Fair Juno

  As he sat, he noticed that her face was more drawn and pinched than he recalled. ‘Have you been well?’

  With a little start, she raised her eyes to his face. ‘Oh, yes. Quite well. But,’ she temporised, ‘I’ve had rather a lot on my mind, of late.’

  ‘Such as?’

  She threw him a darkling glance. ‘For a start, I suppose I should tell you that, as far as the question of Serena Monckton goes, I’ve known for some considerable time that her charge was without foundation.’

  Silence stretched, then, ‘Did my father know?’

  Catherine Willesden shook her head. ‘No, I only learned the truth from Damian some years after John died. But I gather most people now suspect the truth.’

  For a long moment, she kept her gaze on her interlaced fingers, then, when no comment came, she glanced up through the shadows.

  Martin shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter any more. That’s all history.’

  Slowly, his mother nodded. ‘I did consider sending for you, but, from everything I’d heard, it seemed you were enjoying yourself hugely and, very likely, wouldn’t have heeded the summons anyway.’

  A bark of laughter answered her. ‘Very true.’ Martin reached for his glass.

  The Dowager caught the flash of the flames on the cut crystal and decided she would do well to make a long story short. ‘Ever since you’ve returned and rejoined society, I’ve heard tell of you, from my friends’ letters. What worried me was that, despite the fact he’s been on the town for close to four years, I’ve never heard anything of Damian. That led me to ask some questions of my closest acquaintances. The answers were hardly conducive to a mother’s peace of mind.’ She paused to stare through the shadows at Martin. ‘Is it true Damian is one of the louts who frequent such places as Tothill Fields, drinking gin and getting up to all manner of disgraceful exploits?’

  There was a long pause before Martin answered. ‘As far as I know, that’s true.’

  Catherine Willesden looked down at her hands and sighed. ‘I suppose that explains some of what’s happened. I just couldn’t credit it that a son of mine could have behaved as he has, but clearly he’s been off the tracks for some time.’

  ‘In my esteemed brother’s defence, I feel compelled to point out that he’s had precious little guidance from any source. But what’s he done now?’

  The question flustered the Dowager. In her lap, her stiff fingers laced and unlaced awkwardly. ‘I’m very much afraid that something I said put the whole business into his mind. You mustn’t blame him entirely.’

  Slowly, Martin sat up. ‘Blame him for what?’

  The Dowager winced at his tone. But she stuck to her guns, determined to present the matter in the most accurate way. If Martin wished to disown them all after hearing it, so be it. ‘As you know,’ she began, ‘Damian was always my favourite—more than anything else because he was the last of you and so much younger. Also,’ she added, determined to be truthful, ‘because he was more ingratiating than the rest of you. You, certainly.’

  ‘I know all this.’

  ‘Yes, well what you may not know is that Damian has long imagined that he would eventually succeed to the title. If not to George, then to you. The catalogue of your past exploits reads like a deathwish. Furthermore, you’d shown not the smallest desire to wed. Naturally, Damian thought that, in time, the Hermitage would be his.’ The Dowager paused to assemble her thoughts, then hurried on. ‘However, more importantly, Damian has been in the habit of coming to see me on flying visits, and when he has done anything he feels is particularly clever he tells me about it.’

  ‘Boasts about it, I suppose.’

  The Dowager nodded. ‘Yes. I must confess that, when I was making plans for you, before you arrived, I mentioned them to Damian.’ She paused, then looked up. ‘I dare say you recall what those plans were?’

  ‘Marrying me to some dull frump, as I recall.’

  ‘Yes. And forcing you to it with the threat of disinheritance.’

  Martin nodded. ‘So?’

  The Dowager drew breath. ‘So, when Damian saw you getting too close to Helen Walford, he repeated my threat against you to her. He didn’t know it wasn’t the truth.’ She glanced up and swallowed. Martin was no longer lounging in his chair. The shadowy figure was tense and intent.

  ‘Are you telling me that Damian led Helen to believe that if she married me I’d lose all my supposed wealth?’

