Chapter 3

Dinner had been a torturous affair. It had seemed to Ralph that everyone around the table had their own agenda to pursue, and each one of those well thought out schemes involved him. The older matrons, with young daughters in attendance, had made it obvious that they had him in their sights. He knew, from prior experience, that they would stop at nothing to achieve their goal. Their offspring, dressed demurely in virginal white, would occasionally glance at him and blush. They too were privy to their mother's plans and had been primed on how to behave around him.

During the meal itself, he sat next to Lady Hepworth. He knew that his mother had purposefully put him next to the old dragon so that she could extol the virtues of her daughter, Miss Agatha Hepworth. Miss Hepworth was the youngest daughter of Lord and Lady Hepworth's large brood. She was a plump, plain-looking girl who up to last week had still inhabited the schoolroom. Due to her meek and mild nature, Miss Hepworth was undoubtedly his mother's favoured candidate for her successor as mistress at Belmont Hall. He tried, in vain, to imagine what it would be like to share the rest of his life with such a dowdy specimen. The thought left him feeling cold and somewhat desolate.

Miss Hepworth, who had been sitting opposite her mama at dinner, glanced over at him. He could not help but notice the look of fear and misery in them. Whether she was frightened of him or her mother, he was not sure; it was probably both. What his mother and her parents were thinking of, trying to secure this match, was anyone's guess. It was plain to anyone with any sense that she would be far from perfect as his bride. After talking with Tom, Ralph knew for certain what he wanted from a marriage. He wanted someone he could love and would love him in return. Tom had told him that he would eventually find it, he just had to be patient.

The gentlemen did not linger long over their port after the ladies had retired. Ralph took a deep breath before reluctantly entering the drawing-room. He was not looking forward to it, and he knew that this would be the most dangerous part of the evening. If he was not on his guard, an offhand comment could be misconstrued by the listener.

He was talking to Tom when he entered, trying to take his mind of the trial ahead. By the pianoforte, on the far side of the room, there was a young woman, surrounded by other young ladies, playing a lively Bach fugue. To their left, he spotted Lady Hepworth and her daughter sitting by his mother. His mother, forever the perfect hostess, was presiding over the tea-tray. He felt a twinge of sympathy for the poor girl. She looked even more uncomfortable and out of place, knowing that all eyes were fixed on her as the favourite runner in this race.

His eyes were then drawn to a woman standing next to his mother. She was tall and slender and would have been quite beautiful if her face had not been so drawn and pale. He did not recognise her as one of the guests that had dined with them that evening. He would have remembered those vibrant hazel eyes, the colour of rich honey if he had seen them before. Who was she, he thought to himself?

Ralph then noticed that the woman was looking at Tom, who was still standing next to him by the door. As the expertly played Bach surged towards the finale, he saw the cup that she was holding, fall to the floor. It crashed onto the rug in front of her feet, sending shards of china across the floor. She was still looking at Tom, and he heard her say his name.

'By George, it is you,' Tom said, as he rushed across the room towards her, 'I almost didn't recognise you.'

Ralph followed Tom. Once they had reached her side, he heard her whisper to Tom, 'I thought you were...' She was so pale that Ralph thought she was about to collapse.

'Helen,' Tom said in a low voice that was full of concern, 'you look like you've seen a ghost.' As her body crumpled, Tom caught her in his arms.

The music had ceased, but this time there was no polite ripple of applause after the performance, just silent curiosity, as all the guests looked at the tableau being played out before them.

Helen came around to the acrid smell of burnt feathers. She was disorientated, and for one horrible moment, she thought that she was back in Spain. She felt someone put a hand on her shoulder to soothe her. 'Mrs Wakefield, Helen,' she heard a man say, 'drink this.'

Helen smelt the strong, pungent, smoky smell of whisky, but in the dreamlike state she was in, she pushed the glass away. 'No,' she said, still unsure of where she was, 'I must go.'

Helen tried to stand, but the hand that was resting on her shoulder pushed her gently down. 'Lie still,' he said softly, 'you will feel better soon.'

Perhaps she was still dreaming. She looked around the room that was probably the library as the walls were encased with bookshelves. She was lying on a chaise with her feet up, and she could feel the warmth of a roaring fire close by. 'Tom,' she said, looking at the man kneeling down next to her, 'is it really you? I thought you were...'

Her voice trailed away as she felt her head spin once more. She felt the warm trickle of whisky run down the back of her throat and immediately, she felt herself jolt back to life. 'I'm very much alive, thanks to you,' he said as he put the glass back to her lips.

