Dangerous Decisions (3 page)

A few evenings later, Helena was enjoying being with a good-looking young Lieutenant, despite the fact that she considered he had the intelligence of a flea. He was funny and charming. Already he had proposed to her twice – not that she had revealed this to Beatrice – but she had no intention of accepting him. ‘I think, Tristram,' she was saying with suppressed laughter, ‘that you think more of that horse of yours than of anyone else. And whatever made you call him Gladiator?'

‘Because he's got such powerful shoulders – am I talking of him too much?' He gave a rueful smile. ‘You know I'm not very successful with young ladies.'

‘Oh, I don't know,' she smiled up at him. ‘You're terribly good-looking, you know.'

He brightened up. ‘Really? Then …'

Helena shook her head. ‘No, Tristram. Please don't ask me again. Besides …'

‘Yes, I know. I don't stand a chance against— Oh, glory, here he is.'

She turned to see Oliver walking stiffly towards her. ‘There you are, hiding away in here. Your father and aunt have already gone in to supper.'

Helena heard the edge in his tone, and said swiftly, ‘Sorry, I hadn't realised the time. You know Tristram Wade of course?'

‘No, I don't think I've had the pleasure.'

‘My fault – I'm afraid I kidnapped her,' Tristram said good-naturedly.

‘Did you?' Oliver's voice was chilly. ‘Well, I can't allow that, can I?'

Helena felt a surge of resentment. She was not engaged to him and even if she was, she had no wish to be owned by anyone, something she had once declared to Beatrice. Her aunt's reaction had been one of ridicule. ‘A woman stands before God on her wedding day and vows to love and honour and obey her husband. That's the natural order of things and has been for hundreds of years.'

If so, then Helena sometimes wondered whether she wanted to get married at all. However, as society and the church dictated that if a woman wanted to have children and a home of her own – and Helena did – then she had no other choice. Although why it should mean a woman relinquishing her right to an independent mind … She gave Tristram a brilliant smile. ‘You know I was a willing captive.'

His answering grin faded as Oliver, with a granite expression, offered his arm to Helena. ‘Don't you think we should join the rest of our party?'

Even though she acquiesced, Oliver could sense a chill in her manner. He frowned to himself. It had been unwise to forget that independent streak; he must be more careful – at least for the next few months.

Oliver felt his first flash of jealousy. Whether it was sheer protectiveness of his future plans, or simply seeing Helena with a young Lieutenant, he didn't bother to examine. He only knew that having come to search for her in the Conservatory the scene before him had filled him with an unreasoning fury. He had been aware that as an heiress Helena would have other suitors, but it was the delight in her expression, the flirtatiousness in her manner that so startled him.

Oliver took a deep breath, forcing himself to remember that she was only eighteen and her reaction to flattery was simply a natural one.

Three weeks later, on her last evening in London, Helena sat before the triple oval mirror on her dressing table. Tomorrow morning they would be leaving for Lichfield, and Oliver, who had accepted Jacob Standish's invitation to visit Broadway Manor, would follow as soon as he had attended to some pressing estate matters.

With a sigh, Helena rose from her velvet-covered stool knowing that she finally had to accept that she was unlikely ever to see the intriguing dark-haired doctor again. Since that night at the opera, not an evening had she let pass without standing at the window to gaze hopefully down into the square. She may never discover his name, but she knew that she would always remember him.

Slipping off her peignoir, Helena lifted the already turned-down silken coverlet on the bed, slid beneath the sheets, turned out her light and for a long time stared into the darkness.

There was no explanation for it, none at all.

In a less than salubrious area of London, Nicholas Carstairs was examining a child with a severe case of scabies. He glanced around at the filthy room knowing that the bedding should be boiled in order to kill off the mites that caused the condition; but from their appearance, the thin and grubby sheets were only fit for the dustbin, while the ticked flock pillows bore no sign of any covering. He looked down again at the weeping sores on the small girl's legs, with the rash spreading over her buttocks and back. Cleanliness, soapy water and fresh air were a desperate need throughout all these tenement blocks, but Nicholas had seen too much abject poverty not to know that it bred first despair and then apathy.

