Helen Dickson (16 page)

‘You’ll have to go through me to get to Maria.’ Turning on his heel, Charles took Maria’s arm. ‘Come. There’s nothing to be gained here.’

Outside the house the silence was like a solid sheet of ice forming about them. Charles watched Maria’s face become shadowed, gaunt and white as marble.

It was a difficult moment for Maria. She wanted to maintain an air of cold disdain, to face Charles in calm defiance, but her mauled pride and an aching uncertainty of her future assailed her senses. Momentarily blinded by a sudden rush of tears to her eyes, she stumbled, only to find a supportive hand coming to her aid. Long fingers grasped her elbow and held her firmly until she regained her balance.

‘I’m all right,’ she whispered, pushing him away.

She turned her face away and when Charles heard a sob he realised she was weeping. She swayed once more and he caught her to him, holding her body against his, his arms strong about her, his cheek resting on her hair, feeling the violent trembling of her as shock gripped her, saying nothing.

He hadn’t known how she would react, but this clinging, this desolate weeping, was totally unexpected. He should not have taken her there, but he knew he must shock her, hurt her. However, he didn’t want to add to her desolation by destroying her altogether.

At last she was quiet, leaning against him. After a moment she pushed herself away from him, the tracks of her tears still shining on her cheeks.

‘I apologise. I did not intend crying like that. Henry’s not worth it, I realise that now. I’m exhausted, that’s all.’ She looked at him, and Charles saw her lips become a thin and bitter line and her eyes darken and deaden. ‘I suppose you’re satisfied now. Everything you told me about him is true. Aren’t you going to say I told you so?’

‘Of course not,’ he said, handing her into the carriage and instructing the driver to take them back to
Grosvenor Square. ‘You were very courageous, Maria, but I should not have put you through that.’

‘I’m glad you did,’ she said, settling herself into the seat. ‘At least I now know what Henry’s like. It’s over. I can’t quite believe it. All these years…’

‘What?’

‘Wasted,’ she answered, her tone flat. ‘That’s what Henry said. He was right.’

‘In no way do I feel guilty for depriving you of your fiancé. You deserve someone better. How do you feel now you’ve seen him after six years?’

‘I feel lots of things. Disappointed—terribly let down and betrayed. Now the truth is revealed there is no use pretending, and, if I am honest, most of all I feel relieved.’

‘And I am relieved to hear it.’

Maria looked at Charles in the orange glow from the carriage lamps. ‘Why did the Company dismiss him? Did he do something very bad?’

‘In the Company’s eyes it was unpardonable—his behaviour in India had become a scandal. Unfortunately this was the image the Company recognised, and when Winston’s regiment went to settle some insurgency—an insurgency that turned out to be more serious than initially thought and resulted in many lives lost in the Company regiment—Winston was nowhere to be seen. He was found much later drunk out of his mind in a brothel. Naturally the Company took a grim view of his conduct—it was one time too many—and he was forced to leave in disgrace.’

‘It was no less than what he deserved, but it doesn’t seem to have affected him very much. I hope I never see him again.’

Charles gave her a dubious look, for he had no doubt that she would. ‘I’m relieved you are to stay with me and I must insist that you stay there until this matter with Winston is settled and he is no longer a threat. While you are in London you will have to consult with your lawyer and bankers regarding money and business affairs—’

‘I have already decided to do that,’ Maria interrupted.

‘Good. Then I shall arrange for them to come to the house. If you do leave the house, I must insist that you are escorted at all times.’

His tone was brusque. Maria could feel her resentment growing and with it her anger bubbling up inside her, but as yet she could not seem to find the strength to fight back. How dare he feel he had the right to order her about as if she was his to direct? How dare he assume that now she had decided not to marry Henry she would turn to him?

She sat looking at him. She could still hear Henry—
she is mine
…She was filled with a bitterness of pain that she had not allowed for a long time. It seemed to rise up in her throat. Men betrayed. Henry had betrayed her. He had wanted to manipulate her and take what he wanted, first and foremost her money, without a thought to what she might want. And then Charles had remarked how he would pursue her if he had a mind—without reference to her, without a care for her feelings.

Her expression seemed to freeze him. She did her best to hold on to the resentment she felt, to be dignified as she had been taught to be at all times, but feeling terribly let down and hurt by Henry was very difficult and her expression was icy.

‘You have been very kind to me, Charles. In fact, I
can’t imagine what I would have done without your help and I am grateful, but that does not mean you can take me over as you seem to be doing. I will tell you now that I deeply resent the remark you made to Henry about pursuing me yourself—if you have a mind, that is.’

‘What I said was clumsy, foolish. I do admit that.’

‘I am not subject to your wishes, so I suggest you do not use that particular attitude with me. It is most arbitrary, and for some reason it makes my hackles rise. I insist on speaking for myself, and I will also tell you that at the earliest opportunity I shall be going to Gravely, after I have purchased a new carriage and some horses.’

Charles turned his head to look at her in the dim light, his face working with the strength of his emotions, which had for the moment got the better of him. He could not bear to think of her where she was not under his protection. She was alone and he resolved to fulfil his role as her temporary guardian. In keeping with this, he would henceforth see that she was made to feel secure and spared any future advances from Winston.

‘I shall be only too happy to look for a carriage and horses, but you must remain at my home and forget for now this nonsense of leaving for Gravely until—’

‘Nonsense! What are you talking about? Of course I must go home. And who do you think you are,’ she flared, ‘laying down the law and telling me what I should and should not do? I am a grown woman and I am quite capable of running my own life without you. Accept it, Charles. I will be a burden to you no longer. Your obligation to me ended when we reached London.’

