Beauty Like the Night Read online

  Helene watched his hand caress the ancient leather. “No!” she said, suddenly jerking herself to attention. “I mean ... no ... I thank you. But I should like to leave it just as it is. A reminder of ... of something I particularly wish to remember.”

  Cam grinned again. “Like a string tied around one’s finger?”

  “Yes, just so,” she returned. Then, to busy herself, Helene grabbed up the first stack of books she saw and carried them to the far end of the long worktable. “Did you say that you would see Ariane at lunch?”

  “Yes, I try to take my noon meal with her whenever time permits.” Cam looked at her uncertainly. “Why? Would you care to join us?”

  Helene shook her head firmly. “Thank you, not today. It will be best, I am persuaded, to let her grow slowly accustomed to my presence in the house.”

  “Yes, of course.” Cam’s tone was a little formal now.

  Helene busied herself by beginning to empty out the tiny musical instruments from the wooden crate on the table. “Tell me—was she overly attached to her last governess?”

  “No,” answered Cam bluntly, strolling down the length of the table. “She was not. Moreover, Miss Eggers was but one in a string of failures who have been unable to teach her anything. I’ve hired three governesses in the last twelve months. I daresay we are all rather weary of all their comings and goings.”

  Helene smiled rather stiffly. “Let me know when you feel she is comfortable enough to be alone with me. Until then, I will simply observe.”

  Cam made her a neat little half-bow. “By all means,” he answered politely. And then he turned and abruptly quit the room.

  Helene worked eagerly through luncheon, unpacking her crates and then rearranging the schoolroom. Having now glimpsed Ariane Rutledge, Helene was increasingly anxious to befriend the child, and to make a closer assessment of her potential. Moreover, she was fast becoming equally anxious to avoid Ariane’s darkly handsome father.

  After a morning spent first arguing, and then laughing, with Cam, she felt unaccountably wary, and more than a little disconcerted. He seemed strangely unpredictable, his moods swiftly changing in ways which seemed most uncharacteristic. Unable to still such troubling thoughts, Helene strode down the hall to her bedchamber. Outside, the late afternoon was cool but sunny. She put on her wrap and her half-boots, deciding on a long tramp through the countryside. The air would help clear her head, and she longed to be out-of-doors.

  Exiting through the back of the manor house, Helene paused just long enough to study the footpaths which led away from Chalcote and toward the nearby villages. Having no wish to make the acquaintance of strangers just yet, Helene set off on the lane which circled behind the estate, through the lower pastures, and onto the high wold beyond. From there, she could take in the pleasant prospect of the house and the village below.

  After a half-hour of strenuous walking, Helene found the perfect spot high atop the bluff behind Chalcote, and sat down in the grass to rest. In the distance, she could now view the three-story manor house as it rose gracefully—but by no means majestically—from the surrounding countryside. At a distance, with its sharply angled rooflines, jutting wings, and deep, multipaned windows, the Jacobean house looked almost magical. True to its name, Chalcote Court was enclosed by a courtyard framed in a warm, buttery stone to match the house, but its lawns were merely graceful, not vast, for just outside the walled gardens lay the estate’s true purpose; miles of rolling farmland and forest.

  Helene knew that Chalcote had been a serious agricultural enterprise since the Conquest, but that the house itself had been built much later, around 1620, by one of Cam’s maternal ancestors. She shuddered at the toll Randolph Rutledge’s dereliction must have taken on the land, and she had been pleased to see that the house itself had escaped unscathed.

  To the west, the view of Cheston-on-the-Water made for another pleasant prospect. An ancient, twisting road made its way down the hill from the manor house, then undulated through the tiny hamlet’s neat gardens and once verdant trees, which were rapidly shedding their fall foliage of red and gold. The village consisted of little more than a narrow lane of shops, one humble inn, the rectory, and about two dozen cottages of varying size, all built of the same butter-brown stone as Chalcote Court.

  Of all the travels Helene had been forced to endure as a child, Gloucestershire had been the only destination she had truly looked forward to. Perhaps it was because of Cam. But no one could deny the beauty, indeed, the utter serenity, of the Cotswold countryside. In the cottage gardens below, heaps of late summer flowers still spilled over the ancient stone walls, often tumbling onto the cobblestoned paths below.

