Helena's Bone

Part Thirteen

Philip did not know how long he had been sitting next to his son's bed, watching his troubled sleep, when the door opened and Miss Erpingham entered the room.

Philip rose from his seat. "Miss Erpingham," he said. "You should not be here!"

"You know," Miss Erpingham replied, putting a basin of water and a towel onto the table, "I rather think I should. It is scarlet fever, am I right?"

Philip nodded.

"I knew it would be," Miss Erpingham said. "The moment I saw Jeremy and heard what had happened, I knew it. I hoped I would be proven wrong, but I was not. You know, Mr. Davies, I am well acquainted with the fever. I had it myself when I was about Jeremy's age -- no, I must have been younger. Both my brothers had it, too, and I helped my mother nurse them. So, if you want to send me away, I will do as you tell me, but I really want to help. It is one way for me to repay the kindness that both you and Jeremy have shown me during my stay here."

"I only believed," Philip tried to explain, "that you had not had scarlet fever before, and I did not want you to fall ill, Miss Erpingham."

"There is no need to worry about me," Miss Erpingham replied. Then she looked at Jeremy. "He is asleep," she said, quietly. "So perhaps we ought to discuss this matter outside -- I do not want him to wake up. He needs all the rest he can get."

Philip nodded, and held the door open for Miss Erpingham to leave the room. Outside, she said, "Emily Hunter has never had scarlet fever. I asked her. So I assumed it would be better for me to take over from her -- I hope you will forgive my boldness. I know I am quite an imperious creature at times." She smiled apologetically. "I know of course that the decision is up to you, Mr. Davies."

"The decision in this case, I am afraid, is up to my aunt, Miss Erpingham," Philip replied. "You are her companion."

"Certainly she can have no objection?" Miss Erpingham said. "I will be there for her whenever she needs me."

"I am afraid my aunt will not agree, Miss Erpingham, but I will ask her anyway." Philip smiled. "I will ask for her permission first thing tomorrow. You do not know how glad I am to have you here." He paused, recollecting that, perhaps, this might be misunderstood. "At times like this, I mean," he added weakly.

"And I am glad to be of use, Mr. Davies," Miss Erpingham replied. "I think we ought to let Jeremy sleep -- he must be quite exhausted. Should I sit up with him?"

"No, you need not, Miss Erpingham. I will do so," Philip said. "Is there anything you want me to do?"

Miss Erpingham shook her head. "Not as long as he is asleep," she said. "There is not much we can do anyway, apart from trying to make things easier for him. You may need to keep a close watch on his temperature -- we might have to do something about it. I was planning to apply some cold compresses to his legs, that works wonders usually. But as long as he is asleep, I will leave him alone. If he should wake up and get restless, Mr. Davies, do not hesitate to call me. I shall be in my room."

Philip nodded. "I do not know how to thank you properly, Miss Erpingham," he said.

"Then do not," she said, smiling. "I have not done anything yet to deserve any thanks of yours."

Philip watched her disappear in her room, and then went back into Jeremy's. The boy was still asleep, but had tossed off the blankets that had covered him. Philip took them and tucked the boy in. Then he sat down next to the bed, and, while closely observing every movement of Jeremy's, reflected on the situation.

So far, Jeremy had always been blessed with a sound constitution, and though his pranks had caused his father some uneasiness, his health had not. Apart from some bruises and scratches obtained while exploring his uncle's grounds or Sydney Gardens, and the occasional cough and runny nose, nothing had ever been wrong with Jeremy. Still, Philip had always been alert -- probably because he feared losing Jeremy more than anything else. Louisa's death had made him a nervous wreck, it seemed.

Suddenly, Jeremy uttered a moan and sat up in his bed, wildly staring ahead of him. He panted as if he had been running, and was obviously unaware of his surroundings.
"What is it," Philip asked anxiously, touching the boy's arm to attract his attention. Jeremy gave a start and looked at his father, without a sign of recognition.

"Thirsty," he said, in a strange, hoarse voice. "Wanna drink."

Philip got up, filled a glass with water and gave it to his son, who drank greedily. "That's better," Jeremy sighed and lay back on his pillow. "I'm dizzy....headache, too." He squinted at Philip. "Is that you, Papa?"

Jeremy had stopped calling him Papa ever since his tutor had told him that only girls called their fathers thus.

"Yes, it is me," Philip said calmly, although he felt anything but calm. The boy was clearly delirious -- the fever was probably worse than he had expected. For a moment, Philip considered waking Miss Erpingham, but then he decided against it. It was kind enough of her to want to nurse Jeremy during the day. It was a blessing to have her here ... for a moment, Philip cherished the mental image of Miss Erpingham nursing his son. Then he forbade himself to pursue that train of thought any further. His son was ill, and Jeremy's illness ought to be of foremost importance to him. There was no room for daydreaming -- he had no right to do so while Jeremy was sick.

Jeremy had meanwhile closed his eyes, and drifted off to sleep again. Philip, after touching his forehead, felt persuaded that he ought to do something to relieve his suffering, and was wondering what he ought to do when his eyes fell on the basin of water and the towel Miss Erpingham had left on the table. It would probably not do any harm to place a compress on Jeremy's forehead, Philip thought and went to prepare it. In passing the fireplace, he looked at the clock on the mantelpiece and sighed. This was going to be a long night.

~~~o~~~

Helena had been awake long after she had gone back to her room, expecting to be summoned to Jeremy's room any moment. But as time had passed and no one had demanded her presence in the sick-room, she had finally fallen asleep, and awoke early in the morning feeling refreshed and ready to nurse the poor boy.

She got up, dressed herself in one of her plainest gowns, and went to the sick-chamber immediately. As she entered the room, Mr. Davies rose from his seat.

"Good morning, Miss Erpingham," he said. "Have you had breakfast yet?"

"No, I have not," Helena said. "I do not need any breakfast. But you, if you permit my saying so, are in dire need of some sleep, sir."

"So I am," Mr. Davies admitted.

"How is the patient?" Helena asked. "Did he sleep tolerably well?"

"He did, although he woke up several times -- and his temperature worries me excessively. I do hope Mr. Jarrett means to come soon."

"He will," Helena said. "I am sure he will. Have you tried those leg compresses I have told you about?"

"No, Miss Erpingham, I have not. To be honest, I had no idea how to go about it. I am afraid I am not much use in the sickroom."

"Well, you have put a compress on his forehead," Helena said. "Which was not that wrong -- you have done very well, on the whole."

"Thank you, Miss Erpingham," Mr. Davies said, with a sad smile. "I did my best."

"Oh, I did not mean to hurt you," Helena said.

"You did not." Mr. Davies replied, and opened the door. "I will ask Mrs. Doyle to send up some breakfast for you and Jeremy -- should he want any."

"That is very kind of you, sir," Helena said, and turned to the patient.

When one of the maids knocked at the door and handed her the breakfast tray, Helena had already washed the patient, changed his nightshirt and applied some compresses to Jeremy's legs. He had woken up, and smiled at her, but Helena was not so certain whether he had recognised her. She hoped the doctor would arrive soon and tell her how to proceed. She racked her brains to remember the contents of her mother's special herbal tea she had given her brothers -- there had been one tea for the fever, and another one to cure a sore throat. Only, which was which, and what exactly had been in it?

In the meantime, she gave Jeremy some tea and tried to make him swallow some porridge. He did swallow a bit, but soon protested, saying that his throat hurt and that he would not eat any more.

When Mr. Jarrett arrived, Jeremy was asleep again. The doctor carefully examined the boy and then announced that his previous diagnosis had been correct.

"You see that rash that is developing on the boy's neck, ma'am?" he asked Helena. She nodded.
"Typical sign of scarlet fever, that is...and his tongue. Look at his tongue. As clear a case of scarlet fever as one can ever see. Have you had scarlet fever, ma'am?"

"Yes, I have," Helena said.

"Are you sure? Scarlet fever is bad enough in a child, but when grown-ups suffer from it, it can be worse."

"I am sure, Mr. Jarrett," Helena said, and asked what she could do to help the patient.

"Not much." Mr. Jarrett said. "You will have to watch his temperature, and try to keep it as low as possible -- you have done so already, I can see. Good work. But we will have to let the illness take its due course, and hope and pray. I will look in on the patient again in the evening."

Having said that, he left Helena to her devices. Helena sat down next to the bed with a book in her hand, determined not to leave her post.

~~~o~~~

After having washed and changed his clothes, Philip went downstairs to have some breakfast before trying to get some sleep. He had made his reckoning without his aunt, however. The moment he entered the breakfast parlour, she demanded to know whether the rumours that the child was ill were true.

"Unfortunately, yes," Philip said. "Jeremy suffers from scarlet fever, and we are quarantined."

"Quarantined? Did you say quarantined? Am I to be locked up in this house for I do not know how many weeks?" his aunt exclaimed. "Not even you can expect that from me!"

"I do not expect you to stay, aunt, but I do hope you will," Philip said wearily. "There is no danger as long as you stay away from Jeremy."

"I will stay away from him, do not worry," Aunt Montagu said determinedly. "Now where is Miss Erpingham? What does she mean by staying in bed so long?"

Philip braced himself for a long and heated discussion.

"Miss Erpingham is with Jeremy," he said. "She has offered to nurse him, and since there is no one in the house as capable as she, I have been very glad to accept her offer -- provided that you allow her to nurse him, that is."

"Why on earth should I do that?" Aunt Montagu demanded. "Not only am I to stay in this house without being able to stir outside, am I now to stay here without my companion? I cannot possibly do without her."

"I promise you will not be bored, Aunt," Philip said. "I will see to that. Mrs. Doyle..."

"Mrs. Doyle is your housekeeper, and will have other things to do than providing me with amusement," Aunt Montagu said.

