Chapter the Second

The fire was burning low. Helen watched the last flame be slowly smothered by the ashes around it and tried to summon up the energy to move.

The room was gloomy and stuffy; Helen was slumped in an armchair, a small embroidery hoop lying forgotten in her lap. She'd watched as the sweltering sun had bled away into the horizon, and the heavy night had inked across the sky, but even then she hadn't summon up the enthusiasm needed to get up. Her hands idly stroked her unfinished needlework and her eyes stared emptily at the far wall.

It was getting late when a noise interrupted her lethargy. Helen lifted her eyes to the door, and they alighted on the haughty figure of Beckett, who was looking down at Helen like she had no right to be there. Helen may not have moved all afternoon, but after one look from her husband she leapt shakily to her feet, almost falling over in her haste. Chest heaving, she bobbed a polite curtsy, mumbling a stumbled greeting. Henry Beckett didn't bother with such trivial niceties.

"My guests will be arriving soon, I'll be receiving them in the Drawing room," he clipped.

"Yes of course," Helen murmured, bustling around the room and quickly clearing away her embroidery bag.

Beckett looked her dispassionately up and down as she moved. "You should change," he said.

Helen frowned and straightened, smoothing down her leaf-green dress, feeling her face start to colour. "I did change," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Beckett raised a slightly mocking eyebrow, his mouth set in a sneer. "Why didn't you go put on that beige one I bought you?" he asked, eyes hard.

Helen's face fell and her cheeks burned, but she didn't dare disagree. "Of course," she breathed.

With a curtsy, she turned dejectedly round and, like she'd been told to, she went to change.

///

The sound of shrill laughter cut through Helen's delicate head. She winced, and then tried to mediate her distress into a polite smile, for the sake of her husband. Beside her, Beckett was conversing dutifully with his guests, talking with Lord Jackson while his pretty blonde wife hung limpidly from his arm, smiling artlessly.

Lord Jackson said something else that Helen didn't catch, and as his wife laughed loudly again, she had to smooth a groan into a half-hearted attempt at a laugh. No one noticed Helen's thinly veiled discomfort, or perhaps they just ignored it. Henry, Helen and their guests sat in large comfortable armchairs, glasses of sherry clasped for effect in their gracefully gloved hands. They had been sitting like that for the best part of the evening and Helen found herself slumping lower and lower in her seat as the conversation went on.

She stared fixedly at Lord Jackson's face, watching his mouth moving but not really taking in any of his words. Her eyes dropped to the floor and she studied her feet for a moment, her mind wandering. When she raised her eyes back to the other three, she found them staring at her.

Jackson's pretty little wife, Helen couldn't remember her name, tilted her head to one side. "I haven't seen you at many social gatherings, Mrs Beckett," she stated. Her honeyed voice was slightly high-pitched and Helen found it grating.

Before Helen could answer, Beckett said, "My wife's health is fragile. She prefers to stay at home."

Helen dropped her eyes to her feet to hide her disgust. Mrs. Lord Jackson though, seemed to find the answer perfectly natural.

"Oh, you poor dear," she murmured, patting Helen's arm soothingly. Helen pulled her arm back sharply.

The woman didn't notice as she had already turned to her husband. "Surely she must come to our little party tomorrow," she asked, eyes wide and pleading. "I'm sure it wouldn't be too taxing."

"Of course," Lord Jackson replied, his face serious. He turned to Beckett. "Do you think she would be well enough?"

Helen held her breath, staring into her husband's cold face. He was considering the proposal with tight lips. Helen silently prayed that, just for once, she would be allowed out, but there seemed little hope in Beckett's clipped countenance. There was a long silence. Helen didn't take her eyes off her husband and it seemed like an eternity before he answered.

Yes," Beckett finally replied, a chilly, thin-lipped smile on his hard face. "I rather think she will."

///

A hum of noise hovered over the company. The clinking of wine glasses and the babble of tongues loosened by food, drink and good company, filled ever corner of the oppressive room. Music occasionally punctuated the buzz, the couples dancing around the bare dance floor, swaying in time to the swells of the tune. A buffet table was sitting on the far side of the room, surrounded by chairs. Women in flowing dresses and men in smart uniforms sat around it, each trying to pluck up the courage to talk to the other.

Helen stood as far away from the dancing as possible, hovering at her husband's elbow. Heat from the people around clung to her, and she lay against the cushion of the other's polite, empty chatter, feeling as a yawn wormed its way out of her dry lips.

Henry Beckett was conversing intensely with a group of men in smartly cut clothes, largely ignoring his wife standing politely a step behind him. As the conversation continued without her, on a subject that held not the slightest of her interest, Helen decided to wander over to the buffet table, pinching herself in an attempt to stay awake. She aimlessly meandered along, picking her way past the chatting masses and starting to fill a plate with food she had no intention of eating.

She started feeling self-conscious. She hadn't been to a dance like this in years, and around her young, pretty girls waltzed, being accosted by strapping, smart young men. She was standing on her own, in a pale cream dress her husband had picked out for her that washed the colour out of her face and accentuated the rings around her eyes. Her dark red hair was wound so tightly up on her head that the skin of her forehead was stretched. Her bare arms were pale and skinny and looked jaundice in the light. For the first time in a long time Helen really looked at herself, and she found she didn't like what she saw.