She drank a little more and then took the glass from him. 'Thank you, Tom,' she said as she sat up and held the glass in her lap with both hands, 'I am feeling a little better now.'

'You're not looking better,' he said, as he stood up, 'you look dreadfully pale. I didn't see you at dinner,' he said, frowning at her. 'When was the last time you had something to eat?'

'I... I...' Helen stuttered to a standstill. She really did not know what to say to him to avoid the humiliation she felt. How could she tell him that she had spent most of the evening alone in Lady Helford's bedchamber with nothing more than a glass of water?

'Mrs Wakefield,' an all too familiar voice said in a commanding tone, 'is my companion and is well known for her sense of the dramatic. She is perfectly well, and you need not bother yourself with her.'

Helen looked at Tom and saw him stiffen. A dark, foreboding expression was on his face. 'And,' he said, standing up to face the woman who had just spoken, 'who are you?'

Helen saw Lady Helford bristle and her cheeks redden. 'Lady Helford, my lord,' she said, looking a little shaken by the rebuff.

Tom then looked over at a gentleman standing behind her. 'Ralph,' he said, his voice still like granite, 'kindly escort Lady Helford back to the drawing-room.'

'Please, Lady Helford,' Lord Huntingdon commanded, in a tone that brooked no argument, 'let me show you the way.'

Helen was expecting her employer to kick up a fuss. It was not like Lady Helford to meekly follow an order. She only did so when she was in awe of the person who had issued the command. Then Helen remembered that Lady Helford had just called Tom, my lord. When she had known Tom in Spain, he had been a mere lieutenant without any prospect of promotion unless it had come from within the regiment. 'My lord?' she said, looking at Tom puzzled.

'An earl no less,' he said with a grin. 'I inherited the title, the Earl of Emley, about a year ago, when a distant cousin died. I was the closest male relation and hence became the earl. This is my wife, Alice,' he said as he took the hand of a pretty, petite young woman who was standing next to him.

Alice smiled, 'It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,' she said with genuine warmth in her eyes. She came forward and perched on the chaise next to Helen. 'Mrs Wakefield, you still haven't answered my husband's question,' she said gently, 'when was the last time you had anything substantial to eat? You look as white as a sheet, and your hands are shaking.'

Helen had not noticed that her hands were shaking, but as she looked down at the glass, she could see it tremble in her fingers. 'Not since this morning,' she said, still looking at her hands. She could not bring herself to look up at the smiling face that was full of pity; she was just too tired to hide her shame.

Tom turned to a footman near the door. 'Go and fetch a cup of sweet tea immediately from the drawing-room and then bring a plate of food to the library on a tray,' he said in the commanding voice that she recognised from all those years ago.

At that moment, Lord Huntingdon and his mother, Lady Huntingdon, entered the room. Tom stood up and walked over to Lord Huntingdon. 'Why didn't Mrs Wakefield join us for dinner?' he said, displeasure evident in his voice, 'she is, after all, a guest in your home.'

'I did explain to Lady Helford when she arrived that I was not expecting her companion,' Lady Huntingdon said defensively, as she stood near the library door looking rather stern and speaking as though Helen did not exist. 'I told her that every bedchamber in the house had been accounted for and that her only option was to put a truckle bed in her dressing room for Mrs ...' She stopped obviously trying to hunt in her mind for Helen's name.

'Mrs Wakefield,' Tom said impatiently.

'I also told Lady Helford,' she continued, not looking at all embarrassed by her lack of manners, 'that Mrs Wakefield would not be able to join us in the dining-room in the evening. I am certain, Lord Emley, that you will understand that we already have far too many ladies around the table.'

Helen saw the flash of anger in Tom's eyes and was grateful that his wife had put her hand on his arm to stop him from giving Lady Huntingdon a sharp put-down.

'My lady,' Tom's wife, Lady Emley, said sweetly, 'of course we understand the pressures of having so many guests descend on your home and the difficulty of having to accommodate them. But I am sure that you will appreciate that Mrs Wakefield is someone my husband values as a friend.'

Helen looked over at Lady Emley and studied her face closely. She was a young woman, perhaps not even twenty years old. She was very pretty with delicate features and golden blonde hair that had been elaborately dressed in the fashionable classical style reminiscent of a Greek statue. She was not tall, but what she lacked in stature, she made up for in confidence as she spoke to her hostess. Most woman her age would not have had the assertiveness to speak so boldly to such a formidable society matron. Lady Emley was no simpering miss straight from the schoolroom, she was a confident young woman.