"I am here, too," Philip said. "Please, Aunt, if Miss Erpingham cannot look after Jeremy, I do not know what to do. You know those paid nurses, do you not? The ones that are drunk by lunchtime, reeking of gin, and not being bothered with their patients at all. You cannot expect me to leave Jeremy in the care of such a person! Look at Miss Erpingham instead, Aunt! You cannot deny that I can place absolute trust on her!"

Aunt Montagu gave him a sharp look. "Have you ever considered that Miss Erpingham might have ulterior motives for offering her help?" she asked. "A woman in her position will do anything to make you feel beholden to her. She knows the boy needs a mother, and is perfectly ready to take that place."

Philip felt the colour rise to his cheeks. He could not believe his aunt could be so mean as to speak ill of Miss Erpingham in her absence -- a young woman who had done her duty by her so faithfully, without ever saying a word about her employer's harsh treatment.

"I do not care about her motives," he said. "As long as she looks after Jeremy and treats him as kindly as she has always done, everything will be fine. I am not so green as to fall for the first scheming female that sets her cap at me, aunt, and I ask you to keep your good advice to yourself -- for I know a scheming female when I see one, and Miss Erpingham is not one of that sort."

"It is most unfortunate that we cannot leave any more," Aunt Montagu said stiffly, "or I would pack up at once and move away from here. Very well, let Miss Erpingham do as she pleases, but tell her that I expect her to bear me company whenever I need her."

"You will not need her company, Aunt, I told you so before," Philip said. "I will keep you sufficiently entertained."

The butler brought in the post.

"You may start right now," Aunt Montagu said, "by reading my letters to me. I am afraid I have forgotten my spectacles in my room upstairs."

With a sigh, Philip opened the first of his aunt's letters and started reading it aloud.

~~~o~~~

The following week, Helena spent most of her time in Jeremy's room. She sat up with him, anxiously watching him, applying cold compresses, and giving him the herbal tea her mother had given her brothers in a similar situation.

But whatever she did, it was to no avail -- Jeremy's condition, although it did not get worse, did not improve either. Mr. Jarrett came twice every day, examining the patient thoroughly and growing more worried every time he saw Jeremy.

Helena suspected that he did not share his apprehensions with Mr. Davies, but she understood why he did not. Mr. Davies had looked in on Jeremy regularly, and had taken turns with Helena to look after the boy. It was obvious that he worried about Jeremy, and it would be cruel to tell him that -- perhaps -- his efforts did not have the desired effect.

One evening, however, Mr. Davies was there when Mr. Jarrett examined the patient, and noticed Mr. Jarrett's worried expression.

"What is the matter, Mr. Jarrett?" he asked anxiously.

Mr. Jarrett sighed. "I am afraid, Mr. Davies, that I have bad news for you," he said. "Your son's state is worse than I had imagined before. Usually, the fever subsides within five or six days -- but your son's condition has not changed in the least. His temperature has stayed the same for the past seven days, and there are no signs of an improvement. I am afraid we must prepare for the worst."

Mr. Davies blanched. "No," he whispered. "This cannot be true. Jarrett, there must be something you can do for him -- there certainly is!"

He was desperately trying to appear calm, but Helena noticed how agitated he really was. She wished she could put her arms around him to comfort him.

"I am afraid there is not," Mr. Jarrett said. "If the fever does not subside until tomorrow evening at the latest, sir, I fear the worst will happen."

"The fever will subside," Mr. Davies said. "I know it will. What do you say, Miss Erpingham?" He looked at Helena pleadingly. The anguish in his eyes nearly made her cry.

"I will do my best," she said quietly. "There is always hope, you know."

"So they say," Mr. Davies said, his voice cracking. "Usually when the situation is really hopeless."

"Situations are never hopeless, Mr. Davies," Helena said. "Only people are."

He looked as if he wanted to say something in answer to that, but seemed to change his mind. "I will stay with Jeremy for the night," he said, firmly.

"You did so last night, sir, and the better part of this afternoon, too. Do you not think it might get too much?" Helena asked.

He shook his head. "Nothing I do for my son can ever be too much," he said. "Besides," he added, with a bitter laugh, "who knows how long I may have the chance to be with him? -- What can I do, Jarrett?"

"No more than what you have been doing all this time, sir," Mr. Jarrett replied.

"Hope and pray. I see," Mr. Davies answered spitefully. "It is what you seem to be good at, at least."

"I think it would be best if you left everything to Miss Erpingham," Mr. Jarrett said, ignoring Mr. Davies's vicious remark. "She has done excellent work so far, and will certainly go on doing so."

"I know," Mr. Davies said, giving Helena a look she could not quite fathom. "I am deeply in your debt, Miss Erpingham -- I do not know how I could ever repay you."

"I never expected you to," Helena said meekly.

Mr. Jarrett took his leave, instructing Mr. Davies to send for him if anything happened during the night. Helena conducted the doctor downstairs and let him out. As she turned to go back to Jeremy's room, the drawing room door opened and Mrs. Montagu came out.

"May I know where everybody is," she demanded. "I thought there would always be someone to spend some time with me? This is what my nephew told me, and it was my stipulation for giving my consent for you to nurse Jeremy."

"Mr. Jarrett was just here to visit the patient," Helena said quietly. "He is rather worried, so, Mrs. Montagu, you cannot blame Mr. Davies for forgetting about you for a moment."

"I cannot blame him, perhaps, but I certainly can blame you," Mrs. Montagu snapped. "I am not going to dine on my own, do you understand?"

"No, you will not, Mrs. Montagu," Helena said. "I will join you at dinner. One cannot expect Mr. Davies to be cheerful company tonight." She, too, would not be very amusing, Helena thought, and her heart grew heavy at the thought of Jeremy. "If you will excuse me, Madam, I will dress for dinner."

With a curt nod, Mrs. Montagu dismissed Helena and went back into the drawing room. Before going to her room to change her dress, Helena returned to Jeremy's room to tell Mr. Davies that she would dine with his aunt.

"You are taking too much on yourself, Miss Erpingham," he said.

"It is my duty to be Mrs. Montagu's companion, and I have been neglecting that duty lately," Helena said. "I will come back when Mrs. Montagu retires, if you do not mind."

"When did you last have a good night's sleep, Miss Erpingham?" Mr. Davies asked her, looking at her inquisitively.

"I cannot remember right now," Helena said with a short laugh.

"I thought so," Mr. Davies said. "You should try to get some rest, Miss Erpingham. You have heard Mr. Jarrett -- there is not much we can do anyway, so I think it will be enough if I stay with Jeremy."

Helena shook her head. "I will come back when Mrs. Montagu goes to bed," she said resolutely and left the room.

The dinner with Mrs. Montagu was an awkward affair. Mrs. Montagu did most of the talking; hinting at young women who did not know their place and refused to acknowledge what was due to their employers. Helena did not say much in reply to that, she let Mrs. Montagu ramble on and hoped that the evening would soon be over. A week in the sickroom tending to Jeremy had not fatigued her half as much as this single evening in Mrs. Montagu's company did.

After dinner, Mrs. Montagu wished Helena to read to her, and she did so willingly, though her heart was not in it. Her thoughts were with Mr. Davies and Jeremy all the time, and when, finally, Mrs. Montagu announced that she was tired and would go to bed, Helena was glad to hear it. The moment Mrs. Montagu had disappeared in her room, Helena dashed upstairs to Jeremy's. Mr. Davies was sitting next to the boy's bed and greeted her with a faint smile.

"How has he been doing?" Helena asked, breathlessly.

"I hope I am not deluding myself, Miss Erpingham," Mr. Davies said, "but I believe he is not quite as feverish as he was. Yet I dare not hope...what do you say?"

Helena felt the boy's forehead and counted his pulse. "There may be a slight improvement," she said, carefully. "But we must not put too much hope into it -- it may well be that we only perceive what we wish to see. We will know more in an hour or two, perhaps. -- Did you have some dinner, sir?"

"Mrs. Doyle sent me some morsels, but I am afraid I have not done Cook the credit that is her due," Mr. Davies said. "I do not know if that applies to you as well, but when I am anxious everything I eat tastes like sawdust."

"Oh, it does apply to me as well," Helena said and sat down next to Mr. Davies.

"You really ought to try and get some sleep, Miss Erpingham," Mr. Davies said, looking at her anxiously. "There is no need for you to wear yourself out."

"I will get some sleep when Jeremy feels better," Helena said, smilingly. "In the meantime, I will look after him and prevent his father from fretting too much." She got up, opened one of the cupboards and took out Jeremy's chessboard. "May I challenge you to a game, sir?" she asked.

"I will not be too much of an opponent tonight," Mr. Davies said.

"Neither will I, sir, but it does not signify. We must do something to divert your thoughts, you know. I will not have you sit around imagining all sorts of dreadful things."

With a courteous nod, Mr. Davies complied with the scheme, and they started playing. Time passed slowly, and after two games of chess this occupation palled. Helena got up again and touched Jeremy's hands. Just then, the boy opened his eyes and smiled at her.

"Miss Erpingham," he whispered sleepily. "What are you doing here? Where's Emily?"

For the first time, Jeremy seemed to take in what was happening around him. With a triumphant smile, Helena turned to Mr. Davies. "Did I not tell you there was always hope?" she asked.

"You did," he answered, hurrying to Jeremy's side. "I was a fool not to believe it."

Part Fourteen

In the following days, Jeremy's health improved slowly, but steadily. He was still weak and feverish, but the worst part of his illness was behind him. Helena continued to take turns with Mr. Davies, and she stayed with Jeremy whenever she could.

Mrs. Montagu did not make things easy for her -- the moment she had heard of Jeremy's improvement, she had insisted on Helena's company for most of the day. In her opinion, her companion had already wasted too much time on the boy, and should not forget what her station in life was. Luckily Mrs. Montagu, out of sheer boredom, had adopted the habit of taking a nap every afternoon. So Helena was at leisure for two hours every day, hours which she spent in Jeremy's room. She wondered why Mr. Davies, knowing his son to be safe, still insisted on remaining with them, even when it was not necessary. Jeremy showed clear signs of tedium, just like every boy on his way back to health did once the illness did not give him much pain any more. In order to entertain Jeremy, Mr. Davies had promised to teach him to play chess -- an endeavour for which he depended on Helena's help.

Jeremy was a keen learner, if only for the sake of "being able to beat his father".

"I would like to have one thing at which I am better than you are," he had said during his first lesson, and had turned to Helena. "Do you think I can be better at chess than my father, Miss Erpingham?"

"If you put your mind to it, I have no doubt," Helena had said smilingly.

"This is not much of a compliment to my playing skills," Mr. Davies had complained.

"Why?" Helena had retorted. "I did not tell him how long it would take him to achieve his aim, did I?"

Their games of chess soon became a part of their daily routine -- while Mrs. Montagu went off to her room to have her afternoon sleep, her nephew and Helena were sitting together in Jeremy's room, Helena playing chess with Jeremy while Mr. Davies advised the boy whenever he needed advice -- an occasion which became rarer every day.

One day, Helena received a letter from Mrs. Carmichael, telling her how happy she was, how much she enjoyed being in London, and how sorry she was to hear that Jeremy was ill.

You should have seen my husband when he received Mr. Davies's letter that contained the news. He was wondering whether he should go back to Bath immediately, but I confess I dissuaded him. He will never be able to leave Bath without one or the other of his patients falling ill and needing his assistance, and Mr. Jarrett was certainly up to the task of helping young Jeremy. I am a selfish creature, I know, and you may hate me for it, but I do want to enjoy my wedding tour as long as I can, and I know once we return to Bath there will be no more honeymoon for us -- not for a very long time, at least.

I have had news from my family as well. They have returned to Edinburgh and are in good health, although my brother is in low spirits -- you can guess the reason why. He told me all about the last conversation he had with you, and though I feel very sorry for him I know you would not have rejected him without having a good reason for doing so. That said, I will touch the subject no more, you may rest assured.

Helena could not help but sigh in relief. She had worried what Mrs. Carmichael's reaction on her refusal to marry Mr. Mackay might be, and was glad to see that Mrs. Carmichael did not resent it. Helena would have been sorry to lose such a friend.

Another letter for Helena arrived some days later, from her sister this time. Grace informed her that her uncle had finally arrived in England, and that he meant to stay in London for a while -- six months at least.

We have not seen him yet, Helena, but he has sent us a most courteous letter, begging to be remembered to you and the boys. He wishes to meet all of us, but cannot do so before having settled down in London. I understand he has taken up residence in Berkeley Square. No doubt he will be able to do something for you and the boys -- having no children of his own, what will he do with all his fortune?

Helena put the letter aside in disgust. Could Grace think of nothing else but her uncle's fortune? What right had she to suppose that her uncle would divide his fortune among his brother's children? What had they done to deserve such generosity on his part? Nothing at all -- her father had hardly ever been in contact with his brother, and neither had they. How could they suppose that there was no one else entitled to Uncle Erpingham's fortune? Most of it was his wife's, anyway, so it would not be surprising if there were nephews and nieces on the other side of the Atlantic who were as much entitled to have it as they were, if not more so. Helena had never entertained any hopes as to an inheritance from her uncle, but apparently Grace had. Some people could never have enough.

After another week, Mr. Jarrett announced that the patient was no longer a threat to other people's health, and therefore Emily Hunter could reassume her duty in the sickroom. This was the point when Mrs. Montagu told Helena that now there would be no reason for her to nurse Jeremy any more.

"That maid has no more sense of duty than a cat," Mrs. Montagu said. "I wonder why Philip does not dismiss her. What is the use of a nurse if she does not care for the boy whenever he falls ill? There is no room for such people in my house," she added with a pointed look at Helena which she understood only too well.

Sometimes she wondered why she still stayed with Mrs. Montagu. There was nothing that kept her there, certainly. But then she realised that there was something -- or someone -- that made her stay in Bath. Mr. Davies. He was everything she had ever wanted in a man -- good-natured, gentle, generous, intelligent -- and handsome, one could not deny it. Helena had to admit to herself that he had made a greater impression on her than she had been aware of. Her heartbeat quickened when he spoke to her, and her eyes inadvertently followed him whenever he was in the same room with her. She thoroughly enjoyed his company, and was certain that she would miss him sorely, were she to leave. Yet she was reluctant to acknowledge her love for him.

Helena knew that nothing would ever come of it, and she had to be careful. If Mrs. Montagu found out what she felt for Mr. Davies, she would instantly dismiss her -- or take her away from Bath, at least. Besides, Mr. Davies certainly had better options for marriage than her - being who he was, he could pick and choose among the finest ladies in Bath society, and would not have to fall back on his aunt's penniless companion. Helena reminded herself that she ought not to mistake Mr. Davies's kindness for anything other but gratitude and -- maybe -- friendship. She ought to be content with that. So why was she not?

