The Guardian's Dilemma Read online

  They drove for a few miles in silence, enjoying the loveliness of the autumn day. Helen wished she could have said she was enjoying Oliver's company as much, but with every minute that passed, her feelings of apprehension grew. The knowledge that she was going to have to talk about an incident which had caused her so much pain and embarrassment was not conducive to serenity.

  Finally, when she could bear the silence no longer, she turned to him with the question on her lips. To her surprise, she was forestalled by one of his.

  'Where did you learn to speak Italian, Miss de Coverdale?'

  Helen blinked. 'I...beg your pardon?'

  'Italian.' Oliver favoured her with a piercing gaze. 'It is an unusual language for an Englishwoman to be teaching, is it not?'

  'Well, no, not...really,' Helen stammered. 'My mother was Italian.'

  'But not your father.'

  'No. He was English. My mother met him while she was visiting friends in Canterbury. They married soon after.'

  'Did they return to Italy?'

  Helen shook her head. 'My father was already established in England so there was no question of their living abroad.'

  'And was your mother happy to leave Italy?'

  Helen's eyes softened. 'I don't think she was ever truly happy in England. She hated the dampness of the weather and the persistently grey skies. And I know she missed her family very much. She was one of eight children.'

  'Good God, eight?'

  Helen smiled. 'Italians are known for having large families. Unfortunately, my father had no desire even to visit Italy, so in the end, my mother decided to spend her summers there. And she took me with her.'

  'Your father didn't mind?'

  Helen shrugged. 'Theirs was an unusual marriage. My father was passionately in love with my mother, and there was nothing he could deny her. So the separations were allowed as long as they did not extend beyond a month.'

  'And did you like Italy, Miss de Coverdale?'

  'I loved it,' Helen said, with, for the first time in his company, a complete lack of reserve. 'The bright, sunny days were such a welcome change from the dreary English winters, and I found the people very open and spontaneous.'

  'And that was where you learned to speak the language,' he said, making it a statement of fact rather than a question.

  'Yes. My entire family conversed in Italian, so it was only natural that I would pick it up. But even when we were back in England, my mother continued to speak to me in the language. Never when my father was around, of course, but he was away so much of the time, it wasn't a problem.'

  'Your father objected to you and your mother speaking in her native tongue?'

  'My father thought it was rude to speak in a language that only two of the three people in the room could understand,' Helen told him. 'However, my mother was of the opinion that one must use a language to stay conversant in it.'

  'Just as one must practise driving to keep one's skills up,' Oliver said distantly.

  Helen flashed him an amused glance. 'Just so.'

  They drove on again in silence. A few other carriages passed them, but for the most part, they had the road to themselves. Helen didn't even trouble to hide her pleasure at being driven out on such a beautiful day. She even endeavoured to make light conversation about some of the places they passed, but as her attempts were often met with silence she soon gave up.

  Finally, when the silence again became uncomfortable, she took a long, deep breath and turned to face him. 'Mr Brandon, I must confess to a certain... surprise at having received your letter. It is most unusual for a schoolmistress to spend time alone with the parent of one of her girls.'

  'I seldom trouble myself with what is or is not usual, Miss de Coverdale,' Oliver replied blandly. 'I wished to speak to you alone and perceived this to be the best way of doing that.'

  'But...what did you wish to speak to me about?'

  Oliver sent her a mocking glance. 'Do you really need ask, given the nature of our first acquaintance?'

  Helen quickly averted her eyes. So, it was as she had expected. 'I see. You wish to ask me about... what you saw in the library that night.'

  'Yes, but only as it affects your relationship with my ward.'

  'I beg your pardon?'

  'I will be honest, Miss de Coverdale. I might not have found this interview necessary had Gillian's letters to me not been filled with such glowing praise about you.'

  Helen's eyes opened wide. 'She wrote to you about me?'

