Once Beloved Read online

  He looked up to see one of the woman’s companions looming over him, frowning, but with her eyes focused on the woman he held.

  “Beg pardon?” he said, as his arms tensed.

  “No need to beg pardon, sir. Simply unhand my friend so that I may attend to her properly. You might also make yourself useful by fetching a physician.”

  He opened his mouth to object, but this singularly bold woman had already moved to untie the ribbons on her unconscious friend’s bonnet. Some pins clattered to the bench and to the ground from the removal, and dark brown waves of hair, nearly ebony but glowing with red and gold and silver in spots where stray beams of light fell, went askew. He’d only caught a glimpse of the dark locks framing her face, but free of the bonnet, the soft strands that brushed his supporting arm may as well have been on fire, so visceral was his body’s reaction to them.

  “Helena,” the woman said, as she fanned her friend with the bonnet. “Helena, can you hear me? You must wake. Your sons are worried.”

  That startled him, the mention of the boys he’d seen her watching. Her sons, of course. They now stood a small distance away, watching intently. Even if they hadn’t looked so similar, anyone could tell by their seriousness that she was their mother. The younger boy looked as if he wanted nothing more than to run to his mother and cling to her, but the older boy took his hand and whispered something unintelligible in his brother’s ear, something pacifying that straightened the young one’s spine with resolve. Their controlled concern made him suspect they’d witnessed her collapsing before. Only then did the woman’s words sink fully into his consciousness; he was embracing a total stranger, a respectable woman, in front of her children, no less. He ought to establish a proper distance, lest her people, including the husband she must have, be outraged by his familiarity.

  “Is this your mother, young man?” he said to the older child, who nodded solemnly. “She’s breathing easy but should be watched. Your coat’d make a fine cushion for her head. Be a good lad and bring it here.”

  The boy rushed over as he tried to shrug out of his coat without releasing his brother’s hand. It would have been comical seeing them bluster along, if their expressions weren’t so somber. Something nagged at him as he looked at them, that strange and fleeting sense of familiarity. As gently as he could, he laid the woman on the bench with her son’s coat pillowing her head and moved a respectable pace away. He should go see if he could find a physician, as the other woman had suggested, but he found himself reluctant to leave her side, reluctant to lose sight of her.

  She was lighter than she looked. When he carried her, he felt her soft, fleshy curves against his arms and chest, reminding him of a painting he’d once seen by some famous painter. Yet she felt light in his embrace. But then, ladies probably wouldn’t appreciate knowing that they felt lighter than the average ram or on par with a ewe ready for breeding.

  “Thank you, sir. This is most kind of you,” her companion said, her attention focused on her friend. She rapped the woman’s hand and said firmly, “Helena, you must wake up.” But she didn’t appear to be alarmed.

  “Has this happened to your friend before?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. She sometimes has these spells, especially when surrounded by large groups of people. Fortunately, they don’t last long. She should wake on her own momentarily.”

  That explained the unconscious woman’s odd demeanor earlier. Still, why would she choose to come here voluntarily with such a condition?

  “She could have been severely injured if you hadn’t caught her,” the woman continued. “Is there some way I can repay you for your assistance.”

  “No man worth his salt would ignore a woman in distress. Nor would he accept repayment for his aid.”

  “I wish all men thought as you do.” He thought he heard her sigh and she straightened. Her flowered hat tilted rather precariously from all the activity. “I am Mrs. Frederick Clarke, and my husband and I would be delighted if you would join us for dinner.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Clarke. Daniel Lanfield. I’m in London only for a short time. Your hospitality is—”

  The woman he now knew was named Helena gasped as she revived.

  “I must get out of here!” she exclaimed as she tried to rise, only to be restrained by Mrs. Clarke, who admonished, “Mrs. Martin, you shall do no such thing. You’ve just had an episode, so you will now sit quietly until we are certain you have suffered no ill effects.”

  “Marissa! I can’t breathe! Let me go!” She pushed Mrs. Clarke away, her expression filled with unseeing panic.

