Once Beloved

“We would know.” He cleared his throat. “And that's a thing you can't unknow.”

When his eyes met hers, the flush on her face grew even stronger. When her gentle fingers brushed against his cheek, he ceased to breathe. Then she said with a tart smile, “I only mean to sleep. Just keep each other warm.”

He had never been a man of many words, but now he could barely eke out a breathless syllable. Her touch burned his skin, and muscles all over his body contracted. Had he caught a fever from the rains? She moved in close to him, and he was struck by the sense of rightness and pleasure. It should feel awkward, shouldn't it? Unnatural. This woman, of all women. It should feel wrong to slide his hands around her waist. Her finely muscled arms should feel like an affront. Touching his lips to hers should feel like burning in the fiery pit of hell.

And yet . . .

That inexplicable, irrational sensation overtook him, just like the night at the coaching inn. Her closeness unraveled his brain. Something in him reveled in her softness. Her mouth, her skin, her full hips. A thrill shot through him when she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pulled him closer. He traced the line of buttons down her blouse with his finger and grew hot when she shivered against him. His good sense had fled, and he could not make himself seek it.

One thought invaded his mind:
More
.

NEVER TOO LATE

 

ALWAYS A STRANGER

 

ONCE BELOVED

 

 

 

LYRICAL PRESS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

Many thanks go to my understanding and supportive agent, Jessica Alvarez of BookEnds, LLC, and to my kind and wonderful editor, John Scognamiglio, and everyone at Kensington Publishing/Lyrical Press.

Thanks also go to the many book-loving friends I've made on-and offline, including fellow authors, thoughtful reviewers, and avid readers. Each connection pushes me to be a better writer, as well as a better reader.

In particular, I am grateful to Liz McCausland, who gave me valuable feedback on my drafts, providing keen insight into my characters and their growth. Thank you, Liz, for helping light my path when I stumbled and struggled.

And thanks to the Twitter friends who shared their sheep stories with me, especially Emily Jane Hubbard and Miss Bates.

To Cora and Mary and Paul and Stan and Chris A and all my family and friends who have been nothing but supportive of my writing endeavors: You make me feel I can accomplish anything.

Finally and most importantly, to my husband and my son, I can't believe you keep putting up with me and my many foibles. You inspire me, and I love and thank you with all my heart.

H
elena paced through the small sitting room while her boys raced through the halls. Mrs. Clarke and Mrs. Duchamp were due upon the hour, and then they would all be on their way. Her stomach clenched at the thought of exiting through that safe, solid door. A brief and familiar trip to the market was one thing; this outing to the Great Exhibition was quite another. Still, she couldn't renege now; Mark and Tommy would be so disappointed. She closed her eyes and pictured a stone fortress. She built its walls in her mind, one large stone at a time, girding her for the upcoming assault on her senses. A crash from the vicinity of the back parlor disrupted her thoughts.

“Boys!” she said to herself as she made her way toward them. “What was that?” She asked it without expecting an answer. They were trying to entertain and divert each other as they waited. Could she blame them? “Do not tire yourselves before we get there!”

Mark appeared in the hallway, his brown eyes tinged with guilt. “I'm sorry, Mum. We did no harm. Tommy tripped and knocked over a chair. He's fine.” Tommy walked warily into the hallway, his hair mussed and his knees scuffed. It was a familiar condition for him. “I'll see that he behaves himself,” Mark added.

“I know you are both trying your best,” she replied gently, as she gave each boy a quick hug, startled anew that Mark's height was now level with her own. If he was this tall at fourteen, he'd tower over her as an adult. “Just do not tire yourselves before we get there.”