  'Frequently. And in the most flattering of terms.' When she made no answer, Oliver's lips curved in a sardonic smile. 'You seem surprised, Miss de Coverdale. Did you not expect Gillian to speak well of you?'

  'I had no idea how she would speak of me. I thought we had established a friendship, but I...'

  'Yes?'

  Biting her lip, Helen looked away. 'If your ward thinks well of me and has written to tell you as much, why did you feel it necessary to speak to me about...something of which she has no knowledge?'

  'Because it is not Gillian's ignorance of the event which concerns me,' Oliver informed her. 'She told me you had a refreshing outlook toward certain subjects. I am simply curious to know which subjects those might be.'

  Frowning, Helen shook her head. 'I cannot honestly say, sir. We talk of so many things it is difficult to remember the nature of every conversation.'

  'Then let me see if I can narrow the field somewhat. Did Mrs Guarding apprise you of a situation with regard to a Mr Sidney Wymington?'

  Helen grew wary. 'Yes.'

  'And has my ward also made mention of that gentleman?'

  Knowing there was no point in denying it, Helen inclined her head. 'Yes, she has.'

  'Then I'm sure you can understand why I might wish to speak with you in private regarding the matter.'

  Helen's brow furrowed. 'In truth, sir, I cannot. Unless you have some reason to believe I would not adhere to your wishes.'

  'Miss de Coverdale, let us not mince words. I saw you in the library with Lord Talbot. I know you were not there to discuss the merits of literature and given that knowledge, I think you can understand why I was so surprised at finding you here, acting out the part of schoolmistress.'

  An angry flush suffused Helen's face. 'I do not act the part, sir. I am a teacher and I take great pride in what I do. Have you reason to doubt my abilities?'

  'Not at all. Mrs Guarding spoke most highly of your skills.'

  'Then I do not understand—'

  'The issue I wished to address, Miss de Coverdale, is one of morality, not proficiency.'

  'Morality!'

  'Yes. Since you are aware of my feelings with regard to Mr Wymington, I am sure you can understand why I would be concerned about any...influence you might have on Gillian in regard to that situation.'

  'I do not understand your concerns at all,' Helen replied, her voice curt. 'If you do not wish your ward to have anything to do with the man, what makes you think I would?'

  'Because given your behaviour in the past, I am not sure you have as high a moral character as I would like.'

  His words struck her like a slap across the face and Helen swallowed hard, fighting to keep her composure. 'Mr Brandon, I understand how you might have been tempted to form certain...opinions of me based upon what you saw. But to still hold me in such contempt for a perceived indiscretion twelve years later demonstrates to my way of thinking a shocking narrowness of mind.'

  'Narrowness of mind!'

  'Indeed, sir. You formed an impression of my character based upon what you thought you saw—'

  'Based upon what I did see.'

  'No, sir. Based upon what you thought you saw, and have held it to this day, without even giving me a chance to explain.'

  'Then explain yourself now,' Oliver snapped. 'You have not once tried to deny that you were the woman I saw in Lord Talbot's arms that night.'

  'No, because it would be foolish of me to try,' Helen flung at him. 'We both know it was me, but what y
ou do not understand is that I was not there of my own accord.'

  'Were you a servant in his house?'

  'I was the governess.'

  'And had Lord Talbot asked you to come to the library?'

  'Of course not, but—'

  'Then why, as a servant in the house, were you in the master's library with your hair unbound at that time of night, when you had no reason or permission to be there?'

  Helen's cheeks burned. 'I had gone to procure a book. And I frequently wear my hair unbound.'

  The expression on Oliver's face was not encouraging. 'Miss de Coverdale, I can find nothing in what you have just told me to justify your conduct or to make me change my opinion of you. If you felt no compunction about behaving in such a fashion, how do I know you would not counsel an impressionable young woman to do the same? Or in this case, to take up with a man I have refused to let her see!'