  “Ma’am, you’ve had a spell,” Daniel said quietly. When she focused her glazed eyes on him, he continued, still unsure whether she truly heard, “You were breathing just fine during your episode.” He knelt near her head, conscious of maintaining enough space to keep her from feeling trapped. “It appears you may be a bit overwrought. Mind you, your fine lads are just over there, quite worried for your health.”

  A play of emotions ranged over her face as she listened, and then confusion and indignation shifted to clarity and concern when she turned to look at her sons. Slowly, she sat up and composed herself. He was struck then by her fine features, which conveyed a gentle demeanor and undeniable motherly affection. He wondered at the husband who must watch over her, wondered what type of man he was, wondered whether he roused his wife’s fear or tamed it, and wondered why he would allow her to visit this place without his care.

  That nagging sense of familiarity struck him again. He knew this woman somehow. Yet, strangely, his instinct told him he should leave. Immediately. With his first appointment for the day scheduled after noon, Daniel had sufficient time, he hoped, to enjoy what he’d come to London for. Of course, for the sake of furthering Lanfield business, he’d spent the past few weeks taking every meeting he could wrangle in order to propose supplying major London manufacturers with their family’s materials. And, of course, he was much more adept at such business dealings than his elder brother, Gordon. But this was what he’d been looking forward to, the opportunity to examine all these clever machines up close, the opportunity to explore these modern engineering marvels, ones he should have been designing himself.

  Warmth. Firm, secure warmth beneath her. A murmur seemed to grow louder, though, a discomfiting mélange of people, so many people. If she could just focus on the warmth surrounding her, she could ignore the mob. Then the warmth left, replaced by a cool, hard slab. A familiar voice cut through the chatter, Marissa’s usual commanding tone. She adored her friend, but really Marissa could be so overbearing. For the first time in years, she’d felt comfort and relief, at least until the cold slab beneath her. If Marissa would quiet down, perhaps she could find that warmth again. But, no, of course, Marissa would not be deterred. And then a different voice entered her consciousness, a deep and resonating voice that warmed her from the inside. And that voice spoke of her sons.

  Helena opened her eyes and sat up. It took her a few moments to comprehend the situation. Above, beams of light passing through clouds were crisscrossed by the iron grid of the roof. But something dark eclipsed half of the cloud-framing roof—a man’s hat. A silhouette loomed above her, large and broad, and the faint but comforting scent of fresh wool that somehow made its way through the myriad odors that always seemed to accompany large gatherings of people.

  Merciful heavens, what has become of me?

  She tried to stand, and a sharp pain reverberated through her skull as she heard her head crack against his. She reached up to rub her temple as strong hands grasped her shoulders. A string of curses flitted through her brain, sounding remarkably like what she heard the deep voice beside her muttering.

  “Helena, dear, you must stay still and rest!” Marissa cried out. Right. Marissa was by her side so this couldn’t be as bad as it seemed. Of all people, Marissa would not have left her alone with a total stranger, a stranger who even now felt too close.

  “What happened?” she asked,
as she inched away from the man crouching nearby. Now that she could see his face, she thought she could detect pity in his expression. She cursed inwardly at her weakness as she realized what must have occurred.

  “Sweetheart, you had a bit of a fainting spell,” Marissa explained. “With the press of the crowds, we were quite lucky that this gentleman rescued you from being trampled.”

  Trampled. The mere word filled her vision with the memory of Isaiah’s broken and bloodied form, and along with it the impotent fear and rage as she knelt by him. She swallowed hard as a sharp pang hit her chest at the thought of him, a stab no less trenchant for the passage of time. Gone two years, he loomed large and close in her mind, the loss of him no less devastating. She’d soldiered on, of course, for their children, all of them lost and wounded, bereft of the sun around which their family had revolved. Over those years, this clawing panic when among masses of strangers had grown and dug deeper into her mind. She knew her reactions were irrational, but the fear became stronger, enveloped her faster at each succeeding occasion.

