Untouched Mistress

Helena could no longer see the jug of cream, nor was she aware of the dining room or its inhabitants. Her nose was overwhelmed with the stench of the sea; her skin felt again the rawness of the battering waves. She heard nothing save the roar of the water. It seemed that she could see only the darkness, feel only the terrible fear that had overtaken her as she realised that they were going to die. Agnes was clinging to her, sobbing, wailing. Old Tam’s shouts: Hold fast, lassies. Hold as you’ve never held afore. And pray. Pray that the Lord will have mercy on our souls. Struggling to stay within the boat as it bucked upon the water’s surface. Soaked by the merciless lash of the waves. Gasping for breath. She sucked in the air, fast, urgent. The cry muffled in her throat by the invading sea. Felt the waves lift the boat, so high as to be clear of it, time was suspended. Agnes’s hand in hers, clinging hard. And then they were falling. It was so dark. So cold. And silent…just for a while. The water filled her eyes, her ears, her nose, choked into her lungs, as the sea pulled her down. She could not fight it, just was there, aware of what was happening and strangely accepting of it. Just when she closed her eyes and began to give in to the bursting sensation in her lungs, the sea granted her one last chance, thrusting her back up to its surface, letting her hear Agnes’s screams, Old Tam’s shouts. Her skirts bound themselves around her legs and she could kick no more. And then there was only darkness.

‘Ma’am.’

She opened her eyes to find Lord Varington by her side. She was alive. Agnes and Old Tam were dead…and it was her fault. The sob escaped her before she could bite it back.

His hand was on her arm, dragging her back from the nightmare.

She blinked her eyes, smoothed the raggedness of her breath.

‘Drink this.’ A glass was being pressed into her fingers.

‘There is no need,’ a voice said, and she was surprised to find that it was her own.

‘There’s every need,’ he growled, and guided the glass to her mouth.

The drink was so strong as to burn a track down her throat. Whisky. She coughed and pushed the glass away.

‘Take another sip.’

She shook her head, feeling revived by the whisky’s fiery aromatic tang.

‘She must go and lie down at once!’ Helena became aware of Mrs Weir by her other side. ‘The trauma of recounting the accident has quite overwhelmed her.’

The dreadful memory was receding. And Helena found herself back sitting at the breakfast table in the dining room of Seamill Hall. Only the rhythmic rush of sea upon sand sounded in the distance. She took a deep breath. ‘Thank you, Mrs Weir, Lord Varington…’ she turned to each in turn ‘…but I am recovered now. I did not expect to be so affected. Forgive my foolishness.’

‘Dear Mary, you are not in the slightest bit foolish. Such a remembrance would overset the strongest of men,’ said Mrs Weir stoutly.

Helena gave a stiff little smile.

‘There is no need for you to continue with your story.’ Mrs Weir looked up imploringly at her husband. ‘Tell her it is so, John.’

Mr Weir looked from his wife to Helena. There was the slightest pause. ‘You need not speak further of your shipwreck, Mrs McLelland.’

‘There is not much more to tell,’ she said, anchoring down all emotion. ‘I do not know what happened other than I landed in the water. From there I remember nothing until I awakened to find myself here.’

‘Mary, you are the bravest of women,’ said Mrs Weir, and patted her arm.

Guilt turned tight in her stomach. ‘No, ma’am.’ She shook her head. ‘I am not that. Not now, not ever.’ There was a harsh misery in her voice that she could not disguise. Lord Varington had heard it, she could see it in the way that he looked at her.

‘You should rest,’ he said.

She turned to him with a slight shake of the head. ‘I am fine, really, I am; besides, I must make myself ready to leave.’

‘To leave, Mrs McLelland?’ He raised an eyebrow.

‘Mary means to catch the coach to Glasgow,’ said Mrs Weir by way of explanation. ‘She is intent on continuing her journey to London…by stage’

‘Mr and Mrs Weir have been kind enough to agree to lend me what I need. I will, of course, return everything that I have borrowed as soon as I have found my aunt.’

‘You must not worry, Mary. You need return nothing. The maid will be delighted to have a new dress, and John sees that I have more than enough money,’ said Mrs Weir.

Weir said nothing, just sat with a look of undisguised relief upon his face.

Varington resumed his seat opposite Helena. ‘Leaving so soon, Mrs McLelland?’ She remembered that he had spoken similar words within the hallway when she had tried to flee, and that memory brought others that she did not wish to think about—Lord Varington carrying her up the staircase, Lord Varington tending her feet.

‘I am quite recovered and can therefore no longer impose upon Mr and Mrs Weir’s hospitality, and besides…’ Helena folded one hand over the other, keeping a firm grip on her emotions ‘…my aunt is expecting me and shall be worried over my continued absence. I do not wish to add to her concern.’

Varington stretched out his legs and made himself comfortable within the chair. ‘Write her a letter explaining all.’

‘What a good idea,’ said Mrs Weir.

Weir turned away, but not before Helena had seen the roll of his eyes.

‘I would rather see her in person.’

‘Have you no other relatives?’

‘No,’ said Helena, worrying just how far Lord Varington’s questioning and her lies would lead them.

‘And that is why you left Islay—to visit your aunt in London?’

‘Yes.’ Experience with Stephen had taught her it was better not to elaborate.

‘I know London very well. It is my usual abode, apart from when I am coaxed away under extreme duress.’ Varington smiled and glanced meaningfully towards Weir.

Helena swallowed, knowing instinctively that he was leading up to something.

‘Where exactly does your aunt live?’ he asked.

Helena had never visited London in the entirety of her life. She had not an inkling of its streets. Be sure your lies will find you out. The words whispered through her mind. ‘It is not precisely in London,’ she said, racking her brains for a village, any village in the vicinity of the capital.

All eyes were upon her, waiting expectantly.

Hendon was near London, wasn’t it? For once Helena wished she had taken more interest in geography. Her mind went blank. ‘Hendon,’ she said, and hoped that she had not got it wrong.

‘Your aunt lives in Hendon?’ There was a definite interest in Guy’s tone.

‘Yes.’

‘Do you know the place, Guy?’ asked Annabel.

‘Indeed,’ he said with more confidence than Helena wanted to hear. ‘I have a friend that lives there. What a coincidence.’

Helena’s heart sank. He would ask her now her aunt’s precise direction in Hendon, and what answer could she give? She dropped her gaze, staring down at her hands and waited for his question.

‘And what travel arrangements have you made, Mrs McLelland?’

She glanced up at him, surprise widening her eyes, relief flooding her veins. ‘I leave this afternoon on the one o’clock mail to Glasgow. From there I will take the stage and travel down the rest of the way.’