Once Beloved (4 page)

Another attendant arrived at the table to refill their drinks, and he frowned at the direction his thoughts had taken. His collar felt too tight, but he couldn't loosen it here. How could he still hold such sharp, boiling anger over a woman who was ultimately a stranger now? What did it matter that she looked normal, that she looked sedate and well-fed and secure? Water under the bridge. London might be a thousand times larger than the tiny hamlet of Marksby, but it stood to reason that everyone would visit the Great Exhibition. Mere coincidence that, amid the throngs of thousands, she would appear before him. He wasn't such a monster that he would resent aiding a person in need, even one so undeserving as that woman. Was he?

Mr. Clarke swirled the liquid in his glass and nonchalantly said, “Now she has in mind that your heroic rescue of our friend, Mrs. Martin, needs grand and proper recognition. It would be best for you to concede with good grace and simply allow her to make a fuss over you. Dinner this evening or tomorrow, whatever suits you. And I must admit it would be a relief to have some masculine reinforcements when Mrs. Clarke has her sewing circle in attendance.”

So this was how the affable man got on with his bold, outspoken woman—he acceded to her wishes whenever possible. Daniel could easily picture the cycle—she demands, he acquiesces, she advances, he retreats. Daniel knew that cycle all too well, knew too accurately what it was like to try to please an increasingly unsatisfied spouse. Another swig of port. If his mind continued to follow this path, the day would truly be ruined.

“That would include Mrs. Martin, I take it?” he asked. Under no circumstances would he break bread with that woman. Surely, she would be just as averse to the idea. The image of her insensible and so very fragile loomed behind his eyelids, sparking a contradictory impulse to see her again and make sure she was safe. He tossed back the remainder of his glass. His mind wouldn't stop racing, diving down these unexpected and unwelcome paths. One moment he wished he'd never laid eyes on her, and the next he longed, however fleetingly, to see that she was intact.
It must be the strain of this trip. Get yourself together, man.

“Undoubtedly,” Mr. Clarke said. “Mrs. Martin is most keen to convey her appreciation as well. She cares deeply for her friends and watches over them all like a mama bear. But I suppose you don't know about their little coterie.” The man stood abruptly, as if just remembering an important appointment. “I say, would you care for a stroll? I don't suppose you've done much sightseeing. During one of the many recent episodes when Mrs. Clarke has sung your heroic praises, she has mentioned that you are visiting Town on business. I would be happy to introduce you to some of my colleagues who I expect to be out and about at this time of day.”

He breathed an inward sigh of relief and agreed. He found the man's demeanor puzzling, but this chance meeting could be a profitable turning point after all. A sorely needed spot of hope. Once they'd exited the building, he fell into step with Mr. Clarke easily, and they ambled toward Hyde Park. After talking perfunctorily about how Marksby weather differed from London's, Mr. Clarke circled back to the topic of the little group of which his wife and Mrs. Martin were members—self-importantly called Needlework for the Needy—as if they'd never been interrupted.

“She's known those women for a dog's age, all fine and upstanding. I don't know who you would have met. Obviously, there's Mrs. Martin. You might have also seen their partner in crime, Mrs. Duchamp. She's quite a bluestocking, that one. Widowed. Owns her own bookshop. Quite enterprising.”

He could appreciate business acumen, but he wondered at Mr. Clarke's admiring tone. Independent women . . . bluestockings . . . his wife had admired such women too. Mrs. Martin had apparently found like-minded women to reinforce her self-absorption. All the more reason to avoid her.

“The other member of their merry quartet is Mrs. Martin's sister,” Mr. Clarke continued, “but I believe she's had her hands full these last few weeks. Some minor illness struck the family, and you know how it is.”

“Mrs. Martin has a sister?” he asked absently. What did he care about the Thorton sisters? He should just make clear that he knew the women from their youth. If they considered the sisters their friends, they deserved to know the truth about the heartless, selfish nature of these women. But then again, he was no sniping gossip and would, with any luck, be a stranger to these people again in a day or so. If the Clarkes didn't know any better, it wasn't his job to enlighten them.

“Yes, although they look nothing alike upon casual observance. I suppose the only resemblance is their eyes. I believe they're from your area, if I recall correctly.” Mr. Clarke's gaze focused on the intersection ahead, and his voice sounded innocuous enough.

As they passed a fountain in which some street urchins played, Daniel made a noncommittal noise in response. Ah, yes, the Thorton sisters. One light sister, one dark. One bright, one gloomy. Both deemed fine bonny lasses. In the end, they'd both been faithless and self-serving, abandoning their home and family for this cesspool that was London.