  In the foreground, not far from Chalcote’s western wall, Helene could see St. Michael’s, with its squat, Saxon tower rising from the southeast corner of the village proper, just as it had done for almost nine hundred years. Despite her many visits to Chalcote, Helene had only once stepped foot inside St. Michael’s—for the ignoble hymn-book escapade. Holy Eucharist at the local parish church was not precisely the sort of entertainment Randolph Rutledge had included in his country-house parties.

  As a child, Helene had attended church only on those rare occasions when Nanny had taken her. But inexplicably, she now felt a very strong urge to go down to St. Michael’s. And why shouldn’t she? She was a member of the established Church—though not, perhaps, an especially constant one. Nonetheless, she had as much right to go inside as anyone.

  From a distance, the old stone church looked peacefully inviting, nestled in its sheltering vale and washed in autumn sunlight. Instinctively, Helene was sure she could find balm for her chaotic thoughts inside St. Michael’s. That was what she needed just now. A small measure of peace. Once inside, perhaps she could sit quietly and count her many blessings. Perhaps she could focus on what really mattered, such as Nanny. She could even say a little prayer for the old woman’s rheumatism.

  So resolved, Helene retraced her steps to the point at which the path diverged, the return to the manor house on her right, the steep path into the village descending to her left. Shifting her gaze toward her new destination, however, Helene saw the first disheartening blot on what had otherwise been a pleasant diversion. Set deep in the woods, well beyond the path’s convergence, lay the charred remains of a small building. Helene recognized it at once as the old gamekeeper’s cottage. The stone dwelling had fallen into disuse before her time at Chalcote—probably around the time Randy Rutledge’s straits had tightened to the point he could no longer afford a gamekeeper’s salary.

  In years past, Rutledge had made rather lax efforts to keep the cottage windows boarded against passing gypsies and trysting lovers, with little success on either score. Mischief-makers had finally put an end to the lovely cottage, it seemed. Only the stone walls remained, rising apathetically from a pile of weed-choked rubble. Around the edges where the undergrowth was more accessible, a flock of Cam’s plump, placid sheep tugged and chewed at the grass.

  One old ewe lifted her chin to bleat inquiringly at Helene as she strolled past, but otherwise, the scene was blanketed in an uncomfortable silence. Helene jerked her gaze away, then lifted her skirts and continued to pick her way down the path toward Saint Michael’s. She could not bear to gaze too long at the burned-out cottage, for it struck her as a painful symbol of what remained of her dreams at Chalcote, the walls seemingly intact, but the once sheltering interior charred beyond recognition.

  Once inside the peaceful, well-kept churchyard, however, Helene was able to relax. A low stone wall seemed to rise up from the very earth, to cradle the church and the tottering gravestones which liberally dotted the northwest quadrants of the churchyard. As Helene’s eyes took in the serenity, however, a bit of color and motion in the distance caught her eye. Across the lawn, a young girl in a dark green cloak was striding rapidly from the bell tower. She picked her way through the distant gravestones, moving rapidly toward the front gate, which opened at the top of the village’s High
Street.

  As she turned to lift the latch, however, the girl cut a sideways glance and spied Helene. Acloud of red-blonde hair, in mild disarray, lifted lightly on the breeze. Her eyes widened, as if with alarm. For a moment, their gazes locked. Helene lifted her hand in greeting, but the girl whirled rapidly about and darted through the gateposts, leaving the iron gate to clatter shut in the clear air.

  Fleetingly, Helene assumed that she had been recognized—and just as quickly shunned. But after a second thought, she realized that the girl in green had been far too young to remember the wayward Helene Middleton. Perhaps like Helene herself, the girl merely sought a moment of privacy, to pray, or perhaps to mourn. Nonetheless, the feeling of unease persisted long after the girl had disappeared.

  Shrugging off the sensation, Helene strolled along the path which rimmed the inner wall. As if pulled by an unseen force, she moved slowly toward the corner nearest the vine-covered chancel. Randolph Rutledge might be in his grave now, but all the same, Helene would not be fully convinced until she saw it for herself. And she knew just where to look.

