except occasionally to the servants, and it was this brand of gentle courtesy that had won Helene over. After insisting that she would never again become intimate with a man for money, however high-born, she had relented and become Linas Monkton’s mistress, companion and nurse. That had been two years ago when she was still seventeen, two years in which there had been no sign of pregnancy, in spite of her desire to bear his child before it was too late.
Perhaps it was already too late, for Linas had not visited her bed once in the last two months on the pretext that any physical exercise brought on his coughing spasms. Tomorrow would be her nineteenth birthday. She hoped he might visit her, if only to be held in her arms.
It was unproductive to speculate on the welcome they would receive, Helene having no reason to suppose that they would be treated with anything but courtesy and, in her lover’s case, with affection too. The brothers were very fond of each other, and although no obvious favour was offered to Linas when taking part in the usual manly activities, Helene nevertheless suspected that Lord Winterson kept a very careful eye on his brother, stopping within his limits or suggesting an easier route, ostensibly for his own benefit. Visiting Linas’s home on Stonegate, Winterson never stayed long enough to tire him, nor was anything ever said in her presence about the array of medicines at Linas’s elbow.
Helene hoped it was obvious to Winterson that she was taking every conceivable care of his brother without molly-coddling him, but the feeling persisted that he thought her a young social-climbing nobody on the look-out for a wealthy patron who would feather her nest for as long as possible. If he had taken the trouble to find out, she thought, he might have discovered the truth of the matter, that Miss Helene Follet was in fact a certain Miss Helen Follethorpe of Bridlington, only thirty miles or so away on the Yorkshire coast, where her father had once been mayor. Had it not been for Leonard Follethorpe’s unfortunate experience, she would still be living with her family in comfort instead of selling herself to support those of her family who remained. Five years ago, taking a lover had been the very last thing on her mind, but she could be of little help to her family on the pittance she had earned as a York mantua-maker’s assistant, and one could not be too finicky when near-starvation was a real alternative.
To say she resented Winterson’s thinly veiled contempt would not have been an exaggeration. His manner was correct and as icy as if she’d been a crusty old dowager of fifty instead of a sleek raven-haired beauty of nineteen, giving her no opportunity to be as sisterly as she was with her own two young brothers. Not even for Linas’s sake did Lord Winterson do anything to endear himself to her, and now as he strode out of the great Tudor porchway of Abbots Mere with three gigantic wolfhounds at his heels, his smile skimmed over her as if she were merely the housekeeper or Linas’s nurse. The hand he extended came just a little too late to help her out of the barouche.
‘Miss Follet,’ he said, keeping the hand out so that she was obliged to accept it. ‘Welcome to Abbots Mere.’ The greeting was formal, and not particularly convincing.
She had tried to ignore the ambiguous emotions that bedevilled her, but the contrast between Linas and his twin was so transparent, and she herself so receptive to all the differences between one man in the prime of his life and one whose prime had never quite materialised, that she now found it easier to accept it than question it. Winterson did not have his brother’s lanky loping frame of a tired racehorse, but the deep-chested, well-toned solidness of a hunter.
Helene watched him move gracefully aside, her eyes taking their own wayward course over the broad smooth line of his riding coat, the bulge in his tight breeches, the tan-cuffed riding boots with spurs, and the muscled calves. Reprimanding herself, she refused to acknowledge the stark truth that she might have wished this man’s physical endowments upon his sibling, forcing herself instead to smile at the brotherly embrace and the genuine laughter accompanying it. The stifling, insistent beat of her heart, so long starved of its own special excitement, was quelled with some effort as she diverted her thoughts towards Linas’s pleasure and what she could do to maintain it.
Noting how Linas caressed the ears of the nearest wolfhound, she could see how happy he was to be here and to spend time in the stone-built rambling place where he’d been born. As a concession to his asthma, he kept no animals except horses, but any excuse to visit his brother’s racing stable was worth the sneezing fits and the itchy rash on his wrists that Helene cooled with witch-hazel and chamomile. The prospect of sleeping in his old room at Abbots Mere brought back the laugh lines to his pale winter face and lit up the sombre darkness of his eyes, as did the appearance of Somerton, the elderly butler.
Linas took Helene by the hand. ‘Good to see you again, Somerton,’ he said, creasing his papery skin with deep folds.
‘And you also, Mr Linas, sir. M’lord Burl here has had us all up since dawn to get everything ship-shape. We’ve even polished the hounds’ collars. Welcome, Miss Follet,’ he said to Helene, courteously.
‘Thank you, Mr Somerton.’
Perhaps being made aware by his butler that something more was being required of him, Winterson turned back to her to offer his arm, taking both her and Linas through a panelled passageway into the Great Hall. Again, the differences returned with the memory of that first meeting at the York Assembly Rooms when they had danced together just before she and Linas had first met, when she had seen the fear in Linas’s eyes that she would surely prefer his brother Burl, as any woman would. But she had never been seriously attracted to men like Winterson with reputations for breaking hearts, nor could she afford the indulgence of falling in love. If Winterson had ever suspected that she was more interested in a long-term relationship, then he would have been correct. She was. But her affection for the Honourable Linas Monkton was none the less genuine, for all that, and her good care of him had grown into a kind of love far beyond convenience.
The company that weekend was exactly as Helene had expected it to be, noisy, good-natured and gossipy, flirtatious and with an air of competition she felt no need to be a part of, since she was unavailable. Not that she was entirely safe from the attentions of the men, but her status and devotion were sufficient to keep all dalliance at a very superficial level. And because she posed no threat to the women, they sought her friendship and asked her advice about even the most personal matters, especially about fashion. Yet they were not the kind of people she would have chosen to spend a weekend with, and she wondered why Lord Winterson enjoyed their company so much, unless it was to watch them compete for his attention.
Although Winterson must have known about Helene’s previous employment as a seamstress, she had told neither of the brothers the full story of her transformation from well-brought-up mayor’s daughter to mantua-maker’s assistant. If either of them ever wondered how she had acquired such singular style and elegance, how she came to be fluent in French, or why she spoke English with only the odd vowel sound to betray her northern roots, they were either too uninterested to ask, or too well bred.
But the mantua-maker herself, once she saw what a gem she had taken on, had put those accomplishments to good use, transferring her from the workroom to front of shop, using her as a mannequin to model her creations and to suggest other ways of using accessories and fabrics with the kind of flair the older woman could only dream of. When Helene borrowed an evening dress now and again to attend the nearby Assembly Rooms with a beau, this was seen as a cheaper way of rewarding her than with money, for she was sure to tell admirers where such a beautiful gown could be made. Those years had been for Helene a time of intense learning in which she had absorbed every skill of the dressmaking trade, since then she had designed and made all her own garments, including her bonnets.
Despite her undeniable fashion ability, her popularity with Winterson’s guests could not be called complete as long as Lady Veronique Slatterly was on hand to shoot down any woman perceived to be receiving more than her fair share of attention from the men, particularly from Winterson himself. Her envy of Miss Helene Follet was out of all proportion to
