the misery that she had suffered for the last week. She was ashamed now to think that she had given herself to a man of his character. For the first time she felt violated and sullied. But there was really no point in brooding on what could not be changed. Only she must be sure that from this moment she looked only ahead. She would not waste another sigh or tear on that man. She would enter wholeheartedly into her mother's plans for the winter. Perhaps in London she would meet a real man, one she could respect as well as love. She doubted it, but she had to have something positive on which to focus her mind for the next several weeks.
Helen pulled her feet from the stream, rubbing them dry on the grass and the hem of her habit, and pulled on her stockings and boots again. She strode across to the hut and wrestled the door open. There was no use in leaving her paints, paper, and books any longer. She would not be coming back. After all, she was trespassing on the land of a man whom she was now pledged to hate. Even the hut belonged to him-she was returning the gift, even though he was not there to know it-and she scorned to use what was not hers.
When she came outside again, she placed her bundle of possessions carefully on the path and closed the door as tightly as the warped wood and crooked hinges would allow. Then she stooped to pick up her belongings again. But she did not do so. She remained bent over them for a while; then she straightened up and wandered with lagging steps and unseeing eyes to the edge of the stream again.
How could she be so self-righteous and so dishonest with herself as to put all the blame on William? She was the one who had led him to believe she was a village girl. She had not told him the truth even when he had asked her to tell him about herself. And what had happened to her was not seduction. She had been a willing partner. William had never treated her with disrespect. And he had never made any promises to her.
What promises had she expected, anyway? Marriage? How absurd! Gentlemen did not marry young girls in shabby dresses who ran around barefoot. Especially when those girls give away their favors freely. She must have been mad to have dreamed that he was falling in love with her.
Perhaps for the first time in her life Helen regretted that she was not like other girls of her class. She had earned correct behavior and attitudes, but she had not practiced them. Instead, she had lived in her incredibly unrealistic and childish dream world, where one could do as one wanted and not have to abide by the consequences.
Except that this time she was being hurled out of the world of dreams and childhood into the one where one's actions had very definite and painful consequences. She had lost her virginity along with her innocence. She had a heart that was painfully bruised. She was beginning to grow up.
And she was beginning to realize that in the adult world one had to take responsibility for one's own actions. She was painfully disillusioned by William's behavior, yes, and she would never be able to trust him again even if he returned now. She still believed his abandonment without a word to her to be cruel. But first and foremost she had herself to blame.
Was she ashamed of what she had done? She was not sure. But she knew that she had done wrong, not just in lying with a man who was not her husband, but in deceiving him. She deserved the consquences that were causing her misery. She had learned a painful lesson.
When Helen finally picked up the assorted bundle from outside the hut, she left the clearing without once looking at her surroundings.
II
Chapter 8
October and November
The Marquess of Hetherington entered the morning room of his home in London, where the marchioness was writing an answer to an invitation spread on the escritoire before her. She looked around, smiled, and lowered her head to the task again. He walked up behind her, bent, and planted a kiss on the back of her neck.
She looked up at him and smiled broadly. 'If John proves to be as mischievous as his father,' she said, 'I see I shall be forever scolding. Look what you have made me do, Robert.' She pointed to the letter in front of her, which was neatly written with the exception of final character. It had a long upward curl that took it sharply through the two lines above it.
Her husband did not appear contrite. He grinned. 'If all I get when I enter a room is a vague smile, my love,' he said, 'then you deserve punishment. You will just have to start all over again.'
Elizabeth Denning put her pen down with exaggerated care, rose to her feet, and put her arms up around her husband's neck. 'Since I saw you at the breakfast table a mere half-hour ago, my lord,' she said, 'I did r* t see the need of an elaborate greeting. But if you insist. There, is that better?' She kissed him lightly on the lips.
'Minx!' he said, still grinning. 'Control your passion, Elizabeth, or I shall forget entirely why I came here.'
'So it was not just to see me?' she asked.
'That too,' he replied. 'But mainly I wanted you to see this.' He held up a sheet of paper. 'It is from William, love.'
'From William?'
'Yes,' he said. 'From Scotland. It is no wonder we had no reply to our last letter. He seems not to have received it. He is glad that your confinement is now safely over and hopes that both you and the child are healthy.'
Elizabeth clucked her tongue. 'And John is more than two months old already,' she said. 'Will William never stay in one place long enough for a person to remain in communication with him?'
'He is coming to London after all,' Hetherington said. 'That is why he has written. He should be here soon. He was almost ready to leave when he sent this.'
'Oh, how splendid!' Elizabeth said, smiling with genuine pleasure. 'Is he to stay here, Robert? I must have a guest chamber prepared for him immediately.'
'No,' he replied. 'He says here that he will take rooms as he has always done when in town. It is better to leave it at that,' he said, holding up a hand to silence the protest that his wife was clearly about to make. 'We are both very fond of him, love, and I believe he returns our regard, but remember that this is likely to be a painful reunion for him. When I last saw him, I fought with him, and when you last saw him… well, we need not go into that.'
'Yes, you are right,' Elizabeth said thoughtfully, seating herself sideways on the chair before the escritoire. 'Poor William. But surely that episode has passed into history by now. Perhaps he has already found someone else, Robert.'
'Unlikely, if I know William,' he said.
'We will have to take him about with us and do some entertaining here,' she said, 'and make sure he meets some eligible ladies.'
'You are not going to turn matchmaker, are you, love?' he asked with an expression of some pain. 'Heaven help us when we have daughters! Come to the nursery with me. I have not seen John yet this morning. I want to see if I can make him smile again. You would not believe me yesterday.'
'You are being quite absurd, Robert,' Elizabeth said, rising to her feet and smiling at her husband. Two- month-old babies do not smile. They have wind. And you forget that I am quite a successful matchmaker. Lucy Worthing and Mr. Dowling were married during the summer, were they not? And it I who first suggested to her that she talk to him when she sat next to him at a dinner party. 'Ask him about his hogs,' I suggested. She did so, and a beautiful romance began at that very moment.'
The Marquess of Hetherington snorted inelegantly. 'I dread to think what poor William's fate will be,' he said. 'Come. To the nursery, woman.'