  And at last, she found it. It was true. Randolph was dead. Helene stared down and inhaled the rich scent of damp, freshly turned earth. The stonecutter had not yet had time to complete a tombstone, so the grave still lay unmarked amidst the rows of Rutledges and Camdens. But it was undoubtedly Randolph’s.

  Inwardly, she smiled in bemusement. Perhaps someone was still struggling with the proper sort of epithet for the late Earl of Treyhern. Indeed, what would one inscribe on the grave of such a man? Eat, drink, and be merry ...?

  Helene shrugged and moved away. The past was best forgotten. Randolph had not meant to ruin her life. He’d meant only to protect his one remaining asset—his son. God rest his soul, the poor fellow was dead now, and the thought did nothing to gladden Helene’s heart. In truth, she felt very little as she stared down at the patch of bare earth. Then her eyes caught sight of the grave adjacent to Randolph’s.

  CASSANDRA RUTLEDGE, BELOVED WIFE AND MOTHER.

  A small but elegant bouquet of fresh flowers lay atop it, all done up in a ribbon of yellow and white. Someone, it would appear, had gone to a great deal of trouble, for the flowers were not autumn varieties, but rather costly hothouse blooms. Helene’s gaze drifted to the dates chiseled into the stone, and then back to the gate through which the girl in green had departed. Had she left these flowers?

  After careful consideration, Helene decided it was unlikely, for the girl seemed to have appeared from well beyond the Rutledge plot, out of the small door tucked into the side of the church itself, she guessed. Obviously, however, someone fondly remembered the late Mrs. Camden Rutledge.

  Undoubtedly, it was Cam himself. Helene swallowed hard and looked away from the flowers. Cassandra Rutledge had reportedly been a stunning beauty. Cam had probably been devoted to her. Certainly something had left him bitter and hard. But that was not Helene’s concern.

  Ariane, however, was. How hard it must be for a little girl to grow up without a mother! And the date of Mrs. Rutledge’s death—that was troubling, too. No doubt Ariane had lost her mother at a very difficult stage in her development. Desperately hoping she would be able to help the child, Helene mulled it all over as she picked up her skirts to move on.

  After strolling around the churchyard for another several yards, Helene paused to admire a climbing rose which had spread up the stone wall and over the top, its few remaining buds now withered from the cold. Suddenly, a gust of cool wind kicked up, billowing Helene’s skirts about her ankles, and sending a shower of dry pink petals whirling to the ground. Those which did not cling to her pelisse or catch in the ribbons of her bonnet came to rest on a broken tombstone at her feet.

  “Well, a fairer sight I never hoped to see,” said a rich, cheerful voice from the shadows of the chancel. “At least, not in my own churchyard.”

  Helene looked up to see a young man in cleric’s garb strolling casually down the path toward her. In his black coat, outlined against the low afternoon sun, the man was not plainly visible, but Helene could not mistake his blond hair, broad shoulders, and distinctly friendly tone. “Good afternoon,” he said, drawing up before her, his hand extended. A brilliant smile lit his deep blue eyes. “Allow me the pleasure of an introduction. Thomas Lowe, rector of St. Michael’s, humbly at your service.”

  Helene took his hand. “How kind you are, Mr. Lowe,” she answered. “I’m Helene de Severs. I am to be governess to Lady Ariane Rutledge.”

  Unexpectedly, Thomas Lowe gave her a rather conspiratorial wink. “Oh, come now, Miss de Severs! I already knew that much. You must tell me some exciting secret about yourself instead, so that I might trade it over tea with Mrs. Wimbley at the mercantile. Gossip is a precious commodity indeed!”

  “Dear me!” laughed Helene unsteadily as she untied the ribbons of her bonnet and lifted it off to give it a shake. “I hope I do not as yet fall into the category of gossip?”

  The rector blushed. “Certainly not,” he responded apologetically. “I only mean to say how very pleased we are to have someone new at Chalcote Court.” He reached for her bonnet. “Here, ma’am, permit me.” With great care, he began to dust the dried petals from the dark brown velvet.

  Helene shook off her pelisse, then reclaimed her hat, tying it securely in place. “I thank you, sir. You are exceedingly helpful.”

