Pirates of the Caribbean 1. Chapter the First

_A/N: Hello, readers. Before you start the story, can I just quickly say that my chapter in the collaborative fanfiction 'Mothers of the Caribbean' by_ A Magnificent Garden Party _was on Cutler Beckett's mother and spawned this story you're looking at now. You may or may not want to read that chapter first, although you don't need to have read that to understand this. Both pieces can stand alone._

_Unceasing ballads and drunken pirate songs are sent out to Nytd for beta-ing this chapter, and special thanks to the people who read my MotC chapter and ordered me to write more. :)_

_Now on with the story.._

* * *

**Chapter the First**

It was like making love to a block of stone.

Eyes clouded with tears and throat clogged with helpless frustration, Helen planted a series of moist, breathy kisses along her husband's neck and chin, while wrapping her delicate fingers into his dark hair and tracing patterns along his bare back.

He barely seemed to register her desperate attempts at familiarity, as he remained still, arms braced on either side of Helen, somehow managing to be barely touching as they lay together.

Passion and love had nothing to do with such moments. It was duty and nothing more that incited Henry Beckett to ever respond at all to his young wife's heated lips and soft, fleshy embraces. The room would be almost silent as they couple were joined in stiff emotionless lovemaking.

Out of the corner of her eye, Helen could see her wedding dress, hanging limp and discarded, gathering dust. It watched her with wilting but accusing eyes, and Helen felt her own eyes mist over with hopeless tears of anger. Biting her lip, she pushed her husband onto his back and kissed him, forcing his stiff upper lip open with her tongue. Tears dried salty on her flushed cheeks as she moulded her mouth against his, clasping his silent, still form in between her long, slim legs, and begging for some sort of answer.

He didn't respond, letting her frustration run itself wild, until, emotionally spent, she collapsed onto his chest feeling utterly defeated. Then very deliberately he rolled her gently off him and carefully turned over.

As he pulled the cold covers over his equally cold form, nothing could have informed Helen she wasn't wanted more eloquently than that.

///

The room was neat and precisely ordered. The sharp morning sun filtered in between light, silken curtains, and sparked off the silverware gracing the polished wood of the Beckett's breakfast table. The table stretched the full length of the room, frugally sprinkled with plates and cups, with buns and fruit piled in bowls and saucers. A faint breeze danced in the open window, fluttered down the table, and tugged at the very edge of the newspaper clasped in Henry Beckett's hands.

The only sound in the room was the clinking of Helen's cutlery as she silently ate her breakfast, the words she wanted to say to her husband draining away into her orange juice as she took a nosedive into the goblet, attempting to drown out the uncomfortable silence. Beckett was oblivious; licking his thumb, he turned the page of his paper, taking a calculated bite out of a piece of toast as he did so.

Behind them the door creaked open, and a slight figure in a smart suit slipped in. The boy looked to be about eleven years old, dressed in stiff but well tailored clothes, perfectly fit to his small build. He took small careful steps across the cream carpet, eyeing Henry warily.

"Good morning, Father," he greeted, nodding politely.

Beckett didn't look up but a faint curt nod in the boy's direction announced his attention.

"Good morning, Mother," the boy continued, turning to Helen.

Helen smiled tightly, and pushed her breakfast plate away.

"Morning, Cutler," she sighed and pulled her young son into a quick embrace.

Cutler didn't object, but Beckett shot the two a disapproving glare, causing Helen to hold onto her son a little longer than normal. Beckett returned to his paper without a word and a small but triumphant smile appeared on Helen's face. The air in the room was suddenly lighter as Helen resumed her breakfast with a smile, and Cutler climbed onto a chair opposite his mother to begin his own.

Beckett was giving off an obvious signal to not be disturbed. Cutler made himself as small as possible as he ate, but Helen played with her food, batting a roll across her plate and humming to herself.

"So, Cutler," Helen finally asked, shattering the carefully constructed silence. "What did you think of Mr. Battiscrombe yesterday?"

Cutler looked startled. His eyes darted up from his plate to his mother, and he cast an anxious look at his father as he tried to form an answer. Before he could do anything more than furrow his brow, his father's cool voice cut in, "Mr. Maximilian Battiscrombe is a great friend of mine and an unsurpassed businessman."

There was nothing in his voice or his words that would be construed as threatening, but Cutler positively quailed.

"Yes, a very interesting man," Cutler finally agreed, choosing his words carefully. "He has invited me to return tomorrow, and he said he may take me on as a permanent apprentice."

Cutler's eyes were fixed on his plate and his voice was devoid of emotion. Beckett looked pleased though, and with a tight-lipped grin he folded up his newspaper.

"Fine news," he declared. "Fine news indeed."

Cutler let out a low sigh of relief and resumed eating his breakfast, but Helen's appetite seemed to have gone. Beckett unfolded from his seat, removing a napkin from his lap and placing it neatly on his plate. As he turned to exit the room, Helen looked up with weary eyes.

"Are you going to your study?" she asked meekly.

Beckett nodded once. "I have a lot of paperwork that needs attending to."

Helen looked demurely down at her plate. "I was hoping to go visit my sister today. She's just had her third child." Helen's voice was quiet and more than slightly wistful.

"I don't think so," Beckett replied evenly. "There is a distinct bite in the wind and we wouldn't want you to catch a chill."

Helen swallowed and didn't even bother to nod. The only sound in the room was Cutler buttering a piece of bread with deliberate, exaggerated strokes.

"We will be entertaining visitors later," Beckett continued as if this explained everything. "Put on something nice."

Beckett didn't wait for his wife's reaction and strode out of the room, letting the door clang behind him with a distinct finality.

The breakfast table was silent. Cutler looked up from the pot of jam in his hand, to his mother, who was staring at the door with a glazed expression on her face. Jerking his eyes away, he inhaled haltingly and looked back at his breakfast, where the bread he'd spent the entire conversation buttering was left limp and uneaten.

He pushed his plate away and got to his feet. "May I be excused, Mother?" he asked.

Helen jolted out of her brooding state. "Of course, dear." Her voice was falsely cheerful and the smile she summoned up unconvincing. "Go have fun."

Cutler smiled back and kissed her lightly on the cheek before he left. He didn't let the expression drop until he had padded across the carpet and slide out of the room. Then both Helen and Cutler's smiles disappeared, replaced with identical and unexpressed looks of loneliness and longing.

///

A shimmering heat haze hovered over the road. People were moving sluggishly, the weather sapping the energy out of their movements. Noise was muffled, the people too drained to bother with conversation; only a lone bird called out from a tree, but its song was unusually hoarse and weary.

Young Cutler Beckett shifted uncomfortably outside Mr. Maximilian Battiscrombe's house. He tugged at his stiff shirt collar, revealing momentarily a thin white neck. Wiping a clammy across his forehead, he brushed away a bead of sweat and stared up at the building in front of him.

It was vast in width and statue, rather like Mr. Battiscrombe himself. It towered over its neighbours, keeping a thick wall of expensive stone between it and the common man. Cutler swallowed a couple of times, breathing in gulps of stifling air. He normalised his breathing, but it was still with obvious trepidation that he raised a fist and knocked on the ostentatious oak door.

Once inside, Cutler was hit by a wall of cool air. Marble walls to the side, mosaic tiles below, and thick cream curtains pulled back to reveal large open windows, made the house open and airy. Cutler was led through the finery, barely stopping to glance at the portraits of Mr. Battiscrombe's illustrious family, or the various artistic and expensive busts and statues that lined the hall way.

Cutler wasn't spoken to as he was herded through the house, a tight-lipped housekeeper striding out in front, her shoes clipping icily along the floor. He was barely acknowledged until he was eventually deposited in the small gloomy study, right at the back of the house.

Mr. Battiscrombe was waiting for him there, sitting behind a desk, his large well-dressed bulk squeezed into an armchair, gripping a pen in between his podgy pink fingers.

"Master Beckett!" Battiscrombe called, a broad smile creasing up his red face.

He lumbered to his feet, pushing back his seat and stumbling over to shake hands with Cutler. He towered over him, Cutler's small hand disappearing into Mr. Battiscrombe's massive paw. As he shook Cutler's hand violently, he looked down at the younger boy, his wide smile sickly.

"I see you haven't grown since yesterday," Battiscrombe commented, leering above Cutler.

Then he laughed loudly, as if he'd just said something especially clever. His paunch wiggled over his trousers and his waistcoat rode upwards, revealing rolls of pale, blotchy flesh.

Cutler kept his face bland. "Yes, sir," he replied emotionlessly.

Battiscrombe's teeth showed yellow through his thin-lipped smile. "You're learning!" he roared, and with a gleeful cackle he smacked Cutler companionably on the back, sending him staggering forwards.

Waddling back round to his seat, Mr. Battiscrombe sat down, ignoring the chair as it moaned in distress under his weight. He pulled a pile of documents out from a draw, plopping them down in the middle of the table, sending smaller papers flying off the edge of the desk. Cutler's eyes swam as he stared at the endless lists of numbers and he blinked, banishing his sudden weariness. He sat down on a chair opposite Battiscrombe, trying to keep the sinking dread out of his face as he looked at the mountain of work.

"This is the life, isn't it, boy?" Battiscrombe commented lazily, watching Cutler begin sorting through the papers.

Cutler just nodded dutifully, and with a resigned sigh he picked up the nearest document and got to work.

///


	2. Chapter the Second

**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.

///

_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. _


	3. Chapter the Third

**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.

///

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.

///

"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._


	4. Chapter the Fourth

**Chapter the Fourth**

The door slammed shut behind Cutler Beckett. He listened to the retreating sound of Mr. Battiscrombe's housekeeper marching back into the house, and he breathed out a long relieved sigh, sagging against the closed door. After a long moment, he reopened his eyes, staring out at the empty street in front of him.

