British Brides Collection Read online

  Giving up at last, she entered the formal gardens in search of a bench. Her footprints were dark on the grass, and the hem of her dress became damp. She saw other, smaller prints in the dew; a rabbit or a fox had traversed the garden earlier that morning.

  Beneath a trellis she found a wooden bench. After wiping it dry with her apron, she settled down and opened her Bible. Daily readings had taken her to the book of Isaiah, where she had become somewhat bogged down. Beginning with chapter forty-one, she buckled down to read. Two verses on, her mind and her eyes wandered from the page.

  She sucked in a deep breath and released it in a tremulous sigh. Another sleepless night consumed in terror of the unknown.

  A bird began to warble from a nearby beech, and sunlight pierced the mist, turning dewdrops into diamond-drops. Helen’s lips quivered; tears overflowed. Wiping her face with an already soggy apron corner, she mourned aloud. “Why, Lord, do I doubt You whenever darkness falls? I have no trouble believing while the sun shines; but as soon as trials enter my life, my courage fails. I read Your Word daily, yet I draw little sustenance from it. How I long to talk again with my father and mother, to emulate their wisdom and soak up their strength!”

  In the silence following her outburst, Helen considered her words. Do I have faith of my own, or have I relied upon my parents to have faith in my stead? Is God truly my Father? He is never a grandfather—I cannot depend upon my parents’ faith to save me.

  Discouraged, she again began to read. The tenth verse widened her eyes. She read it again, aloud. “ ‘Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness.’ ”

  With a moist smile, Helen lifted her gaze to the sky. “Lord Jesus, You have promised to be with me always, even unto the end of the world. I know that You created all things and that nothing is too difficult for You. You promised to hold me in the palm of Your almighty hand. I shall not fear things that walk by night. I shall not fear the beasts You have created. I shall not fear the wrath or mockery of man. I shall not fear the future. You are the Lord, and beside You there is no savior.”

  She read on, finding promises and assurance in every chapter.

  Some time later, sensing another presence, Helen lifted her head. Oliver leaned one shoulder against a stone archway and watched her. “I wondered when you would notice me.”

  Helen snapped her Bible shut and rose quickly. His hair dripped water, and his shirt clung to his damp torso. His booted feet were crossed, and his head was bare.

  Was he impervious to cold? Helen gathered her shawl closer to her shoulders and tried to restrain a shiver that was not entirely induced by the morning chill. “How long have you been there?” she demanded.

  “Not long. I, too, often come to the garden to commune with my Lord.” Despite the twinkle in his eyes, Oliver’s voice held a tender note that soothed Helen’s nerves. “Upon returning from my daily ablutions in the pond, I saw your footprints leading away from the house and followed them here. I apologize for disturbing your meditation.”

  Helen shook her head and took a few hesitant steps toward him. The gateway he blocked was her only exit from the enclosed garden. “You wash in the lake?”

  “I swim on all but the coldest of days.”

  “In your clothing?” she asked before thinking.

  “Nay, to walk about in wet attire would invite illness.”

  After contemplating his answer for a moment, Helen felt her face flame.

  Oliver laughed softly, then sobered. “Are you well, Helen? Does aught trouble you?”

  Startled by his insight, she glanced up, met his probing eyes, and again dropped her gaze. “I have brought my troubles to the Lord. Now I believe all will be well. But I thank you for the inquiry.”

  Pushing away from the archway, he took a step toward her. “You carry a heavy burden on your slight shoulders. Franklin alone is more burden than many could bear. He is my sister’s child; I would share that load with you if will allow it.”

  Emboldened by her concern for the children, Helen searched Oliver’s eyes. He seemed sincere. “I am grateful for your offer,” she whispered, unable to find her voice.

  He approached and reached a cold but dry hand to touch her cheek. Helen closed her eyes. “You were weeping,” he said. “Why?”

  Helen swallowed hard. “I am learning how little faith I have,” she admitted. “I find it difficult to trust the Lord with my life. Always I have had my parents to depend upon; now I have only God. I know that He is sufficient and that only He can truly meet my spirit’s deepest longings. Yet in the darkest hours of night, when fears assail me, I find it hard to realize His presence.”

