A Woman of Honour

Chapter 3

Dinner had been a torturous affair. It had seemed to Ralph that everyone around the table had their own agenda to pursue, and each one of those well thought out schemes involved him. The older matrons, with young daughters in attendance, had made it obvious that they had him in their sights. He knew, from prior experience, that they would stop at nothing to achieve their goal. Their offspring, dressed demurely in virginal white, would occasionally glance at him and blush. They too were privy to their mother's plans and had been primed on how to behave around him.

During the meal itself, he sat next to Lady Hepworth. He knew that his mother had purposefully put him next to the old dragon so that she could extol the virtues of her daughter, Miss Agatha Hepworth. Miss Hepworth was the youngest daughter of Lord and Lady Hepworth's large brood. She was a plump, plain-looking girl who up to last week had still inhabited the schoolroom. Due to her meek and mild nature, Miss Hepworth was undoubtedly his mother's favoured candidate for her successor as mistress at Belmont Hall. He tried, in vain, to imagine what it would be like to share the rest of his life with such a dowdy specimen. The thought left him feeling cold and somewhat desolate.

Miss Hepworth, who had been sitting opposite her mama at dinner, glanced over at him. He could not help but notice the look of fear and misery in them. Whether she was frightened of him or her mother, he was not sure; it was probably both. What his mother and her parents were thinking of, trying to secure this match, was anyone's guess. It was plain to anyone with any sense that she would be far from perfect as his bride. After talking with Tom, Ralph knew for certain what he wanted from a marriage. He wanted someone he could love and would love him in return. Tom had told him that he would eventually find it, he just had to be patient.

The gentlemen did not linger long over their port after the ladies had retired. Ralph took a deep breath before reluctantly entering the drawing-room. He was not looking forward to it, and he knew that this would be the most dangerous part of the evening. If he was not on his guard, an offhand comment could be misconstrued by the listener.

He was talking to Tom when he entered, trying to take his mind of the trial ahead. By the pianoforte, on the far side of the room, there was a young woman, surrounded by other young ladies, playing a lively Bach fugue. To their left, he spotted Lady Hepworth and her daughter sitting by his mother. His mother, forever the perfect hostess, was presiding over the tea-tray. He felt a twinge of sympathy for the poor girl. She looked even more uncomfortable and out of place, knowing that all eyes were fixed on her as the favourite runner in this race.

His eyes were then drawn to a woman standing next to his mother. She was tall and slender and would have been quite beautiful if her face had not been so drawn and pale. He did not recognise her as one of the guests that had dined with them that evening. He would have remembered those vibrant hazel eyes, the colour of rich honey if he had seen them before. Who was she, he thought to himself?

Ralph then noticed that the woman was looking at Tom, who was still standing next to him by the door. As the expertly played Bach surged towards the finale, he saw the cup that she was holding, fall to the floor. It crashed onto the rug in front of her feet, sending shards of china across the floor. She was still looking at Tom, and he heard her say his name.

'By George, it is you,' Tom said, as he rushed across the room towards her, 'I almost didn't recognise you.'

Ralph followed Tom. Once they had reached her side, he heard her whisper to Tom, 'I thought you were...' She was so pale that Ralph thought she was about to collapse.

'Helen,' Tom said in a low voice that was full of concern, 'you look like you've seen a ghost.' As her body crumpled, Tom caught her in his arms.

The music had ceased, but this time there was no polite ripple of applause after the performance, just silent curiosity, as all the guests looked at the tableau being played out before them.