‘I'll give you some lotion to relieve the itching,' he said to the child's mother. ‘But if you could manage to provide a sheet or a pillowcase …'

She looked at him with empty eyes in a grey tired face, a frail baby suckling at her breast. Nicholas, knowing that the situation was hopeless, struggled with an urge to leave a few coins behind. Experience had taught him that it would be a foolish and idealistic gesture. Word would swiftly spread that he was a ‘soft touch', resulting in an increasing and often needless demand for his services. Instead, with a feeling of reluctance mixed with shame, he took the meagre coin offered in payment and made his way down the steep dark stairs and out into the welcome daylight.

He attended both the wealthy and the poor, and it never ceased to amaze him that each class had so little knowledge of, or even interest in the other. We live in a truly divided and unfair society, he thought wearily as he trudged back to his rooms. He was longing for a bath; it was always his fear that he would pick up some infection, but how was he to treat the sick without exposure to the bacteria that caused their condition?

Later, unable to concentrate on a book, Nicholas read again a letter he had received a few days before. He was not an impulsive man, preferring to give careful consideration to anything that might affect his professional life. This offer from a Harley Street physician was unexpected, apparently arising from the gratitude of a barrister who six months ago had collapsed in Kensington High Street when Nicholas had been on a rare shopping expedition. He'd been swiftly on the scene and diagnosed a heart attack, his decisive action saving the man's life. It seemed that the barrister's brother was this prominent physician.

He knew that he could learn much from working with a respected man such as Dr Andrew Haverstock, but he was wary, suspecting that his own interest in the care of what he thought of as the ‘more unfortunates' might not be viewed with equal sympathy. With his practice in that field becoming established did he really wish to accept an extra responsibility, however influential in advancing his career?

Determined to keep his independence, his freedom to practise medicine as he wished, he read the letter again, finding it rather ambiguous. If it was merely an offer for him to work with Dr Haverstock on an ad hoc basis, assisting him in certain cases, then it could prove to be an attractive proposition indeed. And that, he thought as he got up and propped the letter on the mantelpiece of the mahogany fireplace, is the crux of the matter.

But now, he would go upstairs to slide beneath pure cotton sheets, and thank the Lord that he had the good fortune not to have been born in one of those wretched areas only a few miles away. That young woman in those cramped rooms, already with two children, could not have been much older than Helena. Yet the gulf between them was such that they might have been born a different species.

Nicholas closed his mind against even her name. He could not risk another sleepless night, lying awake to stare into the darkness, wondering whether he should try to see her again, knowing that it would simply be futile. The carriage with its connotations of wealth, the assured man who had ushered her inside, the fact that the London season was coming to its end – the scene told its own story.

Even if she was not yet engaged it was crazy to be thinking along those lines. Had those hazel eyes robbed him of his intelligence? What could he offer? He had neither social standing nor an established income, but Nicholas knew that he wasn't going to find it easy to remain true to the decision that he'd reached; to relegate his ‘girl in the window' to nothing more than a poignant memory.

A few weeks later, on the morning when Helena's suitor was due to arrive at Broadway Manor, the Servants' Hall was buzzing with curiosity.

‘I bet he's really handsome,' Annie said.

‘And what makes you think that he'll notice the likes of a scullery maid?' Cook snapped.

But Annie was used to such caustic comments. Mrs Kemp's bark was always worse than her bite. Not that Cook had ever been a married woman – her title was an honorary one. ‘Just think – what if he proposes while he's here?'

Molly, who was a quiet dark-haired girl, leaned forward. ‘What I'm wondering is, who will she take with her if she gets married and goes to live in Hertfordshire? As a lady's maid, I mean.'

‘Miss Helena is of an age when she will need her own maid, whether she marries or not.' Enid Hewson was a thin, harassed looking woman of forty with pretensions of gentility, and crooked her little finger as she sipped at her tea. ‘It was hard work in London, I can tell you, with two of them to take care of. Looking after Miss Beatrice is what I'm paid for.'

‘Do you think you could train
me
up?' Molly said, with more hope than conviction. ‘I'm a quick learner.'

Enid drew her thin eyebrows together. ‘It's not as simple as all that, you know. There is the question of age. Some lady's maids are older than me, never mind you.'

‘Aren't you forgetting something?' They all turned to look at Ida, whose round face beneath her white frilled cap was flushed with indignation. ‘As head parlourmaid, I'm senior to Molly. If anyone should be trained up it should be me.'

‘But you're sparking with that corporal at Whittington Barracks,' Molly protested. ‘You're not going to want to leave him behind. After all,' she gave a sly glance at the others, ‘he might be your last chance.'