  He nodded. “I struggle with similar trials, Helen. Since the day of your arrival, I have come to realize that others can see little of Jesus in my life. Your amazement that I, too, was a believer shocked me to my senses.”

  Her eyes widened. “Oh, but I did not intend—”

  A smile touched his lips. “I understand that you meant no offense. I cannot imagine you intentionally hurting anyone. Your surprise was genuine, the very reason it was effective. You struggle against fears; I fight daily, hourly against overweening pride.” Blinking, he studied the top of a distant oak. “It is a fierce battle.”

  Helen touched his arm. “I will pray for you, Oliver.”

  He lowered his gaze to her hand. It looked small and weak against his sinewy forearm. Embarrassed, Helen started to pull it away, but he quickly clapped his other hand over hers and held it in place. “And I will pray for you, Helen.”

  From the tiny white temple in the middle of the rose garden, Helen could see over the top of the maze and glimpse the pasture beyond. Two distant figures held her interest—a horse trotting in measured circles and the man on its back.

  “What are you staring at, Cousin Helen?” Avril asked, joining her at the window. “Do you like Braveheart? I like his two white legs and pink hooves.”

  “It is a beautiful horse,” Helen agreed.

  “Uncle Oliver used to own Braveheart’s mother, Glorious. Father bought Glorious for my mother. He bought lots of Uncle Oliver’s horses, then hired him to care for them. Glorious died last winter of the colic, and Uncle Oliver cried.”

  “Oh!” Helen exclaimed.

  “He cried more when my mother died, though, because she was his sister. Everybody else in the family died except us children. Jenny says the Kirby family was cursed because they were papists. What are papists, Cousin Helen? Am I one too?”

  “Nay. You mustn’t attend to gossip from the servants. You live under God’s protection, not under a curse. ‘Papist’ is a term used to describe Roman Catholics. I was unaware that Oliver was Catholic.” The idea troubled her. His life must be in constant danger.

  “He isn’t, and neither was Mother. I’m glad Father bought the horses. He did it to make Mother happy—she was afraid Uncle Oliver would go to the New World after he lost his property. He won’t leave as long as his horses are here. It looks wondrous fine to ride upon a horse. I wish we could go for rides sometimes. We never get away from the house. Even the gardens are walled in. Franklin says he is going to run away someday and become a highwayman.”

  “Oh?” Helen cast a glance over one shoulder at Franklin. Instead of studying equations, he was on the floor, absorbed in using a stick to tease a crawling beetle. Helen knew she should demand that he return to the bench and complete his lessons, yet she dreaded the inevitable battle. Patsy had fallen asleep on one of the benches, her soft lips parted and her cheeks rosy.

  “You talk too much, Avril,” the boy grumbled.

  “Cousin Helen doesn’t mind.” Avril leaned against Helen’s side. “This morning when we visited Father in his rooms, he told us he plans to marry again. Patsy told him he should marry you. Franklin said he’d go live in the stable with the grooms if Father marries again. He said he wants to grow up to be like Uncle O
liver and tend horses. He never wants to sell wool. Then Father got all red in the face and called you to take us away.”

  Helen’s arm tightened around the girl’s slim shoulders. Sighing, she buried her nose in Avril’s fluffy hair and breathed in its lavender scent. “I thought he seemed vexed, and no wonder. He cares about you children. He misses your mother and brother. I believe he is frightened of losing you as well.” At least she hoped Cyril cared. He must care. “I am sure his new wife will be a good stepmother. Your father chose your mother, didn’t he? Therefore, he must be a good judge of women.”

  “I should have died instead of Joseph.”

  The low voice from behind gave Helen a shock. “Why do you say that, Franklin?”

  He continued poking at the beetle. After a long silence he said, “Father wishes it was me that died. I heard him say so.”

  Pain gripped Helen’s heart. “Oh, Franklin, you must have misheard him.”

