The Weary Heart Read online

  Intrigued, Marcus fell back as they entered the house. Before the wooden-faced servants, the children surrounded the slightly shabby figure of Miss Milsom, all talking at once. Eliza clung to her hand, and Horatio was jumping up and down in excitement to tell her something.

  “Miss M!” Henrietta greeted her. “You found us! Mama will be delighted. As, clearly, are the rest of us! Come, I’ll take you up to her ladyship’s chamber.”

  Marcus didn’t quite understand his curiosity for her. He was glad the children showed her such affection, and that Henrietta was both courteous and friendly, but he found he was most interested in how Miss Milsom regarded them. Would she tell off her employers’ family as fearlessly as she had scolded him?

  Not that Henrietta had said anything offensive. Unlike Marcus. But as the governess turned to Henrietta, her gaze, caught by his movement, shifted to him and froze. Her eyes widened. As he strolled nearer, her cheeks flushed with more outrage than pleasure.

  “Oh, this is Miss Milsom,” Henrietta said distractedly as she tried to shoo her siblings across the hall. “Miss Milsom, Sir Marcus Dain.”

  “How do you do?” Marcus said distantly, wondering if she was about to give the game away by scolding him in public.

  “Sir,” she replied with equal distance. She swung away from him at once and swept her charges ahead of her toward the marble staircase.

  Cromarty strode ahead out of sight, but Marcus chose to follow the rest upstairs, and when Eliza let go of the governess’s hand to race after Horatio and George, he fell into step beside Miss Milsom.

  “You might have warned me you were coming here!” she all but hissed at him. “I suppose you have told them about our wretched meeting at the inn.”

  Disappointment twisted through him. “Why was it wretched for you?” he retorted. “You got my bedchamber out of it. Try for some discretion, Miss Milsom, or mine will have been for nothing.”

  Her flush deepened as though she recognized the justice of his attack, but her eyes still sparkled with anger, just as magnificently as they had last night, although with less cause.

  “I know you did this deliberately,” she muttered. “For your own amusement.”

  He sighed. “I had hoped for yours, too, but I see I was mistaken.”

  “You were,” she insisted with another flash of her brilliant eyes.

  They had reached the top of the staircase, where Cromarty had been delayed by Mr. and Mrs. Marshall, whom Marcus had encountered at luncheon. The couple glanced at the lively children with haughty disapproval and were already beating a hasty retreat when Marshall halted, staring in clear astonishment. He gazed no longer at the children but at Miss Milsom.

  He took several impulsive steps forward. “Helen? It is you, isn’t it?”

  Miss Milsom glanced up as though unsure it was she who was being addressed and saw Philip Marshall.

  The blood drained from her face. Her hand moved once in some instinctive gesture that could either have been welcoming or warding him off. But there was no doubting her agitation—or her fear.

  Chapter Three

  If Helen had been thrown by the unexpected presence of Sir Marcus Dain, it was nothing to the shock of seeing Philip again. For an instant, emotion swamped her so intensely, it terrified her.

  Once, this man had been everything to her. In him had resided all her hopes, all her love. Her heart had burst with happiness when he had asked her to marry him—and broken like shattered glass when he had ended their engagement in order to marry another. For years, she had thrust all that hurt behind her as she made a quite different life for herself. That he could intrude upon that, too, appalled her, even as the memory of her feelings overwhelmed her.

  Yet, while she stared at him, she was no less aware of Sir Marcus Dain’s presence beside her and struggled to pull herself together.

  “Mr. Marshall,” she managed.

  “Oh, come, my dear Helen! Is that any way to greet such an old friend? Will you not shake hands?”

  There was no excuse for that. He did not speak from shock or true affection, just from total ignorance of her position as a servant.

  “That would not be appropriate,” she managed, hating the faint tremor in her voice. She coughed to clear it. “You must know I am governess to Lord and Lady Overton’s children.”

  “You might want to encourage them to be a little quieter,” remarked the woman she finally noticed by his side. Over-perfumed and wearing a silk morning gown that had probably cost more than two years of Helen’s wages, she looked Helen up and down and clearly found her wanting in appearance as well.

