Chapter 8 #2
“Yes, you thief!” Pierre shot back at her, hating his own words but seeming unable to stop himself.
“Do you love me?” Helena asked him urgently. “For I love you – more ardently than I can ever express.”
Pierre’s heart stopped. She loved him. Of course she did, he had been in no doubt of that since the moment that she had kissed him in the boat. He had known it, and the real question was, why was he hiding his own feelings from her – from himself?
“Do you love me?” She repeated with eyes pouring out hope. “If you love me, Pierre, please tell me. Do not lose the opportunity to love because you are eager to find another you care about.”
Pierre opened his mouth to say he knew not what, just knowing that he had to tell her, he could not leave her without assuring her of his affections – when they were interrupted by a loud knock at the door.
“Pierre?” A man’s voice called out, strong and concerned. “êtes-vous là, Pierre? Open this door!”
Pierre stared at Helena, and watched her dash away the tears from her eyes.
“It is for you,” she said dully. “Perhaps it is Giselle. Perhaps it is someone who can take you away from here. That is what you what, is not it?”
He wanted to retort that he hated the thought of ever leaving her, but he must be true to his sister who needed him, but another loud knock interrupted his thoughts, and he strode over to the front door and flung it open.
“It is you – thank God, for I have no wish to travel about hunting for a shipwrecked Frenchman the rest of my life!”
Pierre blinked in the blinding sunlight, and then saw the shape of James appear before him. “James?”
His old childhood friend guffawed with laughter. “Goodness, you have certainly taken a beating if you are struggling to recognise me – though I cannot say I blame you, for you have certainly been roughing it if I am any judge. I heard the news from…well, we can discuss that later.”
James, the Viscount Paendly, had been a part of Pierre’s landscape his entire life; their mothers had been childhood friends. Never before had he been so irritated to see him, and watch him peer into the house where, for but a few days, he had been so happy.
“My word, what an adventure you have been having!” James strode past Pierre into the room, and gave the woman that he loved a cursory glance. “Did you bring a servant with you, Pierre, or did you pick this one up as you went?”
For the first time in his life, Pierre realised exactly how he must seem to others: watching James’ well-meaning but rude conduct, seeing how he treated Helena not as though it were her home, but her station to serve him as he thrust his travelling cloak in her arms – he must have been reprehensible.
No wonder Helena had been sharp with him when he had first arrived here; and yet, Pierre thought with an aching heart, how much he had changed thanks to her good offices, her sweet temper.
“I do not think we shall stay long,” said James, poking his head in the kitchen and curling up his nose. “‘Tis a long way back to Paendly, and I would rather be on the road before eleven, if it is all the same to you, d'épilucon. You have little luggage, I presume?”
Pierre forced a laugh. “Almost none, I would say.”
“Here,” came a gentle voice, and Pierre started to see Helena holding out his own clothes, freshly washed, dried, and mended, with a small wooden box that he recognised lying on top. “Your belongings, sir.”
The last word was forcibly servile, and he wanted to tell her that there was no need to speak to him like that; that he had nothing but strong emotion for her – but could he say love? Not with Paendly standing there like an idiot.
“By Jove, d'épilucon, I did not realise that you had managed to smuggle an entire box out of France!”
Pierre glanced at Helena, and saw her cheeks pink.
“‘Tis my own box, sir,” she said stiffly as Pierre took the lot from her arms. “When I was cleaning sir’s clothes, I did not wish his…belongings to be damaged, so I placed them safely here.”
Pierre’s mouth opened. But of course, how could he have been so stupid? It would have been madness to allow such precious things to go through the mangle!
“Capital,” said James roughly. “Here’s a sovereign for your trouble, my girl, and we will be off. Carriage is waiting for you, d'épilucon.”
Pierre glanced at Helena, who was turning the sovereign over and over again in her fingers. Finally, she held it out to him.
“I cannot accept this,” she said coldly. “I only accept gifts from my friends.”
Pierre swallowed, and took a step closer to her. “Would you accept it from me then, Helena?”
For a moment, he was sure that she was going to acquiesce: sure that she would accept it, needy as she and her father were.
But she took his hand, and placed the cold metal in the palm of his hand. “No,” she said quietly. “As I said. Only from my friends.”
Pierre wanted to retort, wanted to plead, wanted to open up his soul and heart and tell her that she was central to both – but James, ever eager to get on the road, gave him no time.
“A very honourable sentiment,” he said with a smile, picking up his travelling cloak and nodding at Pierre. “Come on, old chap, into the carriage with you. We can feed you upon the road.”
Pierre nodded, and turned, and followed his friend. And he did not look back, though his heart burned with pain and love and agony.