  The boy shrugged as if to reject her pity. “He doesn’t care about anyone but himself. He thinks we should be glad that he’s bringing another woman here to take Mother’s place. I hate him.”

  Helen silently prayed for wisdom. “You might feel that way now, but in time I believe you will come to love him again. From this day on, my prayer each morning and night is that your father will recognize the treasure he has in you children. He should be proud. Now, Franklin, I must insist that you complete your lessons, or we will never again use the temple as a schoolroom.”

  To her surprise, Franklin crawled back to the bench and resumed his equations—but not before Helen saw a wet spot appear on the wooden floorboards beneath his face. Tears burned her eyes as she began to comprehend the depth of Franklin’s despair. How can I help these children, Lord? What can I do? I need to talk with Oliver as soon as possible.

  That night Helen found a snail making a trail of slime across her bed linens. She performed a dance of horror, waving her arms and screeching silently. This time, anger joined her disgust and gave her courage to deal with the situation immediately. After gripping it by the shell and holding it at arm’s length, Helen dropped the snail out her window to join the toad.

  She refused to look toward the lavender hedge. “ ‘I will strengthen thee … yea, I will uphold thee,’ ” she quoted to herself. A day of constant communion with the Lord had done wonders for her spiritual fortitude. Last night’s terror now seemed absurd, yet she knew that even one unguarded thought could again send her reeling into the pit of fear.

  How had Cyril known that the mere suggestion of a phantom would be enough to start her imagination spinning? Was her craven character so evident? Not that she suspected her cousin of staging a ghostly promenade; Helen knew she must have imagined the entire episode. Rogue that he was, Cyril would delight in discovering the success of his ploy. She resolved he would never know.

  Like father, like son. Somehow Franklin had discerned her dread of crawling things and now intended to use it against her—just as Oliver had warned. Should she drag the boy out of bed and chastise him for the prank, or should she pretend it never happened? Would either choice dissuade him from further escapades?

  “Lord, You know how I despise these crawly creatures … and now Franklin knows it too. What am I to do? I must talk with Oliver.”

  Chapter 6

  Summer approached, bringing to the gardens the glory of blossoming fruit trees, climbing vines, and budding roses. Days of romping with her young cousins should have been among Helen’s happiest, yet she struggled against discontent.

  One Saturday evening during her free time, Helen sat in the terraced garden with her Bible open in her lap. Pondering and praying, she attempted to put her troubles into words.

  “Lord, sometimes I catch glimpses of Oliver, and more than once I have discovered him watching me play with the children, but each time he hurries in the opposite direction without a word. I thought I must be imagining his avoidance, yet time has proven otherwise. I can date his attitude of formality to the day after Cyril returned to Biddlesham Hall. Has my cousin forbidden him to address me? I cannot imagine why.”

  She paused, thinking, then began to shake her head. “I was foolish to have read more than casual amiability into Oliver’s remarks and behavior. He said nothing that could lead me to expect more from him.” But then she recalled the strength of his arms about her and the warmth of his eyes and voice. “He said he would help bear my burdens, yet when I need him he is nowhere to be found.” Her shoulders began to quake, and she mopped flowing tears with her apron. The Bible slid off her lap and fell closed upon the bench.

  “I feel so dreadfully alone! Because I must always be with my charges, I seldom see the other servants. Cyril does not crave my company. He knows I disapprove of the way he neglects his children.” Shaking her head back and forth, she whispered to herself. “I dare not question him about my future as governess to his children. Perhaps it is best this way—I am not fit for my position. You know all about Franklin, Lord.” Helen rolled her eyes and dissolved into fresh tears.

  Franklin daily became bolder in his disrespect. He had not yet attempted outright defiance, but Helen knew he was biding his time. Every night she found some token of his aversion in her bed—dead fish, living beetles, worms, spiders, newts, nettles, and burrs. Once she had pulled back her quilt only to release a bat from its confines. Eventually the creature had found its way out her open window, but not before fouling the rush floor mats and the clothes chest lid. Helen had cried herself to sleep that night.