~~~o~~~

Even though Emily Hunter had resumed her duty with Jeremy, Philip spent as much time as possible with his son. Jeremy had complained that Emily's company was tedious, and though he was fond of Emily, he infinitely preferred his father to be with him. So Philip spent most of his afternoons in Jeremy's room, playing cards, chess or chequers and talking a great deal. Philip had always known that Jeremy was a bright child, but only now he fully realised Jeremy's intelligence. He was quick and perceptive, and sometimes asked Philip questions that startled him, questions that were not usually asked by children of Jeremy's age. Nevertheless Philip answered the questions honestly. He had noticed that Jeremy could see through him easily, and that there was no use trying to deceive him.

One afternoon, Jeremy suddenly said, "Did you ever hate me, Father?" He watched his father's reaction to the question closely, as if he could find the answer by looking at him. When Philip had regained his ability to speak, he said, "Why on earth should I hate you, Jeremy?"

"Because my mother died when I was born," Jeremy said quietly. "Geoffrey Halston said so the other day, or I would never have thought so myself. He said that you hated me, had always hated me, and had no fonder wish than to get rid of me. He said that was why you were going to send me to school."

"And you believed him?" Philip asked, now thoroughly upset.

"Not really," Jeremy said calmly. "That was why I hit him, you see. I could not bear hearing him talk of you in such a way."

"I think he deserved that black eye after all," Philip said. "Listen, Jeremy, it is a ghastly thing to say and what is more, it is a blatant lie. Next time he says anything like that, you have my permission to box his ears as much as you like."

"I thought he was lying, at first," Jeremy said. "But then I thought, even though you might not hate me now, you might have hated me once. When I was little."

Philip looked at his son, aghast. What was he to say in answer to that? He remembered the moment when his mother had placed the baby in his arms, for the first time -- at the same time telling him that he should prepare for the worst, that Louisa might not live through the night. The feeling of repulsion that had, for one moment, overcome him -- until the baby in his arms had opened his eyes and had looked at him. Those had been Louisa's eyes ... and how could he possibly hate something that was so much a part of her? From then on, Philip had regarded Jeremy as a precious gift, something Louisa had left behind to give him a reason for living -- and, in those first weeks, he had needed a reason to go on.

"Jeremy," he said slowly, "when your mother died, I was not myself. I was stunned, and desperate, and I could not think clearly. But I never blamed you for what had happened, and I did not hate you. Does that answer your question?"

"I think it does," Jeremy said, took his hand and squeezed it comfortingly. "I have seen you sad lots of times, Father," he continued. "I often thought you were sad because of me. I thought I might have done something wrong, and you were sad because of that."

Philip gave a short laugh. "Have I ever been amiss in telling you when you have done anything wrong?" he asked.

Jeremy laughed. "No," he admitted. "But you know what, Father? I would really like to see you happy for a change."

I would really like to see you happy for a change. These words haunted Philip for the remainder of the day, and were constantly on his mind when he finally retired to his room in the evening.

When had Jeremy ever seen him happy, Philip wondered, and realised that he had probably never done so. Ever since Louisa's death, Philip had forbidden himself to feel anything. He would have considered happiness an unforgivable disloyalty to his wife. He had been so absorbed with his grief, with his loss, that what was still there for him to enjoy had been simply pushed aside. Instead of being grateful for what he had, he had mourned what he had lost -- had cherished his misery, expected other people to pity him, and had refused to get on with his life.

"Pathetic," Philip said aloud. Had anyone in his acquaintance behaved in such a way as he had done in those past eight years, that person could have been sure of his disdain -- at least, the old Philip Davies, the one he had been when Louisa was still alive, would have scorned such behaviour.

"You'd better face it," Philip said to himself. "You have wasted eight, nearly nine years of your life, and have ruined your son's childhood into the bargain. Congratulations."

