Chapter Seven

Outside the city of Coimbra two horsemen, one Portuguese, one English, headed toward the French divisions commanded by Soult. As dusk drew in, they slowed their horses to a walk. At the point of the Mondego River where it curved so that the spires of the cathedral could be seen, they were intercepted by a French sentry accompanied by a French officer whose uniform was indistinguishable in the fading light. The Englishman dismounted and took from his saddlebag a sheaf of papers. Stepping directly up to the French officer he saluted and handed over the package.

****

When it came time to get up, Helena found it hard to face the day. She looked in the mirror as she tidied her hair and a wan, tired face stared back. Depressed and dreading the Yardleys’ post-mortem on the evening’s events she dragged herself downstairs with as much enthusiasm as the French nobility approached the tumbril.

First of all she had to approach Josh Yardley, and she knew he would not be happy about having his prize guest snatched away. Hopefully he was still thrilled about last evening’s success.

“Mr. Yardley, would it be possible for me to visit my brother at Stafford House occasionally over the next few weeks? I promise not to neglect the girls in any way.”

“Stafford House? I thought your brother would be coming here.”

As she feared, he did not take the news well. He frowned and stared at her searchingly as if trying to read her mind, then suddenly he was all smiles. He changed tack. “Of course, m’dear. You must meet with your brother as often as you wish. And should you need an escort at any time, please let me know.”

Aha! Mr. Yardley was hoping she would cement further friendliness between the Staffords and the Yardleys. She sighed inwardly but could not bring herself to condemn him. He was the father of two marriageable daughters, and his business dealings and political ambitions could be advanced with Sir Ivor as his patron. It didn’t seem to occur to him that a mere companion would scarcely hold any influence over a family such as the Staffords. Mr. Yardley still saw Helena as Miss Marshfield of Marshfield Manor, Oxford. This was fortunate for Helena, but not practical in the eyes of the ton.

She murmured, “Thank you.”

All during breakfast, Caroline received a constant stream of billets and posies, and though pleased to receive them, was unsure which particular young man had actually sent them. She confided to Helena, “The whole party is such a blur! I cannot recall anyone’s names. Although I enjoyed my party—or I did toward the end of it—I would not want to go through all that too often.”

Fortunately Ariadne had breakfasted in bed for she would have been excessively put out to see how popular her young sister had become overnight.

It seemed that Caroline had enjoyed herself as much as her sensitive temperament would allow, but unlike her sister and mother she had no bent for socializing tirelessly. Helena hoped that Caroline would not be forced into a mold more in keeping with Ariadne’s temperament. That bright intelligence merited more than dances and rout parties and morning visits. She would make an excellent diplomat’s wife or a wife for one of the more conscientious members of the House of Commons. A businessman such as one of the Indian nabobs recently come to town would find her intelligence and charm irresistible, but Helena knew that that was the very background from which Mr. Yardley was trying to elevate his daughters.

When Helena mentioned the kindness of the Staffords and how Robert would be staying at Stafford House, Caroline exclaimed, “Helena, how marvelous! That would be just the thing. May I visit Robert with you? It seems as though I almost know your brother through his letters.”

Helena hesitated. She hoped Caroline was not seeing Robert as a hero from one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s famous novels. Although pragmatic, she was of an impressionably romantic age. However, it was probable that faced with the reality of Robert crippled and unable to ride or dance, possibly in pain permanently, a damper would be cast on some of Caroline’s more romantic notions. It would do her no harm to see what wounded heroes had to endure.

Helena mentally made a list of all the things she needed from the apothecary’s which might be useful for Robert’s recovery. Her hands clenched beneath the breakfast table as she gnawed at her problems. One thing was certain—as soon as Robert arrived, she would solicit the attentions of one of the better surgeons in the area. She would not be able to secure the services of someone like Sir William Fox of course, although she wished it were possible. The renowned gentleman was said to be a wizard, and it seemed as though only a wizard would be able to repair the damage done to Robert’s leg and shoulder.

By good fortune, Ariadne bounced downstairs in a sunny mood. She interrupted Helena and Caroline’s conversation without compunction. “Helena, why don’t we go to the bazaar today? ’Tis always fun to shop for new ribbons and such. Do say we may go.” Somehow she managed to project an order into her tone.

