Once Beloved (3 page)

As her friend spoke, Helena froze, a chill spreading downward from the crown of her head to engulf her.
Daniel Lanfield.
It couldn't be. There must be plenty of Lanfields in England. After so many years and so many miles, what were the odds that one of the Marksby Lanfields would visit London—would be here at this place and this time? Inconceivable. They were devoted to the village and to their family's business and held a disdain for anything metropolitan. Still, with dread sinking into her skin, she turned to look fully at the man beside her.

He looked nothing like the boys—young men—she remembered, but much change was bound to happen over a score of years. No, she was wrong. He did look like the boy who was supposed to be her brother-in-law. His brown eyes could be Daniel's eyes. The shape of his face was perhaps broader from time and age but still that same strong square that marked the Lanfield men. His broad shoulders and his bearing reminded her of the elder Mr. Lanfield. The fall of curling hair beneath his cap, that was what had always distinguished him from his brother Gordon, who'd kept his straight hair closely cropped. This could be Gordon's brother.
Please, heavens, let it not be him.

“Someone should stay with you to make sure you don't suffer a relapse,” he said, his accent nostalgically familiar and his faint smile achingly conscientious. She couldn't deny it any longer. While his older brother had been rather distant and stern, Daniel had always been the kind one, the attentive one, the one to reach out to help others. The polite concern and deference in his eyes now said he didn't recognize her. Best to keep it that way.

“No, no, sir. You should feel free to go about your business. You too, Mrs. Clarke—I'm sure the boys need more attending than I do. Now that I am free of those chaotic masses, I will be quite well.” She had to make him leave before he figured out who she was. Averting her eyes, she said pointedly, “I do not do well in the presence of large groups of people. I would be much better off by myself.”

Marissa nodded and said a hasty good-bye to Mr. Lanfield, exchanging cards with him and insisting he dine at the Clarke household as an expression of gratitude.

“Far be it from me to cause you discomfort, Mrs. Martin,” he said after Marissa left them. “I'd not feel right, though, leaving you unattended. 'Tis no trouble to spend a few moments in your company while you indulge your sons. This visit to London has been filled with activity—meetings, dinners, interviews. Today's been my first chance to breathe all week.”

“You are not from London?” She shouldn't ask, shouldn't encourage conversation, but she craved information about her childhood home. It had been so long.

“Does it not show? I'm but a country bumpkin from a small village to the north, near the city of Bradford. Surely, I must stand out like a pig amid a herd of sheep.”

“Not at all,” she replied honestly. His speech and mannerisms were as cordial and appropriate as any of her husband's business associates had been. He didn't have the smoothness of a metropolitan industrialist, but his forthright demeanor held its own appeal. And that voice, the stretch and twist of the vowels . . . it stirred a deeply buried longing for the home she'd given up when she ran off with Isaiah, breaking her engagement with Gordon. If this truly was his brother, Daniel, she prayed he wouldn't realize her identity. “But I really think I would benefit from some quiet. I hope you understand.”

“Aye, of course. 'Twas a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Martin. I wish you well.” He stared at her a fraction too long for her comfort. She nodded and was relieved when he finally turned and walked away, his gait slow and hesitant, as if he was reluctant to go.

She put her bonnet back on and had just finished tying the ribbons when she felt a strange awareness and looked up. He hadn't gone far, it turned out, and he looked at her with a puzzled expression. Then, to her chagrin, he began walking back in her direction. She calculated what she could do, where she could go, before he returned, but there was no way to escape without being obvious.

“Mrs. Martin,” he said, coming to stand before her again. “Forgive me if this seems intrusive, but I can't help feeling that perhaps we have met before. May I know your husband's name and, if I may be so bold, his occupation?”

Now she had a choice to make: tell him the truth and risk his recollection, or lie and risk him later finding out the truth from Marissa, assuming he accepted her dinner invitation. Despite that one long-ago promise she'd broken, she strove to maintain her integrity in all things, and this could be no different.