Things could not go on that way, Philip decided. Louisa was dead, and nothing could bring her back. Were she to watch over him and Jeremy, she would be dismayed at what she saw. "But it is not for her sake I am going to change," Philip said. "I am going to change for mine. Get yourself a life, Philip Davies, will you?"

~~~o~~~

On walking into the breakfast parlour, Helena found Mr. Davies already there and giving her a radiant smile.

"Good morning, Miss Erpingham," he said, rising and getting a chair ready for her. "I hope you have slept well."

"Thank you, sir," Helena said, surprised and pleased with Mr. Davies's cordial manner.

"I was wondering whether you might want to join us, Miss Erpingham," Mr. Davies continued. "With Mr. Jarrett's permission, I am going to take Jeremy into town this morning. I am planning to treat him to some chocolate and cake at Molland's. What do you say?"

"This is very kind of you, sir," Helena said, "and I would love to join you, but I am afraid Mrs. Montagu will object. She wants me to accompany her to the Pump Room." She could see the disappointment in Mr. Davies's eyes, and wished her time were at her own disposal.

"Some other time, perhaps?" Mr. Davies asked hopefully.

"When Mrs. Montagu does not need me, I will be most happy to oblige," Helena said with a smile.

"Knowing that my aunt depends on your company nearly all the time, I see there is no hope for me," Mr. Davies said. "Jeremy will be disappointed. He really wanted you to come along."

"Tell him I will come to play chess with him in the afternoon, when Mrs. Montagu is having her nap," Helena answered.

"Playing chess with my son when I cannot be there to watch his progress?" Mr. Davies asked, grinning. "Admit it! He is planning to crush me at the next opportunity."

"He has had no other thought these past days," Helena said. "Ambition is a desirable characteristic in a child. You have every reason to be proud of your son, sir."

"I know," Mr. Davies said, with a smile. "I hope he knows I am."

"I think he does," Helena replied earnestly. "And he has every reason to be proud of you, too." Mr. Davies looked at her with an odd smile, and reached out his hand as if to take hers -- but as the door opened and Mrs. Montagu entered the room, he drew it back. Yet, Mrs. Montagu stared at them as if she had caught them doing something improper. That she did think so became evident when she talked to Helena that evening, while they were alone in the drawing room.

"I do not know what your plans are, Miss Erpingham, but be warned. I will not allow my nephew to get caught in your clutches."

"I beg your pardon?" Helena asked calmly.

"I have got eyes, Miss Erpingham," Mrs. Montagu said. "I see things. No doubt gratitude makes my nephew blind -- he dotes on that boy, and I admit your befriending him was the perfect strategy to win Philip's heart. But I, Miss Erpingham, will know what to do about it. Leave my nephew alone, or your will live to regret it. What will he do with the penniless daughter of a worthless, irresponsible gamester and suicide? Do you really think his family would consent to such a match?"

"Have you insulted me enough?" Helena asked, coldly. "For if you have, Madam, I would like to retire for the night."

"You do not like to hear the truth, do you?" Mrs. Montagu said nastily. "You may think that marriage with my nephew is your ticket to security. But I will thwart your plans --I will not allow my nephew to throw himself away."

Seething with anger, Helena got up from her seat. "Mrs. Montagu, I think it will be better if I leave my post," she said. "I may have suffered humiliation at times without saying anything, and I may have put up with your temper, Madam. It was my duty to do so. But I will not, I repeat, NOT tolerate this. You forget who I am, Mrs. Montagu. I am Miss Helena Erpingham of Erpingham Hall, the daughter of Sir Paul Erpingham. I do not think Mr. Davies would be throwing himself away if he ever offered for me -- which, I suppose, he will never do. Your accusations are false, Madam, and if you had the least bit of sense you would never have uttered them. I believe you owe me my salary for four months, which I expect you will give me tomorrow morning. As far as I know, the London coach leaves at eight o'clock. I will be travelling on that coach, Madam. Good night."

Blind with unshed tears, Helena left the drawing room and went upstairs to her room, sending a servant to bring her trunks. She packed her things feverishly, hardly pausing to think. On closing the lid of her trunk, one thought suddenly occurred to her. She could not go without taking leave of Mr. Davies and Jeremy.

Quietly, she opened the door of her room and went over to Jeremy's. She knocked at the door, and opened it. A candle was burning on the bedside table, and Jeremy turned to her.

"Miss Erpingham," he said quietly. "Are you not asleep? I heard you go to your room some time ago; I thought you might be sleeping already."

"Not without wishing you a good night," Helena said, wiping the tears from her eyes.

Jeremy sat up in his bed. "You are crying, Miss Erpingham," he said quietly.

"Only a bit," Helena said.

"But why?" Jeremy asked.

"I have to leave," Helena said. "I am going to leave Bath tomorrow morning."

"But you cannot leave!" Jeremy exclaimed. "What are we going to do without you?"

"Jeremy, you and your father have been doing very well before you have met me, and you will go on doing well. Please do not think you need me. You do not, Jeremy. Life will go on without me."

"No, it won't," Jeremy said stubbornly. "Why do you have to leave, anyway? Has old Aunt Montagu been mean to you?"

"I had a quarrel with her, Jeremy, and I have said things I should not have said. I got angry, you see? Now I cannot stay with her any longer."

"Where are you going?"

"I do not know," Helena said, with a sad smile. "America?"

"What are you doing in America when we need you here?" Jeremy exclaimed. "Let the Americans fend for themselves! They do not need you, but we do!"

"We, Jeremy?" Helena asked.

"Yes, we. My father and me. Stay, Miss Erpingham. You can stay as my nursemaid if you want to. I will tell my father to fire Emily. Or he can fire Mrs. Doyle. No one needs her anyway."

Despite herself, Helena had to laugh. "Jeremy, it is not that easy," she said. "I cannot work as a nursemaid or housekeeper for your father. People would talk, you see. Besides, consider, if Mrs. Doyle left, Mephisto would go with her. Would you want that?"

"If I could have you instead, I would not mind," Jeremy said. "Why would people talk if you stayed?"

"Neither your father nor I are married," Helena said. "If we lived in the same house, people would think...it would not be proper."

Jeremy thought for a moment, and then broke into a radiant smile. "Now I know, Miss Erpingham. You could marry my father! What do you say? I could get him to ask you, you know. Just tell me to."

Helena shook her head. "That, my dear boy, is out of the question," she said quietly. "Just imagine what people might say. Besides, I would not want him to marry me for your sake."

"Don't you like him, Miss Erpingham?" Jeremy asked.

"I like him very much, Jeremy. I love you both but ... it cannot be. If your father married me just to please you, it would make him unhappy, and he so deserves to be happy."

Jeremy nodded. "Then there is nothing left to say but good-bye, Miss Erpingham," he said sadly. "I wish you could stay."

Helena embraced the boy, with tears in her eyes. "I wish so, too," she sobbed. "Good bye, Jeremy. You will always be in my heart." She left the room, and for a moment considered going downstairs to see whether Mr. Davies was still up -- but she did not want him to see her in tears. Tomorrow morning, when I have calmed down a bit, Helena thought. I will take leave then.

Helena hardly slept that night. She lay awake, pondering. She did not know how to break the news to Mr. Davies. How she could tell him why she was leaving without speaking ill of Mrs. Montagu she did not know, and she was afraid that he would take her sudden departure as an insult to himself -- and their friendship. Her heart ached at the thought of leaving him behind.

At six o'clock, Helena rose from her bed and dressed slowly. Then she packed her remaining clothes, and went downstairs to the housekeeper's parlour to take leave of Mrs. Doyle, putting off her last encounter with Mr. Davies for as long as she could. She spent a quarter of an hour with Mrs. Doyle, having breakfast in her company, until Mrs. Montagu's dresser interrupted them and handed Helena a purse with money, expressing her disapproval at Helena's behaviour in no uncertain terms.

"Is Mrs. Montagu up," Helena asked indifferently. "I want to say good-bye to her."

"Things have come to a pretty pass," the indignant servant replied sharply, "when Mrs. Montagu rises a moment earlier than she is wont to do for her companion's sake."

"I thought so," Helena said coolly. "Please give her my thanks and tell her I will write to her as soon as I have reached London. My best wishes for her future." She arose. "I had better take leave of Mr. Davies now," she said quietly. "Good bye, Mrs. Doyle, and give my love to Mephisto!"

Mrs. Doyle, sobbing into her handkerchief, promised to do so, and held the door open for Helena to leave. Helena went up the stairs and, after having been informed that Mr. Davies was up and having breakfast, Helena entered the breakfast parlour for the very last time. She had another five minutes before she had to leave.

Mr. Davies gave Helena a surprised look as he saw her enter the room, dressed for travelling. "Are you going out so early, Miss Erpingham?" he asked her after having wished her a good morning.

"I have to," Helena said, putting up a brave smile. "Mr. Davies, I came here to thank you for everything you have done for me, and to take leave. Let me assure you that I will always remember you and Jeremy as friends."

"Miss Erpingham, you are not leaving, are you?" There was an anxious ring to his voice.

"Actually, this is what I am doing, sir," Helena said. "Things have occurred, sir, which have made it impossible for me to stay here with your aunt. I have handed in my notice yesterday, and now I am leaving."

"I cannot say I blame you," Mr. Davies said sadly. "After all, I have seen the way my aunt has treated you often enough, and I have always admired your patience. My aunt's manners are enough to upset a saint. Yet do not make any hasty decisions, Miss Erpingham. Sit down and reconsider -- there must be another way. Stay in Bath! My sister will be happy to take you in." He looked into her eyes. "Please!"

Helena shook her head. "I cannot," she said. "As matters stand, your sister's assistance to me would only lead to a quarrel between her and Mrs. Montagu. The last thing I want is to cause a family quarrel, Mr. Davies. There is nothing for me to do but leave."

"Is there nothing I can do to make you stay?" Mr. Davies asked, sounding rather desperate.

"I am afraid there is not," Helena said sadly. "Good bye, Mr. Davies." She turned around, ready to leave the room, when she heard his swift steps come towards her and felt his hand on her shoulder.

"Let us not part this way," he said softly and made her turn to face him again. He lightly caressed her cheek and said, "You have not seen the last of me yet."

"Please, Mr. Davies, don't," Helena said, turning away abruptly, trying hard to swallow her sobs. "It makes things only more painful. I have never wanted it..." She broke off, not believing what she had nearly said. I have never wanted it to end this way. Somehow, Mr. Davies looked as if he had understood what she had wanted to say. Unable to say anything more, she turned around and fled. On closing the door, she heard him say, very quietly, "Good bye, Helena."

~~~o~~~

Unable to continue his breakfast, Philip rose, pacing around the room agitatedly. He should have seen it coming, he thought. When Aunt Montagu had told him the evening before that "Miss Erpingham was not feeling well", he should have known. Helena's departure was Aunt Montagu's fault, Philip was certain, and he wondered what his aunt had said to her to make her so unwilling to stay a moment longer than she had to. Had it been because of him? Philip remembered what his aunt had said to him when Jeremy had been ill -- that women like Helena would "do anything to make him feel beholden to them". Had she said something to that effect to Helena? He would not put it past her, and it would explain Helena's reaction when he had tried to take her in his arms. Did she think he did not love her? Or did she believe that he had no serious intentions concerning her? He had to convince her, somehow, that his aunt's -- or anyone else's -- opinion did not matter to him. What he wanted was to be with Helena. He was meant to be with her. But first of all, Philip thought, realising the fatal mistake he had made, first of all you will have to find out where she has gone. Why did you not ask her, you idiot?