“What a good idea, Ariadne! I need to procure some trifles for my brother—”

But Ariadne was already starting back upstairs. She had not waited for an answer. She was not interested in the twitterings of her companion and had no hesitation in cutting short Helena’s comments. Helena grimaced. She could not remonstrate with Ariadne because Ariadne’s parents often did the same thing.

At the bazaar Ariadne darted straight to the ribbon sellers and Caroline meandered along in her wake. Keeping an eye on her charges from the next aisle, Helena sought out the medicines she might need. Having no clear notion of what would be required she purchased smelling salts, yards of bandage, basilicum powder, and lavender water. She would have to visit the apothecary’s for laudanum drops. She had little experience of sickrooms, but that was of no account. This was her brother. She would do her best.

A couple of inappropriate prospective purchases by her charges snapped her mind to attention. From habit she disparaged a tasteless knot of ribbons in a violent shade of purple chosen by Ariadne as “Charming, but definitely for a dowager, don’t you agree?” and persuaded Caroline that “Darling you know the sweet pretty little kittens will only be suitable as rat-catchers. Your father will never allow them in the house.”

Heavens, she would be glad when this day ended. As well as being on tenterhooks worrying about Robert, she was exhausted after her late night. It did not seem to have affected Ariadne at all, although Caroline was lackluster today.

Most of all, Helena longed to have some time to herself to examine her entirely unsuitable feelings about Sir Ivor. For in spite of telling herself hourly that she was causing herself grief, she was unable to stop her thoughts dwelling overlong on Ivor Stafford. And now it looked as though their paths would cross more often than she had anticipated, making it doubly difficult to see him only in the light of a mere acquaintance.

“You must nip this thing in the bud,” she muttered to herself.

“What was that, Helena?”

Lord, had she spoken aloud? “Nothing, Caroline.”

Nip it in the bud, indeed. It was already too late. Just because the man had shown her kindness and was disposed to flirt a little with her did not mean she should take his behavior seriously. He was a reformed rake who now had the responsibility of a family who depended upon him. She was sure that what he had in mind was a light-hearted dalliance, but it could end with her losing her heart to him. Then she snorted. Silly Helena. Too late. Usually a most reliable organ, her heart had been misbehaving oddly ever since that day at Hookham’s Library.

Oh yes, she could enumerate all his faults, such as his arrogant desire to order the lives of all those around him, and his tendency to ride rough-shod over those he considered his dependents, but she knew all that and it didn’t make a blind bit of difference. He was still the epitome of what she held most important in a man. It was easily seen that in spite of his past reputation he was a man of honor. If only she had met him five years ago…no. If she had met him then he would no doubt have on his sleeve an opera dancer or be carrying on a secret relationship with a society matron. Perhaps it was as well she had not met him in his salad days because she would have bored him witless. Anyway, her aunt would never have allowed her anywhere near him.

She blinked and forced her mind to dwell on something else—anything else than Ivor Stafford.

What if Robert decided to sell out? Would the proceeds, wisely invested, support them both? Probably not. It would not be a large sum. No, she needed to take herself to task and forget waltzes and impossible daydreams. It was just that she yearned for her own space—a place where privacy meant exactly that, not where she had always to keep her bedchamber door unlocked in case one of her charges needed her, and where she was at the beck and call of a group of people all wanting something from her.

The most frustrating thing of all was that she had no idea of the extent of Robert’s injuries because that would determine what their futures might be. Anyway, under no circumstances could she expect Robert with all his physical problems to maintain her for the rest of her life. Whichever angle she looked at it from, she was left with the inescapable fact that she was destined to be a governess or companion forever.

For the slightest moment a vision slid through her mind of a tall, quiet man clasping her hand for the waltz. She was fathoms deep in longing. Then recalled to reality by the noise around her, she ruthlessly stamped on the yearning, relegating it to where all the other wistful dreams had gone. She lifted her chin and joined Ariadne and Caroline.

Her discomfiture and worry were complete when Mrs. Sowerby paid a morning visit the following day and managed by sly innuendoes to mention the Stafford men and Lord Elverton all in one breath whilst smiling archly at Helena.

“Why, Miss Marshfield, we did not realize that a governess would have such illustrious associations! My goodness, there you were, dancing several times with the Staffords and chatting with Lord Elverton. What a sociable young lady you are. I trust you had a pleasant evening, my dear?”