The sky was starting to darken, and in the time he'd spent working with Battiscrombe the heat of the day had passed and thin tendons of cold breeze were creeping along the silent street. Cutler shivered as the cold wrapped around him, and pulled his coat tighter across his chest. With heavy steps, he started trudging back to his house, his footsteps in the gravel unusually loud.

He was half way home when he realised he was being followed.

They weren't particularly quiet or secret, as their feet thumped along the path behind him and their harsh laughter echoed off the houses around him.

He cast a fearful glance over his shoulder and saw four or five boys, about his age, and he recognised their leering smiles. He quickened his pace; his instincts screamed at him to run, but he kept walking, watching the path disappear beneath his lengthened strides. As he reached the corner and ducked behind the relative safety of a wall, he let himself have the luxury of fear and ran on terrified feet, as fast as he could, towards home.

The sound of his gang of juvenile followers thundered after him. Cutler's heart thumped in his chest as it pumped fear around his limbs, and, powered by terror, he sprinted the full length of the street, shooting fearful looks over his shoulder at his pursuers.

He almost managed to reach the end of the street before they caught him.

Smashing into him, the biggest boy, who Cutler knew to be the leader of the little gang, knocked him to the ground, winding him. He cried out and struggled, but the older boy held him down. The others caught up, panting and laughing as they stared at Cutler wiggling helplessly in their friend's hold.

"Where's your rich father now, Beckett?" the eldest boy asked, real dislike in his voice and a sneer on his face.

Cutler gave the boy a look laden with malice and dripping with disgust. The other boy just laughed, and pulling back a lazy fist, he punched Cutler in the mouth.

Cutler cried out, shooting a hand to his face and feeling warm, sticky blood on his lip. He covered his head with his hands, cowering in a ball on the dirty floor as punches and kicks rained down on him from the other boys.

One snaked in a hand and stole his pocket watch, while another tore open his pockets and emptied his possessions on the ground. Cutler could only wince and grunt pitifully from the floor as the boys landed blow after blow on his unprotected body.

Then all at once it stopped.

He heard a surprised cry and a resounding smack, followed by the sound of a scuffle and shouts of anger from his attackers. He opened tentative eyes; one was bleary and tender but with the other he saw something miraculous. Another boy had joined the fight; he was a head taller than the other boys and faster with his punches, and unbelievably seemed to be on Cutler's side.

The leader of the gang squared up to the boy, a scowl on his face and his fists raised in readiness, but his new opponent bought up a knee into his stomach and, as the other boy doubled over, smashed his legs out from under him, sending him hurtling to the floor. The new boy turned to the rest of the gang, landing a swift punch on the cheek of one member and a backhand smack on the face of another. The boys very quickly lost heart. With a last desperate look at their leader, who had staggered to his feet and was creeping slowly away from the fight, they turned and ran.

Cutler watched it all from the ground, feeling too abused to even contemplate getting up. The other boy stood watching the gang retreat, then padded over to where Cutler lay, his feet silent on the hard ground. As he turned, Cutler realised with a jolt that his rescuer was the eldest son of the beggar woman, Mary Mercer. The boy knelt down beside Cutler and prodded him a few times, making Cutler wince. Satisfied, he held out a hand and helped Cutler to his feet.

"You'll live," the boy said, his voice quiet and gravely. "Probably."

Cutler was stunned and tried to stammer a thank you. His rescuer just shrugged. "I owed you for what you did for my mother," he told him. "Now we are even."

There was a finality in his tone that Cutler was bought up to respect, but as the boy began walking away, Cutler found himself following.

"What was your name again?" he asked, taking two steps to keep up with the bigger boy's one.

"Mercer," he replied shortly.

"First name?" Cutler asked, trotting along beside him.

"Just Mercer," was the succinct reply.

Cutler nodded, pausing to think. Mercer just marched on without him.

"Wait," Cutler called, running now to keep up. "Could you teach me to fight as you did?"

Mercer stopped walking, looking in disbelief at the smaller boy. "Why?" he asked. "Are you gonna go picking fights with those lads again?"

Cutler shook his head, small face set. "I don't think they're finished with me, and if they come back I want to be ready."

That hadn't occurred to Mercer, and a frown creased his forehead as he thought about it. He grunted in agreement.

Cutler smiled a slightly self-satisfied smile, but his grin disappeared as Mercer said, "I can't help you," and strode off.

"Ooh," Cutler cried and pulled at the older boys sleeve. "Why not?"

Mercer looked Cutler up and down without stopping in his strides. "You're too little," he decided.

Cutler scowled. "That won't stop those boys attacking me," he snapped, clenching his small fists. "Please, teach me!"

"Leave me alone!" Mercer ordered, pushing Cutler away.

Cutler stumbled backwards, falling over his own feet and grunting in distress as he landed on his tender back. He was back on his feet in an instant, swallowing the pain and grabbing at Mercer's retreating leg. The older boy cried out as Cutler snatched his feet from under him, and he plummeted to the ground. Cutler staggered towards Mercer but Mercer was quicker, as he rolled onto his back and kicked at him. The blow landed on Cutler's shin and he flinched, nursing his injury.

Mercer didn't give him time to recover and hurtled to his feet, slamming bodily into Cutler and sending them both sprawling. As the two boys wrestled on the ground, dust was thrown up around them and dirt was smudged on their faces and clothes.

Cutler struggled desperately, but he was smaller and younger and soon found himself overpowered. To his surprise, as Mercer hovered over his helpless form, fist pulled back in preparation of a punch, he suddenly laughed.

"Alright," Mercer relented. "I'll teach you."

Climbing carefully off Cutler, he reached down and pulled him back onto his feet. Cutler's eyes were wide and confused but Mercer just grinned at him, patting him on the shoulder.

"We'll meet again," he said, and Cutler nodded emphatically.

Weary and sore, the boys turned to go their separate ways. Cutler began trudging home, tired and bruised, but with a grin was plastered over his battered, bleeding face.

///

_A/N: I apologise for the length of the chapter and the length of time it took for me to update. More chapters will follow soon, I promise! _

_Yours in greatest sincerity, _

_Damsel._


	5. Chapter the Fifth

**Chapter the Fifth**

Helen perched on the balcony seat with her legs curled up underneath her and her head resting on a hand. A book lay in her lap, but the words refused to come into focus before her eyes, and her mind wandered recklessly.

The afternoon sunlight washed over the small balcony. Helen silently watched the light glancing off the whitewashed walls, and a small smile played on her lips as she tried, and failed, to banish the events of yesterday from her mind. The grinning face of Julian simply would not leave her in peace.

Rolling off her seat, she got unsteadily to her feet, trying to reawaken her sleepy muscles. Casting a final look at the clear sky, she returned inside, shutting the balcony door behind her with a soft thud. As the door closed, the light disappeared and Helen took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the room, which seemed gloomy after the sharp brightness of outside.

Once the room drifted into focus, she walked over to her bookcase and carefully returned her book. Then, with nothing else to do, she turned around and started to leave her room. A sudden strange scrapping noise stopped her in her tracks.

She froze, eyes darting to the balcony door, as she perceived the noise came from outside. She didn't move, hardly daring to breath, and hoping that the noise had just been her tired imagination. Then a thump and a curse from behind the closed door confirmed her suspicion.

Heart hammering, she crept towards the balcony doors. Placing a hand on the handle, she gathered herself and pushed, lightly slipping out of the door before her courage deserted her. Once out of the gloom of her room and into the sunlight of the balcony, she saw a shape and flung her hands protectively up in front of her face in case of attack. After a long moment, she gained the presence of mind to actually look at her intruder and her mouth sagged open as she was greeted with a most surprising sight.

Julian was standing on her balcony.

He didn't seem to have seen her and was busy brushing down his crumpled clothes and picking leaves out of his curly hair. He glanced up and a sheepish smile appeared on his face as he recognised her.

"I'm getting a bit old for this," he muttered, and Helen noticed he had a rip in his shirt and a small angry cut on his left cheek.

Helen closed her open mouth sharply. "What are you – " she tried to ask, but a laugh rose in her throat and drowned out her words.

Julian shrugged. "Climbing up balconies is sickeningly romantic but dreadfully impractical," he admitted.

Helen tried to keep her face stony, but another laugh escaped her mouth, followed by a sharply cut off giggle. Julian's eyes were open and hopeful and his expression slightly abashed as he hesitated on her balcony, itching at the smudges of dirt on his clothes. Helen couldn't help bursting into loud laughter as Julian noticed the rip in his shirt and scowled, muttering darkly under his breath.

Helen stepped backwards, sitting down heavily on the wall of the balcony, tears in her eyes. It took a moment for her to compose herself, and she dragged in a couple of calming breaths, her eyes shining and chest heaving.

"I haven't laughed as much as that in a long time," she whispered.

Julian plonked down on the seat beside her. "I can believe that," he replied, fiddling with the tear in his shirt. "I bought this from a master tailor," he lamented. Then he looked down into Helen's smiling face. "At least it was worth it to see you smile again."

Helen dropped her gaze and hesitated. Julian was sitting very near to her, and she could feel the warmth of his body beside hers. Mentally she shied away from his closeness, but still she unconsciously pressed her body against his on the wall.

"My husband – " she began, looking subserviently at the floor.

Julian sighed and moved back, giving Helen some breathing space. "Beckett's gone out. I made sure of that before I came here," he assured her.

Helen frowned slightly. "If Beckett has gone out, why did you not just use the front door?"

Julian grinned wolfishly at her. "This was more fun," he admitted.

Helen found his grin infectious. She tried to think clearly but he kept looking at her, smiling, knocking her off balance. He lounged on the wall, waiting patiently for her to decide what to do with him, his expression once again mischievous.

She postponed her impossible decision, instead reaching across and pulling a leaf out of Julian's tangled hair.