“My husband was Captain Isaiah Martin,” she said formally, a tendril of pride wreathing through her. Even now, she sometimes couldn't believe he'd chosen her to be his wife those many years ago. And she couldn't believe how fortunate she'd been to choose him as well. “When he retired from the military due to injury, he worked in various capacities for what is now the LNWR.”

Daniel Lanfield blinked twice, gave the curtest of nods as his expression turned ominous, and then turned on his heel and walked away without another word.

So apparently he hadn't forgotten her.

His reaction was better than she'd expected.

“I
t has now been three days since you've set foot outside this house,” Marissa said impatiently as she barged through the door. “That simply won't do.”

“A bright and happy hello to you too, my dear,” Helena replied, accustomed as she was to her friend's extremely direct manner.

“Yes, yes,” Marissa said, giving her a quick buss on the cheek. “Now really, Helena, the children said you haven't gone out at all since the incident at the Exhibition. You know I am strongly in favor of children learning to do their part in the household, but isn't it a bit much to have the boys going to the market? Why, didn't I just see Tommy trailing behind his older brother and carrying a basket twice his size?”

“They're fine, Marissa,” she said shortly. Marissa sometimes reminded her of a dog with a bone. She wasn't obligated to leave her home every day. Why should she? “I have much to do here. In fact, I finished writing the article I promised Honoria for the next pamphlet. It's upstairs. You can go start reading it while I make us tea.”

With her friend thus occupied, she took her time preparing and loading items onto a tray to bring up to the study. The sugar was almost empty, which had prompted her to send the boys out this morning. But there was enough to offer a guest, thank goodness. She just had to keep Marissa's attention on the plight of the factory girls she'd written about. Their close-knit Needlework for the Needy Society had spent so much time interviewing anyone who was willing to speak with them. It was difficult, though, to find those brave enough or desperate enough.

“Here we are, Marissa. You should try these raspberry tarts my neighbor baked. They're heavenly.”

“You should save them for the boys. I remember when mine were their ages. Like locusts, they would sweep through the pantry and cupboards, leaving nary a crumb,” Marissa said, her eyes focused on the article. “This is excellent, Helena. You captured that young woman's suffering so vividly.”

“It was the least I could do. You and the others take so much more risk producing and distributing those pamphlets and sheets.” An image of Honoria's bookshop—defiled and in shambles—rose in her mind. Someone had figured out that they produced and distributed their writings out of Honoria's shop, and its destruction had been a warning that they had gotten too close to a truth someone wanted hidden. Instead of discouraging them, the vandalism had galvanized the women not just to restore the shop but to take stronger action on behalf of those too weak and powerless to defend themselves. This new pamphlet would be sent anonymously to all the members of Parliament.

“You can give this to Honoria yourself at dinner this evening. I've invited Mr. Lanfield so we can honor him properly.”

Helena's hand shook, spilling the tea she was pouring. “What do you mean, dinner this evening?” Helena asked, horrified at the thought of seeing Mr. Daniel Lanfield again. How he'd looked at her, as if she were a demon who'd escaped Hades and threatened to steal his soul. Between one breath and the next, his entire being had transformed from kind gentlemanly concern to horrified disgust. She'd have laughed at the memory of his absurd transformation, except . . . even now, she felt that tiny shard twisting in her heart. In all these years, she never regretted anything about her life with Isaiah, and yet Mr. Lanfield's tacit condemnation left her with a lingering pinprick of shame. How could she endure any more time spent in that man's company?

“Well, dear, clearly you have no other plans. And Mr. Lanfield was so helpful and attentive. A total stranger, he took charge immediately, your safety his only concern. He seemed like such a nice person that I insisted he dine with us and the other Needlework ladies so we could show our appreciation. The evening will give you the opportunity to thank him properly.”

“What do you mean by that, Marissa? Am I to pay him for services rendered?” She could hear the sharpness of her tone and cringed, but the very thought of thanking a man who loathed her, of being beholden to such a man, chilled her.

“Don't be silly, Helena! What has gotten into you?” Marissa stared at her. “Honoria was quite pleased to hear it.”

“What about Elizabeth?”

“You know your sister much better than I. She said she couldn't attend but seemed a little perturbed. I would have thought you'd like a chance to speak with your rescuer under less trying circumstances.”

