Chapter 1 #2
Helena sighed, and looked around the house.
It was a small one, smaller than even she had imagined when her father had told her that he had found the perfect place for them to live after their…
reduction in circumstances. Four rooms, two downstairs and two upstairs.
A kitchen of sorts, and a parlour, and two bedrooms upstairs.
Nothing more, nothing less, and the fishing rights that had come with it – well, her father had dreamed.
She did not need to step through the parlour, where she was now wiping down the small table in the centre of the room, and into the kitchen, to know that there was little food in the house. The end of a loaf, some butter graciously given by the local milkmaid.
There was nothing for it; she would have to go outside, and check the crab nets.
Pulling on her father’s greatcoat, and his wax hat that kept his balding head dry, Helena threw a quick glance at herself in the five-inch looking glass square that she kept in the window, by their candle.
She loved the way that it doubled the light, and on the rare occasion that she wished to see her reflection…
Blonde straggling hair, unkept and unbrushed. Dark lashes circling startling blue eyes, eyes so light blue that they even caught her notice sometimes. A pair of rich pink lips, and a nose that she always said was too small for her face, but her father loved because it was her mother’s.
Of course, at this moment she could barely see any of that, as her father’s wax hat hid most of her. All to the better: anything to keep the storm from chilling her bones.
As soon as she stepped through the door, Helena started to regret her choice. Perhaps she should have checked, she thought as the gale howled against her, making every step feel almost impossible to make. There could have been an end of a loaf, perhaps some kippers from an earlier catch.
Her feet stumbled on the slippery rocks as she made her way doggedly to the crab traps.
There were only six, and the first two were empty, her freezing fingers fumbling at the catchments.
The third was full: four crabs, three of them small but one large.
Helena smiled into the darkness of the night, and picked it up.
It was easier to take the whole thing back with her.
Turning back towards home, something caught her eye to her right. She could not have said what it was; the flutter of that ragged white sail, perhaps, or the outline of a small boat on its side.
Whatever had first caught her attention, it was nothing to the figure on the ground that was moaning quietly.
Helena jolted, and dropped the crab cage. It cracked, leaving a hole through which the three small crabs escaped.
She barely noticed. Her eyes were affixed on the collapsed man in what looked like – a golden jacket?
This was not uncommon, of course. You did not live four years in a fishing village without seeing the bodies of the drowned.
But this was no working man; this was not a man accustomed to fish in the dead of night for crabs, or from dawn to dusk to find enough sustenance to fill your belly and your market stall.
Helena edged closer, her heart racing. He was wealthy, there was no doubt about that.
His shoes were the flimsiest she had ever seen, and that meant money.
Now that she was a little closer, she could see that the jacket was not made of gold, but embroidered so finely with gold thread that it seemed to shimmer and glitter with every movement that she made.
His hands were outstretched, as though he had been reaching for something. Helena stared at him, and then the direction which he was facing.
Her candle. The candle in the window: ‘twas the only sign of civilisation for a mile in any direction. Her father had loved being far out from the town, and Helena had accepted it.
Now it may have saved this man’s life.
Helena took another step towards him, and she swallowed down the nerves that she felt in being so close to a stranger. Why, he could be a vagabond, or a criminal! He could be anything or anyone, and here she was, alone with him in the dark!
The storm still pounded her with its gusts, and a drizzle of rain started to fall. She shivered, and took that final step to find herself beside the shipwrecked man.
For there was no doubt about that: his boat was done for, almost destroyed. But how far had he come, and why did he not dress more suitably?
“Merci, that will do nicely, Jean-Paul,” murmured the man suddenly. “But the chicken will do for tomorrow, tell chef for me…”
Helena had jumped back, clutching her greatcoat around her against the battling wind, but the man did not seem to waken.
That had been French. He was a Frenchman! The nerves that had started to creep up her spine heightened at the knowledge. Why, were they not at war with France? Or Napoleon, at least; so out of the way as she was, she depended on Teresa’s news to keep her abreast of foreign policy.
Well, if they were at war, then he was a prisoner of war, Helena reasoned with herself, teeth beginning to chatter. And a prisoner of war had no business being so wealthy.
She hated herself for it, but necessity drew it from her. Kneeling down hastily, she started to pat him down, looking for a pocket, a ring, a watch, anything of value.
A huge intake of breath and the opening of his eyes startled her as he rolled over onto his back, causing Helena to almost fall backwards onto the beach.
As she rose and peered over him, he shouted, making her jump again: “Mon Dieu, what is to become of me?”
Helena swallowed, and cried out against the gale: “What is your name?”
“Mademoiselle!” His eyes grew wide, wider than she thought possible, and in them she saw fear and confusion. “Aidez-moi, s'il vous pla?t, I am lost, I am trying to find – ”
He broke off: Helena, staring wildly into his dark brown eyes, taking in the sand splattered face, the paleness of his cheeks, and now the way that his hands were clutching at what appeared to be a bloody wound in his thigh.
“You – you are injured, sir!” She shouted, feeling stupid for stating the obvious but unsure exactly what else to say.
The man stopped moving, and stared at her in wonderment. “English?” He whispered.
Helena nodded, eyes transfixed on her Frenchman. It was not crab that the sea had delivered to her then, but sailor.
“English,” he repeated under his voice, and then stronger, “Pardon mademoiselle, my English is not strong, but it should be enough. Please help me – take me inside, and warm me! I have friends, I have money, s'il vous pla?t…”
Helena stared at him, and bit her lip. With her father gone to the Anchor – and then to goodness knows where – she would be alone in the house.
Well, alone with him. Even soaked to the skin, exhausted, and what looked like stabbed, this Frenchman was still devilishly handsome.
To be alone with him for a few hours would be… uncomfortable.
And what if anyone found out? An unmarried woman alone in a house with a man – and a Frenchman!
“S'il vous pla?t,” he said faintly, and she saw the pallor on his face grow. “Mademoiselle belle, s'il vous pla?t…”
It was not really a decision, after all. How could she leave this poor man, for all he was a Frenchman, to freeze, or drown, or die of his injuries?
“Try to stand up,” she said moving quickly, pulling under his arms and struggling with all her might to raise him up. “‘Tis not far.”