Helen swallowed the lump growing in her throat and banished her depressing thoughts. She spotted her son hovering on the edge of the dance floor and walked over to him, painting a smile on her face as she went.

"Cutler," she greeted him. "Why aren't you dancing?"

Cutler shrugged, staring at the other couples with a disturbing intensity.

"Well, I hope you're enjoying yourself," Helen continued, slightly unnerved by her son's expression.

Cutler nodded dutifully. "And you, mother?" he asked.

"Of course," Helen answered straight away.

Mother and son looked at each other for a long moment, smiles that didn't quite reach their eyes straining their faces. Cutler broke the contact first and bid his mother goodbye. He wove into the crowd and lost himself amongst the tall uniformed men, hoping no one would ever find him again. Helen watched him go, her heart heavy.

"Helen?"

The voice that broke through her thoughts was soft but insistent, with a slight musical lilt that made Helen jerk her head up. A man was striding across the room towards her. He was tall and lean, with an assurance in his stance that bordered on cockiness. Light on his feet, he bounded carelessly up to her, his mop of light brown hair flopping into his eyes. With a smooth swish of his hand he brushed the hair away, the smile on his face so wide that laughter lines creased his hazel eyes.

"Helen, you look terrible. Have you been ill?" He let out a light laugh and Helen looked at him with unexplained revulsion.

A frown broke out across the man's open face. "Helen, it's me – Julian Lewis."

Helen mastered herself with difficulty. "I know," she managed to croak.

Julian laughed nervously but the smile didn't waver. "How about a dance then, for old times sake?" he tried.

Helen looked at her feet. "I can't."

"Why ever not?" Julian looked genuinely surprised, but he smoothed his reaction into a flirtatious wink. "It's been a long time since I was turned down by a pretty lady. I must be losing my touch."

Helen looked desperately around her. "I am tired," was her lame excuse.

Julian laughed. "You'll have to do better than that," he told her.

Helen scowled. "I'm married."

"And your point is?" he retorted, arching an eyebrow. "I've known many married women, and all have been willing to dance with any comers, and often willing to do much more - "

Helen looked pained, and a blush was creeping onto her face. Looking helplessly over Julian's shoulder, she saw her husband frowning at her. He beckoned and Helen shifted uncomfortably.

"I have to go," she said, voice faintly pleading. "My husband wants me."

Julian grabbed her by the arm as she brushed past him. His expression was confused and more than a little put out. "Since when has Helen Blake let any man, even her husband, tell her what do to?"

"Times change," Helen replied, her voice resigned. "I'm Helen Beckett now."

She didn't look at Julian as she said it, so she didn't see the look of horror and disgust creep into his expression. He laughed bitterly. "If this is what marriage does to a person, then I thank God I am still single."

Helen tried to pull away from Julian, her eyes feeling unusually hot. He gripped her arm a little tighter and opened his mouth to say something more as they struggled.

"Is something wrong?" Henry Beckett's bland voice cut through the moment.

Helen's head snapped up and her face paled. Julian let his hand drop from her arm, looking insolently up at the other man.

"Is there?" Julian asked innocently, leaning back in a deceptively relaxed position.

Beckett stiffened, and the air between him and Julian was heavy with obvious dislike. Helen hovered at Henry's shoulder, wringing her hands and shifting from foot to foot.

"Mr. Julian Lewis is an old acquaintance," she murmured. "It's been a long time since we last met. We were talking about old times." Helen's voice was desperate and her eyes imploring.

"Old times," Beckett repeated, eyes boring into Julian's.

"I knew your wife in my youth. A more vivacious and spirited lady I have not had the pleasure of meeting, before or since." Julian's voice was even, but the statement was directed at Beckett like a challenge.

Helen's face burned. She looked down at her dull dress and her drab shoes, thinking of the pale waif of a woman she had become. She scowled, banishing the surge of almost forgotten memories. Thinking of the past only made her sicker of the present.

Julian watched her carefully. "I see this is a bad time," he said smoothly, dropping the façade of animosity and smiling charmingly up at Beckett. "I'll have to continue out little talk at a later date."

He bowed to Helen, making her jump as he shot out a hand and grasped her own. Pulling the shocked appendage to his mouth, he brushed it gently with his lips, noting Beckett's silent disapproval with amusement. Then he turned theatrically on his heels and stalked away.

After a long moment of silence, Beckett turned to his wife. "It's late," he said, nothing in his voice betraying any sort of emotion incited by the whirlwind reappearance of Julian Lewis. "We should go home."

All Helen could do was nod and dutifully go to locate her son. The three Becketts began to leave, bidding a polite farewell to their hosts and shaking hands with all the correct people. It was only young Cutler, forgotten but watching, who saw his mother cast one last secret, desolate look in the direction Julian had disappeared to. No one was watching though, when the single tear leaked from the corner of Helen's eye and fell hopelessly down her pale cheek.

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A/N: Dearest readers. I just wanted to thank everyone who has taken the time to read this so far, both the people who have left reviews and those who haven't. Also a massive thank you to Nytd again for her stupendous beta work. I really appreciate the help.

I noticed Helen sort of commandeered that chapter (sorry Cutler) but I promise there will be a little more on him next chapter and he steals chapter four entirely. Please tell me what you think of the OCs so far. :)

Yours faithfully,

Damsel.