Chapter Eighteen
Jane awoke with a crick in her neck and a soreness she hadn’t realized was radiating through her entire left side. She had fallen asleep on the floor of Lady Belle’s home, surrounded by dozens of her mother’s letters.
How could the woman she knew and the woman in these letters be the same person?
This Helen spoke of love and friendship as if they were precious gifts to be treasured.
She spoke of the people she loved with such reverence and care that Jane’s heart felt as if it had broken a dozen times since she started reading them.
“Ah, so you’re finally awake,” Lady Belle said, startling Jane, who saw the old woman and her faithful man, Andrews, enter the room. “Had I known you wanted to stay the night, I would have had a room made up for you.”
“Oh, my… I’m so sorry,” Jane said as she stood, trying to wipe the sleep from her eyes. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
“Of course not, my dear. But tell me. Did you find your mother’s letters interesting?”
“Very. But Lady Belle, I’m afraid that I have more questions now than before.”
“Hopefully I have an equal number of answers,” she quipped before turning. “Andrews, call for tea. And maybe a basin of water. Oh, and add a log or two to the fire. It’s chilly in here.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Andrews rang for tea, added two pieces of wood to the fire, and then left the room.
“Now, dear girl, what is your first question?”
“Well, to start,” she said as she settled herself on the settee. “Why did my mother write to you all these years?”
Belle blinked.
“I would have assumed that that was obvious. She wanted me to keep an eye on her children. Logan and Arabella, and of course, their father.”
“But if she loved them like she claimed to in these letters,” Jane said, picking up a number of pages as she did, “why did she leave them?”
Belle sighed.
“Because she was not a perfect person. You see, Jane, your mother was a product of her environment. As we all are, of course, but while she was braver than most, she was not brave enough.”
“What do you mean?”
“She truly did love Mr. Harris. Unequivocally. But just because she was brave enough to love him, doesn’t mean she was brave enough to trust him.
She didn’t believe that he could provide for her the life she had been made for.
She was flawed, like the rest of us, and frightened.
When her uncle offered to take her back, no questions asked, she did so out of fear. ”
“But she left Logan and Arabella… Her own children.”
“And what choice did she have there? Her children belonged, legally, to their father. She could not steal them away from him, nor would having two small children bid well for her in London.”
Jane shook her head.
“I don’t think I could forgive her for doing something so cowardly.”
“Well, it’s a good thing you’re not God.” Jane’s eyes snapped up. “It is not your place to judge anyone. Now, will you listen or will you continue to inject your own moral superiority into a story of a dead woman?”
Jane swallowed.
“I’m sorry. Please, continue.”
“Hmph. As I was saying, Helen was brave enough to love, but not brave enough to trust, which ultimately led to the situation at hand. She wrote to me, about a year after having fled, and told me that she had remarried a widower, Lord Atherton, and was expecting a child. But her guilt ate at her. She swore to me at least a dozen times that she wouldn’t rear any daughter of hers to be so unaware of the world.
She was going to be brutally honest about how ruthless society could be.
I warned her not to sour her own grapevine, but she was heartsick.
She knew she had made a mistake in marrying Atherton, particularly because she had never divorced Mr. Harris, but she felt stuck in her situation.
And scared. Her uncle forbade her from ever contacting Harris again, and she swore she was going to stick it out with Atherton.
She feared that every decision she made was the wrong one.
So, she simply decided to stop making them. ”
“But if she loved Mr. Harris, she should have gone back to him. Surely, he would have forgiven her for leaving.”
“Would he though?” Belle asked. “How do you know? You’ve barely spent more than a few days in his presence.”
That was true, but even Jane had seen the devastation on his face when she told him that Helen had passed away. She gazed into the fireplace.
“Perhaps I don’t know, but it would have been worth it to try.”
“So says you. But imagine for a moment that you hurt the only person you ever loved, so deeply, so viciously. Then, by way of miracle, you secure yourself a titled husband and a home, the things you were always told you would have. If you were in the exact place where everyone told you your entire life you were supposed to be, and that all your previous mistakes were wiped away, would you risk it? A new child in tow, a daughter not born of the man you love. Would you be so brave as to tempt the man who was hurt by your own hand?” Belle glanced away.
“They are not strong creatures, Jane, despite what they have written about themselves. The truth is, a hurt man is the most dangerous one of all, and while some prove to be forgiving and gentle, they do not outnumber the majority.”
Jane slumped.
“Then my mother was right in raising me to not trust them.”
“Perhaps. Mathematically, she was right.” Jane glanced at the old woman. “However, I fear she left out a small, yet vital part of your education.”
Jane frowned, confused.
“What’s that?”
“That while a good man is hard to find, when and if you find one who loves and respects you, you should never, ever let him go.”
Belle’s words sank into Jane’s soul as she glanced back at the fireplace to watch the flames lap at the newly added logs.
“And what if he lets you go?” she asked quietly.
“Are you sure he has?” Belle asked, her tone inquisitive.
Jane glanced back at her and noted the expression on the old woman’s face. Tilting her head, she stood up.
“Has something happened?”
Belle lifted a newspaper she had been reading at her desk but didn’t say a word. Jane came slowly around the desk and took the paper, only to gasp at a picture of Samuel and Mr. Liddell, side by side in black and white, over an article heading that read:
Milton Attacks MP, Accuses Mr. Liddell
She looked back up at Belle.
“What happened?”
“Well, read the article, my girl.”
Instantly, Jane’s eyes were back on the paper.
According to a sworn testament by Member of Parliament, Mr. Liddell, Glaswegian millionaire, Mr. Samuel Milton attacked him in his home Sunday morning, after having a disagreement over business matters.
It is claimed by the plaintiff that Mr. Liddell was merely discussing business when Mr. Milton attacked him unexpectedly, without any provocation.
Although there are no witnesses to corroborate the MP’s story, despite Milton House being full of clerks, servants, and guests, it seems the MP will be seeking the full extent of the law.
Jane looked up.
“What happened? Why would Samuel do such a thing?”
“I may know more than most people, but I couldn’t even tell you that. And although I have my suspicions about what was said, I think it would be best if you spoke with Mr. Milton yourself.”
Jane was about to agree when the door to the office opened and Andrews appeared.
“Mr. Liddell has arrived, seeking your counsel, my lady.” Andrews made a slight grimace before adding, “He has asked me to remind you that his father was good friends with the late king.”
“Oh, good grief,” Belle mumbled under her breath. “I swear, I do not wish my position on anyone. Jane, you may leave out the back if you wish, or you may stay and be witness to our conversation. I do not care whichever you choose, but decide quickly.”
“I, er…”
Jane wanted nothing more than to run back to Milton House and confront Samuel about his outburst. But being in the company of Belle gave her a strange confidence and she was curious what a Member of Parliament would or could say to a woman like Belle that would matter.
“Lady Belle, may I ask, why is Mr. Liddell seeking your counsel?”
“Because, as much as I’ve retired from court life, court has never tired of me.
That means having to deal with the offspring of former friends.
And, because of my proximity to the crown, people tend to think I can manipulate it or that I have more sway over the current monarch, although I assure you, Victoria rarely writes. ”
“The queen writes you?” Jane asked, stunned.
“Well, of course she does, my dear. Just not very often.” She turned to Andrews. “Let him in. Er, Jane? You can slip through that door.” She nodded toward the servant door. “It leads to the kitchens.”
“Thank you, Belle.”
“Of course.”