  Her voice quavered as she spoke once more. “I understand that You allow these trials for Your purpose. I beg only Your care, provision, and comfort for my wounded spirit.”

  When dark spots appeared upon her skirts, Helen at first thought they were teardrops. But pelting drops upon her cap and shoulders sent her running across the lawn with her shawl over her head. Inside the house, servants scurried about like so many ants. Maggie rushed along the hallway, bearing an armload of bed linens and quilts.

  Helen found the children unsupervised in the nursery. Wooden blocks lay scattered across the floor. In the middle of the room, Patsy crouched in a heap, sobbing. Avril sat on her bed, cradling the rag doll Helen had made for her. Kneeling on a chest beneath a window, Franklin rested his chin on his folded arms and stared out at the pouring rain.

  “What has happened? Why are you not with your father?”

  Avril launched into an explanation. “Father sent us away. He said he could not endure children because he must prepare for Lady Lillian’s arrival.”

  “Lady Lillian? Cyril’s betrothed is coming here?” Helen gasped. “When?”

  “Today. Jenny couldn’t watch us because she was busy. She said we were to wait here for you. Then Patsy bumped Franklin’s block castle and made it fall, so he hit her.”

  Helen helped Patsy to her feet and inspected her for injury. The child appeared more hurt in spirit than in body, so Helen laid Patsy upon her bed and smoothed tear-wet hair from the little girl’s flushed cheeks. “I said I was sorry.” Patsy’s rosy lips trembled.

  Rising, Helen tried to keep the irritation she felt out of her voice. “I am disappointed in you, Franklin. Patsy is smaller and weaker than you are. A gentleman never hits a lady.”

  “What can you do about it?” Franklin asked bluntly without turning around. His voice dripped insolence. “You’ll be gone soon, when my father marries that woman.”

  Helen was unprepared for confrontation, yet she could not allow open rebellion to go unchecked. She gripped Franklin’s shoulder and tried to make him face her. In one motion, he threw off her touch, spun around, and kicked her shin a glancing blow. “Leave me be!”

  While Helen collapsed on the floor holding her leg, Franklin ran for his life.

  “Are you all right, Cousin Helen?” the girls asked, wide-eyed.

  Helen staggered to her feet, puffing in wrath. “I will live, but Franklin is doomed. Avril, watch over Patsy for me.” She skimmed down the stairs
and stopped in the great hall, uncertain of the boy’s flight path. The front door stood slightly ajar. Helen rushed outside in time to catch a glimpse of the boy disappearing around the corner of the house, headed for the stables. Helen took off in pursuit.

  Rain pounded on her face and soaked her cap. She slipped on the wet gravel and fell headlong, skinning both palms and her knee. Immediately she scrambled up and ran, panting and sobbing.

  The interior of the stable was dark, in keeping with the dismal weather. Helen rushed through the open door and stopped, hearing Franklin’s voice although she could not yet see him. Oliver emerged from a stall, restraining a squirming boy.

  “She’ll kill me! Don’t let her get me, Uncle Oliver! She’s a monster!”

  Helen felt like a dragon at the moment, ready to breathe fire. Her face streamed water, her dress dripped mud, and her smock clung to her body, so wet that her skin showed through the fabric. Her neckcloth and cap had disappeared sometime during that wild dash. Pressing both hands against her chest, she shivered even as she fumed.

  Oliver spotted her before Franklin did. Stopping short, he gave the boy a shake. “Whatever have you done to Helen, you young whelp?”

  “Nothing, I swear it! She is crazy!”

  Helen clenched her jaw and enunciated slowly. “He kicked me in the leg.”

  Franklin’s head popped up, and he met her gaze with defiance. “I did not. She’s just a poor relative that Father took in out of pity. She’s afraid of everything. Why should I obey her?”

  Helen flushed beneath Oliver’s scrutiny. Without a word to her, he turned back to Franklin, gripping the boy by the front of his doublet. “While I have a word with your governess, you pick up a rake and shovel and begin cleaning stalls. The dung cart is nigh the back door. Ask Quincy where to begin.”