Gritting her teeth, and driven into a corner, Helena met the woman’s eye. “Actually, they are all friends of my brother and father. I have not set eyes on Lord Elverton for several years and I have not met young Mr. Stafford before. However, they were all most kind.”

Mrs. Yardley looked every bit as avid as her friend did, although her expression was tempered with a sort of ashamed pity.

Helena could not bear it. She would not be drawn further into any more post-mortems. She stood. “Excuse me. I must fetch a shawl for Ariadne. The fire is not drawing properly, and Ariadne is wearing a light dress. She must be cold.” Before Ariadne could protest, Helena hurried to the door. Even then she was thrown upon the ropes by Mrs. Sowerby gushing slyly, “Dear Ariadne. Such a pretty dress! But what are you thinking of, Miss Marshfield? Surely Ariadne should be wearing a warmer garment at this time of year? Is there something on your mind, my dear, that you have not fulfilled your duties as conscientiously as usual?”

The barbs found their target. Struggling to maintain her countenance, Helena murmured her excuses and left the withdrawing-room. This was terrible. As if she had not agonized enough over her behavior at Caroline’s party, she now had to suffer the coy innuendoes of the vulgar Mrs. Sowerby.

“You brought this upon yourself, Helena, so get over it.” Common sense told her that her worry about Robert was contributing to the feeling that all her nerve endings were exposed. The harsh reality was that she would spend the rest of her life being patronized by people such as Mrs. Sowerby and Mrs. Yardley.

She couldn’t bear it any longer. She would invent a task that took her far away from the household for an hour or two to give her time to compose herself. Leaving the room in such haste could only foment speculation. That had been a silly thing to do.

Sidestepping the withdrawing-room, she fetched Ariadne’s shawl and passed it to Stalley to deliver. Mrs. Yardley had expressed a vague wish for some of the new sweet licorice sweetmeats from Prynnes the grocers, which she had seen on a handbill recently. Helena decided that was as good an excuse as any to escape the confines of the house, even though the rain was sleeting down outside. The girls would not want to go out in this weather so she would not be looked for.

With the weather being so inclement, she chose her heavy cloak and poke bonnet because at least they would protect her a little and best of all, they would dry in due course. She clattered in her pattens down the front step and on to the portico. One of the few advantages of being a companion was that at least one could use the front entrance on occasion. Stalley was ushering a visitor in but she did not look up. Keeping her eyes downcast, she scurried out into the wind and rain, hoping to escape to Hookham’s for a peaceful hour alone.

It was not to be.

“Miss Marshfield!” exclaimed the voice which had kept her awake for the past few nights. “Just the lady I came to see.”

Oh, God. Helena’s heart sank. Much as she desired to see him, she did not relish meeting with Sir Ivor under the present circumstances.

“Is there somewhere my carriage could convey you on such a wet day?”

They were standing beneath the portico and the rain was blowing in on them, yet neither made a move to shift under shelter.

“No thank you, sir. It was just that…I mean…” She shrugged helplessly, keeping her head down so that he could not see her face. She hoped to Heaven that no one chose to look out of the withdrawing-room window at this moment. It would be just her luck that Mrs. Sowerby would call for her carriage to be brought around right now. Nervously her eyes darted around. Then she flinched as she found herself swept through the rain and up into the Stafford carriage.

Ivor Stafford sat down beside her, his coat speckled with raindrops. “Now, where was it you wanted to go?”

“Nowhere in particular, Sir Ivor.” Dash it all. Her plans were all awry. She rearranged the damp folds of her cloak.

He raised his eyebrows, as well he might. “But the weather, Miss Marshfield! I know you are an indefatigable walker but really, this is not the day for a walk.”

Hearing the laughter in his voice, she looked up unguardedly. “I have a small item to purchase for Mrs. Yardley. And I don’t mind the rain—well, not much.”

He laughed. “You must be a veritable Amazon if you don’t mind this sort of rain! It has just begun to teem in torrents. I’m sure Mrs. Yardley is not so unkind as to expect you to go out in this weather?”

“No. Mrs. Yardley is all that is kind,” Helena hastened to reply. She well knew that Mrs. Yardley would be horrified to see anybody stepping out in this weather. Dear Mrs. Yardley had a horror of the elements. She mistrusted dew, rain, sunshine, wind, cold, heat, snow, ice—anything at all really. And no doubt Sir Ivor suspected that.

“I just…needed…a walk, that’s all.”