Less trying circumstances. God must be laughing.
When she didn't answer immediately, Marissa cocked her head and continued to stare, as if she were a puzzle to be solved. She had to say something, but what? The only thing worse than suffering through dinner with him at Marissa's home would be bearding that lion in his own den, which she would never do since she'd determined long ago never to set foot on Lanfield property again. But how could she bow out of the dinner without raising Marissa's suspicions? The very last thing she wanted to do was raise old ghosts, especially in front of her friends. Only her sister knew what had happened before she'd been swept into matrimonial bliss by her Captain Martin. The others knew she'd been estranged from her parents, but they didn't know why, didn't know the details or how extensive their repudiation had been. They didn't know how completely she'd been shunned. If Elizabeth hadn't followed her to London a few years later, all of her family ties would have been severed.

He
knew. This man knew what she'd left behind, the disappointments and the doors subsequently closed to her.

“I admit that was an odd overreaction, but, Marissa, I feel that terrible foreboding again that I get when around strangers.” She wasn't lying. Her stomach twisting, her palms moist, she felt ill at the thought of seeing him again. She simply wasn't presenting the whole picture. When Mark stopped in the doorway to hand her the day's post, she turned her attention to the stack of notes and moved away from Marissa noncommittally.

A letter addressed in handwriting both familiar and yet not quite right drew her whole attention. Gran. Her grandmother's vibrant, dramatically rounded script—how often had she watched Gran write letters and lists and notes? But, as she quickly opened the letter and began reading, it was clear that the hand wavered. Mr. Lanfield dropped from her list of concerns as a chill ran across her skin. The paper in her hand shook; only then did she realize her hands were trembling.

“What is it, Helena?”

“My gran. I've a letter from her.” Fate could not be this cruel.

“Does she still live in Marksby? When was the last time you heard from her?”

She shook her head without speaking. Since leaving Marksby, she'd never received anything from her grandmother or from her parents. The first few years, their repudiation had devastated her. She'd missed the feasts at harvest time, full of laughter and old stories, even stories so trite and staid the entire assembly would take turns spinning out bits of it. When Bartholomew was born, she'd so keenly wished her mother were there. But no one had responded to her letters. She'd lost hope by the time Mark arrived.

“Too long ago to recall,” she replied. It took her several tries to comprehend Gran's unsteady writing through watery eyes. When she finally deciphered the letter, she was surprised to find that she was sitting on a settee as Marissa loomed over her.

“You look terrible, Helena. What is the news from your grandmother?”

“She . . . she is ill. . . . She wishes me to return to Marksby to see her. ‘To say a true farewell' to her, she says. She has summoned both me and Elizabeth. Our families too, if we can manage it.”

“A true farewell? She thinks this is her end?” Marissa spoke gently, calmly, in a way that should have been soothing, but the placating tone only agitated her more.

Helena nodded as tears filled her eyes again. “She says she's dying. She is too weak to leave the house and is sure the end is near.” Suddenly, she felt lost, felt every second of the past twenty years weighing on her. “Part of me suspected she would outlive us all.”

“And?”

She looked up at her friend, confused by the question, unable to reply.

“And think, Helena! Do you mean to go?” Marissa had that impatient look.

“I . . . it's been so many years. . . . It would be more than a day's travel . . . but she is my gran.” A lifetime of memories flooded through her, Gran's gentle but commanding voice echoing in her ears. Her chest hurt at the thought of never seeing Gran again, and yet that prickling of her skin had already begun. She hadn't left London, hadn't traveled more than an hour's distance, since Isaiah's death. And she'd have to take a coach or train. Her clothing felt too tight as she began to perspire. “I don't know. I would give anything to be by her side, anything for her not to be alone at the end . . . but I don't know if I could manage it.”

“How could you expect to manage that when you can't even leave your home to go to the market?”

She lifted her chin. Marissa might be one of her dearest friends, but Helena wouldn't be cowed, not over something so important. “I will manage. I must.”

“Do you think Elizabeth could go? What about all the children?”