A bell on a passing omnibus was clanging loudly, shaking him free of his thoughts. Again, such bitterness. What was wrong with him?

Mr. Clarke continued rambling, not appearing to care for any response, “Those ladies are quite something when they work themselves into a lather. Individually, they might not catch one's eye. Not even my own firebrand, Marissa—though she was quite the stunner in her day—but when they join forces, man, they are a sight to behold. All that shrill, passionate indignation.”

“It's common for women to form such attachments,” he responded, just to be able to say something. “My . . . wife had just such a group of friends, as close as sisters. They met every week for tea and gossip.”

“Are you married, sir? I should have thought to ask. Why, then you do know how they get!” Mr. Martin had steered them toward a quiet corner of the park, one with an impressive statue.

“My wife is gone, sir,” he responded. He'd learned to use short, vague phrases about her absence. If wasn't his fault if people took him to mean his wife was dead. She might as well be.

“My condolences. With all due respect to your dearly departed Mrs. Lanfield, the Needlework ladies are more than a flock of gossips. They rather see themselves as crusaders. In fact, they can be quite a nuisance to those they see exploiting the weak and innocent.”

“That sounds rather dangerous, them meddling in other people's affairs. How do they know who is doing the exploiting?” Now the pieces of Mr. Clarke's descriptions combined into a whole picture. He'd heard of such people, men and women, claiming concern for the social good. Likely, these women grasped onto whatever social cause was fashionable from one week to the next. But sometimes such do-gooders underestimated the forces against which they raised their flag. “Do you not worry about your wife's safety? What about the other women's husbands? Do they not take responsibility for their wives' well-being?”

“Given that Mrs. Duchamp and Mrs. Martin are widows, I would say they take responsibility for their own lives. Mr. Addison and I, well, we have faith in our wives.” The man shrugged. Actually shrugged. Had the man no backbone at all? “Have I been alarmed at some of Mrs. Clarke's antics? More than once. But she was a nurse before I married her. She can handle herself. I trust her judgment, and she and the other women are very cautious and mindful of each other. Oh, only look at how we've rambled,” Mr. Clarke said, as he stopped in front of an unassuming townhouse. “This is my castle! Oh, and look at the time! We've arrived just in time for tea. Mrs. Clarke would have my head if you didn't join us.”

He felt the jaws of the invisible trap snap shut. Mr. Clarke was obviously a domesticated puppet. Nothing to do but move forward. He would be polite and leave as soon as propriety allowed. He gritted his teeth. If Helena Thorton—Mrs. Martin, he must recall—appeared, he would have to feign sudden illness. Well, truly he probably wouldn't have to feign anything. The thought of socializing with her did make his stomach turn.

S
imple furnishings, Daniel noticed as they crossed the threshold. People who had fancy chairs and knickknacks irked him, made too much of themselves and their trinkets. These Clarkes were solid folks, by the looks of their home. With any luck, those Needlework women Mr. Clarke described would not join them, especially not the Thorton sisters. He followed Mr. Clarke's lead, while vowing to himself that he would make his escape at the first opportunity, only to stop short as his host halted in the entryway. He caught a glimpse of Mrs. Clarke. The woman he'd met at the Exhibition didn't match the one he saw now, though. Before, she'd been calm and decisive. Now, with her startlingly red hair escaping its bun as she bounded up the stairs and her shrill, curt greeting to her husband without so much as a pause in her step, she seemed to border on hysteria.

“Marissa, what has got you in such a state?” her husband called out.

She paused, reminding Daniel of a fawn hearing the crack of a twig or the report of a shot. Her distracted expression as she stared at them in the doorway resolved into clarity.

“Oh, my dear, thank goodness you're home,” she said hurriedly, poised halfway up the staircase. “I've just been to see Helena, and she's in a state! She and Lizzie just received an urgent post from their grandmother. She's gravely ill and wants them. Lizzie cannot go with Mr. Addison away! Meanwhile, Lena is already packing. She won't listen to reason. She needs immediate funds. I told her I would lend our trunk. Oh, and you simply must hear of her brilliant plans. She's determined to make a mad dash for the train, get herself to York, and then improvise from there. Can you imagine? Helena improvise? Alone? She's been so fragile these past few years. God only knows where she might end up or who might take advantage of her!”

At the mention of the sisters' grandmother, Daniel tensed. He hadn't seen the elderly Mrs. Thorton in the village in the weeks before he came to London, but surely he would have heard something if she were seriously ill. The Grand-dame, as the Lanfields had fondly come to call her, had always been a kind woman; it would be a great loss when she passed. Recalling how attentive and generous she'd been when his father died, he found himself speaking without conscious intent.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Clarke, but what's the matter with their grandmother?” he asked.

