Mary Nichols - Winning the War Hero's Heart

Helen, in her grey dress with a shawl over her head, mingled with the crowds. She had a small notebook and a pencil in her reticule, but did not bring it out for fear of being recognised. She wanted to report the proceedings anonymously. She was not the only one incognito, she discovered, when she found herself standing next to Viscount Cavenham. She hardly recognised him; he was dressed in yeoman’s clothes, fustian breeches and coat, rough boots, with a battered felt hat on his curls.

‘My lord,’ she said. ‘I never thought to see you here today.’

‘Shh,’ he said, looking about to see if she had been overheard. ‘Not so much of the “my lord” if you please.’

‘I could shout it,’ she threatened.

‘And have me lynched? I had not thought you so bloodthirsty, Miss Wayland.’

‘And not so much of the “Miss Wayland” either,’ she said.

He laughed. ‘Then what am I to call you?’

‘You do not need to address me at all.’

He ignored that. ‘I believe your name is Helen. A lovely name and most suitable for one as beautiful and fearless as you are.’

‘My lord, you go too far.’ It was said in a fierce whisper.

‘My name is Miles,’ he said. ‘Pray use it, then we shall be equal.’

‘We can never be equal,’ she said. ‘You, of all people, should know that.’

‘All are equal in God’s eyes.’

‘Then the Earl of Warburton must consider himself above God, for he would never accept that.’

‘My father belongs to the old school, Helen. I doubt he could be persuaded to change his ways now.’

They were being jostled by the crowd and he put a hand under her arm to steady her. She resisted her first impulse to knock it away. It was firm and warm and rather comforting. ‘And you?’ she asked, turning to look up at him and found him looking down at her with an expression she could not interpret. It was full of wry humour, which she found unnerving. Her life until recently had been governed by her work with her father. The men she met were her father’s employees, friends and business acquaintances and she dealt with them accordingly. Meeting and dealing with this man was outside her experience. For one thing they had not been properly introduced, which was absurd since they had already encountered and spoken to each other twice before. But it was not the lack of an introduction that confused her; it was the way he looked at her and his self-possession, which somehow seemed to diminish hers. She took herself firmly in hand. If she was going to fight the Earl, she had better learn to stand up to his son.

‘I am my own man, Helen.’

‘But you are also your father’s son.’

‘Oh, undoubtedly I am that.’

‘So, why are you here?’

‘Curiosity. I want to know why men risk everything to take part in meetings like this which could have them arrested and can have no favourable outcome.’

‘Desperation, I should think.’

‘And you, I presume, are here to report it for your newspaper.’

‘Yes.’

‘And can you do that without bias?’

‘I sincerely hope not. It would be excessively dull and achieve nothing.’

It was not the answer he expected and made him chuckle. ‘How long have you been producing the Warburton Record ?’

‘The Record was started by my father. He worked for a printing press in London, but when we moved to Warburton he set up on his own account as a printer; then he realised there was no way of disseminating local news except by pamphlets published by those with an axe to grind, so he started the Record . That was eight years ago.’

‘I meant how long have you been doing it?’

‘I used to love helping my father as a child and learned the business along with my growing up, especially after we moved here. When he died last year, he left the business to me.’ She did not add that it was all he had to leave. His many clashes with authority had left him almost penniless. No one was interested in buying the business as a going concern; the only offer she had ever had was for the machinery. She was not told who the prospective buyer was, but suspected it was someone who had no interest in running the Record , but rather wished to shut it down. Far from discouraging her, it had given her the impetus to keep going, especially as Tom and Edgar were both behind her.

‘Why did your father choose to leave London and come to Warburton?’ he asked. ‘Norfolk is hardly the hub of government.’

‘It was my mother’s birthplace; as she was mortally ill, she wanted to die here where she had spent her childhood and where her parents had lived and died.’

‘I am sorry for your loss,’ he said softly.

‘Thank you, my—’ She stopped and corrected herself. ‘Thank you, sir.’

He bent over and whispered in her ear, so close his warm breath was having a strange effect on her limbs. ‘That’s better than “my lord”, but it’s still not the address I asked for.’

She pulled herself together. ‘Oh, I cannot use that. It wouldn’t be proper.’

‘Is it also improper for me to address you as Helen?’

‘You know it is, but no doubt you will continue to do as you please.’

‘But I like the name. It rolls off the tongue so readily.’

‘Now you are bamming me.’

‘No. That would be ungentlemanly.’

‘Ah, but at the moment you are not dressed as a gentleman. Why the disguise?’

‘Do you think I would learn anything in my usual garb? I would be hounded off the common. At least this way I can be an ordinary soldier back from the war, which I am.’ He looked about him. ‘I see a goodly number of those here, including Roger Blakestone. He was in my regiment, a troublemaker even then.’

‘No one has said he is a troublemaker. He is out of work, as they all are. The farmers have stood the men off because the crops, if they ever grew at all, have been ruined by the weather; there’s no work for the soldiers, either. There ought to be something they could do that is not reliant on the weather.’

‘And how will listening to a man like Jason Hardacre help that?’ he queried. ‘He is for insurrection, which will surely make matters worse.’

‘Oh, I do not think the people will be swayed by him. They simply want to make their voices heard and have a day out that doesn’t cost them anything but a copper or two for a pie and a glass of cordial.’

The behaviour of the crowd seemed to bear that out.

Many of them were in family groups, having a picnic. ‘I never thought of sustenance,’ he said. ‘And I’m suddenly devilish hungry. Would you like something to eat, Miss … Oh, dear, it will have to be Helen, after all.’

‘No, thank you.’

‘I intend to have something. There’s a woman over there selling hot pies. I think I will try one of those.’

He left her and she thought that was the last she would see of him; suddenly she felt rather alone, even with the noisy crowds pushing and shoving and threatening to topple her over. She made her way to the edge of the throng where she could breathe freely. Five minutes later he was beside her again. ‘I thought I’d lost you,’ he said, handing her a paper packet in which reposed a succulent meat pie.

‘But I said no thank you,’ she said. ‘Do you never listen?’

‘Oh, I heard you, but I did not believe you. We have been standing about an age and I was ready to wager you would eat it if it were put before you.’

She considered refusing, but the pie did smell rather savoury. ‘I hate to waste it,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’ She took a bite and realised she was indeed rather hungry.

They stood together, enjoying their pies and not speaking, until a flourish of a bugle heralded the arrival of Jason Hardacre. A cheer went up as he mounted the cart with Mr Blakestone. But even before the latter opened his mouth to introduce the speaker, a troop of militia rode onto the common at a fast trot, right into the middle of the crowd, who attempted to scatter in terror, but they were so close-packed it was almost impossible to escape. There were shouts and screams as people were knocked over by the horses or hit by the blunt edge of a sword or the sharp point of a spur. Even if they had wanted to depart, which most of them did, they could not get away. In turning from one horseman, they were confronted by another.