"You look like a bird's nest," she told him, brushing his mop of light brown hair absentmindedly with her fingers.

Julian scowled. "You don't look much better yourself," he bit back.

Helen's face reddened and she looked at the floor, retracting her hand from Julian's hair sharply. Julian winced slightly at what he'd said. Attempting to resurrect the moment that he'd destroyed, he reached a tentative hand across to Helen, and placing it on her chin, he lifted her eyes to face him. He looked at her critically for a moment and Helen's face clouded with confusion.

"You just need something," he muttered.

Then he smiled; reaching up quickly, he pulled at her tightly wound up hair. She winced, her hands shooting up to the bun and for a moment there was a struggle. Then her dark auburn hair fell out of its trappings and cascaded down her cheeks.

"That's better," Julian whispered, running a careful hand through her long locks. "Much more like the Helen I knew."

Helen blushed scarlet, putting her hand to her head in confusion.

"That was a long time ago," Helen murmured.

Julian shrugged. "I remember," he said, offhandedly.

"How could I forget?" Helen replied, rolling her eyes.

Julian's grin was dangerous. "Don't tell me you regret it?" he asked.

"My mother never forgave me for running off with you," she told him, combing her hands pensively through her hair.

"I gave you back afterwards!" Julian exclaimed, with a look of mock indignation.

"Three weeks afterwards!" Helen shot back, her smile belaying her stern tone of voice.

Julian just laughed and caught her hands as she ran them through her hair. She let him take her hands, still amused, but then a thought occurred to her. She froze and yanked her hands away, her eyes troubled. Julian pretended not to notice how ragged her breath became when they touched. It upset him how much she was yearning for contact, but she seemed almost afraid of it.

Very slowly, he slid a hand along the cold stone of the wall and wrapped it around Helen's, linking his fingers with hers. She jumped, but made no attempt to remove her hand; in fact, she gripped his tighter.

"What if someone were to see us?" she asked.

"What if they do?" Julian replied.

Julian knew his devil-may-care attitude had always rankled with Helen, but now it seemed to scare her. "We would be in such terrible trouble," she said, lips trembling.

Julian frowned. "No one will catch us. When was the last time you went out?" he demanded, anger sizzling below the surface.

"It was not that long ago," Helen replied, eyes fixed on her shoes. "At the dance. You were there."

"That was not a real dance," Julian snapped. "Beckett was hanging over your shoulder; you didn't dance with anyone."

"I could have done, if I had wanted to – "

Julian's laugh was brittle and Helen flinched. She seemed to have visibly shrunk at the mention of her husband. The joy of earlier was smothered beneath the thought of Henry Beckett.

"Why don't we go out now?" Julian asked.

Helen wouldn't meet Julian's eyes. "I can't," she whispered. "He will be back at seven o'clock and expect me here too."

"It's not even lunch time!" Julian cried, eyes flashing. "Let's go out. Now!"

Julian grabbed Helen by the arm and started leading her towards the edge of the balcony. She gave a little whimper of fear and went limp in his hold. Julian's anger disappeared as he looked at her wide, fearful eyes.

He let go of her sharply, stepping away. Running a hand through his tumble of hair, he sighed and watched as Helen retreated towards the balcony door.

"Helen, are you afraid of me?" he asked quietly, voice edged with confusion and disgust.

Helen didn't answer, her expression hidden behind a protective cover of dark hair.

"If you want, I will go," Julian told her.

Helen glanced up from the floor long enough to give a small shaky nod. Julian's shoulders sagged and he reluctantly turned to leave. As he reached the wall of the balcony he paused and looked back at Helen.

"Henry doesn't own you, you know," he said, eyes sad.

Helen looked at her hands, her expression impossible to read. Julian waited for a moment, straining for another comment from Helen, but she remained still and silent. Hanging his head in defeat, Julian clambered dejectedly over the wall of the balcony and down the other side.

Helen looked up quickly at the noise of him leaving. A large part of her had wished he had stayed despite what she'd said, and her heart sank when she saw the balcony empty.

With one last pitiful sigh, she turned from the sun-flooded balcony and returned to her room. She didn't bother to look back.

///

___A/N: There was a slightly quicker update to make up for last time. Next chapter may be a little while as I'm positively drowning in coursework and that leaves very little time for this sort of creative expression. Blah. My muse is hiding somewhere under my essay on the Russian revolution and my Art Patterns project. _

___Of course, I'm sure reviews would help. :)_

___~Damsel _


	6. Chapter the Sixth

**Chapter the Sixth**

_Dearest Battiscrombe, _

_Cutler is unwell and unable to attend today. _

_H. Beckett._

Cutler signed the letter carefully, the pen hovering over the parchment for a moment as he scrutinised his handiwork. It seemed that years of forging his father's signature had made it almost second nature to him, to the point that Beckett himself would have trouble recognising his own signature from his son's forgery.

Before he could lose his nerve, Cutler sealed the letter with the ring he had slipped from the desk in his father's study. Trembling, he put the letter in his pocket and crept back to the study to return the seal. He unlocked the room warily, knowing he was alone in the house but casting a guilty look over his shoulder nevertheless. Once inside, he pulled the door shut and crept towards his father's desk. He placed the seal in the place where he had found it, checking that his father's things were as precisely and meticulously arranged as they had been when he found them. His heart rate racing, Cutler closed the desk with shaking fingers and quickly left the study, fumbling as he locked the door behind him.

He didn't let himself imagine what his father would do, should he discover the deception.

With a small shudder, Cutler returned to his room, slipped on his plainest overcoat, and pulled on his large brown boots. Despite the storm of unease inside him, he walked purposefully down the stairs and out of the house, his features arranged into a serene smile.

The street outside was busy and he breathed a sigh of relief, as he was lost amongst the sea of commoners, unrecognised in his shapeless brown coat. It only took a moment to reach Battiscrombe's house and he stopped outside, taking the letter slowly out of his pocket.

His heart hadn't stopped pounding since he left the house, and his hand was shaking as he pushed the letter under Battiscrombe's front door. There was a noise from the other side of the door and Cutler froze. The sharp step of Battiscrombe's housekeeper greeted Cutler's listening ears and he gulped, head darting from side to side as he tried to decide whether to run or not. The footsteps stopped and Cutler held his breath. There was a soft rustle as she picked up the letter, followed by the sound of her retreating steps, and Cutler let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding.

He stared at the door, awed by what he'd done. He blinked twice in rapid succession, exhaling noisily.

Then he turned on his heels and ran.

///

"I wasn't sure you'd come," a voice drawled.

Cutler Beckett spun around, gasping in surprise, as out of the shadows in the alleyway behind him stepped the boy, Mercer.

Cutler twitched nervously. "Of course," he snapped, drawing himself up to his full height. "I gave my word to meet you here."

Mercer just laughed, leaning lazily back against a wall, his arms folded across his chest. He tilted his head to one side, a sneer on his face, and contemplated the younger boy. Cutler flinched slightly as Mercer scrutinised him with his empty eyes, but he held his ground.

Mercer grunted in satisfaction and unfolded from the wall, coming to stand beside Cutler. He didn't speak, but taking Cutler by the arm, he yanked him into a defensive position, then stepped back and mirrored the stance.

Cutler frowned in confusion and Mercer snorted. "I said I'd teach you to fight," he growled.

Cutler hadn't time to form a thought before Mercer aimed a punch at his shoulder. He grunted in pain as the blow hit home. Mercer rolled his eyes.

"Next time it'll be your face," he warned, no trace of humour in his eyes.

Cutler nodded, panting. He tensed his muscles and waited for the next attack, which happened without warning. Cutler winced as another blow fell and his assailant stepped back, waiting for him to recover.

Numerous blows later, Mercer called a halt. He patted Cutler on the shoulder, not noticing him wince and rub the spot after he'd let go.

"You learn fast," he said, and Cutler swelled at the first compliment from his unconventional mentor, "but your size is against you." Cutler's smile turned to a scowl, but Mercer ignored him and continued, "I can teach you a few cheap tricks that'll keep you out of trouble."

Cutler nodded, too worn out for speech. Mercer looked the smaller boy up and down. "Break first," he decided.

He didn't wait for Cutler to reply, and strode out of the alley they'd been fighting in and into the main market street. He watched the street for a moment with a critical eye, and Cutler hurried up to stand beside him.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

Instead of answering, Mercer sauntered out into the street, brazening his way through the crowd. Cutler hurried after him, attempting to emulate his swagger, but his sore muscles prevented him from doing more than hobbling.

They walked past a fruit stall and Mercer snaked out a hand, pocketing an apple. He had half eaten it by the time Cutler noticed.

"Where did you get that?" Cutler asked, frowning.

Mercer shrugged, wiping the apple juice off his hand onto Cutler's shirt and then pointing back to the fruit stall. Cutler's brow furrowed as he digested this information. He licked his lips. "Can I have one?" he asked tentatively.

Mercer's laugh was hollow. "Go and get one then," he snapped.

Cutler's face clouded over as he contemplated the situation. He glared at Mercer, who smirked. "It can be part of your new education," he suggested.

Cutler turned away, ignoring him, but he knew that honour prevented him from backing down now. Dragging in a few calming breaths, he started walking back the way he'd come, hands clasp behind his back. Mercer shook his head and chucked the apple core over his shoulder. He stopped and stared after Cutler, an eyebrow raised.

Cutler dragged his feet towards the fruit stall, feeling Mercer's eyes bore into his back. He came up opposite the stall and, finding that the keeper was distracted by a customer, he praised himself for his fortuitous timing. Fixing his eyes on a point across the street, he started whistling and backed towards the stall, hands outstretched behind him.

He stopped as his hands closed around the smooth skin of an apple. He glanced to his side, seeing the keeper and the customer only inches away, he flinched, grabbing at the apple. The fruit around the apple started to move and Cutler spun around, desperately tried to stop them as they tumbled towards the edge of the table.