His expression brightening, Mark led his younger brother to look out the front windows. Their heads glowed like halos. Such good boys they were, so deserving of a day of fun. Realizing she didn't tell them this as often as she should, she went over and did just that. She didn't miss the glint of pride in Mark's eyes at that, although he still seemed to brace himself, as if he knew that their trip could be canceled any moment now. She laid her hand on little Tommy's bright head, feeling the warmth from his exertions, and noticed one of his shoes had come undone. Both children were growing so quickly they would need new shoes before the summer ended. Too quickly. She could hardly believe Bartholomew was already grown and out at sea. It would be a year soon. How had that happened? Her handsome boys growing too quickly into men, men she hoped her husband would have been proud of.

Tommy tried to fix his shoe, but his young fingers struggled. As she bent to help him, she said firmly, “We shall have a lovely day, shall we not?”

Tommy bobbed his head vigorously, and Mark's narrow shoulders relaxed a bit.

“What are you two looking forward to seeing today?”

“Mum, it shall be grand!” Tommy said. “Mark read me all the news about it. It's a huge palace! And it's filled with all sorts of amazements. Do you think I'll get to see a train?”

“Not a complete train, no, dear. But perhaps you can see parts of one.” She smiled at his unrestrained enthusiasm, the kind only a five-year-old could muster, an exuberance she hadn't felt herself in years, not since Isaiah's passing. He would have enjoyed this as much as their sons. She tucked those thoughts away, knowing all too well how they'd derail her efforts to make this a good day.

Tommy dug into his pocket. “Here's all my savings so we can get in.” He held out his hand, proudly displaying his precious coins.

Her heart swelled at the sight. “Oh, my dear boy, how sweet of you! That is yours to keep. I have more than enough for us.”

He grinned as he put his money away and then hugged her tight.

“They're here!” Mark exclaimed, as he jumped up to open the front door. “Mrs. Clarke! It's a pleasure to see you! How fares your family? I hope the Clarke children are well.” He gave Marissa an amusingly formal bow before turning to a bewildered Honoria. “Mrs. Duchamp! How pleased I am to see you as well! I hope your bookshop is thriving.” Helena was equal parts amused, startled, and dismayed by her son's precociously sociable greeting. He was always polite, but this was a bit more formal than usual. Her friends' faces indicated they were equally surprised. He was trying far too hard to display his best behavior.

In characteristic take-charge fashion, Marissa swept into the house, giving each boy a dramatic buss on the cheek before announcing, “I've no doubt you boys are nearly jumping out of your skin to be on our way. Why don't you go outside with Mrs. Duchamp and hail us a cab while your mother and I make sure all is in readiness?”

Tommy bounded toward the door until Honoria held out her hand toward him. He dutifully took it and walked out calmly with just a residual spring in his step. Mark paused by the hall mirror and adjusted his hat before following them.

Before Helena could so much as open her mouth to thank Marissa for helping to chaperone the boys, her friend grasped her shoulders firmly and looked her full in the face. “You're fretting. Cease that nonsense immediately. You planned carefully. Today should have light attendance. We shall arrive at the opening hour. Honoria and I are here for whatever you need. All will be well. The best, the most innovative, the most exemplary of British industry is on display, along with all manner of international finery. Your sons shall be enraptured. You may even find that you enjoy yourself!” Marissa winked at her and gave a securing tug on her bonnet ribbons, as if she were a girl again.

Helena recalled the seemingly endless catalog of things the boys wished to see there and nodded. She hugged her dear friend tight and echoed, “All will be well.” She pasted a smile on her face, despite the weight of dread in her chest. After closing up the house, she focused on the boys' happy faces as they climbed into the hired coach and the heaviness in her lifted. They would enjoy this tour of the Great Exhibition, no matter what she had to do to get through it.

It wasn't until the cab approached the entrance to the famed Crystal Palace that Helena felt the familiar but unwelcome tingling along her scalp and neck. The sight of the crowds waiting to enter set her heart beating faster. Flanking her, the boys buzzed with excitement. Mrs. Duchamp listened attentively to little Tommy's chatter; her quiet, studious nature balanced so well with his relentless inquiries, those endless “whys” and “hows” to which the very young are so prone. Meanwhile Mrs. Clarke maintained a lively discussion about the unusual architecture with Mark, who had been reading every article he could find about the building and its designer, Mr. Joseph Paxton. With everyone else in the cab preoccupied, she looked away from the crowds and out on the expanse of Hyde Park. Even with the crowded skyline beyond, the grassy areas were enough to calm her nerves a bit. Without Honoria and Marissa, though, she would not have been able to cross the opulent threshold of this massive glass and iron cage.