“We shall see. It will all work out. It has to.” Steeling herself against Marissa's skeptical gaze, she admitted, “When my mother passed into eternal life, I should have insisted that I return for her services, should have fought harder to reunite with my father. Instead, in my cowardice, I stayed away. It is one of my greatest regrets, as is missing
his
funeral. Gran has asked for us. I will not fail her. This may be my last chance.” Her voice cracked on the last word, and she burst into tears. Sweating and nauseated, she set her mind on her dear grandmother's wish. There must be a way.

 

Having completed his last appointment, putting the final nail in this coffin of a business trip, Daniel took a sweeping look around the smoking room. He'd heard impressive things about the Gresham Club, and he was not disappointed. These were men with a vision of the future. It was small consolation compared to the utter lack of enthusiasm regarding his proposal for Lanfield wools and materials. The merchants and traders he'd met with during his trip to the city resisted taking on such a small-scale supplier. More than one pushed him for exclusivity.
Not a chance.
That was one point on which he and Gordon had agreed. His brother hadn't been in favor of seeking these connections at all. The stubborn fool couldn't see that their entire foundation was crumbling, their industry dying. At best, the head of Tavish had not given him an outright no; an alliance with the manufacturer could be the lifeblood they needed. Yet it could just as well prove disastrous, depending on too many variables. Would it be better to risk the ever-present threat of illness wiping out a flock or the stormy effects of a partner company's whims and tribulations? Better they establish a strong web of multiple contacts than place all their eggs in one seemingly strong but uncertain basket. For that matter, Farley and Sons was still considering exporting Lanfield goods to the Americas. Still, it would be foolish to put all his stock in such lukewarm responses. Perhaps he could still salvage this trip on his last day; all it would take was one solid prospect. He took another swig of the excellent port, focusing on the richness of it coursing through his system, and settled into the plush armchair. Who had he yet to approach?

“Mr. Lanfield, I was pleased to see you on the club register today,” said an unfamiliar voice.

Another prospect?
He perked up, adjusted his damned cravat, and stood to meet the newcomer. When the attendant made the requisite introductions, it was easy to see why this man, Mr. Frederick Clarke, was the perfect balance for his self-assertive wife. He tensed. Mrs. Clarke had invited him to dine with them, and he'd sent his regrets claiming illness. It was, in a way, true. He had been sickened when he'd recognized Mrs. Martin. The very thought that he'd carried her in his arms sparked a roiling burn in his wame. He had been right to reject their invitation, but you never knew who might take offense.

“Pardon me, sir. I didn't mean to startle you,” Mr. Clarke said. “Mrs. Clarke was quite disappointed that you could not come to dinner last evening, after all. She's been concerned about your health ever since. It seemed like fate when I saw you were here. May I confirm that you are in good health and good spirits?” Mr. Clarke pulled a chair close and sank into it comfortably. His manner seemed easy and undemanding.

“Yes, thank you,” he replied, relaxing back into his seat. What else could he say?
No, not at all. Good spirits are nowhere to be found. I am failing utterly.
“It was a passing ailment. You may assure your considerate wife that I am well today.”

“Considerate is quite a nice way of putting it,” Mr. Clarke responded jovially “She's perpetually meddlesome, but she has the heart of a lion and the soul of a saint. I find my life is more comfortable and orderly when I do whatever she tells me to do. When she puts her mind to something, it is inevitably the right course, and one would do well not to deviate from it.”

“Well, as I said, I am quite fine so there is no need for her concern.”

He could still picture Helena Thorton—Mrs. Martin now, he should remember—before he walked away from her that day at the Crystal Palace. A vulnerable, helpless woman whose first thoughts upon waking were her children. Knowing who she was brought a bitter taste to his mouth. She'd aged, of course, but not enough to satisfy him. She ought to look like one of
Macbeth
's gnarled witches, her outside matching her base and ugly spirit. No one with a soul could live with bringing about the ruin of her village. He'd never in his life do a woman harm, but he could wish he hadn't noticed her distress, to begin with. As if this trip weren't enough of a dismal failure, meeting that viper again made London a new level of hell.