Part Fifteen

Philip left the breakfast room and went to library. He needed to think, and the very last thing he wanted was to be disturbed, least of all be disturbed by Aunt Montagu. He had half a mind to tell her what he thought of her behaviour, only he knew that he could just as well keep his opinion to himself, as Aunt Montagu was not likely to listen. She would not care, either.

Where was Helena going? There were not many places where she could go, Philip realised. Her sister, the odious Lady Woodward (for odious she had to be, Philip decided, or Helena would not prefer living with someone like Aunt Montagu to living with her) was unlikely to welcome her sister back in her house. Helena had once told him how her sister had reacted on her decision to be Mrs. Montagu's companion.

Even if Lady Woodward welcomed her sister back -- which she might well do, after all people would talk -- the position Helena had in her house would be nowhere near desirable. No, her going back to Hilmerton Park was highly unlikely.

That friend of hers who had recommended Helena? What was her name? She lived in Wells, Helena had once said, and was acquainted with Aunt Montagu. Too bad he could not ask Aunt Montagu about her -- she seemed determined to keep him and Helena apart, so she was not likely to give him any information that could lead him to Helena. Mrs. H..., her name started with an H, Philip thought, but the name had escaped his memory for the moment. A glance at the clock reminded Philip that it was time for his morning visit in Jeremy's room, something he dreaded for the first time. How was he to break the news to the boy?

As he entered the room, however, he was relieved of that worry when he found out that Jeremy had, apparently, already known Helena would leave.

"She has gone, hasn't she?" he asked his father calmly, the moment he came into the room. "I saw her leave."

Philip nodded. "I am afraid she has," he said.

Jeremy gave him an interested look. "You look upset," he said. "Does this worry you?"

"Of course it does," Philip said, and suddenly exclaimed, "Where can she be?"

"America, maybe," Jeremy said calmly.

"America? Do not talk nonsense, Jeremy. How could she get there, I wonder, and with whom ... hold on!" He stopped short, something in his mind telling him that America was a likely option. Helena had an uncle living in Savannah, Georgia, had she not?

"She said so, you know, so it is not nonsense," was Jeremy's offended answer.

"She said so? When, Jeremy?" Philip asked. Jeremy noticed the change in his father's voice. Now he did not sound so very much upset, but he did sound urgent.

"She came here yesterday evening to take leave," he therefore said.

"And she said she was going to America?" Philip asked, his mind racing. At this moment, she might be on her way to Southampton. Though why she might be going there was a mystery to him. Would it not be more convenient for her to travel to Bristol and board a ship there?

"She said she did not know where she would be going, but she said she might perhaps go to America," Jeremy said. "I told her to stay here, because we needed her, but she said she could not stay because people would talk." He gave his father a sharp look. "Why would they talk, Father?"

Philip, taken aback by the question, simply said, "I will tell you when you are older, Jeremy. You may not understand it yet. Just as much -- people are malicious. Now, did she really say she was going to America?"

"No, she said she did not know where she was going. She just mentioned America as a possibility."

"Her uncle," Philip said. "She may have gone to her uncle's. But she cannot board a vessel all by herself! This is madness!"

"She need not, or does she?" Jeremy asked.

"Of course, if she wants to go to Georgia," Philip said, but then broke into a grin. "No, you are right. She need not -- or not yet. Her uncle is in England at the moment. -- Jeremy, what would you say if..." He paused. Was he doing the right thing?

"What would you say if I brought her back?" He watched his son anxiously, wondering whether Jeremy knew how much depended on his answer.

"That would be splendid!" Jeremy exclaimed. "Do! You will, won't you?"

"I will try," Philip said with a relieved smile. "I will certainly try. -- Jeremy, I will have to leave for a while, but I am afraid I cannot take you with me. What do you think; do you want to stay with Aunt Emma while I am gone?"

"Does it have to be Aunt Emma?" Jeremy asked. "Can I not stay here? Emily will look after me, and Mrs. Doyle, too."

"I had rather have your aunt look after you, Jeremy," Philip said.

"I suppose there is a price to pay for everything," Jeremy said wisely. "Fine. I will stay with Aunt Emma if you promise me to bring Helena back."

"I will do my best," Philip said. "Now I will have to go and talk Aunt Emma into taking you in."

"Don't bother if she doesn't want me," Jeremy said. "I can think of better things than staying in the same house with Uncle Howard for days."

Weeks, more likely, Philip thought but did not say so.

~~~o~~~

After a long and strenuous journey of two days, Helena reached London by nightfall. During her voyage, she had had ample opportunity to regret the step she had taken. Perhaps she should have stayed in Bath after all, she thought. Philip ... Mr. Davies had been most anxious to keep her there, and coming to think of it, had it not been for Mrs. Montagu, the prospect would have pleased her. But she could not allow Philip ... Mr. Davies to relinquish his family for her sake. She was not worth the sacrifice.

The mail coach stopped, and Helena got off. The coachman was so kind as to help her find a hackney, and loaded her trunks onto it. Helena was sorry she could not give him much by way of a tip, he had been her protector during the journey -- a tall, stout man in his fifties, and he had treated her as if she were his own daughter.

"Good luck, Miss," he called after her as the hackney coach left him behind. Good luck, Helena thought. I am definitely going to need it. She had left Bath in a hurry, and had not once stopped to consider whether her uncle would actually want her. Well, she would see soon.

They arrived at Berkeley Square, and the coachman turned to her. "What address, Miss?" he demanded to know. Helena did not have the slightest idea. Grace had only told her that her uncle had taken a house in Berkeley Square, but she had not mentioned which house it was.

"You do not happen to know where Captain Erpingham's lodgings are, do you?" she asked with what she hoped was a winning smile.

"Nah, Miss, I've no idea," the coachman said. "So, where shall I set you down? I haven't got all evening!"

Helena noticed a servant girl carrying some baskets towards a house, and called out to her. The girl turned around, and came up to the carriage.

"Can I help you, Miss?" she asked.

"I hope you can," Helena said. "Are you employed in one of these houses?"

"Yes, Miss, in Number Twelve, just over there," the girl said.

"Can you tell me which of these houses is Captain Erpingham's? He must have moved in quite recently," Helena said.

"Moved in recently, you say?" the girl asked. "It must be the one over there, then. An American gentleman is said to have taken it."

"Excellent!" Helena exclaimed, thanked the girl and gave her a shilling for her pains. The coachman, obviously glad to get rid of her, set down her trunks and, after Helena had paid him, lost no time in leaving. Nervously, Helena rang the doorbell.

A dignified-looking butler opened. "Good evening," he said, in a questioning tone, looking Helena up and down. "What can I do for you, Ma'am?"

"Is this Captain Erpingham's residence?" Helena asked.

"Yes, it is," the butler replied.

"I am Captain Erpingham's niece," Helena said. "Will you tell him that I am here to see him?"

"I am afraid Captain Erpingham has gone out," the butler said.

"Then perhaps Mrs. Erpingham will see me," Helena said, careful not to betray how desperate she was.

"Mrs. Erpingham has also gone out," the butler said.

"Let me in nevertheless," Helena said determinedly. "I will wait."

"I am not sure whether..." the butler began.

"I have not come here to listen to your insolence," Helena said sharply. "Let me in, and show me into a room where I can wait for Captain Erpingham -- or you will live to regret it. Do you think the Captain will congratulate you on turning his niece from the house?"

Reluctantly, the butler stepped aside and let her enter the house. "Someone should take care of my trunk," Helena said.

"Certainly, Miss," the butler said dryly and opened a door. "If Miss would like to wait in here?"

Helena entered a drawing room. There was no fire in the grate, however, and the room was cold. Apparently, no one was going to sit there this evening, Helena thought. She hoped either her uncle or her aunt would come back home soon. She sat down on one of the sofas, keeping her pelisse and gloves on and only taking her bonnet off. Soon a housemaid entered, bringing a tray with sandwiches and a teapot.

"Mrs. Skinner sends her compliments," she said and curtsied. "She said you must be famished. Captain Erpingham may not be back for a while, so..."

"Thank you very much," Helena said. "Tell me, who is Mrs. Skinner. The cook?"

"Yes, Miss," the girl said. "She and Mr. Robson are sort of quarrelling as to who has the managing of the house when the Captain and Mrs. Erpingham are not around."

"Then I suppose Mrs. Skinner has sent me the sandwiches to spite Mr. Robson?" Helena asked with a grin.

"Could be," the girl said. "But she really thought you must be hungry, Miss."

"How right she was!" Helena sighed. "Tell her I am very much obliged."

With a curtsy, the girl left Helena to her own devices. The sandwiches were delicious, and the tea did much to restore her to warmth and optimism. Only for a few moments did Helena think of the wonderful evenings in Philip's drawing room in Bath, when Mrs. Montagu had gone to bed and she had been left alone with Philip, to play chess or simply talk...

Helena froze. She had distinctly heard the front door open and shut, and she heard a voice she recognised only too well -- it was the same voice as her father's, and for a moment she had the impression that it was her father, returning from the grave.

She heard the butler's -- Robson's -- explanation, "There is a young lady to see you, sir. She claims to be your niece."

"I had better see her then. Where is she?"

"I took the liberty to show her into the drawing room, sir," the butler replied.

"The drawing room? Are you planning to deprive me of my entire family? It is freezing cold in there! Show her into the study -- I will be with her in a couple of minutes."
Helena heard some quick steps ascending the stairs, and the drawing room door opened to admit the butler.

"Captain Erpingham will see you in a few minutes," he said coldly. "If you would follow me, please?"

He took Helena to another room, a room lined with bookshelves -- the study. A blazing fire was in the grate, and Helena sat down in the armchair nearest to it. She closed her eyes, enjoying the warmth...

"You must have a long journey behind you!" her father's voice said right next to her. Helena started and opened her eyes. Was it possible that she had dropped off to sleep?

"I did not mean to frighten you," the gentleman standing next to her said with a smile. "You must be Helena. I admit you look very much like your father -- I would have recognised you as his daughter anywhere."

"Uncle?" Helena asked.

"Quite," he said with a smile. Even though his voice was like her father's, his looks were not, Helena thought. Sir Paul Erpingham had been a rather short, wiry, energetic man. Captain Erpingham was taller, more powerfully built, and his hair was fuller than his brother's. He did not look his age, Helena thought. His hair was black, with only a few grey hairs at the temples.

"I am not going to bother you with questions tonight," he continued, smiling at her, "seeing how exhausted you are. I thought you were staying with friends in Bath, or so your sister has told me. I suppose something must have happened that made you leave the place in a hurry -- or you would not turn up on my doorstep, with no one to bear you company, not even a servant. -- No, no explanations tonight, if you please. Get a good night's sleep before you tell me."

His accent was different from her father's too, Helena thought. One could tell that he had spent the past twenty-something years abroad.

"Your aunt is not at home tonight," he said. "Charlotte has been invited to dine with some friends of hers and they will go to the opera later -- this is why I am here, I am not really fond of the opera." He laughed. "Unfortunately, I have an appointment as well, and I will have to leave you soon -- I believe, however, that you will not need my company tonight. You look shattered, if I may say so. Hannah will take good care of you."

He rang a bell, and told the maidservant Helena already knew to send Hannah to see him.

"Hannah is your aunt's lady's maid," he said. "You need not be afraid of her -- she does look formidable, but she has a heart of gold."

The door opened, and an imposing female entered the room. She was dressed in white, and wore a turban -- and had the blackest face Helena had ever seen. For the first time, Helena realised that her uncle might be a slaveholder.

"Hannah," Uncle Erpingham said, "this is my niece, Miss Helena Erpingham. She has just arrived from Bath and is in desperate need of some sleep. Will you take care that Miss Erpingham gets everything she needs?"

"Mrs. Erpingham did not mention anything about a niece of yours coming to visit, sir," Hannah said sharply, eyeing her master suspiciously. Helena was not certain whether a slave was allowed to use that tone with her master. It did not seem to upset her uncle overly much, though.

"Mrs. Erpingham did not know," he said, something like exasperation ringing in his voice. "I did not know either, or I would have told you in time. Now get a bedroom prepared for her, and get the girl something to eat -- she must be starving," he said.

"Actually, I had some sandwiches while I was waiting for you," Helena said.

"Sandwiches," Uncle Erpingham snorted derisively. "I was talking about a decent meal."

He turned to Hannah again. "I hope Miss Erpingham will not lack anything while I am gone," he said. "Anyone lacking in respect towards her will have to bear the consequences. -- Good night, Helena," he said, smiling. "We will talk tomorrow."

With these words, he left, and Helena was led to an elegant bedchamber where she was to spend the night.

