Chapter 6

After Ralph had left Mrs Wakefield at the cottage, he rode back with haste to Belmont Hall. Ralph had always prided himself on being able to control his temper. He rarely lost it, not even when his mother was interfering with his life. However, Helen Wakefield had managed the seemingly impossible; the loss of his self-control.

What type of woman was Helen Wakefield?

In her dowdy grey dress, she looked like the archetypical lady's companion, but in reality, she was nothing more than a whore. He had become all to easily entangled in her web of lies and deceit, and he felt like a gullible fool. He was beginning to believe that she had engineered the whole situation, at the cliff's edge, just to ensnare him.

As he continued to ride his anger began to abate. As he drew near to the Hall, his conscience began to surface, and it started to make him feel uneasy. How could she have known that he would be going to the cliff's that afternoon? He had not even planned to go there himself.

Furthermore, how could he judge her when his behaviour had been entirely dishonourable? She had been right about him. Everything that he had accused her of doing that afternoon; he had done himself. He was no innocent when it came to the art of seduction, and had, on many occasions when he was younger, manipulated circumstances and devised situations so that he could lure women into his bed to satisfy his own lust.

Why was he so angry with her? He should be grateful that he owed her nothing. It was just a physical encounter without the complicated emotional ties such relationships often bring. As she said, they were both adults and capable of making their own decisions. It was not as if they could hurt anyone but themselves.

As Ralph continued to try to convince himself that he should not feel any guilt over his own actions, he could not stop thinking that he had made a connection with her at a much deeper level. It was a bond that could not be broken with a few harsh, hurtful words and some dismissive comments.

Once he approached the stables, his anger had almost gone. He still remembered the first time he had seen her that afternoon on top of the cliffs. She had looked so wildly beautiful with her long, wet hair streaming behind her. If he had not pulled her away from the edge, she would have fallen to her death onto the rocks below. Only deep desperation and a fear of the future drives a person to want to end their life. What had happened to her to make her feel that way about herself?

When he had kissed her, for the first time on the cliff's edge, there had been no artifice in her actions. At that moment, he had understood how she had felt because, at one time, he had thought the same. The emptiness of the world around him was a concept that was all too familiar to him. He knew what it was like when one had lost hope in the present and could not envisage any happiness in the future. He had felt the same way after the death of his father. When he too had stood on top of those cliffs and had felt the lure of the sea below. Ralph swore softly to himself. He had not told her any of those things. Instead, he had succumbed to his base desires when he should have offered her help. The stolen kiss at the cliff's edge should have been enough. However, he had been weak and had yielded all too easily to temptation.

The memory of Helen Wakefield, and what they had done, was now seared on his conscience. He had to try and make amends and apologise for his ungentlemanly conduct that afternoon. He would speak with Tom and see if he could remedy the situation that he had helped create.

'How do you know Mrs Wakefield?' Ralph said tentatively later that evening to Tom.

It had been another intolerably dull dinner, and the evening had only deteriorated when the gentlemen had joined the ladies in the drawing-room after dinner. Watching all the young ladies and their mothers vying for his attention had almost been unbearable. As soon as he could extricate himself, without seeming rude to his guests, he had retired to his study. He had persuaded the reluctant Tom, with the promise of an excellent whisky, to join him. Ralph suspected that his good friend would rather be spending his evening with his rather attractive young wife and he could hardly blame him.

'I met Helen in Spain,' Tom said as he sipped the amber liquid from the elegantly cut crystal glass. 'She was the wife of an officer in one of the cavalry regiments out there. His name was the Honourable Major Harry Wakefield, but there was nothing honourable about him. Why do you want to know?'

The two friends sat opposite each other in comfortable chairs by the fireplace. Even though it was the end of August, a fire had been lit earlier that evening, and it now crackled merrily in the hearth.

Ralph decided that it was better not to beat about the bush, but to come straight to the point. 'I'm curious about Mrs Wakefield,' he said after he handed Tom a glass of his finest whisky. 'When did you first meet her?'

'Why do you want to know? Tom asked defensively.

'I suppose,' Ralph said, carefully selecting his words. 'I want to know why the wife of Viscount Brentford's son is the companion of Lady Helford. It all seems a little odd to me.'

Tom eyed Ralph warily. 'I first met Helen in the spring of 1812,' Tom said, leaning back on the chair and relaxing his guard. 'I was attached to Wakefield's regiment after both our regiments suffered heavy losses at Badajoz.'

