Chapter 19
The ipecacuan and mustard blister prescribed by the doctor seemed to do wonders for Gran. Within a few days, her breath came easier, and her color and appetite improved significantly. It felt like a gift to see her rise from her bed one bright morning to sit by the window. How long had she been suffering needlessly before sending for assistance? Helena wondered. How close had the sweet woman come to crossing the veil? Helena shook her head as she took that opportunity to change her grandmother’s sheets and tidy up. No good could come of such speculation. Gran was on the mend, and, now that the door was open, she would strive to visit as often as she could. Gran couldn’t stay here indefinitely, and she and Elizabeth couldn’t give her the kind of regular attention her health must require, not from such a great distance. Changes would have to be made. Still, as she looked at her grandmother’s gentle and dimly sad countenance as the woman tilted her face toward the streaming sunlight, she knew such a monumental conversation must wait, perhaps for a time when her sister could be present and all together they could decide the best fate, not only for Gran but for what was left of the Thorton farm.
When her grandmother fondly declared it was time for her to stop hovering and “let a person enjoy a moment’s peace,” Helena went to join Mrs. Weathers and Vanessa in the kitchen. It was amazing how quickly a day progressed here. With all the cleaning and washing and cooking and spinning and all the other -ings that the housekeeper had heroically been managing on her own, the sun flew across the sky. And there was something satisfying about the rhythm of such a day. Even Vanessa seemed to have acclimated to the routines of the house.
“Come to the public house this evening,” Mrs. Weathers said, when Helena brought in some of the wash that had been drying outside. “It’ll do you a world of good, I’m sure. I’ll be there, and we can tuck you into a quiet corner and simply watch everyone cavorting!”
Such an easy invitation extended. She had to smile. Who would have guessed upon her arrival that anyone in Marksby, including Mrs. Weathers, would seek her company? The thought was quickly followed by the realization that, if she was noticed, there was no telling what ugliness might arise. When she said as much, though, the housekeeper and Vanessa both vehemently argued that she needed and deserved a little entertainment.
“Just so,” Mr. Weathers interjected as he ambled into the kitchen. He removed his hat in a charmingly formal manner and said, “Anyone who might mistreat you will have to answer to me and the missus.” Although he smiled jauntily when he said it, his eyes said he was decidedly serious. How was she to resist their combined and concerted efforts?
Thus she found herself seated next to Mrs. Weathers and her husband at The Crowing Cock. She’d never been there before, since her father had never been one to drink or carouse in the evenings. But the atmosphere seemed friendly and cheerful. No one seemed to notice her in her shadowed spot, and she soon found that she did indeed feel more relaxed, more carefree, than she had in weeks or even months. As predicted, they sat undisturbed while the festivities and gossip flowed copiously around them.
“That Rosalina is quite the flirt, you see,” a female voice said. “She’s already broken quite a few hearts among the local boys, but she’s a good girl, for all that.”
“You remember old Mr. Ackley?” another woman asked suddenly, before launching into the colorful marital history of the man from a neighboring parish. Apparently, he’d been through four wives in ten years, each wife younger than the last, and he was angling for a young Marksby lass, whose parents held split opinions about the possible match.
Helena let the random snippets of conversation wash over her while she took small sips of ale. In the mere half hour she’d been at the pub, she’d been exposed to more people than she’d encountered in Marksby since that dreadful episode outside the postmaster’s shop.
A group of men entered the pub, clean and tidy but carrying the scent of horses and livestock. She didn’t recognize any of them, but that mattered little. Like Daniel Lanfield, many of these men could have grown up here in the village and only slightly resemble the boys they had once been. As they made their way to a large table, she heard a familiar deep voice—Daniel’s voice—call out from the midst of the group, “Mrs. Flanigan! I’ve sorely worked these men today and regret my heavy hand. Give them your finest brew to ease their burdens!”
The woman laughed and spoke to a couple of the serving girls. One began filling mugs while the other went back toward the kitchen. Then Mrs. Flanigan made her way to the table Daniel and his men occupied and, with a broad smile, made comments that Helena couldn’t hear but that elicited bursts of laughter. After spending a few more moments with them, moments during which Helena would have given much to be a fly by their table, privy to the source of their mirth, the woman glided back to the counter. She refused to ponder why the woman’s easy demeanor with Daniel and his men mattered to her, but Daniel seemed happy to receive her ample attention.