"Oi!" a voice called. "Pick 'em up!"

Cutler's frightened gaze shot up and collided with the stall keepers angry one. He gulped, and gripping his apple to his chest, he turned and scurried into the crowd.

The keeper spluttered indignantly. "Here, boy! Stop!"

Cutler ignored him, disappearing into the throng of people. He banged shoulders with a man and staggered sideways, hitting a lady with a parasol. She gasped pitifully, and the fellow on her arm made to swat Cutler around the head. Cutler ducked out of the way, stumbling backwards into a stall selling fish.

The curses of yet another stall keeper followed him as he accidentally knocked a fish off the table in his efforts to hurry away; it landed with a wet squelch on the dirty ground. Panic building up in his chest, he staggered in the general direction he thought he had left Mercer, getting more and more agitated as he found the older boy was no where to be seen.

Tripping over a sack left at the side of the road, he pitched forward but was saved by someone grabbing his elbow. Strong arms dragged him out of the busy road and into a side street. Gasping for breath, the frightened Cutler glanced up into the calm eyes of Mercer.

Panting, he bent forward and leant his hands on his knees, head down. After taking a moment to compose himself, he straightened, smoothed down his coat, and held up his right hand.

Resting on his palm was a small red apple.

Mercer stared at the insignificant piece of fruit for a long moment, his lip twitching. Cutler looked at him expectantly, and he started to chuckle. The chuckle morphed into laugh, and soon he was leaning on the alley wall for support as he clutched at his sided in hopeless mirth.

Cutler shrugged, brushed off Mercer's amusement and took a hearty bite of his apple.

///

The silence hung over the room like a net that contrived to catch each of the family in its heavy, dull grasp. The room was gloomy, with thick brown curtains pulled over the windows, and dull furniture precisely arranged in the centre. Henry Beckett sat at the head of the dark wooden dining table, looking down his nose at the silverware, his fork hovering over the plate of pork and potatoes, his face twisted in distaste.

For some reason he didn't feel like eating. His small dark eyes flicked to the side where his young wife sat and they narrowed. Helen wasn't looking at the food, her gaze appeared to be directed at the far wall, and a sad little smile touched her pale face.

Beside her, young Cutler was quietly eating his potatoes, his attention obviously somewhere else too. He didn't seem to realise he was grinning, and he absentmindedly played with his food, slicing his potatoes into tiny pieces and mashing them with his fork.

Henry glared at his son, but Cutler didn't notice. He swept his quelling stare from Cutler to Helen and back. After not receiving the slightest reaction from either, he loudly stabbed a piece of pork with his knife. The sound echoed in the quiet room, and as Henry let go of the knife, it stayed upright in the meat.

Helen glanced up at the noise and Henry looked at her impatiently.

She smiled dreamily. "That's nice, dear," she murmured and returned to gazing into space.

Cutler didn't even look up, the self-satisfied smile still obvious on his face.

Henry's lip twisted and a muscle twitched in his cheek. With one last filthy glare at his wife and son, he scrapped his chair backwards and got to his feet. Neither Helen nor Cutler so much as acknowledged him. Scowling, he marched out of the room and slammed the door behind him.

The knife stayed stabbed in the pork, unnoticed.

///

_A/N: As usual can I take a moment to thank Nytd, who I borrow, with every intention of giving her back, to beta-read my humble story. (The poor woman.) Also thank you to my reviewers, you keep me writing! And to anyone who is thinking about reviewing, please do – as I intend to bribe you with promises of more from Julian and Helen next chapter... _

_~Damsel_


	7. Chapter the Seventh

**Chapter the Seventh**

The sound of a guitar drifted in Helen's open window. It mingled with the melodic call of the early morning birds and the disjointed jumble of sounds from the people waking up and getting ready for work.

Helen moaned softly, rolling onto her side. Her bed sheets were bunched up around her head and she pushed them down, kicking them viciously off the end of the bed. She rolled over, curling into a foetal position, her arms wrapped over her head. She gasped abruptly as her heated body unwittingly disturbed the cold empty space where her husband had lain.

She pulled herself up onto an elbow, moving away from that side, but the frigid spot had jolted her awake. With a sigh, she rolled off her bed, staggering towards the washbasin. She leant on the sides, breathing heavily, and splashed her face with cold water.

The distant guitar intruded on her thoughts. She frowned, tilting her head towards the sound, listening despite herself. She shook her head, banishing her curiosity, and went to her wardrobe to dress.

The fluid music continued, and Helen found herself compelled to listen. She slipped on a dressing gown and went to her window, peering out into the clear morning. From here Helen could hear the sound clearer, and she realised that the tune was oddly familiar.

Confused and intrigued, Helen found the music pushing the constant spectre of her husband out of her head. Dressing hurriedly, she left her room, coming to a halt as she found one of her maids waiting outside.

"Laura," she greeted, her mind working rapidly, "I'm not feeling that well this morning. Please give my apologies to my husband, I won't be attending breakfast."

Laura curtsied gracefully, averting her eyes. "Yes, milady. Will you require anything else?"

"No, that will be all, Laura," Helen replied quickly.

Laura curtsied again, and Helen struggled to keep her expression normal as she waited for the young girl to disappear downstairs. With the maid's fading footsteps, Helen hurried to the other staircase, peering out of the banister and checking the hall was empty. Hitching up her skirts, she hurried down the stairs, wincing at every creaking floorboard. She reached the bottom, sweeping a nervous, guilty look across the empty hall and biting her lip.

The sound of her husband's voice oozed out from under the door to the breakfast room. She shuddered involuntarily then frowned, reminding herself that she was doing nothing wrong. Shaking her head to banish her trepidation, she padded to the door, pulled it carefully open and, before she could think herself out of it, she slipped out of the house after her musician.

The door clicked shut behind her, cutting off her husband's monotonous voice.

///

"Beautiful isn't it?" a voice said at her elbow.

Helen didn't take her eyes off the street musician, but she emitted a gentle grunt of agreement. The man sat by the side of the street, playing his guitar with practised, distracted strokes. He was tall and skinny, with a scraggly beard and messy black hair. His clothes were originally a soft brown, but hard wearing had stained them a dull muddy colour dotted with patches of other material. He sat on the dirty ground, his guitar tucked in his lap, his scuffed boots spread out in front of him. A small sad-looking cap was placed beside him with a few coins already uncaringly thrown in it. Helen realised she must have walked past the man a hundred times and not noticed. Today though, something about the song he played had drawn her.

"Do you know the song?" the voice continued.

Helen shrugged, watching the musician's fingers dance across the strings. She jumped violently as the voice, now so close to her that she felt soft, warm lips brushed her neck, spoke again. "Are you sure you do not recognise it?"

Helen froze; her whole body quivered with a mixture of fear and excitement.

"Do you recognise the song, Helen?"

Helen tilted her head slightly and looked up into Julian's eyes.

"I played that to you at the ball where we met," he whispered. "Do you remember?"

Helen swallowed, licking her suddenly dry lips. She managed to nod once. "Of course," she murmured.

Julian grinned wolfishly. "I had a lasting effect then?"

"Maybe," she said, her voice cracking. "I found myself wondering, years later, if perhaps you might play that song for me again one day."

Julian hesitated, leaning back to look at Helen more closely. "Maybe," he replied, his lips curling into a grin.

Helen smiled, sadly at first, but as Julian held out his arm to her, with growing confidence.

Turning, she pulled a pouch out of her pocket and hurried over to the musician, who was still playing, oblivious to the drama he was helping to orchestrate. She dropped the pouch into the cap with a secret smile, and returned to take Julian's proffered arm.

As the couple started promenaded down the street, arm in arm, the musician finally stopped playing. He leant forward, frowning at the pouch the lady had dropped in his cap and picked it up. As he tipped it onto its side, he couldn't suppress a gasp at the unbelievable stream of gold coins, which fell one after the other into his calloused hand. He looked up to thank the lady, a bemused smile bright on his face, but found that she was already gone.

"I'm going to a ball tonight," Julian said offhand.

Helen looked sideways at Julian, her grip on his arm tightening. Her brow wrinkled in thought, and she scrutinise her feet for a long moment.

"Julian," she asked in a small doubtful voice. "Could I come?"

Julian seemed surprised. "Did you not know," he replied, "you're already coming."

As Helen felt a grin growing onto her blushing face, Julian pointed to a dress shop across the street. "This way," he commanded, waving his arms like a rogue conductor. "We need to find you a dress."

Helen grinned and, having no other option, let Julian lead her towards the shop.

///

A bell sounded above Helen's head as she was dragged into the dress shop. She pulled her hand out of Julian's grip, hovering at the doorway as he marched purposefully inside. From behind the counter the Misses Weaving materialised, their identical bespectacled heads appearing above the piles of expensive material simultaneously.

Both women nodded politely at Julian and Helen, their hats, one pink and one green, bobbed drunkenly on their intricately arranged hair.

"Good morning," Miss Bessie Weaving, the older sister, greeted.

"How can we help you?" Miss Barbara Weaving, the younger sister asked.

Julian flashed the pair a dazzling smile, and before the Misses Weaving could react, he bound up to the counter and kissed first one sister, then the other, tenderly on the back of the hand. Miss Bessie snatched her hand away sharply and glared at Julian, drawing her lips together into a tight scowl. Her sister just gasped, her hand falling limply to her side and her cheeks reddening.

"Is there something you want?" Miss Bessie asked, eyeing Julian warily. She turned to Helen, raising a thick eyebrow. "Do you know this man?" she asked, voice edged with distaste.

Helen opened her mouth to reply, partly amused and partly worried to be associated with him, but Julian was faster. He spun back to stand beside Helen, linking his arm with hers.

"Mrs. Beckett is my cousin," he lied smoothly, still smiling radiantly at the sisters.