~~~o~~~

"Will you stop sulking?" Aunt Montagu asked Philip. The past two days, Philip had ignored his aunt whenever he had been able to.

"I am not sulking," Philip said.

"Of course you are. Ever since that gold digger has left the house, you have not spoken a single word to me unless you had to. Can't you see that I did this for the best?"

"No," Philip said frankly. "I cannot remember having asked you to interfere with my personal affairs, Aunt."

"Your personal affairs?" Aunt Montagu snorted. "Did you ever consider the rest of us? It may be no concern of yours that we cannot show our faces in town any more because you choose to fall for a servant, but if I can prevent it, I will!"

"That you have shown quite clearly," Philip said angrily. "I shall only remind you that Miss Erpingham is a baronet's daughter, not a servant. If one of us is beneath the other, it will be me, not her. My father was not titled."

"Nor was he ruined," Aunt Montagu replied sharply. "Nor did he commit suicide and leave his family penniless."

"Nor is Miss Erpingham to blame for her father's actions," Philip said. "Listen, Aunt, I will have no more of this. You had better accept it -- I will ask Miss Erpingham to be my wife."

"If you find her," Aunt Montagu said maliciously.

"That will not be too difficult," Philip said, hoping he sounded convincing. "Besides, it is my concern, not yours. I am going to leave for London tomorrow morning. Jeremy will go and stay with Emma. As for you, you are of course welcome to stay here for a while -- although I hope you will be gone when I return with Helena. I cannot really expect her to offer you hospitality in her house. Not after all you have done to her."

"HER house?" Mrs. Montagu exclaimed. "She offer me hospitality? Has it come to that? You may rest assured that I will be gone if you bring her back here, and I will never pass that threshold of yours again as long as I live! Should you have the audacity to marry her, Philip, you will no longer be a member of my family, do you hear? I had planned to leave Newark House to you -- but I will change my will first thing tomorrow. You cannot expect me to let her become mistress of my house when I am gone!"

"Newark House is yours to give to whomever you wish," Philip said calmly. "I have never wanted it, and I have never wanted your fortune either. If you want to disown me, feel free to do so -- I do not need you in any way. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a long journey before me, so I will go to bed. Do not trouble yourself to get up early to see me off, Aunt."

He rose and left the dining room before his aunt could answer. This was rather rude, Philip thought as he went upstairs to Jeremy's room, but nothing in comparison to what I might have said, had I stayed with Aunt Montagu any longer. If I cannot persuade Helena to marry me, it will be HER fault -- and I will never be able to forgive her if that happens. How could I forgive her for ruining my life?

Jeremy was already in bed and greeted him cheerfully. "Have you packed your trunks?" he asked him. "What are you going to do in London?"

Philip spent half an hour telling Jeremy about his plans in London -- he would stay with his friend, Colonel Templeton, who was well known in London society and who could easily introduce him to someone who knew Captain Erpingham. He had sent an express to him the previous day and had received an express in return, in which Templeton had assured him of his assistance. Then there were the Carmichaels, who would be able to help as well. Once he had gained access to Helena's circle...Philip stopped.

"Do you think she will come?" Jeremy asked quietly.

"I have no idea," Philip sighed. "But I do hope she will."

"I could come with you and help you, Father," Jeremy said. "She may not listen to you, but she may listen to me, you know."

Philip shook his head. "The journey would be too exhausting for you," he said. "You have not fully recovered yet. I want you to stay with Aunt Emma and be a good boy. Will you do that for me?"

Jeremy nodded. "But if she won't come," he said, "I will go to London and fetch her myself."

~~~o~~~

A good night's sleep had done Helena good, just as her uncle had predicted. When she awoke the next morning, she felt refreshed and ready to face her uncle. Though he had been surprised to see her, he had not acted as if she were unwelcome, she thought, and hoped that this was a good sign. Of course, her aunt would have a say in the matter as well. Helena did not know Aunt Charlotte, and therefore she dreaded meeting her for the first time, and having to tell her why she had imposed on them the way she had.

Aunt Charlotte was not inclined to censure her, however -- on the contrary, she bid her welcome with a radiant smile and asked her to feel at home in her house.

"It will be wonderful to have someone young around for a change," she said. "When your uncle told me you had arrived I was so happy! Finally someone to look after, I said to him! My dear girl, I will not let you leave us in a hurry, be warned!"

Helena thanked her with a shy smile, and turned to her breakfast. After breakfast, her uncle asked her to follow him to the study.

"So, why did you come to us in that hurried manner?" he asked. "What has happened?"

Helena told him the entire story -- the reasons for her reluctance to stay at Hilmerton Park with Grace and Sir James Woodward, her employment in Mrs. Montagu's household, her journey to Bath, Jeremy's illness, her growing friendship with Philip, and Mrs. Montagu's accusations.

"So you left because Mrs. Montagu accused you of improper behaviour," Uncle Erpingham said.

"Partly," Helena said. "I also left because she insulted my family. She called my father a worthless, irresponsible gamester and suicide."

"I understand," Uncle Erpingham said. "I do not understand, however, why your sister lied to me. Why did she tell me you were staying with friends when you were actually working for this Mrs. Montagu?"

"I think she was ashamed of me," Helena said quietly.

"Should have been ashamed of herself, instead," Uncle Erpingham said. "Listen, my dear -- you can stay with us for as long as you want. Charlotte has always wanted a daughter -- she is delighted to have you here. I do not know whether you want to follow us to Savannah when we go back. I actually came here to ask your brother Frederick to come with us -- I have no son, and he could take over once I die, or get too old to see to my business myself. You can join us as well, but I will leave the choice to you. There might be a reason for you to stay in England." He gave Helena a searching look. "Or isn't there?"

Helena thought for a moment. She still hoped to meet Philip again, yet she knew there was no chance she could ever marry him without making him unhappy.

"I am not sure," she said quietly. "But I will think about it."

"Good," Uncle Erpingham said cheerfully, and sent Helena to "get properly acquainted with her aunt". For once, Helena thought, I seem to have found a place where I am welcome. So why am I not happy?
She knew the answer to that question, however. She missed Philip, more than she had ever missed anyone.

This will pass, Helena, she thought. Just wait. This too will pass.

Part Sixteen

Instead of passing, Helena's longing for Philip Davies grew worse. Whenever she saw a man who -- however slightly -- resembled him, her heart missed a beat, and although she kept telling herself that he would hardly leave his convalescent son behind to chase after her, she cherished the absurd hope that he would do so. Helena kept thinking about the last time they had met -- in the breakfast parlour in Pulteney Street -- and the way Philip had talked to her, and how he had touched her cheek -- lightly, caressingly. Sometimes she imagined what might have happened, had she consented to stay in Bath. Philip had been sincere in his entreaties, Helena had seen that in his eyes, and she had had to use all her resolve to wrench herself away from him. You have not seen the last of me yet, he had said, and the thought of meeting him again made Helena shiver, for she knew she could not vouch for her actions if she did. She imagined herself flying into Philip's arms upon seeing him, to the astonishment of everyone present as well as -- most likely -- his.

Helena was not aware that her thoughts and fears were reflected in her face and eyes, and that her Aunt Charlotte kept a close, anxious watch on her.

"It is enough to make one cry," she said to her husband one evening when Helena had retired to her room. "She does not confide in me, for which I do not blame her, she barely knows me after all. Yet I am her aunt, and I so wish to be of any use to her! Mind you, if it is not some young man or other who is responsible for the poor girl's state of mind, my name is not Charlotte Erpingham! I wish I could get my hands on the fellow -- how can he torment her so?"

"I think it is Helena who torments herself," Captain Erpingham replied calmly. "Either she has fallen in love with a man who does not return her feelings, which made her run away from him to avoid making a fool of herself -- or she ran away because he does love her and her courage has failed her. One way or the other, the matter will be resolved soon. I have a suspicion regarding said gentleman's identity." He smiled. "Though one need not be a genius to find out."

"Thank you very much," Mrs. Erpingham said stiffly. "I have no idea whom you can mean. But if you know who he is, why don't you go and talk to him? Why don't you seek him out and make him do what is right?"

"My dear, I have no inclination to meddle in other people's love affairs," Captain Erpingham said.

"You should! Just look at how miserable the poor girl is! It is your duty to settle her affairs for her! You are her uncle, and you have taken her father's place. What would your brother have done in your stead?"

"Paul?" Captain Erpingham laughed bitterly. "Paul would have done nothing at all! He always put his own interests first. He would have been glad that the whole affair had come to nothing, for his daughter would have stayed with him and saved him the expense of a housekeeper. Not to mention her dowry, which would have remained safely in his pocket - until his next visit to London, where he would have gambled it away. This is what Helena's father would have done."

Mrs. Erpingham gave her husband a shocked, incredulous look. "I cannot believe anyone could be so heartless!"

"You have never met my brother," Captain Erpingham said grimly. "I grew up with him." He sighed. "Very well," he said soothingly. "If we do not hear from the gentleman I am thinking about these two weeks, which is what I expect will happen, I shall make a short trip to Bath. Happy, my dear?"

"It is the least thing you can do," Mrs. Erpingham said resolutely. "If only I could do something to cheer the poor girl up!" Then a smile spread on her face. "Bath, you say? I believe now I have some idea as to the gentleman's identity, too."

"You see?" Captain Erpingham said smilingly. "I told you it was not difficult to find out."