  “I shall take it under advisement,” Helen said coldly.

  “Ah, you haven’t met before, have you?” Philip said with apparent pride. “Miss Helen Milsom, Phoebe. Helen, my wife, Mrs. Marshall.”

  “How do you do?” Helen said quickly. “Please, excuse me.”

  She tried to tell herself it wasn’t flight, that she had the duty of reporting at once to Lady Overton. But it felt like retreat. And through all her confusion, she wondered, What will he think of me? And she didn’t mean Philip. It seemed she was constantly providing Sir Marcus with ammunition against her.

  *

  Although spared the torture of tea with Lord Silford’s guests, Helen knew she would not be excused from dinner.

  So, she supervised the younger children’s meal in the house’s somewhat musty schoolroom, and heard all the latest news, including the twins being stuck up a tree, which made George guffaw and declare he was sorry to have missed the spectacle.

  “How did you get down in the end?” Helen asked. “Did Richard help?”

  Horatio nodded. “And Sir Marcus and the captain.”

  “Sir Marcus?” she repeated at once, surprised. She hesitated, knowing she shouldn’t ask. “Is he a friend of your family’s?”

  “I think Mama and Papa knew him when we were abroad,” George said.

  “Henrie said he was a friend,” Horatio added. “I don’t remember him. But I like him. He doesn’t make a fuss.”

  Helen left it there, and shortly afterward, went to change into her one evening gown, the same one she had worn nearly every evening for the last four years—many times cleaned and mended. It was becoming fashionably gauze-like in texture, she thought ruefully; although faded from its original dark blue, it was now simply dull and liable to go into holes. In case of such accidents, she draped the new shawl her aunt had given her about her shoulders. It would also mitigate against draughts, for the house was huge, and the wind almost whistled through in places.

  Then she brushed out her straight, brown hair and repinned it before gazing without pleasure at her reflection in the glass. What did Philip see now when he looked at her? A severe, aging spinster whose charges made too much noise. If she had ever possessed beauty, it had long since gone. The faint vision of Philip gazing at her in her youth with adoration, and then again this afternoon on the landing, as though she were a half-forgotten pet dog, faded altogether. It was Sir Marcus’s harsh face that took his place, teasing, mocking, urging her to fight back, to laugh.

  She smiled a little crookedly, and rose to her feet. Her father’s old fob watch, which was all she had of him, told her it still lacked a quarter-hour until seven, which was, apparently, when everyone gathered in the great gallery before dinner. On impulse, she went to the window and opened it to let the night air cool her cheeks. It opened onto a narrow balcony from where she could see the moonlight reflected on the distant sea. The view distracted and soothed her, so she did not expect the faint rustling above her.

  Her head jerked up to the balcony above and slightly to the left of hers. By the glow of lamplight from within the room, she beheld Sir Marcus Dain. Her stomach gave a funny, little lurch, which for some reason didn’t seem disagreeable.

  “Another pleasant surprise,” he observed. “I hope I don’t disturb you?”

  “Not in the slightest,” she replied, without strict regard to honesty. She w
ould count to six and then go back inside. After all, it was chilly.

  She got up to five before he said, “Are you quite well, ma’am?”

  “Quite,” she replied, and then, conscious it might appear too curt, she added politely, “Are you?”

  When he didn’t answer at once, she glanced up to see if he was still there. He was, looking thoughtful.

  “You appear to be in some doubt,” she said.

  “Oh, no, I am always well. I was merely wondering whether you would be offended if I said, All the better for conversing with you.”

  “I am not so easily offended.” She frowned. “Am I? I have no right to be.”

  To her surprise, he crouched down at the corner of his balcony to regard her more closely. “A modest Miss Milsom,” he observed, sounding more intrigued than mocking.

  “A realistic Miss Milsom.”

  “I hope nothing troubles you,” he said abruptly.

  “Of course not.” A moment longer, she withstood his gaze, until she began to feel a crick in her neck from looking up. “Excuse me.”