  The suppressed energy vibrating beneath the slowly enunciated words all but paralysed the Dowager. Feeling very like prey in the presence of an enraged predator, she nodded.

  ‘Aaaaaagh!’ Martin sprang from his chair and strode about the room, all feeling of indolence vanquished. Halfway down the room, he abruptly turned and came back to stand in front of his mother. ‘Was Damian the agent who spread the tale of Helen’s spending the afternoon at Merton House?’

  The Dowager looked up into eyes like flint. All inclination to defend her wretched fourth son evaporated. She nodded. ‘Yes, he admitted that, too. However, it seems as if he believed he was doing you a favour at the time.’

  Martin paused in his pacing to throw an incredulous glance her way. ‘Favour?’

  ‘I gather he was certain you’d broken off with Lady Walford. He thought to protect you from any claim made by her ladyship by ensuring that her reputation was already destroyed.’

  When Martin simply stared at her, Catherine Willesden nodded. ‘I know. He’s not really very clever at all. He doesn’t seem to understand how people should behave.’

  Martin groaned. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘At the Bascombes’, near Dunster. He said he’d be back in a few days.’

  Martin nodded. ‘I’ll deal with him later.’

  For five minutes, he paced the room, his brow furrowed as he pieced together the tangled web of his proposals and Helen’s refusals. The damn woman had put him through hell, believing she was saving him from financial ruin. With an inward groan, he recalled his comment of not caring for his fortune, only for her. He had tripped himself up with his passionate avowal. But he had it all clear at last. Damian, of course, would have to be licked into shape, but first he had to extricate Helen from the mess her penchant for self-sacrifice had landed her in. Now he understood her steadfast refusals. She had decided to save him and nothing he had been able to say had swayed her. Gratifying, that, even if it had proved frustrating.

  With an exasperated snort, Martin halted before the mantelpiece. His raving about his plans for the Hermitage and Merton House had doubtless played their part—he had gone out of his way to share his dreams with her, to make her see she was part of his life. Couldn’t she see that his dreams would not be complete without her, here, where she belonged, in front of his hearth? How could she have believed he would value a house more than her—more than their love? Clearly, fair Juno required intense instruction on the whys and wherefores of a love match.

  Glancing up, Martin noticed his mother’s grey eyes, watching him in open concern. He smiled, for the first time that day. Going to her, he turned her chair from the fire. ‘Thank you for your information, Mama. I’ll take you to your rooms.’

  ‘And then?’ His mother twisted her head to look up at him.

  ‘And then I’m for bed. At first light, I’m heading for Cornwall.’

  ‘Cornwall?’

  ‘Cornwall. I’ve a goddess to rescue from a fate worse than death.’

  When his mother looked her question, Martin added, ‘Being married to a fop.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Wisps of fog wreathed outside the leaded panes of Helen’s bedchamber window. She stood before it, listlessly brushing her hair, at one with the dismal chill of early morning. If she had had any sense, she would have stayed in bed. But she could not sleep; there had been no point in lying there, imagining what might have been. Trying to block out the future.

  There was no escape. By her own choice, she had cast the die. Now she had to pay the price. She just had not
expected the account to be presented quite so soon.

  Hedley had a special licence. The man was a bundle of contradictions but could, apparently, organise himself well enough when sufficiently moved. And he had certainly been moved last night.

  Helen bit her lip, her eyes fixed, unseeing, on the gloom outside. She had indulged in a rare exhibition of tears after Martin had left, sobbing for what had seemed like hours. Janet had returned and held her, rocking her like a child, soothing her with comforting nonsenses until, finally, she had been numb enough inside to stop. Only then had she become aware that Hedley Swayne was still there.

  When he had explained the arrangements he had made, she had realised that he had left, but had returned to tell her of their wedding. The next day.

  Today. This morning, in fact.