  Oliver had not raised his voice, but the condescension in his words cut Helen to the bone. Not only was he accusing her of having behaved in a wanton and disgraceful manner, he was saying she was quite capable of persuading Gillian to do the same. He was insinuating that her character had not improved at all in the past twelve years, and that he was perfectly within his rights to believe that his assessment of her was still correct today.

  And Helen resented that. She resented the implication that she was not worthy to keep company with his ward. She resented his belief that what he had witnessed twelve years ago had been the truth, even when she had tried to tell him it was not. And most deeply of all, she resented him for having brought it all back; for making her relive the feelings of shame and degradation she had felt on that dreadful night. Feelings she had fought so long and so hard to overcome.

  'Mr Brandon, I do not think there is anything else which needs to be said between us,' Helen said, finally turning to look at him. 'Obviously the testimonials of people who know me far better than you, and who are willing to vouch for my respectability, mean nothing, so I would ask you to be so good as to take me back to Guarding's.'

  Oliver reined the team in, but he did not turn the carriage around. 'I do not understand why you evidence such surprise at my comment, Miss de Coverdale. I was a witness to what took place in the library at Grovesend Hall, not the cause of it.'

  'Nor was I, Mr Brandon, but since you obviously aren't willing to believe that, I do not see that we have anything further to discuss.'

  'Miss de Coverdale—'

  'For the last time, sir, would you please take me home,' Helen said stiffly. 'I have done nothing to deserve such treatment from you, and unless you have an apology to offer, there is nothing more I wish to hear.'

  Oliver had no intention of offering an apology, and as if finally realising that Helen had indeed, no intention of speaking another word to him, he cursed softly and turned the team around. He flicked the reins and set them to a brisk trot.

  Not another word was spoken the entire way home.

  Chapter Five

  Helen decided not to tell Gillian she had driven out with her guardian. After all, what would be the point? Nothing would be gained by such an admission. Gillian would want to know the details of what they had talked about, and Helen had no intention of telling her. Yes, there was a chance Gillian might find out about the meeting and then accuse Helen of holding something back, but it was a slim chance at best. Gillian certainly wouldn't hear the truth from her stepbrother. Why would he bring up a subject that would expose him to a barrage of questions he would be no more anxious to answer than Helen?

  Thankfully, the subject did not arise, and when Helen heard from Gillian that Oliver had been called away to London on business, she could not find it in her heart to be sorry. The man had insulted her in every possible way. He had all but called her a trollop, and then accused her of corrupting the innocents in her care.

  Was it any wonder his company was something Helen was all too happy to avoid?

  * * *

  Sunday mornings were typically reserved for service in Abbot Quincey, and at nine o'clock Helen and Gillian set off for church. They were accompanied by three of the other teachers, Jane Emerson, Ghislaine de Champlain and Henriette Mason, as well as by a few of the girls. Mr and Mrs Guarding always took the youngest ones in their carriage, but the older pupils and the teachers were quite happy to walk. It afforded them an opportunity to enjoy the beauty of the countryside, and to escape, if only for a few hours, the somewhat confining atmosphere of the school.

  Abbot Quincey was the largest of , the four Abbey villages. It boasted a fine old church, the living of which was held by the Reverend William Perceval, a kindly man with a wife and four daughters, and a younger brother to Lord Perceval. Helen had always enjoyed the Reverend Perceval's sermons. In the quiet of the village church, and in the companionship of her friends, she experienced a sense of peace and contentment as the gentle words of forgiveness flowed all around her. Unfortunately, on this particular morning, Helen found little to take comfort in. The memory of Oliver Brandon's visit and the disturbing things he had said to her stayed with her the entire time, intruding painfully into the serenity of her thoughts.

  Fortunately, not everyone was as disconsolate as she. Jane Emerson sat quietly beside her on one side of the wooden pew and Gillian sat on the other, the girl's gloved hands folded primly in her lap as she listened to the words of the sermon. It was a particularly moving lesson on the value of patience and the importance of forgiveness in everyday life.

  Helen was quite sure Oliver Brandon had never heard that particular sermon before.

