Marrying Winterborne
Page 74
Lady Berwick tried to intercede. “Mr. Vance, I think—”
“Much of it is common knowledge,” he told Helen. “But I also toured throughout Wales to gather information for a pamphlet I was writing. I felt it my obligation to establish the necessity of banishing the Welsh language from their schools. It’s a poor medium of instruction, and yet they stubbornly insist on clinging to it.”
“Imagine,” Helen said softly.
“Oh yes,” Vance said, either missing the edge of sarcasm, or choosing to ignore it. “Something must be done to awaken their intelligence, and it begins with forcing English on them, whether they like it or not.” As he continued, Helen saw that he was no longer posturing or trying to provoke her, but rather speaking with sincere conviction. “The Welsh must be saved from their own sloth and brutality. As things stand now, they don’t even make fit servants.”
Lady Berwick glanced quickly at Helen’s stiff face, and sought to ease the tension. “You must have found it a relief to return to England from your tour,” she said to Vance.
His reply was emphatic. “I would rather be thrown in the fiery pit of hell than return to Wales.”
Unable to tolerate him for another second, Helen stood and said coolly, “I’m sure that can be arranged, Mr. Vance.”
Caught off guard, Vance rose slowly to his feet. “Why, you—”
“Do excuse me,” Helen said. “I have correspondence to attend to.” And she left the room without another word, fighting every instinct to keep from breaking into a run.
HELEN HAD NO idea how many minutes passed as she lay curled on her bed, using one hand to press a folded handkerchief against her streaming eyes. She tried to breathe around the sharp repeated pains in her throat.
Having no father at all would have been infinitely better than this. Albion Vance was more hateful than she could ever have imagined, warped in all directions. And she had come from him. His blood ran in her veins like venom.
The sins of the fathers shall be visited on the children. Everyone knew that Biblical principle. Somewhere in her nature, something vile must have been passed down from him.
There came a brief tap at her door, and Lady Berwick entered, carrying two glasses of amber liquid. “You handled yourself very well,” she remarked, pausing at the foot of the bed.
“By insulting your guest?” Helen asked in a waterlogged voice.
“He was not my guest,” the countess said tersely. “He’s a despicable parasite. A worm who would feast on the cankered sores of Job. I had no idea that Vance would appear today without a word of warning.”
Peeling the damp handkerchief from her eyes, Helen blew her nose. “Mr. Winterborne will be angry,” she said. “He made it clear that I wasn’t to associate with Mr. Vance in any way.”
“Then I shouldn’t tell him, if I were you.”
Helen’s fingers closed around the handkerchief, compressing it into a ball. “You’re advising me to keep a secret from him?”
“I believe you and I are both aware of why it is very much in your interest not to tell Mr. Winterborne.”
Helen stared at her dumbly. Oh, God, she knew, she knew.
Coming around to the side of the bed, Lady Berwick gave her one of the glasses. “Brandy,” she said.
Lifting the drink to her lips, Helen took a cautious sip, and another. It burned her lips, and the taste was very sharp. “I thought ladies weren’t supposed to drink brandy,” she said huskily.
“Not in public. However, one may take it in private when a stimulant is required.”
As Helen sipped the brandy, the countess spoke to her without superiority, but rather unsparing honesty tempered with a surprising touch of kindness. “Last year, when I informed Vance that Kathleen was to marry into your family, he confided in me about his affair with your mother. He claimed you were his child. The first time I saw you, I had no doubt of it. Your hair is the color his once was, and your brows and eyes are the same.”
“Does Kathleen know?”
“No, she has no idea. I wasn’t certain if you yourself knew, until I saw your face just before you entered the parlor. But you composed yourself quickly. Your self-possession was admirable, Helen.”
“Did Mr. Vance intend to reveal the news to me today?”
“Yes. However, you foiled his plans for a dramatic scene.” The countess paused to sip her brandy, and said darkly, “Before he left, he asked me to make it perfectly clear to you that he’s your father.”
“That word doesn’t apply to him.”
“I agree. A man is not entitled to be called a father merely because he once had a well-timed spasm of the loins.”
Helen smiled faintly despite the fog of gloom. It sounded like something Kathleen might have said. Propping herself higher on the bed, she rubbed the sore corners of her eyes with a thumb and forefinger. “He’ll want money,” she said flatly.
“Obviously. You will soon become a conduit to one of the greatest fortunes in England. I have no doubt that in the future, he will also ask you to influence your husband’s business decisions.”
“I wouldn’t do that to Mr. Winterborne. Besides . . . I couldn’t live with Mr. Vance’s threats hanging over my head.”
“I have for decades, my girl. Since the day I married Lord Berwick, I knew that until I produced male issue, I would have to kowtow to Vance. Now you must as well. If you don’t comply with his demands, he will ruin your marriage. Possibly before it even begins.”