Ida glared at her. ‘I'm fully aware of that, thank you very much. But that's my decision to make.'

The butler, sitting at the head of the long kitchen table as the staff took their mid-morning break, glanced up from his written notes for the forthcoming visit. ‘Don't forget that it's possible a new member of staff might be brought in, someone already experienced.'

‘Still, if Ida does decide against it, and you think there's a chance, would you speak up for me?' When Molly had joined the household six years ago at the age of fourteen, she had never expected the daughter of the house to become her secret friend. It still astonished her that no one at Broadway Manor had guessed that she and Miss Helena, especially in the first two years, had spent so much time together, even meeting in the vast grounds sometimes. There, when Molly had a half day, they would sit beneath one of the large oak trees and read aloud to each other from a current romantic novel.

Molly gazed at Miss Hewson. She had always envied her, the way everyone treated her with respect. To accompany Miss Helena when she got married, to go and live in another part of England – now that really would be exciting. She had no doubts of her abilities; learning to dress hair and care for beautiful clothes couldn't be that difficult, could it? It would be a damn sight better than everlasting dusting, polishing and making beds.

‘Well there's one thing for sure,' Annie said, and they all turned at the bitterness in her voice. ‘It's a job I'll never be able to do.' When she was a child Annie had been jostled near a bonfire on Guy Fawkes Night, and lost her footing. Despite being hauled swiftly from the hot coals, she had suffered severe facial burns and an ugly puckered scar disfigured her right cheek. She knew, as they all did, that despite her hard work and quick mind, her appearance would preclude her from ever being promoted to work ‘upstairs'.

‘Never mind all that.' Cook folded her hands across the stiff white apron that covered her ample body. ‘While this Mr Faraday is here I shall expect all hands to the pump, because if I'm not mistaken, we'll be doing a fair bit of entertaining.'

‘I think we can all rely on that.' The quiet valet who looked after their master was already rising to leave. He rarely joined in servants' gossip, preferring to read in his room.

Molly looked around at them all. ‘I bet Miss Helena's that thrilled. I mean it's really romantic, isn't it?'

Oliver travelled to Broadway Manor in his first motor car. His chauffeur and valet kept to themselves in the front, and Oliver, seated in the back, was pleased to find the journey far more comfortable than travelling by coach.

When at last they turned into a long avenue of lime trees he leaned forward to see that the graceful manor house built of red brick appeared to be less than two hundred years old and certainly lacked the grandeur of Graylings. However, it did offer a warm welcoming appearance, with the grounds immaculately tended and the portico entrance fronting a magnificent mahogany door.

The noise of the engine brought two black Labradors racing around the corner from the back of the house, barking fiercely. ‘Caesar, Nero, quiet!' The dogs retreated as Jacob, followed by a silver-haired butler, came out to welcome his guest personally – a measure of the importance he placed on this visit.

Oliver swung his long legs out of the car and grinned ruefully. ‘Sorry about the racket.'

Jacob was walking around the four-seater Daimler with intense interest. ‘Have you had it long? What horsepower?'

‘Just a few weeks, and it's six. She's a beauty, isn't she?'

Jacob placed one hand on the bonnet of the car to feel the engine's warmth. ‘She certainly is.'

‘Shall we take your bags directly to your room, Sir?' Bostock beckoned a young footman to assist Oliver's valet and then directed the chauffeur to drive the car to the back of the house, murmuring, ‘You'll find your accommodation above the stables.'

Jacob began to usher Oliver into the house. ‘Anything you need, refreshment or such, just ask Bostock. If you would care to join us for drinks in the drawing room about seven-thirty? I know Helena is looking forward to seeing you. She and Beatrice have been making all sorts of plans.'

‘She's not around?'

Jacob shook his head. ‘Changing for the evening, I believe. You were expected rather earlier.'

‘Yes, I apologise for that. The journey took longer than I thought.' Oliver followed the butler up a broad staircase carpeted in sage green and panelled in a honey shade of oak to where it divided into two separate landings. They went along a corridor to the right and entered a spacious bedroom with its windows overlooking green parkland. He began to think that his stay at Broadway Manor was going to be a more enjoyable one than he had anticipated. There was a tranquil feel to the house and unlike some he had visited, there were none of the gruesome stags' heads on the walls, no gloomy family portraits where the oils had darkened with age. Maybe there was something to be said for marrying into the
nouveau riche
, although in Oliver's opinion, nowhere could compare with his beloved Graylings.