Turning to Mrs. Weathers, she asked after the Weathers children, but slowly she realized that a hush had fallen over the room. Mr. Weathers tapped his wife’s hand and tipped his head to direct their attention, just before a broad shadow loomed over the table. Helena’s skin tingled, and she knew whom she would see when she looked up. What she didn’t know was how Daniel would greet her, given the muddled way they’d left things after the Bradford trip. Was he angry with her? Would he chase her out of here? Would he leave that to the rest of the crowd after making her presence so clearly known? She closed her eyes, chastising herself for such unfair thoughts. In these past few weeks, Daniel hadn’t done her any harm, no matter the occasion. Even at his most furious, he’d kept his temper in check. Even when he’d kissed her, he’d hated himself for it but hadn’t taken that anger out on her. And it was impossible to ignore that pulsing awareness of him so close by, urging her to draw him even closer. Damn her wayward emotions.
“Mr. Weathers, ’tis a pleasure to see you and your lovely wife this evening.” When she raised her gaze to meet his, he smiled gently and said, “And it’s a welcome surprise to find you here, Mrs. Martin.”
She struggled to tamp down the pathetic frisson of delight his smile sent through her as she murmured a polite greeting in response. When he turned his attention back to Mr. Weathers, she let loose the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
“I think we could all do with some entertainment, sir! Is it too much of an imposition to ask you to grace us with some songs?”
She’d forgotten that the normally reticent man was a fine and lively singer. People from nearby tables who heard Daniel’s request echoed his sentiments, and it wasn’t long before Mr. Weathers was cajoled into rising. Then he did a most surprising thing.
“Do you still play the piano, Mrs. Martin?” Mr. Weathers asked quietly.
She was startled by his question and could only nod in response. Then, to her further astonishment, he turned to Daniel, and said, “And I’m sure you haven’t forgotten how to fiddle, have you, lad?”
His eyes widened slightly, but he grinned, causing Helena’s heart to do an inconvenient little flip. “No, sir! It would be my pleasure to accompany you,” he said, with a quick bow.
Mrs. Weathers interjected. “Ah, Helena, you wouldn’t know, but Lanfield can do magic with a fiddle!”
Her husband looked at her fondly and said, with what Helena would swear was a mischievous look in his eye, “It’s rare that I get to perform with two talented players. I’ve no doubt Mrs. Martin still has an excellent ear.” He named a few songs, and remarkably she knew them all, sweet ballads and folk songs she’d learned well in her youth.
But the thought of going over to the piano at the other side of the room and being the center of attention froze her body. She looked up at Mr. Weathers helplessly as that familiar fear shot through her. Hot tears of frustration welled in her eyes. No! She couldn’t be this weak, fragile thing!
She felt warm breath against her neck before she heard Daniel’s low voice in her ear. “You’re safe here,” he said. “We won’t allow anything to happen to you. If you don’t want to play, you don’t have to.” The combination of his deep rumbling voice and reassuring words calmed her. Then he added, “But if you truly wish to accompany Mr. Weathers, which I think would be a rare treat, both for you and for him, then all you need to do is take my hand.”
And there it was—his large, beautifully callused hand—just waiting for her.
Just then, Mrs. Flanigan stopped dead next to their table and focused a bright smile upon her. “Ah, Helena Thorton! Heard you were back! You had the voice of an angel. Come and entertain us!”
The proprietress glared when someone grumbled behind her, and Helena suddenly felt the urge to laugh at the absurdity of the situation. Even at home, she hadn’t sat at the piano since . . . she couldn’t bring herself to finish the thought. She used to love playing for her family and friends, entertaining them, rousing them to join in. Music brought them together and lightened their spirits. But she hadn’t even wanted to play since . . . Isaiah. Now, however, she felt the stirring appeal of the piano and the way it allowed her to throw all of her emotions into the spry movements of her hands. And at least a small host of people here seemed interested in letting her do so.
She took Daniel’s hand, allowing him to help her stand. Then she followed the two men to the instruments. She felt so exposed and conspicuous as she played a few trills to acquaint herself with the piano keys, but, to her relief, her partners took places in front of her, partially obscuring the audience. Once Mr. Weathers began to sing, however, her anxiety was drowned out by his jovial and charming resonance. He began with a simple, familiar shepherd’s ballad, and soon everyone in the room was singing along. It didn’t matter if her fingers faltered once or twice; no one would hear her mistakes over the concert of voices. After a few rousing songs, people cleared a space to dance, and the atmosphere grew loud and jocund. She was relieved when Daniel suggested that she and Mr. Weathers take a break as he played a reel that had everyone on their feet. Marveling at how she could be so inconspicuous and feel so unperturbed amid all these people, she sat back and watched the party. Daniel glanced back at her and winked without missing a note, and the subsequent burst of pleasure in her chest surprised her. His enthusiastic movements gave him a boyish air, his uncharacteristically expressive face showing that he reveled in the moment. He grinned as he danced the bow across the strings and ended a spry piece with a dramatic flourish before diving into the next. How long had it been since she’d felt so light and carefree?