  “Of course.”

  She retreated back inside and closed the window. Prickly as it may have been, it was the first encounter where they had not actively quarreled. The thought made her smile as she walked down to see her charges before dinner.

  *

  In accordance with her status, Helen was seated beside the earl’s ancient chaplain for dinner. It was rather more of a surprise to find a personable gentleman by the name of Mr. Webster on her other side. He was, apparently, a neighbor of Silford’s and turned out to be an agreeable and amusing companion. In fact, even the chaplain, who was deaf, possessed a twinkle in his eye and a hoard of amusing stories.

  As a result, her eyes were not drawn too often to Philip Marshall who, fortunately, was seated well away from Helen. However, she could not prevent the odd, curious glance.

  In ten years, he had grown a little plump, and she did wonder by the slight stiffness of his movements, if he was wearing stays. The thought made her want to giggle, which was something of a relief. For years, she had wondered what it would be like to meet him again, had even imagined that when they did, he would instantly regret his decision to marry another woman.

  The sight of him did not move her, did not make her heart flutter. Remembering her younger self, to whom he had behaved so badly, was rather like pitying someone else’s misfortune. Her mind rather balked at imagining what their lives would have been like if they had spent it together.

  He retained the air of flamboyance that had first drawn her as a young girl. Then, it had been his ambition to make a living by painting, an unstable career his family had disapproved of. He and Helen had intended to go to Paris—this had been during the short-lived Peace of Amiens—when they were married, and cared for nothing but love and art.

  She wondered if he still painted, if he had even found a modicum of fame among those whose opinion he cared for.

  And once or twice, her attention slipped to Sir Marcus Dain, seated between Lady Overton and a young girl she didn’t know. Helen had come late to the gallery where the guests had gathered, and they had not been introduced. But it concerned her to see the girl glancing up at Sir Marcus with considerably more fear than admiration. She could not imagine what he could have said to inspire that look, but the sardonic smile on his lips as he turned away from the frightened girl to speak to Lady Overton, riled her.

  At last, leaving the gentlemen to their wine, the ladies followed Henrietta, now known as Lady Sydney Cromarty, to the drawing room. Helen, entering last, went to sit behind Lady Overton in case her employer needed anything during the evening. It was her place to be both invisible and useful for as long as she had to remain in the room. She hoped for an early dismissal, a quick chat with the children, and bed.

  Her route to Lady Overton took her past the frightened girl who sat beside Philip’s wife. Phoebe Marshall spoke quietly, but so rapidly that it appeared more of a haranguing than a conversation. Throughout, the girl sat with her eyes downcast, white-faced, twisting her hands together. As Helen walked past, she whispered, “Yes, Mama.”

  Startled, Helen couldn’t help a longer glance at the girl. She was very young, barely sixteen summers, surely, but even that was too old to allow her to be Philip’s actual daughter. She may have been adopted by him, of course, but what struck her chiefly was the girl’s misery. As though she were out of her element here and wished for nothing more than to be gone. Helen could understand that.

  But she shied away from having anything to do with Philip’s family.

  The gentlemen did not linger too long over their wine. Helen, invisible and curious, saw the girl’s gaze fly to the door in clear dread as the gentlemen entered. Lord Silford stumped in first with Sir Marcus, who looked very distinguished in his plain, black evening clothes, his only ornament a diamond and jet pin in his cravat. The girl’s nervous gaze followed the pair to the fireplace, where the earl eased into his chair, and Marcus pulled another closer, to continue their conversation.

  There was unmistakable relief in the girl’s eyes, and Helen did not believe it was anything to do with their host. She was afraid of Sir Marcus coming near her.

  Philip approached his family, and Helen hastily transferred her attention elsewhere.

  Leaning forward, she murmured to Lady Overton, “I think I will just go up to the children and see there is no mischief in the making.”

  “Excellent idea,” agreed Lady Overton, who lived in more or less complete ignorance of the escapades risked by her offspring.

  However, Helen’s aim of discreetly vanishing for the evening was foiled by none other than her hostess.