Only then did the harried woman appear to notice him. Her eyes narrowed, and her entire demeanor changed, as abruptly as the closing of storm shutters.

“Oh, my heavens, Mr. Lanfield. I didn't see you there.” She smoothed her unruly hair and came down the steps much more sedately than she'd gone up them. “It is quite kind of you to ask after Mrs. Martin's relations, but it wouldn't be my place to discuss her family affairs.”

He admired her blunt refusal, shielding her friend from an apparent stranger like a ewe keeping herself between strangers and her newborn lambs. If these people didn't know Helena Thorton's past, they deserved to. If they knew of her betrayal already, they couldn't possibly know the depth of it. He had to tread carefully, though.

“Mrs. Clarke, I'm well acquainted with the Thorton family. Only after our encounter at the Crystal Palace did I see who your friend was, though. We lived in the same village as children. Her grandmother is well-respected, and there was no talk of the Grand-dame being ill when I left Marksby. I'm worried, especially if her health's become dire in the short time I've been away.”

“You knew Mrs. Martin and Mrs. Addison? What an unusual coincidence.” Coolness crept into her voice, as she stopped at the bottom of the stairs, still as a statue. Perhaps this woman knew more about the Thorton sisters' past than he'd thought. “Were your families close?”

“Our lands are adjacent to theirs so, aye, I knew them as well as country neighbors generally do.”

“So you might know a bit about her history and her departure?” Her voice dropped a few more degrees, and her husband eyed him curiously.

“I know enough. What's wrong with Mrs. Thorton? She's been remarkably hale and spry, given her age.”

Mrs. Clarke's eyes narrowed, but she replied, “Their grandmother has apparently taken a serious turn. Two weeks ago, she came down with what appeared to be minor sniffles, but it quickly escalated. The note said that she has taken to her bed and has grown quite weak. Given the family's silence these twenty years, it must be severe if she's sent for her granddaughters.” The woman's tone turned sharp at the end. So blind to the truth.

“When I return home,” he said calmly, “I'll send word back to Mrs. Martin and her sister regarding their grandmother's condition.”

“Oh, but Helena—that is, Mrs. Martin—has gotten it into her head that she must go to see her grandmother.”

“She mustn't,” he said flatly. Impossible. Foolish, reckless woman! He kept his questions about her sanity unspoken. She'd have to be self-destructive to go back. Not to mention the havoc her arrival would wreak on the village. She couldn't be so senseless.

“Can you believe it?” Mrs. Clarke shook her head. “She hasn't traveled any distance from London since her husband's death. Why, she's barely traveled more than a few city streets in the past two years. The Exhibition was the farthest . . .” When Mrs. Clarke trailed off, it took him a moment to decipher her silence. Apparently, Mr. Martin had been gone, what, at least a year. Yet this woman's expression spoke of more than her friend's grieving. Her husband whispered something in her ear, and she turned away. The memory of Mrs. Martin's unconscious form, slumped against him on the wooden bench, raised a niggling alarm in his head. There was more to Mr. Martin's death than anyone was saying. He stomped on the delicate sprout of sympathy he felt trying to take root.

“Does Mrs. Martin have a history of fainting?” he asked the Clarkes. “Would she even be capable of such a journey?”

“She insists that she is!” Mrs. Clarke turned to her husband and added, “She refuses to listen to reason. We have all tried to dissuade her, to no avail. It is most frustrating.”

Mr. Clarke took her by the hand and leaned over her, whispering again. They maintained a decorous distance, but the familiarity, the intimacy, of their demeanor made Daniel intensely interested in the wallpaper.

“You ladies are a formidable lot,” her husband said fondly. “I'm sure she will come to her senses before long. She won't leave her children.”

“Something isn't right,” Mrs. Clarke insisted. “Helena is irrationally obsessed with the idea of returning. Her arguments have been so emotional and vociferous. She's already begun packing. I promised to lend her some items; I came to fetch them in hopes that my delay would give her time enough to reconsider. I fear she won't be dissuaded.”

Daniel rolled the matter around in his head. The return of Mrs. Martin spelled disaster. The village would be in an uproar, and old wounds that had never healed would be torn open afresh. With that woman's health already uncertain, no good would come of such a trip for anyone.

“I can convince her,” he said firmly. “I'll frighten her if I must, but I'll get her to stay.”

“You, sir? You'll forgive my doubt, but why would you succeed when those closest to her have not?” Mrs. Clarke said, her eyes narrowing with suspicion.