Too soon, he turned to her and Mr. Weathers and said, “’Appen these folks could use a rest? Should we do a lullaby next?”
Laughter and teasing responses flew through the room, and Mr. Weathers said something about being parched and needing his wife’s loving attention. She smiled at how startling the old man’s demeanor was. Such a quiet man, and yet here he sang, he laughed—comparatively, he spoke volumes here, and yet she didn’t think it had anything to do with the flowing ale. He felt uniquely at home in this pub with these neighbors, and she was thankful to have seen this side of him. Without him shielding her, though, everyone could see who she was. Some whispers flitted through the room, and she recognized the Wyatts from the shop as they stood and exited.
Yet Daniel wouldn’t be deterred. “Come on, Helena, play something soothing for us all!”
One song immediately came to mind, and her throat slammed closed. It was much too real to her, too intricately woven into her own experience, and yet it seemed too perfect to ignore. When she reached the pause after the first few notes, she heard him gasp close behind her.
“The Poor Old Weaver’s Daughter?”
She met his dark, questioning gaze and nodded, swallowing hard. No words could explain what had possessed her to play the song about a man trying unsuccessfully to woo a pretty maid with gold. When Daniel took up the melody on his fiddle, her relief was palpable, and she focused her attention on the song itself. She knew people would recognize the song so it was only natural when some began to sing softly. As the lyrics shifted to the girl’s refusal, following her mother’s advice to marry for love rather than money, she felt the song echoing through her. She’d wanted everything, love and money and the world, and, unlike the lass in the song, she’d turned her back on her family to get it. Her face went hot as the song continued. What would her life be if she’d made different choices all those years ago? Such a question shouldn’t be worth thinking, not now, but the song stabbed directly into all those choices she’d made. Daniel’s fiddle began to enliven some spaces in the song with lively trills and vibrato. Again, he brought her back to the present moment, and she followed where he led, transforming the sad, nostalgic tone of the song into something sweet and optimistic. They played surprisingly well together. He seemed to anticipate her shifts, hanging back at some points to let her playing lead the song and then picking up in others. As they came to the end of the song, the room hushed. But this silence was markedly different from the others she’d encountered in Marksby. Moving to stand beside her, Daniel bowed to the crowd. Hoots and applause rose in the air, along with calls of “One more!” and “Again!” But she shook her head at Daniel, and he nodded in understanding. She was done.
As he called one of his companions up to take his place, she made her way back to the table occupied by the Weathers. She’d had enough of this emotion-wringing stroll through the past. She needed to clear her head and take hold of the present. Mr. and Mrs. Weathers offered to bring her back to the Thorton house, but she hated the thought of cutting their evening short for her sake, especially when they were so clearly enjoying themselves.
“I’ll be fine walking back. The moon is bright tonight, and I know the way,” she assured them.
“I’ll take you, Mrs. Martin.” Daniel’s voice came from behind her. Of course. “I was just leaving myself.”
Before she could respond, Mr. Weathers said, “Aye, that’s a good lad! You’ll be in good hands.”
Surely, the sweet old man couldn’t mean the same inappropriate thing that ran through her head. In good hands. The emotional overload of this evening wreaked havoc on her mind. Without looking at Daniel, she replied, “I’d hate to be even more of an inconvenience to you.”
“It’s no inconvenience. I’m going in that direction anyway.” While his words were cordial enough, she detected a strange undercurrent of insistence in his tone. When she twisted and looked up at him, she became acutely aware that he was in the grip of the same emotional chaos. Whether they should want this or not, whether it was wise or not, an undeniable need pulsed between them.
“You are too kind, Mr. Lanfield.”
They slipped out a side door, as music and laughter spilled out behind them. Whatever lay ahead on this clear starlit night, as the moon bathed the hills in a silvery glow, Helena felt new doors opening. For the first time in a long, long while, she welcomed the unknown.