  She’d thought being here would be different. Or at least, she’d wanted to believe her Needlework for the Needy partners when they’d said it was time, she would be fine, and the Exhibition wouldn’t be as crowded now that it was winding down.

  But something about the crowd sparked that ageless fear all over again. And now, Mark and Tommy looked so distressed. She’d ruined it.

  “Come here, boys,” she said, as she sat up and reached her hands out to them. She cupped Mark’s cheek. “No harm done. I suppose all this was just too much excitement for me.” She glanced at Marissa and inclined her head in question. Relieved by her friend’s smiling nod, she continued, “You two should go on exploring. Just don’t stray too far from Mrs. Clarke and Mrs. Duchamp. I shall rest here for the time being. Then perhaps we can stop for ices on our way home.”

  She tried to sound strong, calm, unperturbed, and the boys seemed to take her at her word, both of them pressing Marissa and Honoria to return to the machinery exhibits.

  Honoria went with them easily, but Marissa hesitated and said, “I would feel better if you received medical attention, dear.”

  “You are sweet, but I assure you I am fine, especially in this quiet corner. The boys deserve to have their outing.”

  Still, Marissa wouldn’t leave. With a little shake of her head, she said, “Silly me. Introductions are in order! Mr. Lanfield, we really cannot thank you enough for your kindness. Helena, please allow me to introduce your rescuer, Mr. Lanfield, I believe?” He nodded and Marissa continued, “Sir, I am pleased to introduce you to one of my dearest friends, Mrs. Martin. I cannot thank you enough for coming to our aid. You handled her distress quite well. This world could use more thoughtful and capable men like you.”

  As her friend spoke, Helena froze, a chill spreading downward from the crown of her head to engulf her. Daniel Lanfield. It couldn’t be. There must be plenty of Lanfields in England. After so many years and so many miles, what were the odds that one of the Marksby Lanfields would visit London—would be here at this place and this time? Inconceivable. They were devoted to the village and to their family’s business and held a disdain for anything metropolitan. Still, with dread sinking into her skin, she turned to look fully at the man beside her.

  He looked nothing like the boys—young men—she remembered, but much change was bound to happen over a score of years. No, she was wrong. He did look like the boy who was supposed to be her brother-in-law. His brown eyes could be Daniel’s eyes. The shape of his face was perhaps broader from time and age but still that same strong square that marked the Lanfield men. His broad shoulders and his bearing reminded her of the elder Mr. Lanfield. The fall of curling hair beneath his cap, that was what had always distinguished him from his brother Gordon, who’d kept his straight hair closely cropped. This could be Gordon’s brother. Please, heavens, let it not be him.

  “Someone should stay with you to make sure you don’t suffer a relapse,” he said, his accent nostalgically familiar and his faint smile achingly conscientious. She couldn’t deny it any longer. While his older brother had been rather distant and stern, Daniel had always been the kind one, the attentive one, the one to reach out to help others. The polite concern and deference in his eyes now said he didn’t recognize her. Best to keep it that way.

  “No, no, sir. You should feel free to go about your business. You too, Mrs. Clarke—I’m sure the boys need more attending than I do. Now that I am free of those chaotic masses, I will be quite well.” She had to make him leave before he figured out who she was. Averting her eyes, she said pointedly, “I do not do well in the presence of large groups of people. I would be much better off by myself.”

  Marissa nodded and said a hasty good-bye to Mr. Lanfield, exchanging cards with him and insisting he dine at the Clarke household as an expression of gratitude.

  “Far be it from me to cause you discomfort, Mrs. Martin,” he said after Marissa left them. “I’d not feel right, though, leaving you unattended. ’Tis no trouble to spend a few moments in your company while you indulge your sons. This visit to London has been filled with activity—meetings, dinners, interviews. Today’s been my first chance to breathe all week.”

  “You are not from London?” She shouldn’t ask, shouldn’t encourage conversation, but she craved information about her childhood home. It had been so long.