“Has something happened to upset you?” Unlike his normal fashionably languid tone, his voice sounded kind and concerned. Her hands shook. It had been five years since anyone had expressed an interest in her feelings. Caroline was sweet but had no knowledge or understanding outside her protected sphere. She had received trenchant sympathy from Miss Fichton, but Miss Fichton saw governessing as the most important vocation in the world. She did not understand that anyone forced into that occupation had anything to complain about.

This man may be planning to give her a slip on the shoulder, but he seemed to understand in a way that others did not, how difficult it was to change the whole style of one’s life. For a fleeting moment she wondered what event had altered his life so much to change him from the dissolute rake she had heard about to the autocratic, self-contained man he was now. Was there more than the natural succession to his father’s shoes responsible for the abrupt changes in his life?

She clenched her hands in her lap. She could think of nothing to say.

“Anyway, we may as well converse in my carriage as anywhere else,” Sir Ivor said firmly. “I came to tell you that after some investigation, we have had word of your brother. So we have arranged for him to arrive in London tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? Dear Robert, I miss him so,” she exclaimed.

“You do realize, Miss Marshfield, that Robert may be…well—”

“Oh no, I understand,” she broke in. “I have been preparing my mind for a shock ever since I heard the news about the extent of his injuries. I must admit I am nervous about seeing his injuries for the first time, but I keep reminding myself that the sight of ugly wounds is nothing compared to the agony Robert has suffered. My main concern is to find a good surgeon to attend him. No doubt the army surgeons did their best but…” She shuddered, thinking of the butchering of limbs that was the main job of the army surgeons.

“Please do not worry. We have organized for Sir William Fox to meet your brother two days after he arrives. We thought it best to let him settle in first before the surgeon sees him. Ned and I will send for you when Robert is ready to see you. You need have no fear of meeting him in extremis.” He grimaced. “I fear this war is only just beginning, as the French have not been easily rompéed thus far. There will be many men returning in Robert’s state. The appalling thing is that some Englishmen have no sense of nationality at all. Campaign secrets are being sold, and the smuggling in of French goods is rampant. Thoughtlessness and greed in England will not help our troops win battles on the Peninsula.” Then he broke off and gave her an apologetic half-smile. “Forgive me. This is a hobby horse of mine.”

She gazed at him in surprise. Most fine London gentlemen appeared to have no knowledge at all of war conditions on the Peninsula and cared even less. She had constantly been irritated at the frivolous yet hypercritical attitude toward the war, but she could not fault either Mr. Yardley or Sir Ivor. Admittedly, much of Mr. Yardley’s interest lay in the decline in commerce between England and the continent, but she had also noted that he was patriotic and au fait with all the latest military maneuvers.

She ventured a query. “You seem to be of the same mind as Mr. Yardley on the matter, Sir Ivor.”

He glanced at her. “Yes. He has a grasp of military maneuvers far beyond anything I have, but I fancy I have the best of him when it comes to the political reasoning behind many of our moves in Portugal and Spain thus far.”

Helena hesitated. “Perhaps Robert may be able to enlighten you with what he knows,” she ventured.

“Possibly,” Sir Ivor agreed, but she could see that he thought a captain acting as aide-de-camp in the field might have no especial knowledge of tactics. However, perhaps Robert could help in another way. Tentatively she broached the subject. “I have some letters, sir, which may interest you. They are from Robert about his brigade’s escapades during the war thus far. Robert has it in mind to put them into diary form and perhaps publish them if he gains permission to do so from the Horse Guards.”

He seemed greatly taken by this. “Excellent, Miss Marshfield!”

He saw her surprised look and said, “When Robert is fully recovered from his journey, I will explain precisely why I am so interested in his letters. It’s rather complicated, but extremely important.”

She had no idea what he was talking about, so she just smiled politely.

“Now that you know your brother is arriving tomorrow, is there anything in particular that you wish me to provide for his comfort?”

“You are very kind, sir,” she said warmly, impulsively stretching out a gloved hand then drawing it back hastily. However he retrieved her hand and held it lightly, so that she might withdraw it at will. Her complexion heightened, she gazed down at her wet feet. “I shall wait until we have found out more about his injuries.” In order to cover the fact that she was surreptitiously furling and unfurling her hand resting so snugly in his she changed the subject. “I-I fear it is too wet to go walking now.”

“Miss Marshfield, it has been far too wet all morning for walking,” he said, in the amused tone he so often used with her.