Helena was in a tizzy of apprehension. ‘I don't know, Hewson. I really don't.'

‘Miss Helena, I have your aunt to dress after you, so if you could please make a decision …'

‘Gosh, I'm sorry, I didn't think.' Helena pointed to a silk gown in soft rose.

‘Might I suggest pearls?'

Once the maid had dressed her hair and left, Helena moved restlessly around the room. Why did she feel so nervous about meeting him again? She was terribly worried that away from the glamour of London, she might not feel the same physical attraction. Even more crucial, would spending more time together dispel those strange doubts she seemed to have? It was the fact that she had no basis for them that she found so disconcerting.

Helena was aware of her father's expectations; he had made no secret of the fact that he favoured the match. Aunt Beatrice, who was constantly singing Oliver's praises, would never understand Helena's misgivings and she had no wish to be dismissed as foolish and fanciful. Nevertheless, she thought as she descended the wide staircase, I shall be the one spending the rest of my life with him, and the final decision is mine and mine only.

Trying to calm her nerves, she went into the drawing room to find Oliver already there. He was standing with her father before the ornate marble fireplace and studying the striking portrait of her mother, Mary Standish, hanging above. He turned as she entered and, putting down his glass, came immediately to greet her. ‘Helena, you look enchanting. The country air certainly agrees with you.'

‘Thank you.' She smiled at him. ‘It's nice to see you again.' He was even more handsome than she remembered, and it was then Helena decided that she was going to stop this nonsense of fretting all the time. The grounds at Broadway Manor were so extensive that surely when she and Oliver had spent hours alone strolling and talking, her mind would be put at rest.

They walked together to stand beneath the gold-framed portrait and Oliver said, ‘You are very like her.'

‘I just wish I could have known her.'

‘I know exactly how you feel.'

Helena turned to gaze at him with sympathy, remembering that he too had lost his mother at birth. Oliver rarely mentioned his late father and she wondered whether he had been a lonely little boy. She had been so lucky to have someone like Beatrice in her life and as she came in to join them, Helena noticed that her aunt was wearing a new rust-coloured dress. Unfortunately, like most of her clothes, it hung awkwardly on her angular body, but her garnet necklace – a recent present from Jacob – glowed softly against her rather sallow neck and Helena smiled at her with affection, thinking how typical it was of her father to be so thoughtful.

And so they enjoyed their cocktails seated comfortably around the fireplace, the conversation light and often witty. Helena soon realised that Oliver was socially adept at being a houseguest, striking the perfect tone of respect and interest as he asked about the history of Broadway Manor. She saw his lips twitch slightly when Jacob told him that he had bought the house and its estates only twenty-five years ago. ‘Before then it had been in the same family since it was built. The last inhabitant – a young man of only thirty – was obsessed with travelling the world, exploring Africa and big-game hunting, that sort of thing. The hall was hideous, full of animal trophies. Mary hated them and so we had them all removed and replaced the dark panelling with a lighter shade.'

‘What makes people think they have the right to take an animal's life just to boast how brave they are?' Helena said. ‘Killing elephants for their tusks, leopards for their skins, even in this country people shoot deer to hang their antlers on the wall.' She saw Beatrice give her a look of warning that Oliver may have different views. But Helena did not intend to marry anyone if it meant submerging her personality. ‘And I'm afraid that was how he met his death. A distant cousin in America inherited and promptly put Broadway Manor on the market.'

Oliver's deep rooted fears and hatred of his own cousin rose to the surface. If he were by some misfortune to inherit Graylings, Selwyn with his gambling debts and weak nature would have no compunction about exposing it to land-hungry vultures. Oliver glanced again at Helena, noticing how the rose silk gown clung to hips that although slim were satisfactorily rounded. He had a sudden, desperate image of white unblemished skin on the entire surface of her body. It was his constant fear that his future wife might prove to have even a slight physical defect. Yet Oliver knew that even his valet's diplomacy might find it difficult to ascertain something of such a personal and intimate nature. So much would depend on the age and discretion of Helena's personal maid.

Later, in the high-ceilinged dining room with long casement windows flooding it with evening sunlight, Oliver found dinner to be equal in refinement and flavour to any meal he was served at Graylings. He turned to Beatrice. ‘You have an excellent cook, if I may say so. The quail was especially good.'