~~~~o~~~~

Philip had not seen his friend Colonel Templeton for years. The last time Templeton had been in Bath had been several years before, upon which occasion he had been shocked at his friend's secluded life. Having known him in his bachelor days, when Philip Davies had been known to be gregarious and never averse to a night out with his friends, his self-inflicted solitude had greatly dismayed Templeton. The more surprised he was that his friend had finally come to London, a place where he had not set foot ever since his wife's death, and was determined to get him out of his shell.

"So you have finally come out of hiding, have you?" he greeted Philip as he was ushered into his study.

Philip smiled. "I have never been in hiding."

"Oh, do come!" Templeton said. "Burying yourself in a place like Bath."

"Bath has its merits, Templeton."

"For the old and infirm, I grant you," Templeton said. "You are neither."

"You are wrong there," Philip said. "I have only just recovered."

"From what?"

"Being dead," Philip said dryly. "I woke up one day and realised I had not lived for eight years. I hope to catch up on things now."

"That's the spirit!" Templeton grinned. "And I am to help you there?"

"If you can," Philip said, smilingly. "I told you in my letter I have come here in search of one Captain Erpingham, a former Navy officer."

"Is he in any way related to Sir Paul Erpingham?" Templeton asked. "I used to know him - not very well, mind you, a nodding acquaintance, but nevertheless I knew him. Unfortunately he won't be much help in this affair."

"That I know," Philip said. "Yes, the Captain is a relation of Sir Paul's. He is his brother."
"I see," Templeton said. "I will see what I can do -- in making inquiries among Sir Paul's friends. But why do you not make use of your Navy connections, Davies?"

"My Navy connections?" Philip asked. "What are you talking about, pray?"

"Your grandfather was an admiral, wasn't he?"

"So what? My grandfather has been dead these twenty years. I am afraid he will offer us as much assistance as Sir Paul Erpingham."

"Surely some of your grandfather's friends are still around? Captain Erpingham may know them. You know how those Navy fellows stick together..."

"Which is a thing the Army fellows would not even think of," Philip said, grinning. "You have got a point, but the problem is that I am not acquainted with any of my grandfather's friends, except old Captain Urquart, who was in Bath and very much inclined to stay there last time I saw him."

"Pity. - As I said, I will see what I can do to throw you in Captain Erpingham's way," Templeton said. "But why this eagerness to meet him?"

Philip smiled. "Explaining this to you now will take more time than I have on my hands at the moment," he said. "I have yet to go and see the Carmichaels, you know."

"Very well then," Templeton said, laughingly. "I will expect a full confession tonight, when you dine with me."

"Did I say I'd dine with you?" Philip asked.

"No, but I expect you to," Templeton laughed. "Don't you dare to refuse, Davies -- this is not the way to treat one's old friends."

"I did not say I'd refuse either," Philip said. "When do you want me to come?"

"Will seven o'clock be convenient?"

"Perfect," Philip said and rose. "I hope you will be able to get at some acquaintance of Captain Erpingham's until then."

"You're not one to put people under pressure, are you?" Templeton said, laughingly.

"No," Philip said. "I do not call this pressure. Encouragement is the word."

"You would have done well in the Army," Templeton said.

"Had I ever shown any inclination towards a military profession, I'd have ended up in the Navy," Philip said. "One has to keep up with family tradition. I shall see you at seven o'clock!"

~~~~o~~~~

Helena felt like a spoilt child. Her aunt and uncle seemed determined to make amends for the months during which she had lived in straitened circumstances, showered her with presents and did their best to amuse her. Her aunt was determined to make the best of her stay in London, and to buy whatever modish things she could lay her hands on. Every expedition into London's shops ended with a huge amount of parcels being delivered to Berkeley Square, and Aunt Charlotte was inclined to spend quite as much money on Helena.

"Savannah is a lovely place," she once said to Helena, "but it is not London, of course. So I'll do what I can to outshine all my friends there when I come back home. It is one of the few pleasures one has. -- I think that lilac silk over there will suit you, my dear. Try it!"

"Aunt, I am still in mourning," Helena protested.

"Trim it with black lace then," Aunt Charlotte said. "Besides, my dear, you won't be in mourning forever, I hope." Then, without listening to Helena's protests, Aunt Charlotte ordered the lilac silk and bespoke an evening dress for her niece. Helena suffered her measurements to be taken, and though trying to dissuade her aunt from spending so much money on her, she had to admit that she liked the idea of getting new clothes.

Her uncle was just as generous as his wife. While Aunt Charlotte bought clothes, shoes, fans and other accessories for her niece, Captain Erpingham decided that Helena was in need of some jewellery. One morning, a prominent jeweller arrived in Berkeley Square to present his wares to Helena, and she was to choose among the trinkets. Helena would have been content to settle on the most reasonably priced pieces, just to please her uncle, but this would not do. Realising that his niece based her decisions on financial rather than other criteria, Captain Erpingham made her try on every single piece of jewellery and chose for her, despite her protestations that she could not allow him to spend such a staggering sum on her.

"Uncle, I cannot feel comfortable at the thought that you spend so much money on me," Helena said. "I did not come to London to take advantage of your generosity."

Captain Erpingham laughed. "Don't I know that?" he said. "Listen, Helena, what I give to you is given gladly, you can be sure of that."

"But you and Aunt Charlotte are spoiling me," Helena said.

"Let us spoil you while we can," Captain Erpingham simply answered, "and stop worrying."

The next day, some young women came to be inspected by Aunt Charlotte -- she had decided that her niece was in need of her own lady's maid.

"But why, Aunt?" Helena asked. "Hannah is doing very well!"

"Yes, Hannah is a gem," Aunt Charlotte said placidly. "But you need someone of your own, my dear. You cannot await my convenience every time. Do not worry, I will find the perfect girl for you."

So she did -- Dorothy Stevenson, a young woman about the same age as Helena, started her work in Berkeley Square the very next day, and Helena liked her immediately.

That evening, Captain Erpingham took his wife and niece to Drury Lane, to see The Merchant of Venice. For the first time since her father's death, Helena re-entered London society. Her memory of being an invisible companion was still fresh, and she was startled by the amount of attention that her appearance caused. She saw people turn their heads towards her, scrutinize her attire, and she heard their whispers. Her new apparel -- the lilac dress, an amethyst necklace and earrings, and an elaborate hairstyle -- did much to make people stare. Never before had Helena appeared in such splendour, and Helena knew she would be hardly recognisable, especially for people who had only known her as Mrs. Montagu's companion.

The more surprised she was when, during intermission, the door of her uncle's box was opened and in came the Carmichaels.

"See, I told you," Flora said to her husband. "The moment I saw her, I knew. Helena! How glad I am to see you! And how fine you look!"

Helena introduced her friends to her aunt and uncle, and spent some comfortable minutes chatting with Flora, while Mr. Carmichael exchanged pleasantries with her uncle. As they left, Flora promised to call on Helena the next day -- "for there are so many things I have to tell you!". Helena was eagerly looking forward to spending a morning in Flora's company, for most likely the Carmichaels had news from Bath - news from Philip.

~~~~o~~~~

"You saw her?" Philip asked eagerly. "What did she look like? Did she look well? Is she ... is she happy, do you think?"

Philip had called on the Carmichaels early and had been invited to breakfast with them.

He watched Mrs. Carmichael as she took a sip of her tea, obviously thinking about her answer.

"I am not sure..." she said.

"From the doctor's point of view, she looked well enough to me," Carmichael said with a smile.

"Good!" Philip said. "But why are you not sure, Mrs. Carmichael?"

