Grief welled up. The children would spend Christmas without her. The boys would return to school, leaving Eliza on her own. Eliza had always suffered with the departure of her twin, retreating into a world of loneliness. Both her mother and sisters had remarked with great pleasure that Miss Milsom’s presence had considerably mitigated the effects of these partings. Now Helen feared for her. She hoped at least the Vernes would continue to arrange visits between their niece and Eliza, for the friendship had helped Eliza a great deal, and the Overtons were just too absent-minded to remember.
She dashed her hand across her face. Well, this at least was something she could do. No one had forbidden her to write to Henrietta Cromarty.
Since there was still an hour to wait, she went into the inn, asked for pen, ink, and paper, and sat down at an unoccupied table to write. It was a difficult letter, for she did not wish to accuse Mrs. Cromarty’s parents of rank injustice—although that was what her dismissal was. In the end, she merely said she was sorry for the misunderstanding that had led to her departure from Audley Park, that she had not seen the children before leaving, and would Mrs. Cromarty please pass on her regret and her love. After that, it was easy to suggest Henrietta be present when the boys left for school and to make some permanent arrangement for visits between Eliza and Jane Verne that the household would remember if Lady Overton forgot.
As she folded the letter and inscribed Henrietta’s name and direction, she thought of another she wished very badly to write.
She drew a fresh sheet of paper toward her and dipped the pen in the ink. Then she hesitated. How did she even begin it? My dear Marcus seemed too presumptuous, and even if she opted for the more formal title, what the devil could she say? There was nothing he could do for her, nothing he was obliged to do for her. Only, missing him was like a huge hole in her body and mind. Was it so very selfish to wish him to know that? Yes, for he had said nothing to justify such a declaration. She would die rather than embarrass him, and she knew from experience the value of pride in one’s own eyes.
Perhaps they would meet again.
And perhaps, although he had said she was in his heart, she had always reflected her own feelings into their relationship, not his own.
“Helen.”
Startled, she looked up in time to see Marcus throwing himself into the chair opposite hers. Her heart gave a giant leap. She hadn’t wanted him here, and yet that he’d come lightened everything.
Scowling, he held her gaze. “Were you really going to go without a goodbye?”
She tried to smile. “I was going to write you a letter, only I don’t know what to say. Lady Overton dismissed me. Somehow, she believes I was eloping with you, and only Philip saved me from scandal.”
“I know,” he said grimly. “I believe I have left Overton somewhat wiser on that score. I suppose the sheer blatancy of the Marshalls can make such massive lies seem like incontrovertible truth, but I can’t pretend I’m not offended by the insult the Overtons offered to both of us.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she assured him. “I shall forget about it, spend Christmas with my aunt, and then look for a new position. Even if the false story gets out, no one will think less of you.”
“Oh, neither story will get out,” Marcus said grimly. “Marshall is well aware I’m serious about that. I’m afraid his wife is merely indulging in a little petty revenge against you.”
“It’s not the sort of thing that would have entered any normal person’s head.”
Someone bumped against their table, and Helen looked up to see, through the window, that the mail coach had arrived, spilling out its passengers to refresh themselves while the horses were changed and another bag of mail added to the load.
She stood, and at once Marcus rose with her.
“That is the coach,” she said lightly, holding out her hand. “Goodbye, sir. I didn’t mean you to come, but I can’t help being glad you did.”
Muttering something under his breath, he seized her hand and placed it on his arm and swiped up the letter she had just written to Henrietta. “Is this yours? Do you want me to send it on for you?”
“Yes, please.”
The letter disappeared into his greatcoat pocket, and he guided her toward the door—not, however, to hand her into the coach, for once outside, he turned in the opposite direction.
“I can’t miss this one, too!” she protested.
“There is time,” he said impatiently. “Half the passengers are in the inn, swilling beer and coffee. But you don’t need to get it. That’s what I came to say. Come to Cotley Hall for Christmas instead. Invite your aunt if you wish—my own will be there to act as hostess—and there is plenty of room, even with the Robinovs. Come back to the Hart with me until Carla is able to travel, or I can escort you now. I’m sure my aunt is already there, verbally flaying the servants. You would be doing them a kindness by distracting her.”
She almost laughed, but what he was asking was more distressing than funny. Still, privacy seemed necessary, so she allowed herself to be drawn away from the bustle and around the quiet side of the inn.
“My aunt cannot travel,” she said, coming to a halt. “And I cannot stay without her.”
“You can if we are married.”
The world tilted. She grasped his arm tighter to stop herself falling. “Don’t.”
“Don’t offer you marriage? I assure you, it’s quite respectable.”
“Stop making me laugh when I want to cry!”
“Why should you cry?”
“Because of course I cannot marry you!”
He regarded her. “In that case, I’m not sure whether the crying is good or not. Look, I know I’ve taken you a little by surprise. Come and see Cotley Hall first, then give me your answer.”
A frown tugged at her brow. “You think I will be so impressed by the grandeur that I will have to say yes just to become its lady?”
“No, that’s not what I meant at all,” he retorted. “You can see if you like living there, if you think you would be comfortable there with me.”
They had turned the corner into a kitchen garden, away from everyone else.
She tried to laugh. “Sir Marcus, you are not a comfortable man.”
“I’m better at home.” He swung on her with urgency, forcing her back against the side of the building, where he stood much too close, frowning down at her. “Marry me, Helen. It will solve everything.”
For a moment, his words hardly mattered. There was only his nearness, the smell of him, his effect upon her body. And he had asked her to marry him. God help her, she let herself imagine that life with him as mistress of his house, his children, sharing laughter and companionship, kisses, love… His face was so close to hers, she could have touched his mouth with her lips.
She closed her eyes.
It will solve everything.
“No, it won’t, Marcus,” she whispered. It will solve everything. Not I love you. For he would never say what he did not mean, and they had had no time to fall in love.
But I love him.
Perhaps. But men are different. It isn’t enough.
“Why not?” he demanded.
“Because you don’t want to marry me, and I’m afraid I’m too proud to be married for mere chivalry. Besides, I would like you to be happy.”