‘Yes, Bostock,' Jacob said. ‘Please convey my compliments to Cook.'

Oliver was bending his head to listen to Helena. ‘And we could ride,' she was saying, ‘I'd like to show you the farms. I think the head groom has already picked out a horse for you, unless you would prefer to choose your own.'

He smiled into her eyes only to look away as a footman hovered at his shoulder waiting to serve the lemon syllabub.

‘Helena and I have been making plans for your entertainment,' Beatrice said. ‘We thought a weekend house party, and perhaps a visit to Lichfield?'

‘That would be delightful, Miss Standish.'

Helena's initial nerves had vanished and she was enjoying herself immensely. It was fascinating to see Oliver so relaxed in the familiar surroundings of her home.

Jacob gazed at them both expansively. The couple looked well together; the fact that Oliver was somewhat older troubling him not at all because there had been a similar age gap between himself and his beloved Mary.

Later, once Beatrice and Helena had withdrawn, Jacob was feeling mellow as he sipped his brandy. He looked across at his guest. ‘Do you hunt? I'm sure I could arrange …'

Oliver shook his head. ‘Thank you, but it's not a pastime I enjoy. I have no desire to witness the ugly sight of hounds tearing a fox to pieces. I'm afraid I don't shoot, either. Certainly I don't include the Glorious Twelfth on my social calendar.'

Jacob paused to clip the end of his cigar. He respected a man who had his own principles and upheld them. ‘How do you feel about the present government? I wasn't altogether surprised when Winston Churchill decided to cross the floor last year.'

Oliver nodded. ‘He's been in disagreement with Chamberlain for some time. I am pleased to say that the Liberal Party is certainly growing in strength which augurs well for the next election.'

Jacob blew out a cloud of cigar smoke and nodded in agreement, relieved to hear that their political views were similar. As their conversation drifted to discussing their approval of the signing of the Entente Cordiale between England and France, he decided that this would be the ideal time to mention that if a suitable constituency arose, he would welcome the chance to serve his country. Oliver Faraday, like so many of his class, moved in influential circles.

‘You should see the way he looks at her, if that isn't true love …' Molly said. She hadn't had a chance to see Miss Helena alone since she'd returned from London; once they had managed to exchange glances in the hall, but that was all.

‘And is he really that handsome?' was Annie's question, as her reddened hands scrubbed away at saucepans.

‘I should say so. Some girls have all the luck.' Molly glanced with exasperation at Oliver's valet who was enjoying a slice of pork pie and had so far failed to respond to even one of her flirtatious looks.

‘Go on,' Ida said to him. ‘What's he like then, this master of yours?'

Jack Hines glanced across at Annie who had her back to him. Then he gave a thin smile. ‘I'm afraid I can't say.'

The servants glanced at each other.

‘And that's how it should be.' The butler came in to join them. ‘Loyalty to one's employer is an attribute to be admired. Now if everything is finished in the dining room and laid up for tomorrow morning, I think we should all be off to our beds.'

Later, in the bedroom they shared, Molly whispered to Ida, ‘If we're not going to find out any good gossip from the valet, I'll just have to transfer my charms to the chauffeur.' She slipped her nightdress over her head before removing her underwear then whispered as they got into bed. ‘Don't you think it's a bit unusual that they're both so terribly good-looking?'

‘They are, aren't they?' Ida said. ‘But I think that Mr Hines is aiming higher than the likes of us. He was asking me which of us was Miss Helena's personal maid.' She giggled. ‘He'll have a shock when he meets Miss Hewson.'

Helena was finding her mind was far too active to be able to sleep. She kept dwelling on the way that Oliver, once the two men had re-joined them in the drawing room, had managed to convey a silent yet intimate conversation between them. Against a background of polite social chit-chat, sometimes his glances towards her had been full of amusement, at others quizzical, and once the expression in his eyes had been so meaningful that she had to avoid his gaze. And when his fingers had brushed against her own … If this was how he was going to make her feel after only one evening, then Helena was rather hoping they might have some secluded times alone.

Full of a delicious anticipation, she turned over and snuggled into the soft feather pillow, letting her mind drift ahead. How wise she had been to dismiss those silly doubts about him.

Yet strangely, that night she dreamt not of Oliver but of the tall and dark-haired doctor, a man she would probably never see again.