Lady Emley stood up from the chaise, straightened her back to add the appearance of height to her diminutive figure and smiled at Lady Huntingdon. 'Lady Huntingdon,' she said sweetly but firmly, 'I am sure that you can arrange for Mrs Wakefield to have a room of her own. One close to Lady Helford so that she can still perform her duties.'

Helen was beginning to feel a little awkward. She did not want to put Lady Huntingdon to any bother, and she knew that any change to the arrangements would only put Lady Helford's nose out of joint. 'It is really not necessary,' she said softly, 'to put yourself to any bother.'

'Well,' Lady Huntingdon said haughtily, 'if Mrs ... Wakeford doesn't mind sharing with Lady Helford; then I do not think it necessary to move her.'

'Mrs Wakefield,' the emphasis was on her second name, 'is a guest in my house.'

Helen looked over to the gentleman who had just spoken. Helen judged that he was above average height, but it was not his stature that had caught her attention or his immaculate black form-fitting jacket that framed his broad shoulders. Instead, it was the colour of his cool grey eyes that were looking attentively at her. They were the colour of clouds just before a storm, and they seemed to be looking directly into the part of her soul that she kept hidden from the world. He had remained silent until now, but there was a steeliness to his voice that brooked no argument: It was Lord Huntingdon.

'Mother,' he said, his voice a command, thus asserting his claim as master of Belmont Hall. 'I think we could easily arrange a room for Mrs Wakefield. The two Calverton sisters do not need a room each. Why don't you put Mrs Wakefield in the Rose Room? It is only a few doors down from Lady Helford's bedchamber.'

Helen could still see the look of doubt in Lady Huntingdon's eyes. 'Very well,' she said, not looking happy at having to concede to her son's wishes, 'I will make the changes first thing in the morning. I am certain that Mrs ...'

'Wakefield,' her son reminded her.

'That Mrs Wakefield would not mind spending just one night in Lady Helford's room.'

Helen did not like being the centre of attention, and she felt very uncomfortable when all the occupants of the room looked over to her for her answer. 'Thank you, my lady,' she said, not sure where to look, 'I do not want to put you to any trouble.'

Lady Huntingdon was just about to reply, and Helen was certain that it would have been a sharp set-down. 'It is no bother at all,' Lord Huntingdon said, pre-empting his mother's reply. 'And, I would like to extend an invitation for you to join us for dinner and take part in the other activities planned for the guests.'

He looked at her with his cool grey eyes and smiled at her politely and left the room.

Helen, much to her relief, found that Lady Huntingdon was true to her word. The next morning, after an uncomfortable night sleeping on the truckle bed in the dressing-room of Lady Helford's room, she had found herself being shown to her own bedchamber by no other than Lady Huntingdon herself. It was a pretty room with views across the well-manicured park and the wild and rugged Devon landscape beyond.

Lady Huntingdon looked a little reserved as she showed Helen her bedchamber. Even though she did not apologise for her rudeness the night before, she did reissue an invitation for Helen to join the other guests at dinner.

Helen was not at all sure whether she wanted to be part of the social aspects of the house-party. She rather liked the anonymity of being Lady Helford's companion. She could blend into the gathered assembly without having to converse with anyone else.

Helen found small talk difficult and dreaded the uncomfortable silences that would no doubt ensue during the next couple of weeks. She had not always been like this in the company of others. During her first year of marriage, she had enjoyed the social aspects of being an officer's wife. Initially, she had found it exhilarating to follow the drum. There had been balls, dinners and parties that had broken the monotony of military life, and she had enjoyed the chance to wear her best dresses and dance into the early hours of the morning. However, after Corunna in 1809, when Harry, her husband, had sustained a substantial head injury, her life drastically changed. When they returned to Spain, after he had spent a year convalescing in England, he changed. He was no longer the loveable thoughtless rogue, who everyone loved; he was now a cruel, selfish and sardonic man and treated Helen with disdain.

Helen was now a shadow of her former self; barely recognisable from the woman she had once been. She was not the same gregarious, fun-loving sixteen-year-old she had been when she had married Harry. Sometimes she even doubted that she was the same person at all and that her life before her husband's injury had been just a dream.