  As Gillian continued to sit quietly through the service, Helen found herself envying the girl's placid air of repose. How lucky she was to be seventeen and still so innocent to the ways of the world. There were no ghosts lurking in her past. No disturbing memories ready to haunt her at the slightest provocation. There was nothing anyone could say that would humiliate Gillian the way Oliver Brandon had humiliated her.

  Helen sighed as she ran her gloved finger along the spine of her prayer book. Of course, she supposed he wasn't entirely to blame for what had happened between them. She should have told him exactly what had happened in the library with Lord Talbot. She should have forced him to listen and to make him understand that she had not been there of her own volition. But the truth was, she had been so shocked by his heartless accusation that she had been left completely at a loss for words. Indeed, she had been nearly speechless with anger.

  How dare he infer that she was corrupt and immoral! He, who knew nothing of her character or her circumstances. Surely his own narrow-mindedness was every bit as grievous a flaw. After all, she was the one who had been willing to be conciliatory. She had even been willing to risk a scold for having been foolish enough to put herself in such an ignominious position to begin with. But she was not willing to be labelled a scarlet woman. If that was the make-up of the man, she was better off having nothing more to do with him. Gillian too, was better off away from such bigotry.

  At length the service came -to an end and people began to get up and move about. Helen rose along with the others and filed out of the church, blinking a little as she stepped into the bright sunshine. There were no formal classes at Guarding's on Sunday afternoons, but the girls were expected to return there for the midday meal. After that, they could go to their rooms, or to the common area where they might apply themselves to their embroidery or their scriptures. Sunday evenings were generally reserved for the reading of psalms by Mrs Guarding, and if she was so inclined, a discussion of the sermon given by Reverend Perceval that morning.

  Helen stopped briefly to have a word with the vicar and his wife, while Gillian struck up a conversation with a young woman from the village. Indeed, so animated was their discussion that, when it finally came time to leave, Helen had to call Gillian away. It was only on their way back to Steep Abbot that she discovered the reason for the girl's excitement.

  'Miss de Coverdale, who do you think murdered the old Marquis of Sy
well?'

  Helen caught her breath in dismay. 'Good heavens, Miss Gresham, I have no idea. Nor do I think it a suitable topic for us to be discussing after church on a Sunday morning.'

  'But everyone else is talking about it!' Gillian cried. 'Imagine being murdered in your own bedroom. Apparently the murder weapon was his own razor and there was heaps of blood everywhere! That would be quite a shock to whoever found him, don't you think?'

  'I think it would be very shocking indeed,' Helen allowed, knowing that the thought had crossed her own mind several times.

  'Frances Templeton thinks one of the girls who worked as an upstairs maid murdered him,' Gillian said. 'She said Sywell was wretched to her, as he was to all of the servants. Personally, I am more inclined to believe it was his wife. After all, she would have inherited everything upon his death, wouldn't she? Or so she would have thought.' Gillian didn't even bother waiting for a reply. 'Louise wouldn't have known when she murdered her husband that the Abbey wasn't really his. But given her belief that it was, and that she would inherit, I think that would have been reason enough for her to do it, don't you?'

  'I am really not acquainted with the details of the story, Miss Gresham,' Helen said, hoping the Lord would forgive her for the lie. Everyone knew it was all but impossible to live this close to the Abbey and not be aware of all the rumours and speculation going on about its former occupant. But that was still no reason to encourage an impressionable young woman like Gillian to gossip about it.

  'Oh, bother,' Gillian said, clearly disappointed. 'I find the whole subject fascinating. I mean, when you think about it, there are an endless number of people who could have murdered him, and for any number of reasons!'

  'Which is why it would be foolish of us to attempt a discussion of the subject,' Helen said in a firm voice. 'Certainly we cannot do so with any degree of intelligence. Not that murder has anything to do with intelligence, but I think that on such a beautiful day as this, we should be able to find something more pleasant to talk about.'