The Dark Days Club by Alison Goodman
“I’m sure they will be stopped, my dear,” Aunt said mildly.
The conversation moved on to Uncle’s disgust at Reverend Haley’s veiled stance on the matter—“The damned man is almost certainly a secret supporter of the workers!”—but Helen barely heard the diatribe. In her mind was a vision of old Sir Reginald leaning in to kiss her, his fleshy mouth and gravy breath looming closer and closer. And then, before she could stop it, an even worse image of Sir Reginald bent over her like the man on the second card. She pressed her hand to her mouth, hiding the rise of revulsion. Uncle was already looking for a quick betrothal, and he was not looking high. Aunt might have diverted him from the idea of this match, but there would come a time when she did not dislike the candidate so much. What then?
Helen picked up her glass and took a large mouthful of chilled wine. But even that could not quite wash away the imagined kiss and repugnant vision of old Sir Reginald.
AFTER LUNCH SHE slowly followed Aunt upstairs to the drawing room, impatient with the prospect of sitting through another three hours of reading or sewing or writing letters until the time came for the afternoon promenade in Hyde Park. Usually Helen either rode her mare, Circe, or drove herself and Aunt in the tilbury along Rotten Row. Today, however, Millicent and Lady Gardwell had arranged to collect them on their way to the park, and since the Gardwells could no longer afford to keep a London carriage, it was to be a stroll through the verdant pathways. Not as much fun as riding, but still an excellent opportunity to talk privately with her friend about the strange events of the past few days. Before that, however, there was the afternoon to fill.
With a sigh, Helen picked up The Mirror of the Graces—a newly published guide to good dressing—and settled onto the sofa. She had just reached the author’s pronouncement that it was a woman’s duty to be ornamental, but only as a way to enhance the beauty of a virtuous spirit, when the clock struck the longed-for hour. Aunt rose from her letters and signaled that it was time to dress.
“Do wear that new spotted cambric petticoat with the amber tunic, my dear,” she said as they parted at the landing. “It is a fine enough day for it, and you can pair it with the sea-green Cossack coat.”
Obediently, Helen donned the ensemble and met Aunt downstairs again. It felt like another age before Philip finally opened the drawing room doors to announce that Lady and Miss Gardwell had arrived. The young footman’s pale skin was flushed with anticipation. Helen stifled a smile. He was to accompany them to the park, and his excitement was understandable. After all, walking out in the fresh air amongst so much natural beauty—and so much female beauty—was a daily drawcard for a good number of London’s men. Of all ranks.
With their outerwear buttoned high, and bonnets tied tight against the wind that routinely barreled along the busy expanse of Piccadilly, the small party set off toward Hyde Park Corner. Helen took Millicent’s arm and forged ahead, trying to find a moment of privacy, but the older ladies kept pace, no doubt spurred on by the wind that still held an edge of winter.
“Girls,” Aunt said from behind. “Do not walk so fast, please. Such speed is undignified.”
Gritting her teeth, Helen slowed, catching Millicent’s eye. Would they never get a moment to talk alone?
That moment had to wait a little longer. When they arrived at the park gates, it was well into the promenade hour, and the place was thronging. It seemed that the first fine Sunday for weeks had prompted most of London to venture out. The paths were filled with a shifting parade of defiant spring colors and lightweight cloth flapping in the breeze. Helen caught Millicent’s arm and pulled her back as a lady in a flounced purple habit rode across the path on a lively bay mare, heading toward the start of Rotten Row. A good number of riders and carriages were already on the gravel-and-tan riding track, and the mare danced sideways as the woman tried to urge it into the sedate procession. Helen clicked her tongue in disapproval. The woman had a bad seat and a heavy hand; she should be on a more docile mount. A groom rode behind her, but he seemed more concerned with eyeing the maids on their half-day off than with his mistress’s safety.
Sunday was the most democratic day at the “Lungs of London,” with those of the lower stations, like the giggling maids, coming to walk in the same open spaces as the beau monde. Helen always thought it such a fascinating mix: the Quality eyeing each other’s fashions, the scandalous demimonde with their bold eyes and revealing gowns, the middling families in their respectable best, and the house servants flirting on the lawns. But it also made for some impertinences, such as the two young city men gawping at Millicent as she lifted her hem to step over a deposit of horse dung. Helen gave the taller of the two a haughty stare and pulled her friend toward the path that led to the Serpentine. From the corner of her eye, she saw a well-dressed older gentleman in a navy-blue greatcoat and black high-crowned beaver watching them from a small hill that rose toward the river. He seemed vaguely familiar.
“My dears,” Aunt called. “Not that way. We will walk beside the Row.”
Helen tucked her arm back into Millicent’s and obediently adjusted their direction, her velvet reticule swinging from her wrist.
The path beside Rotten Row was so crowded that it was almost uncomfortable and, more to the point, offered no privacy. Helen and Millicent veered around a knot of men who had clustered at the fence to watch a black stallion go through its paces, their opinions of its gait loud in the crisp air. The two girls managed to find a moment of clear path beyond them, but then the young family ahead slowed and they found themselves in the midst of three crying children. With a smile and a nod, Helen quickly steered Millicent into a space between an old gentleman who hummed to himself and a pair of ladies walking arm in arm. She heard her aunt’s raucous laugh pierce the air, but the sound seemed far too distant. She looked over her shoulder. Aunt and Lady Gardwell were still near the start of the path, exchanging pleasantries with the Cholmondeleys.