Miss Barbara nodded dumbly, a soft smile on her face as she gazed at Julian, but Miss Bessie eyed them cynically, raising her other eyebrow. Helen had to suppress a laugh as both brows disappeared under the woman's wide frilly hat.

"Cousins?" she repeated, her lips twitching.

Julian's smile didn't waver, but he dropped Helen's arm and quickly changed the subject.

"Mrs. Beckett needs a gown for a ball tonight, and I am told you are the best outfitters in this town."

Miss Barbara dimpled and, apparently unaware of her sister scowling out from under her hat, she bustled out from behind the counter.

"Come with me, Mrs. Beckett. I'm sure we can find you something," she said, taking Helen by the hand.

A short, rotund woman, Miss Barbara only came up to Helen's shoulder, and she gazed owl-like at her from behind her thick-rimmed glasses.

"Shall I have a look at what we have in the store?" she asked, looking Helen up and down.

"Please," Helen replied, smiling politely at Miss Barbara.

Miss Barbara nodded, face serious, and she hurried into the next room, the sound of her humming to herself as she searched though the stored trailing after her. Julian and Helen exchanged a smile behind her back, but as Helen turned back to Miss Bessie, who had quickly morphed a glare into an insipid smile, her mirth faded.

"Most women prefer to have their gowns ordered in from out of town, rather than simply purchasing whatever we happen to have in store," Miss Bessie said, her voice coated in honey and a sneer hidden behind a thin veil of civility.

Helen's mouth dropped open and her brow clouded, but Julian just smiled indulgently at Miss Bessie.

"Mrs. Beckett isn't most women," he told her simply.

The smile slipped off Miss Bessie's face. "My sister will look after you," she said curtly, and in a whirl of silk and ribbon disappeared into the next room.

Julian snorted, failing to keep the laughter from his face until Miss Bessie was out of earshot. A grin tugged at Helen's mouth, but she frowned at Julian with mock severity.

"Behave," she ordered.

Julian bowed theatrically. "As you wish," he said graciously.

Helen rolled her eyes at him, performing a mocking curtsy in reply. Straightening up, she turned to the storeroom and started walking inside. As she went past Julian she suddenly cried out, her eyes widening as if someone had pricked her with a pin. She spun around sharply, glaring at Julian, both her hands placed protectively on her buttocks.

As Julian smirked and sauntered past the scandalised Helen, it didn't take much imagination on Miss Bessie's part, as she watched silently from the shadow of the backroom, to guess what had happened. She pursed her lips pensively for a long moment, before vanishing from view.

///

A wall of smoke and heat surrounded the small room. A large drinks cabinet stood to one side, wide open, while two men sat in large leather armchairs in the centre. The first man was tall and thin, with a drawn face and spindly hands, with which he gripped a half-empty glass of port and a smoking cigar. His companion was much broader, his great bulk oozing over either side of the armchair. He took a long drag from a similar cigar, his several chins wobbling as he breathed out. The pair were both silent for a moment, as they sat watching the smoke curl in thick poisonous clouds around them. Then the second man put his glass down heavily on the table, coughing expressively as he turned to his companion.

"I haven't seen your little wife in a while, Beckett," he commented, smiling blearily.

Beckett shrugged, taking a careful sip of his drink. "I haven't seen her all day, Battiscrombe. I imagine she is skulking in her room somewhere."

Battiscrombe laughed loudly, his body convulsing for a moment as his mirth turned to coughing and he doubled up. He stopped, taking a long drag from his cigar and leaning back lazily in his chair.

"Knitting, no doubt," he muttered, leering at his own joke.

Beckett laughed brittlely, letting a real smile grace his hard face. He waved his cigar in the air, watching the trail of smoke. "No doubt she is, my friend," he murmured dreamily, still gazing at the smoke. "No doubt she is."

Mr. Maximilian Battiscrombe belched loudly, sinking into his armchair and gulping down the rest of his drink.

"You don't find girls like your little wife all that often," he murmured. "My wife is unpredictable; you never know what the silly wench is going to do next." He snorted in dissatisfaction and contemplated his empty glass.

Beckett leant across and filled up his cup, but Battiscrombe's eyes were distant. "Now, _your _wife is pleasantly predictable," he muttered, his grin grotesque. "You don't find girls like her everyday." He raised his glass in a toast. "To subservient women!" he declared.

Beckett's smile was chilling. "To Helen," he agreed and, after a small hesitation, took a calculated sip from his glass.

///

Helen stood outside the house, the sound of the ball leaking out of the space under the door and the cracks in the paintwork. Through the grimy windows she could just make out the shapes of people dancing, the bright coloured dresses dispersing the gloom of the evening. She faltered, listening to the hammering of her heart and the light fluttering inside her stomach.

"Ready?" Julian asked, coming up to stand beside her.

She turned her bright eyes to him and her lost expression was answer enough. He sighed. "Helen, you look beautiful," he assured her. "They are bound to adore you."

"But what if someone recognises me?" she asked in a small voice, smoothing down the front of her emerald green dress, accidentally making it shimmer as it caught the light.

Julian laughed. "This is hardly the circle your husband moves in," he replied, amused, but at Helen's serious expression, he sighed.

"I have a present for you," he told her, reaching into his top pocket.

Helen's brow furrowed and her fear momentarily was eclipsed with curiosity. Julian pulled out a small silk pouch and handed it to Helen.

"Open it," he prompted.

She hesitated, her fingers shaking slightly as she opened the pouch. Her mouth formed an 'O' shape as she saw the gift. Julian gently reached across and took the necklace out of the pouch. Helen brushed her hair out of the way and let Julian slip the delicate gold chain around her neck.

She dropped her hair, letting it fall wildly around her bare shoulders and low neckline. The necklace hung lightly on her skin, the single diamond elegant at the base of her throat. She gazed up at Julian in inexpressible thanks, who just smiled slightly and stroked the necklace softly, his fingers brushing her skin and making her shiver.

"I – " Helen began, voice quiet.

Julian held a finger to her mouth, smiling mischievously and, leading her by the hand, turned towards the ballroom. Helen frowned, indignant at how easily Julian had sought to dismiss her complaints by dazzling her with jewellery.

"Julian, are you sure this is a good id - "

Helen's words were cut off abruptly. Her startled mouth was covered by Julian's and her objections forgotten. She let out a strangled gasp, and a flash of insecurity flickered across Julian's face as he looked at her shell-shocked expression. He pulled back, their lips parting for a moment, but Helen's eyes flashed, and weaving her fingers in Julian's tumble of hair, she smashed their lips back together.

After a long moment, they parted, their lips lingering even as they unwillingly surfaced for air. Helen opened her eyes, gazing dumbly into Julian's face.

"Helen?" he asked tentatively.

Helen didn't answer, her eyes were misty and she ran her tongue along her lips slowly as if contemplating the taste. She turned wide eyes on Julian, her smile radiant, and Julian let out a sigh of relief.

He cleared his throat and indicated the ballroom. "Ready?" he asked again, tone businesslike.

Helen's hand shot unconsciously to touch the necklace at her throat and finally she nodded. Julian took her hands, winking at her. She couldn't help a bubble of laughter creeping out of her lips as together they walked defiantly into the ballroom.

///

_A/N: Thank you to everyone who has left me such wonderful, encouraging and helpful reviews on this story! _

_Reviews make me happy. :)_

_Yours hopefully,_

_Damsel._


	8. Chapter the Eighth

**Chapter the Eighth**

Mercer's throwing knife sang as it flew past Cutler's ear. He barely had time to think before the knife thudded into the wood an inch from his head.

Cutler didn't blink. He yanked the knife out of the tree with a satisfying crack and turned back to Mercer. Taking a moment to aim, he flicked his wrist, realising the knife at the optimum point and watching it careen though the space between him and the other boy. Half a moment later it was buried in the tree beside Mercer, who gave the wicked-sharp blade an appraising look.

"A little high," he commented. "You'll only scratch whoever it is you're throwing it at."

Cutler nodded, biting his lip. Mercer pulled the knife out and pulled his arm back to aim, but the sound of soft footsteps made him glance up and Cutler followed his gaze.

A small girl had stepped out of the trees to their left. She straightened, tucking a stray strand of hair back into her braid and turning her intense eyes first to Cutler and then over to Mercer.

"Mama wants to see you," she told him softly.

Mercer grunted, clenching his fist against his side. "Now?" he asked sharply.

She nodded, as taciturn as her brother but her mobile facial expression made up for it. Her eyes were sad, her brow furrowed slightly with worry, her mouth smiling with sympathy and her jaw set for an argument. It had been a long while since he had first met her, and Cutler found himself ignoring what was being said between brother and sister, entranced instead by Marianne Mercer herself.

Mercer sighed, his shoulders dropping.

"It was getting late anyway," he said gruffly, casting a quick look at the darkening sky.

Cutler bid him a good evening, his heart sinking, but it started beating unstoppably as Marianne placed a small hand on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry to ruin your evening," she said, staring at him with her liquid azure eyes.

Cutler tried to keep his expression neutral as warm flooded his body, stemming from Marianne's soft touch on his arm.

He made some unintelligible reply, smiling stupidly at her pretty, open face. She smiled warmly back and then dropped her arm from his shoulder, turning to follow her brother. Cutler strained after Marianne, his eyes devoured her. She had grown since they'd first met, and her mouse brown hair was lighter, verging on blonde. She'd grown in other ways too. Cutler's face flushed red.

Marianne scrambled after her brother and as she did she stumbled. Cutler was at her side in an instant, steadying her. It was her turn to blush, and she stammered a thank you.

"My pleasure," Cutler mumbled in reply, looking at his boots.

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, then Mercer turned around and scowled at Marianne. "Are you coming?" he growled.