Helen had decided to take advantage of her newfound freedom and had planned to take a walk that afternoon. Even though the skies were overcast, and it looked like it was about to rain heavily, she wanted time to be alone with her thoughts. Seeing Tom again last night had brought back memories that she had suppressed. They were memories of the person she had once been; the person she had subdued to protect herself from the world around her. She knew that she would not be needed by Lady Helford that afternoon and that it would be the perfect opportunity to escape. As long as she was back to help Lady Helford prepare for dinner, even her employer would not be able to object to her absence for a short period of time.

As Helen walked from the well-manicured gardens of the Hall to the savage rugged landscape of the Devon coastline, she began to feel at one with the world around her. It felt good to feel the wild wind whip through her woollen cloak, and she welcomed the rain that stung her cheeks when she lifted her face to feel the full force of nature. It may have been late August, but the wind blew in gusts from the English Channel, bringing with it its famous squally showers that lashed around her rendering her cloak useless. Helen was thankful for the wind and rain; it reminded her that she was still alive. Over the years, she had become accustomed to burying her feelings deep within. However, occasionally, she needed to be reminded of her true self.

After walking for half an hour, she reached the tall famous sandstone cliffs that led all the way down to the sea. She heard the crash of the water as it collided with the rocks below and had an overwhelming desire to watch Mother Nature's splendour. She removed her bonnet and cloak and placed them behind a rock so that they would not be blown away. Her cloak was already waterlogged and was affording her little protection, and the heavy material just weighed her down. Helen had an irresistible desire to feel the full strength of the wind and rain whirling around her. The power of the natural world in all its glory surrounding her, making her feel alive once more. She inched closer to the edge of the rockface until her toes were almost at the edge. She was now at the mercy of the world around her. One strong gust of wind would take her all the way down to the rocks far below her and to certain death.

As she stood listening to the sea crashing below her, she thought she could hear it call her name.

'Helen,' she heard it whisper, 'Helen.'

Her long dark hair had come free from its pins, and she could feel the wet tendrils whip her face and sting her cheeks. She looked down again and wiped away the long strands that had stuck to her face and saw in detail the mesmerising scene below.

The dark reddish-brown of the sandstone blended with the grey and white of the choppy sea. As the waves struck against the rocks below, she heard it whisper again.

'Helen, Helen.'

Each time it called her name, the voice became louder and more insistent. She felt a little dizzy but could not find the will to bring herself away from the edge. Her feet were rooted to the spot, and she had neither the power nor the inclination to move.

'Come, Helen! Come to me.'

Her rational mind knew that it was not the sea. It was the voice deep inside her conscience that occasionally spoke to her. In the past, she had been able to resist its lure, but today... Today was different. She held out her arms and closed her eyes. All she had to do was let go, and the pain and indignity of losing everything would be gone forever.

'Come! Helen! Come to me,' she heard the voice again. It was deeper and more demanding, and she was finding it impossible to resist its call.

Helen was about to let go and give herself over to the mercy of the waves below when she felt someone's arm around her waist, and she was being pulled back from the edge of the cliff. She spun round to see who it was and found, to her surprise, that she was in the arms of Lord Huntingdon.

Helen clung to him and buried her head in his shoulder. She was relieved and disappointed at the same time. A part of her had wanted to end her life on the rocks below. However, there was another part of her that had wanted to live; even if it had just been for the sake of her son, Georgie.

He had said nothing. As she continued to cling onto him, she looked up into his grey eyes, that were the colour of the sea below, and she was grateful for his silence. He could have berated her for her reckless actions, but instead, he looked at her with concern.

Helen felt something she had not felt for a long time; the need for close contact with another person. To be held close and feel the warmth of someone's touch. It was something she thought she would never feel again, and the need for it now was almost overpowering. She reached up and cupped his cheek in her hand. She felt him draw her closer to him so that her body was pressed against his own. Her hands then slipped behind his neck, and she gently pulled his face towards hers. Years of pent-up emotions, she had buried deep within her when she had lost everything, came bubbling up from deep within. When their lips touched, she kissed him with all the passion she had suppressed. It welled up within her, and with every movement of his lips, she felt it grow stronger. She wanted to live, but more importantly, she wanted to feel alive again. Feel that intense connection with a fellow human being that comes with touch. Her lips parted, and the kiss deepened. The storm around them raged just as fiercely as the maelstrom of emotions that were within her. She was alive, and it felt good.

He broke the kiss but kept hold of her in his arms.

'Come,' he said, raising his voice so that he could be heard above the storm, 'there is a little cottage not far from here. My mother uses it for painting. We can shelter there until the worst of the storm blows over.'

Helen nodded and went to pick up her abandoned cloak and bonnet. He then took her by the hand and led her away.