Mark must have noticed something on her face because he sat straighter, touched her arm, and said, “Mama, are you all right?” So sensitive to the tenor of others, that child. So eager to please and to smooth over rough spots for everyone else. Since his older brother left, he'd become even more sensitive, taken on even more responsibility. If she didn't make too many mistakes, he would be as fine a man as his father was.

Before she could answer, dear Mrs. Clarke said, “Of course, she's all right, dear. Your mother is just enjoying the lovely day. Isn't that right, Helena?”

She nodded and tried to smile. She could do this. Her boys asked for so little and had already lost so much. Her husband would have made this such an adventure for them, as enthusiastic about all the wonders and trinkets as they were. She could endure a morning stroll—just a simple morning stroll—for their sakes. It might even be enjoyable. Everyone else seemed to think so. As soon as the carriage came to a halt, both boys popped up from their seats with mad grins. She could endure a few hours here for them.

By the time they entered, the waiting visitors had spread out to various exhibits, giving her some blessed room to breathe. The sky helped too. What a marvelous sight . . . being able to see the world from inside this towering greenhouse. As long as she focused on the metal and glass above and around them, she felt secure. Her heart lifted as Tommy grabbed her hand and pulled her toward a large and elaborate elephant statue. All went swimmingly until they entered the technology wing.

She'd underestimated the popularity of the exhibits that would be of greatest interest to her boys: the engines. They were fascinated by the massive fire-engine pump and got as close as they could to watch the new electro-magnetic engine running. As the crowd grew, she lost sight of her children, and her throat seized. She tried to call out to them, but she couldn't even hear her own voice amid the din of the ever-increasing crowd. On some level, she recognized that tightening of her chest, the rising panic jangling in her ears, as the crush of bodies swelled around her, everyone jockeying for the best view.
Don't be silly
, she thought.
You're far too old to be done in by such irrationalities. It's just people.
She told herself this every time, tried to quell her physical reactions by sheer force of will. It wasn't helping this time. It never helped. She struggled for breath. How had all the inhabitants of London conspired to flood the alcove for this demonstration?

The boys are fine. Marissa and Honoria will watch over them. Simply make your way to another room
, she reasoned with herself. Already she could see Honoria inching closer to where she'd last seen the boys. Her skin prickled as perspiration broke out along her back and throat.
Get out. Go now.

Marissa was close to her; she grabbed for her friend's hand and barely caught it. When her friend turned to face her, she couldn't find enough air to speak. Her trusty companion immediately went into action, trying to shoulder through the swelling crowd. The press and overbearing smell of the throng choked her as she clung to Marissa's hand with a sharp sense of desperation. She was caught in a sea of strangers, all jostling and crashing against her.

Now Mark stood close by Tommy on the far side of the display as Mrs. Duchamp hovered behind them. The boys were too focused on the machinery to notice her distress, thank goodness. The sight of them eased her distress a fraction.

Then a surge of humanity shoved her against a pillar, and she almost lost her grip on Marissa's hand. An invisible vise constricted her throat, and her field of vision shrank.
God in heaven, please get me out of here.
Another ripple in the crowd made her stumble and lose contact with Marissa. Panic. Tiny bright lights flashed before her eyes, and a strange but familiar tang flooded her mouth. She tried to speak, tried to cry out for help, but nothing would come out. Dizzy, she couldn't feel her arms or her legs. She tried to push through a couple to her right, but they simply frowned at her and said something she couldn't hear over the clamor in her head. Her chest seized. Colored lights flooded her view just before the world went black. Her last thought was
Heavenly Father, the boys shouldn't have to see me like this.