Chapter the Third
The sun was residing over a beautiful morning. A cool breeze leapt playfully about the streets, tickling at the edges of the women's flowing skirts and catching the corners of the men's smart Sunday suits. The day was only just beginning, birds welcoming the morning from up in the trees, sending their various songs effortlessly up into the vast, cloudless sky. People were just starting to pile out of their houses, the sound of heavy footsteps on the cobbles announcing the start of the day's work.
Helen drank in the hub of early morning chatter, her blood pulsing quicker as she breathed deep the clear, simple morning air. A smile danced on her lips, and her normally pale cheeks were rosy as she watched the sun glint off the houses to her right and be caught up in the dense greenery to her left. In front of her, young Cutler was dragging his polished black shoes, trailing beside his father, who strode out on stiff legs, neither man at all interested in what was happening around them. Helen, in contrast, watched the world with special fascination. She was hardly ever permitted out of the house, and the found the fresh air was like a drug; she wanted to savour every precious moment of the breeze caressing her cheek.
"Come on now," Beckett's gruff voice called, cutting through her thoughts.
He stood waiting on the corner, his foot tapping impatiently, with Cutler hovering at his shoulder. Helen smiled to herself and complied readily, but her movements were sluggish as she drifted along the street on the wings of her quiet euphoria.
Helen reached Beckett, where she let him link arms with her and began to lead her forcibly towards the church on the hill. Cutler lagged forgotten after them, watching his father look down with disdain at his smiling wife. The trio were marching along the familiar path, their feet falling out of time with each other, sending grit off the stones dancing around their legs.
As Helen sailed at Beckett's side, she was startled by a grubby hand that shot out of the shadow to her right. She halted, her own hand sliding out of Beckett's hold, and she peered into the gloom, a frown on her face. In the shadow of the building to the right of the street a family were crouched a mother with a small grumpy baby on her hip, a sad-eyed girl clinging to her apron, and a stony-faced youth at her side.
The woman took in Helen's expensive silk gown and her shining jewellery and her tired eyes widened.
"Please, Milady. Pennies?" she murmured, holding out a begging hand but not daring to look at Helen's face.
Helen's lips curled into a sad smile, her expression pitying, and she started rummaging in her purse for change. The woman's eyes lit with hope and she fell over herself trying to thank Helen.
Beckett, meanwhile, hadn't noticed Helen stop and had kept striding along the path. As it dawned on him that Helen was gone, he halted, and directed a scathing look over his shoulder towards her.
"Helen," he snapped. His tongue lashed across the space between them and smacked at her hand hovering over her purse. "I've told you before not to waste money on beggars."
Helen froze, her face reddening. She watched as the woman dropped her hand dejectedly and averted her eyes. Helen was torn between embarrassment and anger. She opened her mouth to argue with her husband but Beckett frowned at her. The gathering clouds in his expression doused her rebellious thoughts, and she let her hands slip limply down from her purse. With deadened steps she dragged herself back to her husband, her bubble of happiness well and truly popped.
"We're late," mumbled Beckett, and he turned sharply on his heels, motioning his family to follow him.
Cutler turned to walk after him, his head down as to not attract any unwanted attention, but Helen grabbed his arm before he could leave. With a furtive look after Beckett, she leant down and whispered in Cutler's ear, while pressing a small bundle into his hand.
"He never ordered that you couldn't give them charity," she breathed and pushed him in the general direction of the beggar family. "Be quick," she ordered.
Cutler's eyes widened at his task and fear pulsed through his veins. Helen had run after Beckett, and Cutler was left on his own with the money getting heavier and heavier in his hand. Breathing in quick shallow gulps of air and with rapid, jerky movements he hurried over to the family.
The mother looked up in confusion as he materialised in front of her, but Cutler didn't give her time to react before he dropped the purse into her startled hand.
"Here you go," he mumbled under his breath.
