Mindful of Linas’s enjoyment, Helene made every effort to enter into the excitement of the first day, during which two of Winterson’s racing thoroughbreds were competing. The day had begun with an earlier-than-usual breakfast and, since the weather was blustery but dry, Helene and Linas borrowed two of his brother’s hacks to ride with the others, she in her habit of nutbrown velvet and matching plumed hat that drew many a compliment. Linas had retired early the previous night, well before the others, and had fallen asleep even before Helene could go in to wish him goodnight. His valet had told her that his master had been too tired even to take his usual night-cap of port, sharing with her a look of concern that did not bode well for the busy day ahead.
So it did not surprise her that no reference had been made to her birthday on the morrow, and it seemed to her inappropriate to mention it when all the attention was focused on the races, the guests, the winners and owners, the sumptuous feast, the meeting of old friends and the excitement of Winterson’s successes. Linas had completely forgotten, and Helene had already decided that his guilt would serve no good purpose. Even so, there were moments during the day when her lovely expressive eyes must have revealed something of her hurt and disappointment, the ache to be at home with her family on this special day, enjoying their warmth and love instead of maintaining a position for which she had no real appetite, which she would once have reviled before she lost her innocence.
Turning to look at Linas, she checked that he was comfortable on the well-mannered hack, heaved a sigh, and looked away into the distance to where the newly white-painted grandstand swarmed with racegoers. A large horse and rider moved up beside her, blocking her view of Linas. It was his brother. At first his eyes followed where hers had been and then, returning to find that she was looking down at her hands as if deliberating whether to go or stay, said, ‘No, don’t go. We have not spoken all day.’
‘To each other, you mean? What is there to be said, except congratulations?’
‘Oh, dear. You’re angry.’ His voice was deep and apologetic.
‘Not at all. But you must not be seen talking to me, my lord. That would look very odd, wouldn’t it? See, we’re being remarked already.’
‘What is it, Miss Follet? You are angry. With me? Linas? Has he been flirting with someone?’
‘I don’t know what he’s doing. Does it matter?’
His horse stretched its neck, pulling his hand forwards as it shook its head and jangled its bit, keeping its rider occupied with its sidling before he brought it back, almost touching her leg with his. She watched as he humoured the great beast with patience, as if he enjoyed controlling its movements, his face strong, impassive, astonishingly regular, for a man. His dark hair was too long, she thought, noting how it curled over his cravat at the back. He had obviously been thinking of what she said. ‘Or what he’s not doing? Is that it? He’s forgotten your birthday?’ he ventured.
She knew it to be a stab in the dark. It must be. Yet the sudden surprise in her velvet-brown eyes escaped before she could hide it, and the denial that followed was worse than useless. ‘Of course he hasn’t. He…’
‘He has, hasn’t he? He was never any good at birthdays, Miss Follet. He rarely remembers ours, either. Shall I remind him for you?’
‘No!’ The word shot out, compounding the earlier denial. ‘No, please don’t.’
‘Ah! You mean you’d rather remind him yourself in a week’s time? Or you’d rather he didn’t know at all?’
‘I mean, my lord, that it’s of no possible concern to anyone but me. Please say no more about it.’
‘If that’s your wish, then I must obey. But you’re wrong to think it concerns only you. You are my guest and you’re not entirely enjoying the experience. That concerns me. What can I do to put it right?’
‘Nothing at all. Your hospitality is the finest, and if Linas is content then that is all I ask for.’ She heard the emptiness of her reply and was not proud of its insincerity. She could hardly expect him to believe her.
‘Fine unselfish sentiments, ma’am. But I fear I’m too cynical to be taken in by them. To say that my brother’s contentment is all you desire, a woman of your age, is moonshine. Have you not thought ahead a little, to the time when you might wish for more?’
Like a ball of slow fire, a sob of pain rose into her throat to sear her with a longing so intense that she had once cried out in the night with it, soaking her pillow with tears, for it seemed at times that her thoughts were of little else. Before she could take herself in hand, her eyes had begun to flood with scalding tears, showing him what was in her heart as clearly as if she held its doors wide open. This man, of all men, to see her weakness, a man who had rarely condescended to speak to her until now.
She would have wheeled her horse away, blindly, but he caught at her bridle before she could do so, leading it away from the Abbots Mere crowd towards a deserted area of long grass where both mounts dropped their heads to snatch at a juicy mouthful. He held her reins and waited, keeping their backs to everyone but making no comment.
‘I’m all right,’ she whispered. ‘Do forgive me. I had no wish to embarrass you, my lord.’
‘I am not in the least embarrassed, Miss Follet. I tend to be outspoken, and I have touched a raw spot. I am concerned, but not embarrassed.’
‘Yes, my lord, you have. Shall we say no more about it, if you please?’
‘Of course. Are you quite recovered?’
‘Yes. Quite.’
‘Then we shall return.’ Handing her the reins, he took stock of her smooth curvaceous lines under the habit, the neat waist and long back, the white lace at her throat. Black glossy hair was bundled into a gold net under her saucily feathered hat, and the deep reproachful eyes spiked with long black lashes were like pools to drown a man. Her full lips were mobile upon a skin of peach that he knew his brother had begun to abandon as his illness progressed and that this, as much as anything else, was a prime source of her distress.
Their return to the others, side by side, did not escape the notice of Lady Veronique Slatterly, whose displeasure bordered on extreme folly. ‘Where have you two been?’ she demanded, wheeling her grey mare round in circles ahead of them. Her blue eyes were cold and hard upon Helene.
Winterson’s reply did nothing to thaw them, though her skin turned a healthy pink. ‘I have not had to account for my whereabouts since I was fourteen, Lady Slatterly, and I don’t intend to start again now. Nor, I imagine, does Miss Follet owe you an explanation.’
Snubbed in no uncertain terms, the astonished woman hauled her mare savagely away and, though Helene caught sight of her several times during the afternoon, she did not approach.
It was Linas himself who answered Helene’s query about the exact nature of Lady Slatterly’s relationship with his brother. Was she his mistress, or merely one of the hopefuls?
‘He has no official mistress,’ Linas told her on the way back to Abbots Mere. ‘Veronique believes she stands a good chance, but she’ll have to toe the line and curb her sharp tongue if she wants to get anywhere with Burl. He doesn’t like the controlling kind of woman. Not even our mother had much success there.’
The parents, Lord and Lady Stillingfleete, had never exercised much control over any of their three sons, and had left the family home at Abbots Mere to live in a smaller Georgian house in Harrogate, within reach of the healing baths. Their large estate was now in Winterson’s capable hands, visited only once or twice a year by the owners when they wanted a change of scenery.
* * *
As a result of Winterson’s reprimand, Lady Slatterly’s rudeness seemed to abate on the second evening, giving Helene some respite from the woman’s jealousy. It also seemed to Helene