'I was a Captain at the time and an experienced officer. After all, I had spent years serving in the Peninsula and before that, India. I had come from a well-led regiment that had had a competent command structure. I wasn't looking forward to the merger. Wakefield's regiment was notoriously disorganised and famous for its weak leadership.'

'I had learnt, from my years as an officer, that one should always lead by example. The chaos after the Siege of Badajoz, when our usually well-behaved men went on a rampage, was an outrage. Wellington always expected officers to maintain order within the ranks. Throughout the long march through Portugal and then Spain, we had been under strict orders not to plunder the land and antagonise the locals. After all, the Spanish were our allies; not our enemies and their property had to be respected. However, Wakefield had disagreed with Wellington. He thought that the Spanish owed them more than just gratitude, and he often turned a blind eye to any of our own men plundering or taking advantage of the local women.'

'The Siege of Badajoz was completely different from any battle I had ever witnessed. It was the bloodiest and most brutal of the wars so far. The French were entrenched behind the seemingly impregnable fort's walls, and many of our men died trying to break their defences. When we finally breached the walls, fuelled by their bloodlust, the men began to riot. They behaved like savages; raping, pillaging and murdering. No one was safe; young or old; men, women, boys and girls, they were all brutalised by our men. Some of us tried to stop them, but they behaved like a mob. In the blink of an eye, I saw decent law-abiding men turn into barbarians and revert to their primaeval instincts. I would never have believed it possible if I had not witnessed it with my own eyes.'

'Instead of trying to stop the carnage, Wakefield positively encouraged it. On the final day of the looting, I found him drunk in a tavern with several other officers. The tavernkeeper and his wife had both been murdered. They had had their throats slashed as they tried to defend their daughter. The girl, who couldn't have been more than fourteen years old, was huddled naked in a corner and whimpering like a wounded dog. It turned out that Wakefield, and the other officers, had killed her parents in front of her. Then they had mercilessly raped the young girl over and over again. I managed to get her away to the safety of the camp and into Helen's care. A few days later, when I went to find out how the young girl was faring, Helen had told me that she had gone to the stream that morning and had taken her own life. The brutality that she had suffered had driven her to her death. When I told Wakefield, he just laughed and told me that the little slut had deserved it. After Badajoz, I did my best to avoid him. I could have easily killed him for what he had done and felt no remorse for my actions.'

'The tragic thing was that Wakefield had not always been brutish. According to a fellow officer, who had been just as disgusted by his behaviour as I was, he had once been a good officer. When he had been a Lieutenant, back in 1809, before the surrender at Corunna and the death of Moore, he had followed orders and had fought bravely. The officer told me that Wakefield's behaviour started to change after he sustained a severe head injury at the Battle of Talavera in 1809.'

Tom drained the contents of his glass and Ralph could not help but notice the anger that burned brightly in his eyes. Ralph had never had to enter the theatre of war. He was the eldest son of an Earl and had been brought up knowing that he would inherit his father's title and the wealth that accompanied it. His brother, Alex, had suffered terribly after he had seen a friend tortured and killed. As a consequence of what he saw, his brother had found it difficult to adjust to civilian life after Waterloo, and, along the way, had lost his moral compass. Alex was still trying to put to right the wrongs he had committed, and Ralph knew that the guilt still gnawed away at him and would follow him for the rest of his life.

Tom continued. 'It is not uncommon for a man's personality to change after witnessing the horrific scenes during a battle. I know because, over the years, I became harder and less sympathetic to my fellow man; but I suppose that is only natural if you are sent to kill. Whatever happened to Wakefield was different. It was a complete change, and it apparently occurred overnight. Whatever happened to his mind, altered the essence of who he really was.'

'What about Helen?' Ralph said, after a pause in the conversation. 'What was her relationship with her husband like?'

Tom looked over at Ralph and raised his eyebrows. 'Is it Helen now, not Mrs Wakefield?' Ralph could not help but notice the warning note in his friend's voice.

Ralph felt an unexpected twinge of guilt. If Tom knew what had transpired between Helen and himself that afternoon, he was sure that he would now be facing a challenge to a duel. Instead of answering Tom and committing himself to a lie, he remained silent and just refilled their glasses.

Tom picked up his glass. 'After the injury, he sustained at Corunna, he spent a year, along with Helen, in England convalescing. Soon after their return to Spain, she left him. When I knew Wakefield, he was a drunken cheat and a downright nasty piece of work. It is not surprising that she refused to live with him.'