He turned, stumbling in his haste to get back before his father noticed he'd gone, but before he could make his get away the woman pulled at the back of his shirt and he reluctantly stopped.
"Thank you so much!" she murmured, pawing at his clothes and smiling a broad, relieved smile.
She turned to her children." Say thank you," she ordered, still smiling unstoppably.
The young girl at the mother's side looked at Cutler and her lips curled into a tentative smile. Cutler couldn't help but smile back and he watched, amused, as the girl blushed heavily. She looked at the floor, tucking a stray strand of mouse-brown hair behind her ear as she tried to avoid Cutler's eyes.
Cutler suddenly felt immensely proud of himself, and there was a new assurance in his bearing as he accepted the older boy's polite nod of thanks and the mother's profuse praise. He smiled once more at the girl, who, needing something to do with her hands, smoothed her ponytail down and cast quick, anxious glances at his face. With a jaunt in his step, Cutler bid goodbye to the family and turned to hurry after his mother, who had disappeared over the hill.
"Wait," called the woman. "We don't know you name."
"Beckett," Cutler replied, puffing out his chest. "Cutler Beckett."
"I'm Mary Mercer," the mother introduced herself, bobbing a curtsy and having to bounce the baby back into position on her hip. "This is Clare." She indicated the baby. "John." She pointed to her son. "And Marianne." She pointed to her daughter.
The young girl, Marianne, curtsied prettily, and Cutler stared at her for a long moment. "Nice to meet you," she whispered, and as she straightened from the curtsy she smiled brightly up at him.
Cutler turned a loud, shining scarlet. He mumbled something unintelligible and bowed clumsily. With one last expressive look at Marianne, he turned tail and ran. He scurried as fast as he could along the road after his parents, and then up towards the church. As he ran he found that he could still see Marianne Mercer's smile lighting up the darkness behind his eyelids.
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The congregation had already gone in when Beckett and Helen reached the church with Cutler rushing up behind them. Henry grunted in irritation when he saw the doors closed before him. Setting his lips in a thin, hard line, he pushed open the doors, and dragged his wife and son into the church. He marched along the isle, his footfalls loud in the silent hall. Ignoring the stares and frowns of the seated congregation, he pushed Helen and Cutler into the front pew, and sat stiffly down on the end.
As the people returned their attention to the preacher, Helen arranged her skirts around her more comfortably and cast a quick, inquisitive glance around the church. Her eyes widened as they fell on a familiar figure, and she gripped her hymnbook with both hands, her knuckles going white. She inhaled sharply, blinking to check that she had seen right.
Julian Lewis sat across the other side of the church, eyes fixed on her face. He was alone in a pew with one foot braced on the row in front of him and an arm slung carelessly across it. His expression was bland, but his emotional hazel eyes explored Helen's face disconcertingly, mapping her like an area he hadn't seen for a while, searching for familiar landmarks on her changed skin.
Helen dragged her eyes away from him and fixed them on the minister. As the first hymn began she found that, with out meaning to, she kept dropping her gaze to the floor and peering at Julian out of lowered lashes. He never stopped staring at her, expression not changing but the emotion in his eyes turbulent.
Helen glanced worriedly at Beckett, but he was engrossed in the service, his normally dead eyes alight as he drank in the dry words of the sermon. Cutler hadn't noticed her distraction either, sitting at attention with his hands folded precisely in his lap. Helen tried to emulate him, back straight and eyes fixed directly ahead, but Julian drew her gaze magnetically.
He looked atrociously laid back, light hair unkempt, comfortable in a loose shirt that fell softly around his lean upper body. Helen shook her head, thinking that Julian had no right to look so good after so long. She glanced down at her own grey dress and had to close her eyes on the sight. Licking her lips, she tapped her fingers on the pew, trying to keep her mind blank. Out of the corner of her eyes she saw Julian tilt his head to one side and study her. She shifted uncomfortably, running a hand over her hair. Julian cocked his head to the other side, and Helen was sure he could see right into her soul. She fidgeted in her seat, looking up at the ceiling and rubbing the bridge of her nose. Julian just kept on staring.