A gleam of anger showed in Charles’s eyes. The stern features seemed to become even harder. He turned
his head away abruptly, perhaps to shut out the seductive vision of the woman who had seemed so innocent, but was now exhibiting an alarming self-possession.

‘That was before you told Winston you would not marry him.’

Both angry, they fell silent.

When they reached the house, Maria excused herself, pleading tiredness, and retired to her room.

Charles watched her go and, striding into the drawing room, he poured himself a large brandy. His mind busy, he settled himself in a comfortable chair near the hearth, propping his feet on a low stool. He stared at the shifting flames, but his mind was wandering far afield as an image of Maria entered his thoughts—of dark-fringed green eyes, glowing with their own light, the colour in their depths forever changing like a roughly hued gemstone. Often a frown gathered her brows in anger, and her eyes grew cold.

Casting this image aside, he brought a more favourable one to mind, of moments when they had been bright and full of laughter, expressive and alive, of a pert nose, gently curving lips—then he held the image in his mind where it burned with the memory of their incredible softness beneath his own. The rest of her crowded in—her slender limbs and the sleek, gently rounded grace of her body, which possessed a subdued strength and honesty that lent her a naïve elegance. She was unaware of how lovely she was, and she dwelt very firmly in his mind—and now his heart.

So, what was to be done now she had declared her aversion for Henry Winston? How was such a vul
nerable girl to be kept safe from a man like that? The fire flamed high, then died back, the coals snapping as if with a stoic purpose. Charles stared into the softly burning embers until the clock chimed twelve.

He rose, having reached a decision.

Seated before the mirror in her room in her night attire and brushing her hair with long, steady strokes, Maria lifted her head and looked at her reflection in the mirror while a new strength, a new force, built inside her. Her head surged with terror and confusion, roaming from place to place, looking for an answer to her critical dilemma. She had to get away from London where her attraction for Charles was becoming more profound with each new day, and her shuddering aversion to Henry filled her with sick despair.

As yet she had done nothing that was inexcusable with Charles and she made up her mind that she would leave for Gravely before she did do something to betray herself. She had to get away from London before her will weakened and her fragile moral fibre crumbled in the face of his appeal.

True to her word Lady Osbourne sent for her modiste, Madame Cecile. Maria had not long been out of bed when a maid came to summon her to the sewing room, where Lady Osbourne, always an early riser, attired in a sumptuous oriental robe, her hand resting on the brass knob of her walking cane, was waiting.

Seamstresses were swirling bolts of fabric over furniture and anything else where it could be draped. The entire room was a riot of colour, with newly fashionable
fabrics such as printed cotton and fine muslin, delicate lawn and silk gauze, which provided a fluttering floating look and was highly popular.

‘Ah, there you are, Maria.’ Lady Osbourne was in a particularly cheerful mood as Maria crossed towards her. ‘As you can see, we are in for a busy morning.’

Maria smiled down at her. ‘I never expected Madame Cecile to come so soon, Lady Osbourne—and with such wonderful fabrics. What fine materials.’

Lady Osbourne took her hand, her face becoming sombre. ‘Once I have my mind set on something I like to get on with it. I don’t believe in letting the grass grow under my feet. So, Maria, your engagement to Colonel Winston is off. I saw Charles earlier before he set off for Westminster and he told me a little of what transpired.’

‘What Charles told you is true. Colonel Winston was—was much changed. I had not been in his house one minute before I realised that becoming his wife would be a huge mistake.’

‘You were quite right to refuse to marry him. Your life would have been very unhappy—although I have to say that I think Madame Cecile had high hopes of making your wedding dress.’

‘Then I am sorry to disappoint her. But I’m sure there will be other brides for her to accommodate.’

‘Perhaps.’ She looked past Maria and a dreamy look came over her face as memories assailed her. ‘Charles’s sisters both made such beautiful brides. My younger daughter, Georgina, lives in Surrey. She married a Member of Parliament and they have two adorable children. Mary, who is older than Charles, has been married these twelve years past—to a gentleman in the
north. They live in Harrogate. Unfortunately I don’t see them as often as I would like, but Mary is a prolific letter writer, so she keeps me abreast of all the news.’

‘I can see how you must miss them.’

‘I have high hopes that Charles will meet a suitable young woman to marry now he has come home—’ her eyes twinkled mischievously ‘—and give me more grandchildren. Hopefully the right woman will come along soon.’

She raised her brows and Maria stirred uneasily beneath the intent gaze, wondering if Lady Osbourne could possibly be harbouring the hope that now she was no longer betrothed to Henry, she was that woman. Rather than continue with this conversation, she tactfully changed the subject and suggested that Madame Cecile took her measurements.

Maria stood patiently on a raised platform while she was measured and prodded and turned and pinned, while Lady Osbourne sat and smiled and uttered encouraging comments expressing her pleasure and her preferences. She insisted Maria was fitted for morning dresses, evening gowns, carriage and walking dresses and any other kind of dress she could think of.

Maria felt strangely light-hearted for the first time in years. ‘I do not wish to be rude, Lady Osbourne,’ she said, laughing lightly, ‘but I will not require a quarter of the gowns when I go to Gravely.’

‘Nonsense. People socialise in the country all the time. You will have a splendid time and you will come to London—often, I hope. Tell me, my dear, do you have a lady’s maid?’

‘No—I have to confess I haven’t thought about it. I
shall have to look for one, I suppose—or wait until I reach Gravely.’

‘There is no need. I might have the very girl. Ruby.’

‘I know Ruby. She seems to have been assigned to me since I came here.’

‘She’s a competent girl—been with us two years. Her family lives in Eastbourne. Her father is not in the best of health and I know she would like to find work closer to home to be of help to her mother.’

‘I see. Then if she is willing, and you don’t mind losing her, I would be more than happy to take her to Gravely when I leave.’