hoped his injuries would not prove to be too debilitating. She sighed as she rolled over, trying to still her restless mind in sleep. Alas, four o’clock in the morning was a friendless time.