As the last hymn began, Helen rose with the congregation, shutting her mind off completely as she joined in with the familiar words. Julian rose too, but instead of waiting to sing the hymn, he swept out of his seat and strode nimbly out of the church. Helen watched him go, mingled relief and disappointment twisting in her stomach.
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"A wonderful service," Henry Beckett gushed. He took the hand of the minister, shaking it vigorously. "Your talk on Original Sin was most intriguing, but I am of the view that – "
Helen peered over her husband's shoulder, scanning the faces of the small crowd gathered outside the church. She found that ridiculous feathers on equally ridiculous coloured hats and the frilly edges of umbrellas kept blocking her view. She cursed under her breath, tearing her eyes away from the crowds and back to her husband.
"It will all become clear one day I suppose, but I still think – "
Helen switched her mind off from her husband's monotone voice, her attention wandering. She explored the very edges of the yard, her eyes drawn by the trees in the far corner. Under a small silver birch she saw a figure. Her eyes widened and her breath caught as her eyes became accustomed to the gloom and she saw Julian clearly. He was lounging against the tree's trunk, arms folded across his chest lazily.
Helen glanced at Beckett, who was deeply in conversation with the priest and oblivious to all else. Helen's eyes flickered from Julian to Beckett, and she struggled with herself as she tried to think what to do.
Finally she clenched her fists against her sides and set her lips. With purposeful steps, she marched across the space between them, casting a quick guilty look behind her before she reached Julian. She was almost afraid of her own uncharacteristic forthrightness, but seeing Julian had reawakened something in her and her voice was strong as she rebuked him.
"What are you doing here?" she demanded.
Julian shrugged his shoulders, his face tight. "Going to church."
"You're following me," she murmured.
"What makes you think I'm following you?" Julian asked, expression frosty. "You always did have an inflated sense of your own importance."
Helen froze, her courage draining away. Years of living with Beckett had taught her never to even think about answering back, and she wondered what she'd been thinking. Maybe in her desperation she'd been imagining things. She murmured an apology and looking at the ground, she took a stumbling step backwards.
A flash of pity darted across Julian's face. "Wait," he demanded, pulling at her sleeve.
She stopped, frowning up at Julian in confusion. "What do you want from me?" she asked weakly.
Julian looked pained. "I haven't seen you in twelve years, Helen. I just wanted to talk to you."
Helen's eyes flicked down to her feet again. "You can't," she replied softly.
Julian raised a graceful eyebrow, and cast a calculating look at Henry Beckett across the yard from them. "And he's going to stop me?" he asked.
"Julian, don't – " Helen began.
Julian laughed delightedly. "Don't worry," he replied, voice soothing but his eyes shining with mischief. "I'll be good."
Helen exhaled slowly, her eyes darting to look at Beckett. "I should go," she murmured. Screwing up her courage she added softly, "It was nice talking to you again."
Julian smiled openly at her. "I'm not done with you quite yet," he promised.
Before Helen could react to his words, he reached across and ran a gentle hand down Helen's cheek. Placing his fingers on her chin he lifted her up to face him and planted a tender kiss on her astonished mouth.
As he let go, she staggered backwards, her hand shooting up to touch her lips. Julian's grin was wolfish and he winked at her. With one last smile, he turned on silent feet and disappeared into the trees.
Helen just stood there with one hand on her lips and the other hovering over her heart. It was a long time before she recovered enough to return to her husband, and even then she still felt Julian's soft, warm lips against hers.
A/N: My greatest possible gratitude for the repeated use of Nytd's beta-ing skills, which are keeping this story grammatically afloat. So, readers, I'm dieing to know, what do you all think of this chapter?
Humbly yours,
Damsel.