She wouldn’t call it flirting exactly, just dallying. No doubt there being no other suitable young ladies around he was amusing himself at her expense.

“I suggest you go back inside and keep warm. I must leave you now. Hopefully I shall see you late tomorrow, but if not, then the following day. I shall send a note. Is that acceptable?” He quirked an eyebrow, and his firmly chiseled lips held an upward curve, daring her to disagree.

“Er…yes. Of course.” She could hardly say anything else. She was deeply in his debt, high-handed as he was. He assisted her down from the carriage and to her indignation she saw that his poor groom had been stoically sitting in the drizzle awaiting instructions. The indifference of him! How could he do that? Seem so kind one minute and yet be so insufferably uncaring of his employee’s plight the next?

She cast a sympathetic glance at the groom who remained wooden-faced, staring straight ahead. “Your sympathy is wasted,” said a voice in her ear. “He prefers waiting there like that. I suggested he wait in the Yardleys’ kitchen but he said no. Something about Cook.”

“Oh, yes. Poppy hates strangers in her kitchen and makes a lot of noise, stamping around and blowing through her nose until the person has gone. I understand why he prefers to sit in the rain.” She giggled.

“Thank goodness I have a male chef.” He quirked an eyebrow.

Helena refused to rise to the bait.

After a pause where it seemed he was waiting for her to take him up on his comment, he continued, “Inside you go out of the rain. Till next time.”

He then totally unnerved her by raising her hand to his lips and kissing it, after the fashion fast going out of style. A tremor went through her as his warm lips touched her gloved fingers. She could not of course actually feel the touch of his lips, but she could well imagine how they felt, and somehow that seemed more sensuous and breathtaking than had he actually touched her skin. And for a moment the look in his eyes as he straightened up took her remaining breath away. She gulped inelegantly. Whatever had made her think that gray eyes were cool? For a second she had glimpsed a silver conflagration that was swiftly masked.

Turning away he sprang up into his carriage. Helena, thoroughly discomposed, brushed past Stalley and hurried in through the door. Naturally Stalley had been standing beneath the portico, surreptitiously trying to overhear their conversation. She fled upstairs to her room and sat down on her bed to reflect.

But reflection brought little comfort. She was extremely puzzled by Sir Ivor’s attitude toward her. One moment he seemed withdrawn; the next he was her self-appointed protector. At the same time he seemed to be lightly flirting with her. It was true that some gentlemen enjoyed flirting with governesses and companions, many of whom were highly born but unsuitable as marriage partners due to their lack of dowry or respectable family connections. Sometimes their reputations had suffered in some way. Helena wondered how many unhappy young women were taken in by the flirting and built false hopes based on nothing. She could well end up like that. She must take a firm hold of herself.

What did he want? A desperate little sob escaped. Why did her life suddenly seem so untenable? Her sense of humor had completely deserted her. She had managed up till now. Surely she could continue?

She was brought back to earth by drops of water dripping from her bonnet on to the rag rug at her feet. It was just as well she had proceeded no farther on her walk because even just stepping between the portico and Sir Ivor’s carriage had dampened her cloak and bonnet considerably. She spread her things to dry in front of the small fire in her room. Betsy was kind about carrying lumps of coal all the way upstairs to Helena’s bedroom. Helena had offered to do it herself, but Betsy was appalled. “That’s not for you to do, miss. Leave it to me.” She persisted in calling Helena “miss” as if Helena were one of the daughters of the house.

Since Helena had offered to teach her to read, Betsy had become Helena’s champion. “You would make an excellent dresser,” she had said to Betsy one day. “You are extremely talented in the care of ladies’ dresses and such. I could teach you to read and write if you like. That way you could find work as a lady’s maid.”

“Is that right, miss? At home only my oldest brother had any schooling. All the rest of us went into service, praise be. For my father died when I was but a child, and Ma had her hands full with the rest of us. But my brother says that girls don’t read.”

“But I read, and so do Miss Ariadne and Miss Caroline.”

However Betsy shrugged this off saying that she was only a maid and was not expected to learn to read. Helena’s response had been to place some picture books in Betsy’s room, trusting that curiosity would one day get the better of her.

But Helena wondered now whether Betsy wasn’t a lot happier in her ignorant state, just as Helena would have been had she never met Ivor Stafford.

Sometimes it was better not to know.