Marianne jumped, dropping Cutler's hand like it burned her. She hurried after her brother, chin trembling and eyes wide and troubled. As she reached the edge of the trees she paused, glancing back at Cutler, who stood dejected and alone. Her brow knitted for a moment and then cleared, a smile lighting up her face.

Cutler's eyes betrayed his surprise but he found himself grinning back. Marianne laughed lightly, and just before she followed her brother out of sight, she blew Cutler a silent kiss.

///

Helen Beckett's footsteps were almost silent as she ascended the stairs. She dragged her left hand along the familiar banister, tracing the carved wooden shapes from the well-lit front hall up to the dim top corridor. Her feet disappeared into the gloom first, followed by her crimson dress. She breathed a small sigh of relief as she reached the first floor and was absorbed completely by the darkness.

Downstairs the servants had retired to the kitchens, and with Henry still at work and Cutler still at Battiscrombe's, Helen was blissfully alone. On ghost-like feet she went to her room, warm prickles of anticipation dancing along her skin.

She placed a tentative hand on the door handle to her chamber and pushed it open, stepping into the blackness. She closed the door behind her, leaning against the cold wood and waiting for her eyes to adjust to the lack of light. Shapes and impressions revealed themselves immediately as a smudge of light leaked in through the door leading to the balcony.

"Julian?" she asked softly, eyes straining.

She felt movement in the darkness beside her and spun around, colliding with someone's chest. Then someone chuckled and Helen relaxed.

"Please don't do that to me again," she muttered, slightly shaken.

She felt, rather than saw, Julian grin at her. "Of course," he replied, voice grave.

Shaking her head, Helen moved away from Julian and groped around for a candle but, like some sort of faithful dog, he followed her. She found the candle and lit it, bathing the room in flickering light. As she turned around she gasped when she found Julian's face inches from her own. He smirked as she clamped a hand over her hammering heart.

"I am sorry to frighten you," said Julian, his tone unconvincing.

When Helen struggled to find an answer to this, he leant forward and wrapped his hands slowly around Helen's, gently lifting them off her hammering chest.

"Better?" he asked.

Helen exhaled carefully. "Yes," she managed, once she had regained control of her voice.

Julian smiled more gently and started leading Helen towards the door. "There's a dance at Lord Blunt's house today and I wondered if you wanted to attend. The ball last week was simply wondrous, but it seems so long ago now and I -"

Helen interrupted with a small cough. She stopped and slipped her hand out of Julian's. He halted, turning to her with a frown line creasing his forehead.

"I'd rather simply stay here tonight, if that's agreeable to you?" she told him.

The frown got deeper. "You wish me to leave?" he asked, sounding hurt.

"No," Helen replied, the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth growing mischievous.

She walked past Julian, who just stared mutely at her as she calmly locked the door to the room. Her hands were shaking slightly and her face pale in the candlelight, but she made her way towards Julian very deliberately. Julian's expression was still confused, but his frown cleared and his features arranged themselves into a wide-eyed smile as Helen, trembling slightly but with definite confidence, began unwinding the ties to her dress.

Helen's heart fluttered furiously and her courage wavered but, unable to stop now, she slowly and carefully finished undoing her garment and slid the heavy dress off her shoulders on to the floor. Julian covered the distance between them in a single stride, taking Helen's hand and helping her step over the fallen material. Helen's breath caught as for the second time that evening, she found her face inches from Julian's. He just smiled down at her, eyes shining. Helen stood in her thin cream undergarments, with her body pressed against Julian's, and found her fear slowly disappearing to be replaced by a different, but equally strong, emotion.

Without letting go of Julian she leant back and blew out the candle, plunging the room into darkness once more.

///

"Julian," Helen murmured huskily, her face so close to his that he felt her breath across his cheek. "You know, I love you."

Even in the midst of the moment, this whispered promise made Julian uncomfortable, but he paused before answering, running a pensive hand across Helen's collar and jaw line.

"Helen," he started solemnly, and then with lips fresh from kissing her he finished, "I think I may love you too."

Despite the hesitation, and perhaps because of it, Helen smiled. She melted into Julian's embrace, pressing her soft flesh close to him. Her mouth found his and she surrendered to the moment, forgetting then precisely what they were doing and the danger that lurked not far away.

As Helen pushed Julian onto her bed and sank down beside him, the clock in the hall struck seven.

///

The whole house appeared to be sleeping when Henry Beckett returned home.

He stepped into the silent hall, wiping his boots on the doormat, slipping off his coat and placing it on the coat stand. He took his gold watch out of his top pocket, noting with satisfaction that it was seven o'clock precisely. If he had been anyone other than Henry Beckett he would have smiled. As it was, his thin lips twitched at the very edges and his yellowing teeth peeped momentarily through. He only kept the expression up for a minute then he cleared his throat and straightened his suit.

Walking purposefully across the polished floor, he reached the main staircase and started striding up it. As was his custom, he made his way along the dimly lit corridor towards his study, but today he paused halfway, a stray thought disturbing his usual fastidious routine. He realised he had seen very little of his wife lately.

Deep lines appeared in his forehead and he pursed his lips so much they disappeared completely in his pale face. He contemplated his wife, thinking on his duty to her and weighing it up against the other duties he had to perform that evening. Slowly and laboriously, he came to a decision. His work could wait; taking part in his obligation to his wife tonight was prudent, if not quite a pleasure.

Once sure of his decision, he turned and marched purposefully towards his wife's bedroom, features arranged in a grimace.

///

Helen's breath was ragged. The sweat stood out on her skin as Julian's fingers ghosted across her bare shoulder, his undemanding caress probing the most intimate parts of flesh.

She let out an involuntary cry, which bubbled into a hysterical laugh, bursting from her lips, hot, red and swollen from kissing. She clung to Julian, her limbs reduced to liquid and her insides ablaze. He chuckled, holding her at arms length, fighting the desire bright in his eyes and the sharp ache in his loins, just to see Helen writhe and squirm in his arms with thwarted passion.

She tossed back her head, her fountain of dark hair sweeping across the white sheets, and Julian pushed down on her smaller form. She moaned softly through smiling lips, tilting her head back and locking her fingers around Julian's broad back.

The sound of a smart rap on the door froze the couple's feverish passions.

Helen tightened her grip on Julian, her nails digging into his back. Julian bit his lip to keep from crying out, feeling Helen go rigid in his arms.

"Helen, are you awake? What was that noise?"

It was as if a bucket of cold water had been tipped over their heated bed. Henry Beckett's voice turned the fire in Helen's veins to ice. She stared at Julian, who just stared hopelessly back.

_Henry_, Helen mouthed.

Impossibly, Julian started to laugh.

"Helen?" Henry asked through the door, his voice gaining a sharp edge.

Helen pushed Julian off her, pulling the sheet to cover her nakedness. Her heart thumped in her chest, as the colour sapped totally from her face. Julian staggered off the bed, stumbling backwards to his discarded clothes. Fumbling in the dark, he pulled his waistcoat over his bare chest, yanking his trousers over one leg and then the other.

Helen rolled off the bed with the sheets still wrapped around her small figure, and helped Julian pull on his crumpled clothes. Looking from Helen's shaking hands to her wide eyes, Julian grinned wickedly. Helen's face crinkled into a frown and she scowled at him.

"Do you not see the funny side?" he whispered.

He was spared Helen's colourful answer as the sound of a key turning in the lock and the creak of the door opening stopped her.

She pushed Julian towards the balcony, who didn't need telling twice. With one last reckless stolen kiss he staggered out into the darkness. Helen watched him go, her sheets pulled up to her chin, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth even as terror thumped in her heart.

"Helen?"

She spun around, coming face to face with Henry Beckett. He stared at her, and her face turned as red as a beetroot.

"Where you talking to someone?" he asked, eyes narrowing.

Helen shook her head, not trusting her voice. Luckily Henry was distracted by her attire, and she realised he was struggling to look at her face. He took a step towards her, his eyes eager in the dim light. Helen forced herself not to step away, enduring the cold touch of her husband on her skin, which was still heated from Julian's passionate embraces. Henry struggled to keep himself in check, fixing his eyes on Helen's face and not her naked body.

Forgetting his suspicions, Beckett pulled her possessively down onto the bed and Helen was torn between panic and mirth. Her body was still hot and moist from Julian and she found herself responding to her husband's dutiful, controlled advances with unnatural pleasure. Unsure whether it would be more appropriate to laugh or cry, she let her husband hold her, closing her eyes and thinking of Julian.

///

_A/N: I sincerely hope you enjoyed reading that chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it. By the by, do you prefer this way of writing both parts of the story in the same chapter or how it was before? _

___Thank you so much to Nytd, for another invaluable beta read, and thank you to all my readers, including those readers who lurk behind author alerts - you could leave a review, you know, I don't bite. _

_Yours,_

_Damsel._


	9. Chapter the Ninth

**Chapter the Ninth**

Weeks went by and the hot summer weather turned autumnal. The soft green leaves rusted into crisp reds, browns and golds, and the sharp sun was wrapped in a protective cover of cloud. A comfortable echo of warmth lay on the streets like a cloak, the fallen leaves a thick carpet for the changing world. A sharp wind stabbed at the edges of the glow, with trees rising up out of the softness, bare, bitter and gnarled.

Leaves rustled and cracked under Cutler Beckett's feet as he walked down towards the river. He pushed his gloved hands deeper into his pockets and buried his face in his upturned collar. The wind pulled at the end of his scarf, which floated on an invisible string until it snagged on a branch and was yanked from his neck.

He sighed heavily, seeing his breath billow out in a cloud in front of him. He turned to his trapped scarf and started carefully untangling it from the twisted branch. He froze when he heard leaves crunching behind him and glanced over his shoulder. Ripping his scarf off the branch, he ducked behind the tree and crouched.

Across the street, Helen Beckett walked.