  “Are you going to say goodnight to my atrocious siblings, Miss M.?” Lady Sydney called from a sofa some yards away. She was surrounded by several men, including Mr. Webster.

  “Yes, if you will excuse me,” Helen replied, inclining her head as she walked hastily on.

  “Of course, I will,” Henrietta assured her, “but only if you promise to scold them and come straight back!”

  Drat the girl, she seemed determined to thwart Helen by sheer good-nature.

  Helen discovered Horatio and George in Eliza’s chamber, which adjoined her own. Eliza, in her night rail, sat up against the pillows while her brothers sprawled at the foot of her bed, still fully dressed.

  “Richard said there’s a plan to ride to Silford Castle tomorrow!” George greeted her. “And he says we may go, too, if you are with us!”

  “I have no objection,” Helen said cautiously, “but it is not Richard or I who decide. For now, off to your own chamber and change for bed.”

  As the boys left, Eliza snuggled down under the bedclothes, ready to sleep.

  The boys, also on their best behavior in the hope of being allowed tomorrow’s expedition, went speedily to bed, leaving Helen not much to do except return to the drawing room as bidden.

  Even before she opened the door, the muffled sounds of the pianoforte and a female voice raised in song drifted out to her. One of the debutantes, she saw, was entertaining the company while Richard devotedly turned the music for her. If she didn’t quite make all the notes, she compensated with enthusiasm and confidence.

  Everyone had moved seats, too. Sir Marcus perched on the arm of Lady Verne’s chair. Philip sat by Henrietta and his wife by the earl’s sister, Lady Manson. The timid girl sat by herself, which made Helen hesitate as she made her way back to Lady Overton.

  To her surprise, the girl glanced up at her and then eagerly waved her hand to the seat beside her.

  “Please, join me,” she blurted in little more than a whisper.

  With very mixed emotions, Helen sat beside her and joined the polite applause which broke out for the young lady at the pianoforte. “I’m Helen Milsom.”

  “Anne Marshall.”

  “How do you do? You must be Mr. and Mrs. Marshall’s daughter.”

  “Yes. That is, I have taken my stepfather’s name
. I was only six when he married my mother.”

  Which was one mystery explained, Helen thought. The girl at the piano, having been persuaded to perform again, began enthusiastically, murdering a piece Helen had once loved. Trying not to wince, she murmured, “Will you sing for us this evening, Miss Marshall?”

  “Oh, I hope not,” the girl said fervently.

  “You are shy of performing in public?”

  “I hate it.”

  Helen regarded her with some sympathy. The culture of making young, unmarried ladies show off their accomplishments was peculiar torture to some performers—and to some listeners. She leaned closer. “Plead a sore throat,” she suggested below her breath.

  “It will never work. Particularly not…” She broke off with a nervous smile and a dismissive flap of her hand.

  When the girl’s performance finally came to an end, Anne Marshall tensed and leaned into the sofa as though trying to render herself invisible.

  “Miss Marshall, shall I send your mother…?” Helen began in concern.

  “No, no,” came the agitated response. The girl even made a grab for Helen’s arm to stop her leaving, her eyes jerking away from the male figure coming toward them. Sir Marcus.

  He met Helen’s gaze with a crooked quirk of the lips and an upward flash of his eyebrows. “Trying for the best acoustics,” he murmured as he passed toward the back of the room.

  Helen didn’t blame him. He had been too close to the enthusiastically wrong notes, though she wasn’t sure the few yards difference would help.

  Beside her, Anne relaxed so obviously that Helen couldn’t help murmuring, “Forgive me, but do you not like Sir Marcus?”

  The girl blushed a fiery red. “Oh, no! I’m sure he is most… That is, he is never… I’m so silly I never know what to say to him and Mama thinks—” She broke off with an apologetic smile.

  With some indignation, Helen realized that Sir Marcus had managed to terrify the child. Although she acquitted him of trying to, he was clearly guilty of a carelessness that amounted to cruelty. A few kind words would have made a huge difference. But he was not good at those, as she had discovered.