“Oh no,” Helen said. “I thought they were right behind us.”
“We shall have to wait,” Millicent said. “We can’t go beyond their sight.”
Helen cast around for a solution, and found one beside the fence. A muddy patch had kept a space at the railings clear of spectators. “Let’s wait over there,” she said, leading her friend off the path to the pocket of privacy. “They can still see us, and we can talk properly without being overheard. Two buns for the price of one.”
“If we don’t get sucked into the mud first,” Millicent said, lifting her hem and stepping cautiously over the grass. “Look, my boots are already stained.”
“We can go back to the path if you want,” Helen said. “It’s just that it’s been an age since I’ve spoken to you without someone hovering over us.”
“I know.” Millicent dropped her hem with a shrug. “Tell me truly how your presentation went. I managed a good curtsy, thank goodness, but I fumbled my train as I backed away. I got such a fright. How did your curtsy go?”
“Very well,” Helen said, glancing over her shoulder again. Aunt and Lady Gardwell had not yet moved on. She dropped her voice to a near whisper. “Millicent, you won’t believe it, but before we went into the Grand Council Chamber, Lord Carlston stole my mother’s miniature.”
Her friend frowned. “What do you mean, he stole it?”
“He cut it loose from my fan.”
“Never!” Her friend’s horror curled into a delighted smile. Millicent did love to be shocked. “Why would he do such a thing?”
“I don’t know. But there is more. He made a morning call and gave it back to me, but not in the way you would expect.” She paused for dramatic effect. “He threw it.”
Millicent gasped. “Threw it! Is he mad, like they say?” She grasped Helen’s arm, bringing them even closer together. “Did he explain his actions?”
Helen looked into her friend’s eager face and felt a strange hesitation, as if she had sudden
“He gave no reason for taking it,” she finally said. It was the truth, but not the entire truth. For such a small betrayal, Helen felt an inordinately large sense of foreboding. With seven little words, it seemed she had stepped onto a new path—one that left Millicent behind—and something told her she could never turn back.
Millicent clutched her arm even tighter. “Oh my goodness, you don’t think he is trying to fix his interest in some strange way, do you? No, that would be impossible—he is still considered a married man. Tell me exactly what he said.”
“Really, it was nothing,” Helen said. “I think he must be mad, as you say.” She looked across the riding track, desperate for a change of subject that would stop the jab of regret. She found Pug Brompton, riding past on a sturdy gray mare. “Look, there is Lady Elizabeth.” She raised her hand, receiving a wave of Pug’s whip in response. “I spoke to her while we were waiting to be presented. She knew about Delia and Mr. Trent. But not only that—she said she’d been told that Mr. Trent had also killed a maid.”
“I heard that too, from Cecily Cartwright,” Millicent said indignantly. “People love to embellish a scandal.”
“Has Delia written to you at all?” Helen asked.
“No. I suspect her parents will not permit her.”
On that grim forecast, they paused for a moment, their conversation stifled by the arrival of a lady and gentleman next to them. Millicent fixed on something further along the path. “Look! Is that your brother with the Duke of Selburn?”
Helen followed her gaze. Two familiar tall figures stood at the mouth of a smaller path that branched off toward the lake. “I think it is.” She smiled at the unexpected pleasure: Andrew did not often attend the promenade.
The two men were stylishly dressed for the occasion, Selburn in a particularly handsome olive green topcoat with a brown hat. A good combination, Helen thought, for a fair-skinned, fair-haired man like the Duke.
He saw them first and, with a word and tilt of his cane, drew Andrew’s attention away from a dashing lady driving a phaeton on the Row. Her brother waved, and at Helen’s acknowledgment, the two men strolled toward them. As they drew up, Helen and Millicent curtsied.
“Good afternoon, Your Grace. I believe you are acquainted with Miss Gardwell,” Helen said. “Hello, Drew.”
Both men bowed.
“A delight to see you again, Lady Helen, Miss Gardwell,” Selburn said.
“Is Aunt with you, sis?” Andrew asked. “Or are you two gallivanting on your own?”
Millicent giggled. “I have never been accused of gallivanting, Lord Hayden.”
“Gallivanting is quite the thing these days, Miss Gardwell, don’t you know?” Andrew replied.
Helen looked over her shoulder, easily locating Philip’s red livery beside the Row fence, and thus her aunt. She and Lady Gardwell had not made much progress along the path. “She is over there, standing by that red curricle, speaking to Lord and Lady Heathcote.”
Aunt was obviously checking their location too, for she had turned to scan the crowd. She saw them and, with a smile, flicked her hand, waving them onward.
“Your aunt seems to think we should walk on,” Selburn said. “Shall we?”