She was wrapped in a too-large brown cloak, an orange headscarf hiding her hair and obscuring her face. Her eyes darted furtively from one side of the street to the other and she hastened along the path, pulling her headscarf tighter across her face. As she got nearer, Cutler pushed himself closer against the knotted trunk of the tree, little broken branches digging into his front. Helen didn't even glance his way as she went past, her eyes animated and looking steadfastly forward.

Once she was gone, Cutler uncurled from his hiding place, following Helen with his eyes. She reached the end of the street, quietly disappeared around the corner, and a shadow passed over Cutler's face. He shook his head, banished it, and he busied himself putting his scarf back on. Whatever thoughts he had about his mother's increasingly frequent, clandestine meetings, he kept to himself.

He quickened his pace towards the river.

The river lay several minutes walk from Cutler's house. A muddy, shallow stretch of water, it hardly merited the title river, but wound obstinately through the poorer area of the town. It was cold, but the weather wasn't enough to freeze the curdled surface, and the water oozed lazily along, gurgling as it wriggled past rocks, debris and broken branches.

Cutler pushed his way through the dense covering of trees on the left bank, swatting away any stubborn leaves that caught on his coat and scarf. Sliding down a small dirt mound, he landed with a squelch in the dark brown mud at the bottom. Wrinkling up his nose, he contemplated his boots but, spotting the dull shine of the river out of the corner of his eye, he ignored them, pushing through the twisting branches towards the light.

Lifting aside a heavy gnarled tree branch, Cutler stepped out of the trees and into a small clearing. He swept a quick glance around the area where he normally met with Mercer, realising that the older boy wasn't there. Cutler sighed; no doubt his friend was still at work and Cutler had nothing to do but return home.

As he turned to leave, movement caught his eye and he flicked his gaze across to alight on a small figure picking its way along the riverbank.

"Miss Marianne," he stammered.

Marianne Mercer stopped and stared at him, two identical circles of red appearing on her pale cheeks.

"Good morning," he managed to greet her, moving irresistibly closer. "Are you well?"

Marianne swallowed, recovering enough to smile as she replied, "Quite well, thank you. Yourself?"

Cutler nodded violently. "Yes, of course."

The two of them were frozen in front of each other; Marianne wrung her hands helplessly, eyes darting uncomfortably as she avoided Cutler, who could only stare at her, his tongue laying like a dead thing in his mouth.

Marianne opened her mouth to say something but thought better of it, her hands shooting to brush at her plait as she squirmed. Cutler cleared his throat, averting his searching eyes.

"Well, good day, Miss Marianne," he said. He leant forward, taking Marianne's surprised hand and brushing it with his lips as he'd seen men do to women at home.

Marianne's face burned and she snatched her hand away, but looking back at Cutler's furrowed brow, she giggled. The lines on his forehead deepened into a frown and he looked confused. Marianne punched him playfully on the arm, her eyes dancing. Biting her lip, she hesitated and then, moving quickly like a small bird, she darted forward and pecked Cutler softly on the cheek.

He froze, mouth dropping open and eyes widening. Marianne laughed again, and Cutler's stomach did somersaults at the sound.

"Good day, Master Beckett," she cried.

Cutler could only stare as Marianne Mercer turned and ran, disappearing into the trees behind him, leaving the ghost of her laughter echoing in the empty clearing.

///

Soft morning light slipped in from around the edges of the patchy curtains, landing as a spotlight on the small threadbare settee in the centre of the room. On the settee a raven-haired women lay, her slim arm draped across the chest of a curly haired man. Her pale limbs were interwoven with his tanned ones, her ample hips resting on his naked thighs with her head buried in his shoulder, long dark strands of hair tickling his torso.

Slowly Helen's eyes flickered open and she blinked them into focus. She looked sidelong at Julian, who mumbled in his sleep, a comfortable smile playing on his lips. Her own lips curved into a grin and she stared at his face for a long moment, until her arm, trapped under Julian's back, started to complain. Wriggling, she freed her arm and removed the pressure of her chest on his stomach.

Her movements disturbed the sleeping Julian and he opened an eye.

"Going somewhere?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Helen laughed lightly, pushing on Julian's shoulder and crawling backwards. Julian looked affronted and snaked a strong arm around her waist. Struggling only a little for form's sake, Helen let Julian pull her roughly back beside him, lying docilely as he propped himself up on an elbow.

He smirked, leaning down to kiss her, but Helen tilted her head at the last moment and his lips brushed her ear. His brow clouded and Julian leant back, contemplating her innocent face. Narrowing his eyes, Julian swooped unexpectedly forward and this time his searching lips connecting with Helen's jaw. He cried out in exasperation.

Helen's laugh was merry and mischievous. "A trick I learnt from Henry," she told him, eyes shining as she evaded another kiss.

Julian laughed easily and Helen smiled back. She opened her mouth to speak but was cut off abruptly as Julian, face intent, grabbed her suddenly by the chin and sent his lips shooting at hers. Helen moved her head back, and gave a little cackle of glee.

"Try again?" Helen asked, smirking.

"I will," Julian declared, trapping Helen's arms at her side and leaning towards her wriggling form.

Then there was a groan and the settee toppled over backwards.

Helen and Julian sprawled on the floor, winded and surprised. Julian's expression was so bemused that Helen had to chuckle. He scowled at her gleeful face, but a smile tugged persistently at the corner of his half-hearted frown. He pulled himself up onto an elbow.

"Where were we?" he asked, face serious as he played with a strand of Helen's long hair.

"I remember," she answered straight away, taking Julian's face in her hands and kissing him.

The toppled settee sat forlornly on its side, feeling thoroughly forgotten. Julian and Helen had more important things on their minds.

///

A lone fat candle was burning in a wooden holder. It spluttered and spat in a pool of its own bubbling wax, casting a jerking curtain of light around the small room.

Mr. Henry Beckett sat at his desk, his normally ramrod-straight back hunched, his cold eyes bloodshot, staring stonily at the sheet of paper in front of him. He pushed aside one accounts book, glancing across at another, his sigh loud in the silent room.

As he started scrawling figures and numbers on the page, there came the sound of a woman's laughter from outside. Beckett's eyes flickered to the window and he scraped back his chair, rising to stare down into the street below.

The distinct figure of his young wife was dancing up the steps to the house. Beckett swept his hard gaze around the street, finding it empty save his wife and a young man striding surely away. Beckett's thin hands clenched around the loosely hanging curtain, as he stared down his nose at his wife. She had stopped on the threshold of the house, and as Henry watched she turned and gazed directly at the disappearing man.

Henry tightening his grip on the curtain, as if endeavouring to throttle the life out of it, and his frosty eyes burned. Below him, obliviously, Helen laughed again and her face was full of careless joy. Beckett could not remember the last time he had witnessed his wife laughing, but the sound of her happiness did not please him; in fact, it infuriated him.

He watched her enter the house, letting his vicelike hold on the curtain slacken. He returned to his desk, easing himself down onto the hard chair, listening to the sound of her chattering to the housekeeper in the hall.

He stared intently at his account book, his eyes empty and distant. He sat like that for the rest of the evening, clenching and unclenching his corpse-white fists.

///

_A/N: I think that chapter is the last of the happy ones for my leading lady. _

_Yours gloomily,_

_Damsel._


	10. Chapter the Tenth

_A/N: 'hp' ~ Thank you very much for taking the time to read and review. I hope you continue to like the story. _

_And the same to the rest of my lovely reviewers. I really couldn't wish for a more awesome bunch of fellows. :) Enjoy. _

* * *

**Chapter the Tenth**

Henry Beckett was furious.

He clutched the letter Cutler had bought back with him from Battiscrombe's with shaking hands, his face flushing red, then blanching white, then flushing red again.

"Did my old friend Battiscrombe have a particular message to go with this letter?" he asked, voice dangerously calm.

Cutler stood frozen in front of his father in the centre of the small study. He kept his head down, staring resolutely at the dark carpet and avoiding his father's gaze. He shook his head, omitting to tell his father about the accompanying laugh Battiscrombe had indulged in when he had handed over the letter.

"Speak up, boy!" Beckett snapped, eyes flashing.

"None, father," Cutler hurriedly replied, trying to keep his voice steady.

Beckett pursed his lips, thinking for a moment, and then he crumpled the letter into a ball and threw it at the far wall.

"Do not trust anyone in this world!" he bellowed, accentuating his words with a sharp jab of his finger. "No one! Do you hear me, boy?"

Cutler nodded violently, stumbling back a step. Beckett gave a shout of fury, turning and kicking over a chair. Cutler winced as the chair smashed into a table, and he backed away a few more frightened steps.

"That man's greed has cost me a whole shipment of spices," Beckett spat, his eyes two burning coals in his ice-cold face. "I thought he was on my side!"

He marched to his desk, throwing himself down in his seat, panting. There was a long pause; Cutler was too terrified to move, but his muscles screamed at him to run. Beckett seemed to have forgotten he was there. He pulled out a pen and a piece of parchment, starting to scribble a note.

"He always thought he was better than me," Beckett snarled, "but I'll show him who is the master of whom!"

He fell into brooding silence, staring a hole into the polished wood of his mahogany desk, his pale eyes dark.

Cutler finally shook off whatever had been holding him in place. With a hasty bow that his father didn't even acknowledge, he staggered out of the room, forcing the door closed on the tangible spectre of his father's unfocused fury.

///

The sun had been locked in a dense prison of cloud. The air was cold, the ground hard and brittle from frost, and a sharp wind kept all but the most adventurous spirits indoors.

Cutler blew on his hands to warm them, wrapping his coat tighter around his cold arms and stamping his feet to shake off the chill. His steps were hurried as he made his way towards the river, his eyes darting from side to side and his breathing shallow.

