First, his arrival in London, full of his plans for fair Juno, plans which were dashed by her absence. Then his interview with Hazelmere, and his preparations for his journey. As it had been his secretary’s day off, he had decided to go through the pile of mail placed waiting on his desk before quitting his house for an indeterminate time. He had found Helen’s brief note in the pile, with a scrawled message from his secretary appended. Initially, he had been downcast that she had appealed for his help and he had not been there to assist her. Then the implication of her appeal had struck him.
Despite the hurt he had inflicted, she had not balked from summoning him; she had clearly envisaged being able to play a part, with him by her side to conceal their illicit liaison. All in all, it would not have been hard, together. They would simply have pretended nothing was amiss— none, he was sure, would have pressed the point.
But the important feature of her call for help was that she had been prepared to see him again, to speak with him again. That was, Martin felt, definitely encouraging.
He sighed and settled his shoulders. Things were looking up. The drive from London to Winchester had been accomplished in time for him to be invited to sup at his Grace’s board. His ageing
relative had proved much as he had imagined, but more curious than censorious. A special licence had been duly provided. Thus armed, he was looking forward to the second day after the next with keen anticipation.
Even if he left early the next morning, it would still take him more than two days to reach Heliotrope Cottage. Two more days in which to polish his apologies and frame his proposal while keeping his cattle on the road. He had nearly landed them in a ditch this evening. He would have to make sure he kept sufficient wits functioning to drive; he could not bear any further delay.
He still could not fathom how the fact of their afternoon together had been broadcast to the ton. However, rake that he was, he recognised the added weapon the potential scandal gave him. It would have to be wielded with care, of course, and only if Helen still showed reluctance. No woman liked to feel jockeyed into any decision; none knew that better than he. Somehow, he would have to ensure that the idea of marrying him as the most socially acceptable course was subtly conveyed to his love.
No light had yet glowed on her reasons for refusing him; in truth, if she was simply too wary to try marriage again, the only way he could think of to convince her was to marry her and consequently demonstrate how wrong she was. A little gentle persuasion was surely excusable in such circumstances?
With a slight frown, Martin shook aside such quibbles and let his usual positive attitude resurface. He wanted Helen Walford to wife, therefore, however it came about, she would marry him. It was in her own best interests, after all.
The moonlight streamed in through the open window, a slight breeze wafted the net curtains. Martin felt sleep take hold. His dreams would doubtless be of the last inn bed he had slept in—and his fair companion in dreams.
Chapter Eleven
Was it two spoons of milk or only one? Helen rubbed a floury hand across her brow and struggled to remember Janet’s instructions. She had sent her maid to the mill just outside the tiny village half a mile away, to buy more flour. Meanwhile, she had decided to use what was left and make some bread.
She had never cooked anything before—other than the pancakes she had assisted with during that night in the old barn. Even then, he had actually done the cooking. At the thought of him, whom she refused to acknowledge by name in the vain hope that that would assist her mind in forgetting him, Helen’s eyes filled. Annoyed, she blinked rapidly. She sniffed. Damn! She had never been the sniffy sort but, ever since leaving London, she had hovered on the brink of tears. It would not do—she had to pull herself together and get on with her life. No matter how lacking in all enticement that life now seemed. For a while, he had filled her with hopes for the future. They had come to nought, but her life was not, in truth, any more drab than it had been before. She tried to reason with her emotions, to no avail. All they seemed capable of dwelling on was her misery at losing him.
Helen gritted her teeth and plunged both hands into her dough. Her sudden urge to action was simply an attempt to get some purpose, however inconsequential, into her life. The past five days had disappeared in a dull daze, the fine weather outside clouded by her misery. Heliotrope Cottage was comfortable enough but, without menservants, Janet had to do everything. Helen poked at the dough disparagingly and reflected that she would have to see about hiring a young girl to come in and help with the cleaning and cooking, and maybe find a gardener as well.
The kitchen was a sunny nook, part of the large room that made up the ground floor of the cottage. A window beside the table at which she stood looked out over the small kitchen garden. The plot was currently overgrown, choked with a full season’s weeds, but reddish earth showed in one corner where Janet had made a start on clearing it. Helen breathed deeply of the tangy breeze wafting in through the open door of the cottage, to play with her curls before whisking out again through the back door. With a grimace, she regarded the floury mass in the copper basin. It must have been two spoonfuls.
She was replacing the milk jug on the dresser when the sound of horses’ hooves and the sliding thump of heavy carriage wheels rolling down the rutted lane came to her ear. Helen froze. Then her heart started to pound, faster and faster as anticipation rose.
The cottage stood at the end of the lane; there was no passing traffic. Who was it who had come to visit her?
The likely answer addled her wits.
Then she heard a voice, a light voice, giving instructions, and knew it was not the Earl of Merton who had called.
Disappointment sent her back to despair.
Consequently, when a sharp rap came on the door-frame, she made no move to take her hands from the copper basin, but called out, ‘Come in!’ in as interested a tone as she could manage.
To her surprise, it was Hedley Swayne’s slight figure that appeared in the doorway. ‘Lady Walford?’
Helen stifled her sigh. Country hospitality demanded that she at least invite him in for refreshment. ‘Come in, Mr Swayne.’ She waited until her unexpected visitor had mincingly picked his way across her small front room, his features registering disapproval of her rustic surrounds, before commenting, ‘I had hardly looked to see anyone from London hereabouts. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?’
‘Dear lady.’ Hedley Swayne bowed effusively. ‘Just a neighbourly visit.’ When Helen looked her confusion, he added, ‘I own Creachley Manor.’
Creachley Manor? Helen blinked. If that was so, Hedley was, in fact, her nearest neighbour. The lands attached to the Manor all but enclosed hers; it was the largest single holding in the immediate area.
‘I see,’ she said. ‘How very thoughtful of you.’ She waved a whitened hand at a nearby chair and watched as Hedley disposed himself upon it, fussing about the arrangement of his coat-tails. Dismay was her predominant reaction—to his visit and to the news that he was so closely situated. She did not trust his airy excuse one bit. ‘But how did you know I was here?’
For an instant, Hedley’s pale eyes went perfectly blank. ‘Er…ah, that is to say…heard about it. On the village grapevine, if you know what I mean.’
Helen inclined her head civilly. Having lived in the country for most of her life, she knew perfectly well what he meant, but, although it often amazed her with its speed, no village grapevine worked that fast. She and Janet had arrived late in the evening; their post-chaise and post-boys had immediately returned to the road for London. Today was the first day anyone in the village could know of their arrival and that only through Janet’s appearance at the mill. Hedley Swayne was lying, but to what purpose?
‘Could I offer you some tea, sir?’
Hedley looked slightly perturbed at the suggestion. His roving gaze alighted on a small decanter on the sideboard. Helen saw it and correctly divined that the fastidious Mr Swayne did not partake of tea. ‘Or perhaps some cowslip wine would be more to your taste?’