He offered his arm to Helen. Her brother immediately offered his to Millicent, murmuring a comment that Helen did not catch. She heard her friend giggle again. Now, there was an interesting possibility: Drew and Millicent. No, she had to stop such thoughts—there was nothing more certain to kill a budding interest than an overly enthusiastic sibling.
She laid her hand on the crook of Selburn’s arm, and together they started along the path, falling into line with the other strolling couples and families. It promised to be an entertaining walk: in those few times when she had talked to the Duke beyond the polite chitchat of the ballroom, he had proven himself a man of good sense and easy humor. Nor had she forgotten the kindness he had shown in that illicit wink at her presentation.
“And how do you feel now that you are presented to Her Majesty and the world?” he asked, as though picking up her thoughts. “Any different?”
Helen glanced up, smiling into the warmth of his hazel eyes. It was a pleasure in itself to walk with a man who stood a good head taller than herself. “But of course,” she said. “I am immediately ten times more sage and knowledgeable.”
“I thought as much,” he said gravely. A lady coming the other way, in an orange pelisse and rather overdone chip hat, bowed to him. He returned her salute. “It is amazing how a minute before Royalty can change one’s essential nature, don’t you think?” he added.
“Imagine what two minutes could do,” Helen said.
Selburn smiled. She watched his mouth, liking the way it curled up at the very ends. It was too thin to be thought handsome, but it had a pleasingly firm cast. “I can assure you,” he said, “that two minutes, or even two hours, in the Prince Regent’s company does little for oneself, or for anyone else, for that matter. He is not a man of intense decision.”
A quick rejoinder rose to Helen’s lips, but she hesitated. This was where Aunt would caution her to step back from the satirical and stay within the sweeter confines of a young lady’s conversation. But the remark was already on her tongue and its spice too delicious. “But that is not true, sir. I have heard that His Majesty can order six waistcoats from his tailor in less than a minute.”
Selburn laughed. “I stand corrected,” he said appreciatively. “If you are not careful, Lady Helen, the Misses Berry will hear of you and press you to attend their salon. They like collecting wit and intelligence, and then where would you be? Labeled a bluestocking in your first Season!”
He thought her witty enough to be invited to the famous salon? Helen lowered her eyes lest her gratification be too obvious. “There would be no need for them to press, Your Grace. It would be an honor to attend.”
“Then, if you will allow, I shall mention your name.”
Helen bowed her agreement, feeling a flip of excitement in her stomach. A tantalizing image of herself in conversation with luminaries such as Sir Thomas Lawrence or Mr. Scott or even Mrs. Radcliffe flashed through her mind.
“Do you often attend their salons?” she asked.
“I do. It is a most free society and one that—”
Under the tuck of her fingers, she felt Selburn’s relaxed stance suddenly stiffen. He stopped walking, his eyes on the Row, his long jaw tight. A turn of her head brought the reason into sharp focus: Lord Carlston, riding along the fence line toward them on a big, heavy-boned chestnut of at least eighteen hands, the horse mincing with playful freshness. The Earl’s seat was as elegant as his finely tailored navy-blue coat and pale buckskin breeches, and he had a light hand that still managed to keep the animal under control.
As he neared, Carlston slowed his mount from a trot to a walk and nodded to Helen. She glanced at the Duke’s stony face, remembering the gossip at Lady Heathcote’s: he had taken a horsewhip to Carlston and had it turned upon him. Tension prickled across her skin. What was she to do? Acknowledge Carlston and so force his company upon the Duke, or cut him, and potentially lose her source of information? She stood still, caught within her indecision. With a wry lift of his eyebrow, Lord Carlston shifted his attentio
A ripple of noise further along the Row—shrill shouts and the stamp of hooves—cut through the hostility. Carlston turned in his saddle, breaking the standoff with Selburn. Beyond him, Helen saw the cause of the panic: a small bay horse rearing at the other side of the wide track. The animal came down hard, then bucked, and even before Helen saw a flash of purple cloth, she knew the woman with the heavy hands had lost control of her mount. The bay reared again, this time breaking into a rocking gallop that sent the woman flying off its back. She landed on the track in a billow of purple silk, the wheels of a curricle narrowly missing her leg. Her groom leaped off his own mount and pulled her to safety. Free of any hold on its bridle, the bay made for the fence. Good Lord, it was coming straight at them, Helen realized. If it took the fence into the crowd, it would trample everyone in its path.
In her mind, she saw each separate action needed to contain the beast, like a magic lantern show clicking through its pictures. Click: three strides to the fence. Click: a vault to clear it. Click: intersect the animal’s path. Click: a lunge to catch the bridle and bring the horse’s head down. She could feel the whole sequence imprinted in her muscles: a future certainty building into the necessity of action. It was hot in her veins, searing through the voice in her head shouting that a lady did not run, did not leap, did not lunge for a horse. Did not. Did not.
She dropped her reticule and caught up her hem. Beside her, Selburn threw his cane to the ground. Three fast steps took her to the fence, Selburn a moment behind. She saw his shocked glance as they both reached for a handhold on the wooden paling. She steadied herself to leap, but as every part of her forged upward, she was suddenly wrenched back to earth by a brutal grip on her shoulder.