  With a deep sigh, Helen moved listlessly to the window-seat and sank on to the simple cushions. She had spent half an hour arguing with Hedley, why she could not now recall. Martin was gone; it did not really matter when she married Hedley. In fact, for her purposes, perhaps sooner was best, as he had said? Once the knot was tied, Martin would be forever safe.

  Again, Helen sighed. She could barely summon the energy to stand, let alone think. Thinking was too painful. If permitted to roam, her errant thoughts showed a depressing tendency to dwell on the bounty she would have reaped as Martin’s wife, throwing into stark contrast the dismal prospect of marriage to Hedley. He had made it plain, in a burst of quite remarkable candour, that he considered theirs to be a marriage of convenience, nothing more. She was coming to understand that he was truly indifferent to her but, for some unfathomable reason, was equally steadfast in his desire to marry her.

  Shaking her head, she raised her brush once more to her tresses, which were tangling about her shoulders. Hedley was beyond her understanding. More definitely within her grasp was the realisation that, in just a few hours, she would say the words which would condemn her to purgatory a second time around. Like a wet grey cloak, despair sat her shoulders, dragging her down. She would have to put on a brave face at the church, although she doubted there would be many there. Janet, of course, and Hedley’s servants, but she did not know anyone else in the village. She did not even know the vicar.

  Her brush stilled. Tears filled her eyes, then slowly welled over to course down her cheeks and fall, unheeded, into her lap.

  Minutes ticked by and the fog lifted, yet still the cloud of cold despair shrouded her heart.

  Eventually, Janet came to her rescue. The maid fussed and prodded and poked and cajoled and at last she was ready—or as ready as she would ever be. Her bronze silk dress was the only one she had brought with her that was halfway suitable for the occasion, and even that was stretching tolerance a bit far. The low neckline and clinging skirts were intended for ton parties, not religious ceremonies. She had no bouquet but chose a small beaded purse to clutch. Her curls were set in the simple knot she preferred; she waved away the rouge pot, dismissing Janet’s criticisms of her wan complexion.

  Hedley had sent a carriage. Resigned to her fate, Helen allowed herself to be helped aboard.

  The short journey to the village was accomplished far too fast. Descending before the lych-gate, Helen was surprised to find a small crowd gathered, country folk all, eager to view the unexpected happenings. She plastered a smile to her lips. As things were shaping, these people might well be her neighbours for the rest of her life.

  Buxom farmers’ wives bobbed their round faces in smiling greeting; their husbands, broad and brawny, grinned. Between the adults, children swarmed in a continuous stream. Suddenly, a freckle-faced miss bobbed up in Helen’s path. Bright eyes, glowing with delight, looked up into Helen’s face. A small hand held out a tightly packed bunch of flowers—daisies, lilies and assorted hedgerow blooms.

  For an instant, Helen’s determination faltered. She swayed slightly, but the necessity of taking the offering and suitably thanking the child took her past the dangerous moment. She would not think of what might have been— she could not afford his dreams and hers, too.

  Relief swept through her when the cool dimness of the church porch engulfed her. Dragging in a deep breath, Helen saw that the tiny church was packed with locals, most likely Hedley’s people from Creachley Manor, for they did not have the look of farmers, like those outside. Everyone had noticed her arrival. As she stood, frozen, at the entrance to the short nave, all heads turned slowly to view her.

  With a last, desperate breath, Helen raised her head and walked forward.

  Martin cracked his whip above the bays’ ears, more to relieve his frustrations than to exhort his cattle to move faster. They were already rocketing along, the well-sprung curricle swaying dangerously. Joshua had been silent ever since they had passed out of the gates of the Hermitage just before sunrise.

  Squinting against the glare, Martin took a blind curve at full speed. Six hours of sleep had cleared his head; the brandy he had consumed the evening before had been enough to ensure his slumber free from worry. But immediately the effects had worn off, he had woken—to a full realisation of the potential for disaster. Just because he now knew Helen’s reasons for refusing him, it did not mean that he could afford to sit back in comfort and plan how to best reassure her of his wealth and the lack of necessity for her sacrifice. Not when he had left her primed to make that sacrifice. Doubtless if he had been less experienced in the ways of the world, he would accept the wisdom that, having got Helen’s agreement to marriage, Hedley Swayne was unlikely to rush her to the altar. But he had not amassed a sizeable fortune in commodities by taking unnecessary risks—why should he take risks with his future?