"She did look healthy, and her aunt and uncle seem to be a decent sort," Mrs. Carmichael said slowly. "She was different, though, not the Helena I used to know. It may have been her appearance, of course, quite the grand lady, she was -- though not in her behaviour, she was just as amiable as she has always been. But she did not look happy, I think. What do you say, my dear?" She turned to her husband.

Carmichael shrugged. "I have never been a good judge as to that," he said.

"I will go and call on her today," Mrs. Carmichael said and smiled at Philip. "Shall I tell her that you are in London?"

Philip thought for a moment, then he shook his head. "No, not yet," he said. "I want to take her by surprise."

"You want to see what her reaction will be on seeing you so unexpectedly, you mean?" Mrs. Carmichael asked. "Very well, I shall not mention it, then. But I will invite her to dine with us." She smiled. "It will do her good to have a doctor nearby when she does see you here."

~~~~o~~~~

Aunt Charlotte was watching her with evident amusement as Helena was waiting for her visitor impatiently. She had seated herself at the writing desk at the window, to be able to catch a glimpse of the street below now and then, but instead of working on her letter to Cecy Harrington, she kept looking out of the window.

When, finally, the doorbell rang and Robson announced Mrs. Carmichael, Helena had already gone halfway to the door to meet her when Flora came in.

"Have you been waiting for me?" Flora asked. "I would have come earlier, only just as I wanted to set out, one of my husband's friends called on us, which is why I am so late."

"It does not matter," Helena said with what she hoped was a convincing smile. "Now tell me, what have you been up to these days?"

Flora lost no time in telling Helena everything she had done during her stay in London, and spent a quarter of an hour praising her husband and his generosity. After having listened patiently to everything Flora had said without hearing what she so wanted to know, Helena finally felt compelled to ask her.

"Flora...have you had any news from Bath?"

Flora hesitated for a moment, and then said, "My husband had a letter from Mr. Davies some days ago. He told us that Jeremy was getting better, and that he had been out of the house for the first time -- and that you had left."

"No more news?"

"None that I know of," Flora said. She gave Helena a searching look. "Is there any message you want me to convey to Bath?"

"A message? No, of course not," Helena said lightly, although she felt as if her heart might break. Had Philip said nothing to his friend, nothing except that Miss Erpingham had left? "I wrote to Mrs. Montagu when I had arrived in London, and I see no reason for me to correspond with her on a regular basis."

"Neither do I," Flora agreed.

"Coming to think of it," Helena said thoughtfully, "when your husband writes his next letter to Mr. Davies, do you think he could give my love to Jeremy?"

"I am certain he will do so," Flora said. "Now, Helena, and Mrs. Erpingham too, of course, I would be greatly honoured if you were to dine with us the day after tomorrow."

Aunt Charlotte declined the invitation -- she already had an appointment with a friend of hers -- but Helena accepted it gladly. Some time later, Flora left, and Helena returned to the writing desk again, ostentatiously proceeding with her letter to Cecy, but in reality pondering over Philip Davies.

~~~~o~~~~

Templeton had been successful, or so it seemed. Philip received a hurried note from him, informing him that, should he find it convenient to meet his friend at White's the following evening, he might get the chance to encounter Captain Erpingham there. So, after having dressed with rather more care than usual, Philip took a hackney to White's to meet Helena's uncle. He was not sure what he would say to Captain Erpingham once he did get the chance to talk to him. What would they talk about?

At White's, the porter took Philip to his friend Templeton.

"As you see, I have been very busy in your affairs, Davies," Templeton said by way of a greeting. "Apparently, your navy connections will help you."

"Indeed?" Philip asked. "In how far?"

"Captain Erpingham knew your grandfather," Templeton said. "What is more, he seems to have been rather fond of him. Sailed with him as a young lieutenant, actually."

"Which means?"

"Which means that he will be ... let us say ... inclined to meet the old Admiral's grandson. It will give you something to talk about. Unless you want to tell him about his niece's qualities right away, that is."

"Of course not," Philip said. "I do wonder, however, how he will recognise me as old Admiral Davies's grandson."

"Never mind about that. He will," Templeton said with a grin. "A friend of mine will see to that. Now have a glass of wine while we are waiting. Have you heard from your sweetheart?"

"Don't," Philip said fiercely. "You make it sound as if there were something offensive to my feelings for her."

"I am sorry, I did not mean to insult anyone, neither you nor your intended. Do you like that word better?"

"Much better. Although you cannot really call her my intended either."

"Yes, I can. You intend to marry her, after all. I did not say betrothed." Templeton smiled. "Now, have you heard of her?"

"The Carmichaels met her in the theatre," Philip said. "Including her aunt and uncle. Mrs. Carmichael went to see her yesterday morning, and she invited her to dine with them tomorrow evening. Which is when I will meet her."

"Does she know you are in London, then?"

"She has no idea," Philip said. "I want to surprise her."

"Good God! Do you think that is a good idea?"

"Yes, I do think so," Philip said. "I want to see for myself how she reacts on the news that I am in London."

"To what purpose?"

"I believe that her reaction will give me a clue as to how she will respond to my proposal," Philip said.

"You mean, if she turns away from you in disgust you need not bother to make her an offer of marriage."

"Precisely," Philip said, taking a sip of wine. "Though I flatter myself that she will not turn away from me in disgust."

"Then why all this secrecy?"

"I want to be sure," Philip simply said. Templeton's eyes turned to a group of gentlemen who had just entered the room. "There he is," he whispered. "Foley, the fellow who will introduce you to Captain Erpingham."

Some minutes later, two gentlemen came towards their table. One of them was in his mid-forties, and his weather-beaten face betrayed his profession - he had to be a sailor. The other man was older, and, if his clothing was anything to judge by, more affluent, too. The younger man turned to Templeton.

"You mentioned the other day that you were acquainted with Admiral Davies's grandson. Is this the gentleman you were talking about? Would you care to introduce us? We used to know the Admiral, and we have great respect for him."

Templeton, as if he had not been behind all this, graciously complied and introduced his friend, Mr. Foley, to Philip, and Foley proceeded by presenting Captain Erpingham.

"Your grandfather was indeed Admiral Davies?" Captain Erpingham asked and, as Philip confirmed this, continued, "An excellent man, your grandfather was. I had the honour to sail with him once -- he taught me a great deal. Did you know him?"

"Not very well," Philip admitted. "He was in active service, as you know, and died at sea, too. I only met him on those rare occasions when he spent some time ashore. But we were very fond of him." Philip smiled. "Rather proud of him, too."

"Mr. Davies," Captain Erpingham said, with an odd smile, "among your relatives, is there, by any chance, a lady by the name of Montagu?"

"Mrs. Montagu is my aunt, sir." Philip said.

"Then you are Mr. Philip Davies, resident in Pulteney Street, Bath?"

"So I am," Philip said. "You have heard about me, I gather."

"I have," Captain Erpingham said curtly. "I would have no objection to hearing some more, however. Would you care to join me for a glass of port over there?"

Nodding assent, Philip got up and followed Captain Erpingham to a secluded niche on the other side of the room. After having handed Philip a glass of port, Captain Erpingham took his seat opposite him and said, "Well?"

"What do you want me to tell you, sir?" Philip asked.

"Why did you come to London? That might do for a start," Captain Erpingham said.

"I came to London for the sole purpose of finding your niece, sir," Philip said. "She left Bath in a hurry, and whatever I said I could not persuade her to stay there."

"You wanted her to stay, then?"

"Very much so. What is more, I want her to come back," Philip said.

"Plain speaking. I like that in a man," Captain Erpingham said. "You want to marry my niece. Why?"

"Can anyone know Miss Erpingham and still ask why I want to marry her?" Philip retorted. "I love her, that is why."

"Your family's opposition does not weigh with you, then?"

"Who said anything about my family's opposition?"

"Helena said that Mrs. Montagu did not even like the thought of a match between you and her."

"Aunt Montagu has no say in my matters. As to my family - those people who really matter to me -- you can be certain that they will love your niece. My sister is already acquainted with her, and has assured me that she would be delighted to welcome her as her new sister-in-law. As to my brother, he will not object to the marriage either, for he wants to see me happy. My son...Jeremy loves Miss Erpingham as dearly as if she were his mother."

"Your wish to marry Helena has nothing to do with acquiring a new mother for your son?"

"If this were my only wish, sir, I might have remarried long ago," Philip said. "Of course Jeremy's well-being is foremost in my thoughts, and however much I love your niece, I could not marry her if Jeremy disliked her -- or if she disliked him. But the only reason for my wish to marry Miss Erpingham is that I love her. Jeremy has nothing to do with it."

"Since when have you been in London, sir?"

"I arrived some days ago," Philip said.

"Yet you did not try to see my niece."

"First, I had to find out where she was," Philip said. "She did not tell me where she was going when she left Bath. Then, I was not sure whether I would be welcome. After all my aunt has done to her, anyone reminding Miss Erpingham of her time as Mrs. Montagu's companion might be regarded a nuisance. I was planning to take my time, and to surprise her at one point. I am going to see your niece at Mrs. Carmichael's tomorrow evening, though."

"Does she know you will be there?"

"No, she does not. I asked Mrs. Carmichael not to tell her that I am in town."

Captain Erpingham gave Philip a close look. "I do not know why, but I like you," he finally said. "I confess I was planning to go to Bath and to see for myself why Helena left there. I am glad to see that this journey has become unnecessary. As for your intentions regarding my niece, I wish you luck, and I really hope that the two of you will be able to come to an understanding." He smiled. "Let me assure you that I do not want to spoil your surprise," he said. "I won't tell her that you are in London. Though I wish I was there when she sees that you are."

With a polite bow, Captain Erpingham took his leave, and Philip realised that he had found a new ally. Helena's uncle was on his side. Our side, really, Philip thought. We belong together, Helena and I. I'll have to make her see that.

© 2003, 2004 Copyright held by the author.

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