'You still haven't told me how she saved your life,' Ralph said, after another lull in the conversation. Ralph could tell that Tom was finding this exchange difficult. Even though he had known Tom for years, Tom rarely spoke about his time in the army. It was a subject that up until now had remained off-limits. Ralph suspected that the presence of Helen had induced Tom to open up regarding his past life.

'I was injured at Salamanca, and I would have died on the battlefield if it had not been for Helen. The surgeon we had, attached to the regiment, was a butcher. He spent most of his time drunk and avoiding any work. The orderlies that worked under him were not much better. More men died in that field hospital than on the battlefield.'

'After the battle, Helen went out to the battlefield. She scoured the site for any signs of life with some of the other wives of the enlisted men and eventually found me delirious after I had taken a shot in the shoulder from a French carbine. '

'If she would have taken me to the hospital, I would have bled to death. Instead, she brought me to my tent, removed the shot and cleansed the wound. It wasn't just my life she saved that day. She went back time and time again to that bloody field until she knew there was no one left alive.'

Tom fell silent, and Ralph did not feel the need to fill the void with pointless chatter. After a lengthy silence, Tom finally spoke. 'Helen is an exceptional person. I don't know anyone quite as brave as her. She is a woman of honour.'

There was another silence and Ralph suspected that Tom was deep in thought. Eventually, Tom broke the silence. 'Because she was not living with Harry, she didn't socialise with the other officers' wives. They always kept their distance, and I know there was a lot of vicious gossip regarding her and a French officer. I never took much notice of what they said. I always like to make my own judgements about a person without it being clouded by another's jealousy.'

'She had a son,' Tom said tentatively, 'I think his name was George. She gave birth just after Corunna, so he must be nine or even ten years old.'

'What about Brentford?' Ralph said in reply. 'Shouldn't she be under his protection.'

'What,' Tom said flatly, 'that parsimonious old prig.'

'Why is she not living in his household? Surely, he has a responsibility for her as his relative. She should not have to put up with waiting hand and foot on that old harridan.' Ralph replied.

'I don't know,' Tom replied, 'I know that Wakefield was his youngest son. Perhaps Brentford thought he was marrying beneath him. You've heard his long rambling speeches in the House about the poor and their duty to serve their betters. There is not one compassionate bone in his body. He has voted time and time again against any social reforms, and he is often found in the company of that bastard Melrose.'

'Lord Melrose!' Ralph said as he looked over to Tom. He knew all about the infamous Lord Melrose and his stranglehold on both the political and criminal world in London. 'My brother, Alex, was involved with him.'

'Yes,' Tom replied, 'I heard that he foiled a plot to abduct his step-daughter.'

'How Melrose managed to walk away from that scandal, with his reputation intact, is anyone's guess,' Ralph said with a sigh.

'He managed to put the blame on his associate, Ellington,' Tom said, as he took another sip of whisky. 'Ellington is another rogue cut from the same cloth as Wakefield.'

Everyone knew that Lord Melrose was the real power behind the British establishment. He had spent years carefully crafting his empire. He had done this by purchasing the mortgages and debts of many of those in the ruling classes, thus making them dependant on him. In return for their loyal service, he allowed them a certain amount of freedom from their debt. However, if anyone stood up to him and refused to support his causes, they would find that it was not only their property that was in danger of being lost but also the reputations of their closest family members.

'The wily bastard managed to put all the blame onto Ellington when he disappeared,' Ralph said with disgust.

'I know that Brentford is up to his neck in it with Melrose, and I wouldn't trust him as far as I could throw him.' Tom growled. 'And, I also know that Helen's son, after the death of Wakefield's older brother, is now Brentford's heir.'

'I want to help her,' Ralph said, changing the subject abruptly, 'Helen needs friends.'

Tom looked over and eyed Ralph suspiciously. 'I don't know what you can do to help her.' They sat in silence for a few minutes when Tom suddenly sat forward and looked at Ralph. 'I know,' Tom said in a flash of inspiration, 'I will ask Alice to befriend her. She's already introduced herself to Helen and quite likes her. You're right, Helen needs a close friend, and neither of us can do that without ruining her reputation. There must be a very good reason why she puts up with Lady Helford, and I would not want to jeopardise her employment until I know the reason why. I suspect it is to do with her son.'

Ralph nodded in agreement. Tom was right. Helen needed a friend, and for decency sake, it could not be him.