  Aside from anything else, a species of sheer terror rode him. What if he had misjudged Hedley Swayne? What if the fop really did desire Helen. What if he forced her to marry him forthwith? What if, given she was promised to him, the blackguard sought a down payment on his husbandly rights?

  The whip cracked again; Martin gritted his teeth. Reason told him that, although pre-empting the marriage ceremony was precisely the sort of behaviour he would contemplate without a flicker of conscience, Hedley Swayne was not of that ilk. Reason was not enough. He wanted to make sure of Helen without delay.

  As he checked his team for the turn into the narrower road leading to the village of St Agnes, Martin reviewed his options for getting rid of the redundant Mr Swayne. If necessary, he would buy him off. At the thought, Martin’s lips twitched in a self-deprecatory smile. His father had paid a small fortune to extricate him from Serena Monckton’s clutches. Now he was prepared to pay an even larger fortune to release Helen from her misguided promise to Hedley Swayne. Doubtless, as fair Juno herself had once observed, there was a moral in this somewhere.

  It was market day at St Agnes, which proved a severe trial to Martin’s temper. He carefully edged the curricle and his high-bred horses through the mêlée, muttering curses at the delay. Then they were through and heading out of the village to the hamlet of Kelporth, beyond which Helen’s little cottage lay.

  Joshua had not thought it possible to be glad to see such an out-of-the-way place as Kelporth again. Yet, when they gained the crest of the small hill before the village and went smartly down the lane towards it, he heaved a decidedly heartfelt sigh of relief. He glanced about at the neat little cottages, set back from the road with their neat little gardens, tinged with autumn’s colours, before them. Ahead, to their left, a gaggle of children were playing about the back of a carriage drawn up to the side of the road. As they drew nearer, Joshua made out the dark mass of a lych-gate and surmised that a church must lie beyond. He paled, then looked at the straight back of his master, presently fully occupied with his fretting horses. Joshua coughed. ‘Master, I don’t rightly know as how this is important but take a look to the left.’

  ‘What now?’ Martin snapped but did as directed.

  The horses plunged, hauled to a halt so abrupt that the curricle rocked perilously, nearly flinging Joshua from his perch. He
hung on grimly, then, as soon as it was safe, jumped to the ground and ran as fast as his stiff legs would allow to the horses’ head. His master had already sprung down, throwing the reins haphazardly towards him.

  As Martin stared at the children playing in the dust behind the carriage decked with white ribbons, his blood ran cold. Slowly, he dragged his eyes from the horrifying sight and raised them to the church door, just visible through the lych-gate. What if she had married him already?

  The thought jerked him into action. He ran up the path to the church, all but skidding to a halt in the stone-flagged porch. A few of the heads near the door turned his way, but he ignored them, his eyes going to the sight which held most of the congregation spellbound.

  Was he too late? His heart was pounding so hard he could not hear. Martin clenched his fists and forced himself to calm down. Gradually, his hearing returning. He frowned. As he was not familiar with the words of the marriage ceremony, it was an agonising three minutes before he realised he had one last chance remaining. Hard on the heels of relief came the vicar’s sonorous tones, ‘Therefore if any man can show any just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace—’

  Martin waited for no further invitation. ‘Yes!’ he declared, adding, ‘I do,’ just in case the vicar had misunderstood. He strode forward, his boots echoing on the flags, his gaze fixed on the object of his desire.

  At the totally unexpected sound of that deep voice, a voice she had convinced herself she would never hear again, Helen froze. Abruptly, she lost all feeling, all sense of time and place. Her breathing suspended, her eyes had grown round with disbelief even before she turned to find Martin all but upon her, his grey eyes clear and bright and burning with determination.