  “Does it not show? I’m but a country bumpkin from a small village to the north, near the city of Bradford. Surely, I must stand out like a pig amid a herd of sheep.”

  “Not at all,” she replied honestly. His speech and mannerisms were as cordial and appropriate as any of her husband’s business associates had been. He didn’t have the smoothness of a metropolitan industrialist, but his forthright demeanor held its own appeal. And that voice, the stretch and twist of the vowels . . . it stirred a deeply buried longing for the home she’d given up when she ran off with Isaiah, breaking her engagement with Gordon. If this truly was his brother, Daniel, she prayed he wouldn’t realize her identity. “But I really think I would benefit from some quiet. I hope you understand.”

  “Aye, of course. ’Twas a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Martin. I wish you well.” He stared at her a fraction too long for her comfort. She nodded and was relieved when he finally turned and walked away, his gait slow and hesitant, as if he was reluctant to go.

  She put her bonnet back on and had just finished tying the ribbons when she felt a strange awareness and looked up. He hadn’t gone far, it turned out, and he looked at her with a puzzled expression. Then, to her chagrin, he began walking back in her direction. She calculated what she could do, where she could go, before he returned, but there was no way to escape without being obvious.

  “Mrs. Martin,” he said, coming to stand before her again. “Forgive me if this seems intrusive, but I can’t help feeling that perhaps we have met before. May I know your husband’s name and, if I may be so bold, his occupation?”

  Now she had a choice to make: tell him the truth and risk his recollection, or lie and risk him later finding out the truth from Marissa, assuming he accepted her dinner invitation. Despite that one long-ago promise she’d broken, she strove to maintain her integrity in all things, and this could be no different.

  “My husband was Captain Isaiah Martin,” she said formally, a tendril of pride wreathing through her. Even now, she sometimes couldn’t believe he’d chosen her to be his wife those many years ago. And she couldn’t believe how fortunate she’d been to choose him as well. “When he retired from the military due to injury, he worked in various capacities for what is now the LNWR.”

  Daniel Lanfield blinked twice, gave the curtest of nods as his expression turned ominous, and then turned on his heel and walked away without another word.

  So apparently he hadn’t forgotten her.

  His reaction was better than she’d expected.

  Chapter 3

  “It has now been three days since you’ve
set foot outside this house,” Marissa said impatiently as she barged through the door. “That simply won’t do.”

  “A bright and happy hello to you too, my dear,” Helena replied, accustomed as she was to her friend’s extremely direct manner.

  “Yes, yes,” Marissa said, giving her a quick buss on the cheek. “Now really, Helena, the children said you haven’t gone out at all since the incident at the Exhibition. You know I am strongly in favor of children learning to do their part in the household, but isn’t it a bit much to have the boys going to the market? Why, didn’t I just see Tommy trailing behind his older brother and carrying a basket twice his size?”

  “They’re fine, Marissa,” she said shortly. Marissa sometimes reminded her of a dog with a bone. She wasn’t obligated to leave her home every day. Why should she? “I have much to do here. In fact, I finished writing the article I promised Honoria for the next pamphlet. It’s upstairs. You can go start reading it while I make us tea.”

  With her friend thus occupied, she took her time preparing and loading items onto a tray to bring up to the study. The sugar was almost empty, which had prompted her to send the boys out this morning. But there was enough to offer a guest, thank goodness. She just had to keep Marissa’s attention on the plight of the factory girls she’d written about. Their close-knit Needlework for the Needy Society had spent so much time interviewing anyone who was willing to speak with them. It was difficult, though, to find those brave enough or desperate enough.

  “Here we are, Marissa. You should try these raspberry tarts my neighbor baked. They’re heavenly.”

  “You should save them for the boys. I remember when mine were their ages. Like locusts, they would sweep through the pantry and cupboards, leaving nary a crumb,” Marissa said, her eyes focused on the article. “This is excellent, Helena. You captured that young woman’s suffering so vividly.”