Winning the War Hero's Heart. Mary Nichols
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was high in order to keep the lower orders from learning of things the government and those in authority did not want them to learn and so she had begun the habit of putting the pages in the window, so that it could be read aloud by those who could read to those who could not. His glance moved from that to one of Roger Blakestone’s posters advertising the rally on the common. As he walked back to his horse, she noticed he limped. She had read in the London paper that he had been wounded doing some deed of valour during the recent war with Napoleon and supposed that was the result.
Helen turned back to work, but the prospect of being sued was worrying. If she were heavily fined or sent to prison, then the Warburton Record and the printing business would have to be shut down and that meant no work for Edgar, who was the sole support of his mother, or Tom Salter, who had a wife and three children, or Betty, her maid, who was an orphan and whose only relation was a distant cousin too poor to help her. She had brought this on them in her pig-headedness.
Her father had spent six months in Norwich Castle for speaking out against the Earl enclosing common land which the villagers had worked since time immemorial. His crime had been called seditious libel. He had returned home after he served his sentence, a shadow of the man he had been. He was gaunt and thin, his hair had turned white and he walked with a stoop. It was a long time before he stood upright again and put on a little weight, but it did not seem to have taught him a lesson.
The fire in his belly against injustice wherever he saw it, and particularly against the Earl of Warburton, had been as fierce as ever. She had watched him and worried about him, tried to tempt him with his favourite food, tried to persuade him to rest while she ran the paper, but to no avail. His pen was vitriolic. She had no doubt that if he had not died of a seizure, he would have been arraigned again. That was her legacy, not bricks and mortar, not printing presses, but his undying passion, a passion she shared.
‘You are not going to let him bully you, are you?’ Edgar said from his desk where he had been setting out advertisements, one for a lecture at the assembly rooms called ‘At Waterloo with Wellington’ being given by some bigwig from London, Mr West advertising his agricultural implements, and the miller his flour. Another was for an elixir of youth at sixpence a bottle. Goodness knew what it contained, but she did not doubt it tasted vile and could not live up to its name.
‘I don’t want to, but it’s not only me I have to consider. There’s you and Tom and Betty.’
‘We’ll manage, don’t you fret.’
Tom came in from the back room in time to hear this. ‘Manage what?’
‘The Earl is threatening to sue me for defamation of character,’ she explained. ‘I am wondering if I ought to retract?’
‘But you said nothing that wasn’t true, did you?’
‘No, but the Viscount tells me that is no defence.’
‘He is only trying to frighten you. Call his bluff.’
‘You think I should?’
‘Yes, if you think you are in the right. Your father would have. We will stand by you.’
‘Thank you, both of you, but I fear I have made an enemy of the Viscount.’
In any other circumstances and if he was not who he was, she could have liked the Viscount. He had none of the arrogance of his father, but he was his father’s son nevertheless. Was he right about a feud? Her father had had no love for the Earl, but she had always supposed it was for altruistic reasons and not personal. But supposing there was something personal in their enmity, what could it possibly be? A wrong never righted? But why? Who was to blame? She sighed and went back to her work; she was unlikely to find the answer to that now.
Chapter Two
In spite of the overcast skies and threat of yet more rain, the crowd began gathering on the common by the middle of Saturday morning. Men, women and even children were milling about trying to find the best places to hear the speaker, for whom a flat cart had been drawn up to act as a platform. They were noisy and for the most part good-humoured, treating it as a day out. Stalls had been set up selling food and drink and favours. These were made of red, white and blue ribbon, no doubt leftover from the celebrations of victory the year before.
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