He hadn't intended to reveal the details of their past acquaintance, but it seemed there would be no other way.

“Mrs. Clarke, I don't know how much your friend has told you about her past in Marksby and the circumstances under which she left the village and her family.”

“Like you, I know enough,” the woman responded through clenched teeth, “but do go on.” Her husband looked at her questioningly, perhaps because of her sharp tone, but she shook her head and gripped his hand in both of hers. Whatever their silent exchange meant, her husband held his tongue.

“Your Mrs. Martin was once engaged to marry my elder brother, Gordon,” Daniel admitted, striving to tamp down the bitterness of the words, “and their match would've combined our families' lands. It so happened that the intended land consolidation was of interest to a railway company, which promised great prosperity for everyone in the village. Captain Martin was one of the railway representatives who came to complete the deal. Within two months of his arrival, he eloped with then-Miss Thorton and the railway decided Marksby wasn't an ideal location after all.”

Mrs. Clarke blanched, her face shifting as she combined the information with what she already knew. “She said there was a scandal and that her parents refused to acknowledge her thenceforth.”

“Oh, that's quite true, ma'am. 'Twas a grave scandal. Destroyed the prospects of the entire village and residents throughout the parish. Her parents were devastated by her betrayal. Never recovered. No one in Marksby truly did.”

Mr. Clarke interjected quietly, “Land deals fall apart for many reasons. That is the mercurial nature of such transactions. How certain were the principals in the transaction that their elopement ruined everything?”

He bristled at the question, at its genteel attempt to undercut the righteous anger of his community, but he respected the man's sense of loyalty to the Martins, misplaced and misinformed as that loyalty might be. He may have been a young man at the time, but even then he'd understood enough about the circumstances. “There were obvious signs. And the close timing was undeniable. 'Twas as if those railway people were marauders, sweeping in to pillage and plunder before the company rushed on to its next target. Many families finally had to move to Manchester or Liverpool to find work and scrape by.”

“So you're saying everyone there blamed Helena for all this?” Mrs. Clarke sounded skeptical, as only a person unfamiliar with village life could.

“
Blames
, Mrs. Clarke. There's no past tense about it. They
still
do hold her responsible—which is why she cannot return. Let me be perfectly clear. She'd not be safe there.”

“I think she means to brazen her way through,” Mrs. Clarke replied.

“Pardon me for saying, but being brazen was what caused her disgrace, to begin with.”

“You'll have no pardon from me. That is uncalled for, sir, and, whatever she did in her youth, she is a fine and moral woman now.”

“My words may be blunt, ma'am, but they're no less true. And not nearly strong enough, considering the public feeling against her. Take me to her, and I'll convince her myself that she mustn't go.”

The vague whisper of an idea caught his attention. If she was so damned insistent on returning to face her own ruin, it might be gratifying to witness. After all the suffering she'd caused, why shouldn't she suffer too. Why shouldn't she see for herself what she'd wrought?

The older boy he'd seen with Mrs. Martin at the Great Exhibition opened the door for them and immediately hugged Mrs. Clarke before pulling back suddenly, as if aghast at his behavior. The child attempted a look of dignity as he inclined his head toward the front room and shook his head.

“It's good of you to come, Mrs. Clarke,” the young man said, his voice wavering. “Mama is not acting like herself. She still speaks of going away, but I fear she would come to harm. She won't agree to take me with her! Please help us!”

The boy's tension drew Daniel's sympathy. To have her as a mother. . . she'd been a selfish git twenty years ago, and it seemed little had changed. Helena Thorton would follow whatever whims struck her, and damn the consequences. If her own children couldn't sway her, 'appen the threat of village scorn and enmity might.

Mrs. Clarke nodded and said, “I'll speak with her, Mark, and I found Mr. Lanfield, who may also be able to assist us. You can go upstairs and play with your brother. I trust you to keep him occupied while we talk things over with your mother.”

The boy gave her a grateful smile and gave Daniel a polite nod. “Pleased to see you again, sir. Please don't think ill of my mother. I fear these rare instances do not show her at her best, but she is really a fine English woman.” Mark fled up the stairs with a quick glance toward the parlor. Such an odd child—so polite and controlled, teetering on the verge of manhood.

Mrs. Clarke led the way down the hall, but held her hand up for him to wait at the threshold of the sitting room. What little he could see of the room still showed signs of mourning—black crepe taken down but not put away.

“We could have Gran brought here, Helena,” said a female voice that sounded vaguely familiarity in its light, nasal tone. This had to be the other Thorton sister, Miss Elizabeth. “She could stay with one of us, and we could share nursing duties.”