“Much of it is common knowledge,” he told Helen. “But I also toured throughout Wales to gather information for a pamphlet I was writing. I felt it my obligation to establish the necessity of banishing the Welsh language from their schools. It’s a poor medium of instruction, and yet they stubbornly insist on clinging to it.”
“Imagine,” Helen said softly.
“Oh yes,” Vance said, either missing the edge of sarcasm, or choosing to ignore it. “Something must be done to awaken their intelligence, and it begins with forcing English on them, whether they like it or not.” As he continued, Helen saw that he was no longer posturing or trying to provoke her, but rather speaking with sincere conviction. “The Welsh must be saved from their own sloth and brutality. As things stand now, they don’t even make fit servants.”
Lady Berwick glanced quickly at Helen’s stiff face, and sought to ease the tension. “You must have found it a relief to return to England from your tour,” she said to Vance.
His reply was emphatic. “I would rather be thrown in the fiery pit of hell than return to Wales.”
Unable to tolerate him for another second, Helen stood and said coolly, “I’m sure that can be arranged, Mr. Vance.”
Caught off guard, Vance rose slowly to his feet. “Why, you—”
“Do excuse me,” Helen said. “I have correspondence to attend to.” And she left the room without another word, fighting every instinct to keep from breaking into a run.
HELEN HAD NO idea how many minutes passed as she lay curled on her bed, using one hand to press a folded handkerchief against her streaming eyes. She tried to breathe around the sharp repeated pains in her throat.
Having no father at all would have been infinitely better than this. Albion Vance was more hateful than she could ever have imagined, warped in all directions. And she had come from him. His blood ran in her veins like venom.
The sins of the fathers shall be visited on the children. Everyone knew that Biblical principle. Somewhere in her nature, something vile must have been passed down from him.
There came a brief tap at her door, and Lady Berwick entered, carrying two glasses of amber liquid. “You handled yourself very well,” she remarked, pausing at the foot of the bed.
“By insulting your guest?” Helen asked in a waterlogged voice.
“He was not my guest,” the countess said tersely. “He’s a despicable parasite. A worm who would feast on the cankered sores of Job. I had no idea that Vance would appear today without a word of warning.”
Peeling the damp handkerchief from her eyes, Helen blew her nose. “Mr. Winterborne will be angry,” she said. “He made it clear that I wasn’t to associate with Mr. Vance in any way.”
“Then I shouldn’t tell him, if I were you.”
Helen’s fingers closed around the handkerchief, compressing it into a ball. “You’re advising me to keep a secret from him?”
“I believe you and I are both aware of why it is very much in your interest not to tell Mr. Winterborne.”
Helen stared at her dumbly. Oh, God, she knew, she knew.
Coming around to the side of the bed, Lady Berwick gave her one of the glasses. “Brandy,” she said.
Lifting the drink to her lips, Helen took a cautious sip, and another. It burned her lips, and the taste was very sharp. “I thought ladies weren’t supposed to drink brandy,” she said huskily.
“Not in public. However, one may take it in private when a stimulant is required.”
As Helen sipped the brandy, the countess spoke to her without superiority, but rather unsparing honesty tempered with a surprising touch of kindness. “Last year, when I informed Vance that Kathleen was to marry into your family, he confided in me about his affair with your mother. He claimed you were his child. The first time I saw you, I had no doubt of it. Your hair is the color his once was, and your brows and eyes are the same.”
“Does Kathleen know?”
“No, she has no idea. I wasn’t certain if you yourself knew, until I saw your face just before you entered the parlor. But you composed yourself quickly. Your self-possession was admirable, Helen.”
“Did Mr. Vance intend to reveal the news to me today?”
“Yes. However, you foiled his plans for a dramatic scene.” The countess paused to sip her brandy, and said darkly, “Before he left, he asked me to make it perfectly clear to you that he’s your father.”
“That word doesn’t apply to him.”
“I agree. A man is not entitled to be called a father merely because he once had a well-timed spasm of the loins.”
Helen smiled faintly despite the fog of gloom. It sounded like something Kathleen might have said. Propping herself higher on the bed, she rubbed the sore corners of her eyes with a thumb and forefinger. “He’ll want money,” she said flatly.
“Obviously. You will soon become a conduit to one of the greatest fortunes in England. I have no doubt that in the future, he will also ask you to influence your husband’s business decisions.”
“I wouldn’t do that to Mr. Winterborne. Besides . . . I couldn’t live with Mr. Vance’s threats hanging over my head.”
“I have for decades, my girl. Since the day I married Lord Berwick, I knew that until I produced male issue, I would have to kowtow to Vance. Now you must as well. If you don’t comply with his demands, he will ruin your marriage. Possibly before it even begins.”