  Thomas Lowe gave her his dazzling smile again. “Not at all! Now, Miss de Severs—and by the by, my dear, that’s such a French name!” His elegant blond brows shot up. “I do hope you are not Catholic!”

  Helene gave him a tight smile. “Would it matter so very much?”

  Thomas Lowe grinned, and opened his arms in an expansive gesture. “Very little, in truth. I merely wished to tease you. But if you are good old C. of E.—?”

  “I am,” she interjected dryly.

  The rector widened his arms further still. “Then let me be the first to invite you to attend St. Michael’s, and to make yourself a part of our little community.”

  “I thank you,” she answered. Suddenly, his cleric’s clothing stirred her memory. “Do you know, sir, I fancy I saw you yesterday ... on the footpath near Chalcote?”

  The rector’s brows drew together as he hesitated. “No, not yesterday, Miss de Severs. Though I often walk that way. We all do. It makes for such a pleasant shortcut to Coln St. Andrews—that’s our neighboring village, you see.”

  “Yes, I knew that,” said Helene vaguely. “Yet I certainly saw someone; someone in black ...?”

  “Did you?” returned Lowe thoughtfully. Suddenly, he brightened. “I daresay it was my curate, Mr. Rhoades. I seem to recollect his mentioning that he needed to pay a call near Coln St. Andrews.” Then he shrugged equivocally and gave her his blinding smile again. “But it might have been almost anyone, given this unseasonably fine weather. Indeed, Miss de Severs, I fancy you’ve brought a hint of spring back to Gloucestershire! Now, what about my invitation?”

  Detecting nothing but kindness in his voice, Helene studied the handsome young gentleman. In truth, he was far more youthful—and altogether more vivacious—than any parish priest she’d ever met.

  “Yes, of course I would be pleased to attend St. Michael’s, Mr. Lowe,” she responded brightly. “And you are indeed the very first to ask, for I just arrived yesterday.”

  “Excellent!” he said, offering his arm. “May I give you a tour of the church and its grounds? We are justifiably proud of it, you know. The tower and chancel are Saxon, whilst the north and south bays are Norman ...”

  And so it was that Helene found herself spending the next half-hour with Thomas Lowe. The rector was delightful, but not inappropriately so, and Helene found his company diverting. Despite his youthful appearance, he was almost fervent in describing his work.

  In Helene’s experience, all too many Englishmen seemed called to the Church, not by faith, but by economic necessity. She was unaccountably pleased to see that Thomas Lowe did not appear
to fall into that category. Certainly he had not allowed the mantle of the Church to weigh down his natural buoyancy. As they strolled slowly through the cool, musty aisles of the church’s interior, here and there sunbeams speared through the jewel-toned glass of St. Michael’s Gothic arches.

  Mr. Lowe pointed out the extraordinarily fine series of medieval panels in the south bay, explaining every detail of each window’s history. His enthusiasm was contagious, and for the first time in over a fortnight, Helene felt herself truly relax.

  When the tour was over, Mr. Lowe escorted Helene back through the churchyard to a heavy wooden door set deep into the thick stone wall that separated St. Michael’s burial grounds from Chalcote’s rear apple orchard. The door squealed vehemently as he heaved, forcing its rusty hinges to swing outward.

  “There,” said Mr. Lowe, with a little grunt of satisfaction. He gave the door a swift and decidedly secular kick with the toe of his shoe, then pointed through the apple trees to a footpath that lay just beyond. “Now, Miss de Severs, that winding pathway will lead you around the hill and eventually up to the kitchen gardens of the manor house. You shall be able to make your way from there, will you not?”

  Helene stared into the orchard, then turned to face him, trying to suppress the twitch of wry humor which pulled at her mouth. Indeed, she knew the old orchard path so well, she could probably have made her way to Chalcote in the dead of a moonless night. But she could hardly confess to the Reverend Mr. Lowe that a goodly part of her wicked youth had been spent clambering up Chalcote’s tallest fruit tree to hurl green apples at St. Michael’s gravestones.

  In silly, adolescent contests that pitted Cam’s skillful aim against her sheer determination, the two of them had often climbed the apple trees to issue bold challenges to one another, each of them taking care to choose the most distant—or the most obstructed—gravestone they could espy from their leafy hideaway.