When he slid down the hill to the water he found the banks deserted, a few lonely trees lolling sadly over the sluggish river. Cutler padded along the bank, pacing the clearing where he had met Marianne Mercer a few days ago. He stopped, listening intently for some sign of life, but the only sound that greeted his listening ears was the running water. It sounded in his mind rather like a person laughing.

With a defeated sigh, he slumped down onto the cold ground, too worn out to stand tall as his father always wanted him to, and placed his head in his hands.

"What is the matter, Cutler?" a soft voice asked.

Cutler rocketed to his feet, almost head butting Marianne, and grinned explosively. "I was just looking for you," he said before he could stop himself.

Marianne dimpled, biting her lip and playing with a strand of her hair in that way Cutler found so irresistibly endearing. "So was I," she confessed, the tips of her ears going red.

Cutler's smile got, if possible, even brighter. They stared at each other, the cold forgotten, as Cutler struggled to put into words some of what his mind and heart were screaming at him. He opened his mouth, but Marianne shook her head and put her hand over his lips.

"Cutler – " she began, her intense eyes serious.

Cutler shook his head and put his hand over her mouth. She laughed, throwing her head back and sending her light hair dancing. The constant worried knot in Cutler's stomach unravelled at the sound of her laugh, and he reached across, tucking one of the escaped locks of Marianne's hair back behind her ear. Before he could pull away, Marianne's hand brushed his own and she entwined her small fingers with his.

She came towards him and Cutler felt like he was drowning in Marianne's liquid blue eyes. Haltingly, he leant in and their lips met for a hesitant kiss. An embarrassed laugh bubbled between them as their noses got in the way and they almost missed.

"Try again?" Marianne asked, eyes wide and innocent.

Cutler's face crinkled into a smile and he put his hand on her cheek, pulling her close. A moment before they could touch, they were snatched apart.

"Get away from my sister!" a voice hissed.

Cutler cried out in indignation as he was forced around, and stared into the furious face of Mercer. His own face twisted with confusion and anger.

"It is hardly a concern of yours," he snapped, reaching out for Marianne again.

Mercer growled and pushed Cutler roughly backwards. Marianne sprang around her brother, hurrying after the stumbling Cutler, but Mercer grabbed her by the arm.

"Marianne, go home," Mercer ordered, his cold eyes riveted on Cutler.

Marianne wriggled in Mercer's hold, shaking her head and clawing at his strong arms. "Let go of me!" she squealed.

Cutler ran forward, trying to pull Marianne away from her brother, but Mercer sent him staggering backwards and Marianne remained locked in his stifling embrace.

"You don't understand – " Mercer tried to tell the struggling Marianne.

"Of course I do," she snapped, her face red and eyes blazing. "I love Cutler," she told Mercer simply.

Mercer gave a bark of laugher. "You're barely twelve years old," he bit back.

Marianne pouted, curling her small hands into fists and beating them against her brother's broad chest. "What has my age got to do with anything? Victoria married the miller's son at thirteen."

Mercer's eyes boggled and he went pale. "Marriage?" he repeated. He shot Cutler a filthy glare. "You think _he _will marry you?"

Marianne paused, and stopped struggling, her pretty forehead creasing with a frown. She nodded, but her expression was not as sure as it had been.

Mercer groaned. "Your mother is a beggar and your father is dead, Marianne, do you really think someone like Mr. Beckett's son would marry you?" he spat.

Marianne's eyes filled with tears. Cutler started to speak, but she wouldn't let him and turned her face away.

"Marianne, please – " he stuttered.

She let out a loud sob. Wriggling out of her brother's arms, she ran away from them, ignoring Cutler's desperate shouts for her to stop.

Cutler turned his furious gaze back on Mercer. "What do you think you are doing?" he demanded, hardly able to find the words.

Mercer's face was bleak and he said nothing. He turned away, shoulders set and expression blank.

Cutler snarled and ran at him, but Mercer deflected his angry blows with insulting ease. He knocked his legs out from under him, putting a foot on his chest to prevent him getting back up.

"Stay away from Marianne," Mercer hissed, glaring down at the struggling Cutler.

Cutler bit his tongue to keep from screaming, unable to break out of the older boy's hold. Then Mercer released him, booting him in the stomach as he scrambled to his feet.

"Now get out of my sight," he spat, piercing eyes scratching at Cutler like shards of glass.

Cutler stumbled away from Mercer, flinging a useless curse back at his onetime mentor. He didn't wait to see his reaction; chest burning and breath coming in short gasps, he forced his legs into a run.

"I thought he was my friend," he muttered between breaths. Then his father's words came back to him and he dug his nails into the soft skin of his palms. It seemed friends were only there to betray you in the end.

"He always thought he was better than me," he snarled, his father's words rolling easily off his tongue, "but I'll show him who is the master of whom!"

"Master of whom," he repeated, breath short and scratchy. "Master of whom. Master of whom."

And he chanted it, like a mantra, the words a poison that crept into his heart and rooted there.

He stopped running when he reached the main street, panting and scowling. Drawing in a shaking breath, he wiped away his angry tears with a trailing sleeve and doubled up, resting his hands on his knees.

The sound of a baby crying cut through the haze of his anger, and he glanced towards the noise. He saw a woman, about the same age as Marianne's mother, with blonde hair and grey eyes, holding a squirming baby in her arms. She was crouched on the steps of the church, the hand not gripping the baby held out imploringly.

Cutler straightened and stared at the woman. He narrowed his eyes, his lips twisting at the similarity between this beggar and Marianne's mother. It struck him that they were all the same and he gave a short laugh, causing the woman's head to turn in his direction.

She looked at Cutler forlornly; the baby mewed pitifully in her arms.

Cutler smiled briefly, pulling a gold coin out of his pocket and holding it up. The woman's eyes shone with gratitude and she started to thank him but he held up a hand to stop her. Very deliberately he placed the coin back in his pocket and stalked past her without another glance.

The woman gave an indignant cry and Cutler paused. He slowly pivoted back around to look at her, tilting his head onto one side and turning his nose up. He leant down, until his head was at the same level as hers.

"I could have you arrested, you know," he breathed.

He felt the woman stiffen. "For what?" she whispered.

Cutler smiled. "Anything that I wanted."

She pulled away, holding her baby close to her chest and glared at Cutler. She opened her mouth, as if to ask something else, then closed it. With her head held high and eyes blazing, she walked away from him but cast occasional glanced over her shoulder at him, as if somehow worried.

Cutler drank in all her stolen stares, crossing his arms as he watched her go. "Good riddance," he murmured.

Then he turned, a euphoric feeling of power replacing the furious helplessness of earlier, and started the short walk home, striding down the narrow streets as if he owned them.

///


	11. Chapter the Eleventh

_A/N: Phew. Another chapter. Thank you to Nytd for beta-ing it into shape and for her encouraging words. And thanks to my anonymous reviewers. _

_hp ~ Thank you very much for a lovely review! I have to admit, I like villains too. :P_

_Pirate Fangirl ~ I apologise, but we all know what Cutler is like in the movies. Unfortunately he will not be staying as innocent as he started out for any length of time. :( Thanks for reading and leaving a review! _

_I hope everyone enjoys this new turn of events.. _

* * *

**Chapter the Eleventh **

A gong sounded, smashing the deathly hush of the Beckett household. The chime echoed in the large hallway, sending a jagged shockwave along the rest of the corridors, sounding more like a call to prayer than a call to eat.

Henry Beckett stepped out of the shadows at the back of the dining room; a muscle twitched in his pallid cheek as he stared dispassionately at the small pocket watch resting on his palm. A heavy silence followed the dinner bell, punctuated by the oblivious hand of the watch counting away the seconds, blissfully unaware of the colourless eyes regarding it so forcefully.

Abruptly Beckett clicked the lid down on the clock face, cutting off its rhythmic march. He turned away from the open door into the hallway, mechanically walking over to sit down at the head of the table. Absentmindedly he straightened the plates in front of him so they were symmetrical, and placed his pocket watch beside him, opening it once again.

He waited.

The minutes ticked away merrily on the watch, mirrored in Beckett's cold eyes. He tapped his fingers on the table, his rasping breaths slow and controlled.

The sound of hurried feet stumbled up to the door, and Henry's wife danced around the corner. Her cheeks were red and her wet hair tumbling out of her bun as she skidded to a halt in the doorway. Panting, she dropped a muddled curtsy, dripping rainwater on the floor and averting her eyes in a futile attempt to conceal her merriment.

Henry's eyes, bottomless and empty, flicked up to fix on her face. "You are late."

"I apologise, I was walking by the river and it was only when it started to rain that I realised I had lost track of the time." Helen spoke hurriedly in between breaths, a secret smile touching her flushed face.

"Were you alone?" Beckett asked hollowly.

Helen hesitated, searching her husband's bland face. "Why do you ask?"

Beckett spread his hands. "It is the husband's place to take an interest in his wife," he replied with a tight smile.

"Of course I was alone," Helen stammered, trying a brittle laugh.

To cover her fumbled reply, she came over to sit by her husband, asking him about his own day.

Beckett ignored her. "Where is Cutler?"

Helen frowned. "I – I don't rightly know," she answered, looking around the room.

"Perhaps if you spent more time looking after our son, rather than wandering by the river, you would know." Beckett's tone was even but his face openly hostile.

"Perhaps if you spent _any_ time with our son, you would know!" Helen bit back.

Henry slammed a fist down onto the table, knocking over the glasses. Helen recoiled, shrinking into her seat with a soft whimper.

"I will not be talked to like that!" he roared. "How dare you question the way I run my household?"

Helen bit her lip. Gripping the arm of her chair, she pushed against Beckett's violent fury, forcing herself to sit up straight and meet her husband's terrifying eyes.

For the first time in a long time, she did dare.

Beckett stared at her in condemnation, but his initial furious reaction was bought to a halt by Helen's uncharacteristic daring. Stupefied, his brow fluctuated between anger and confusion, wondering what had caused the change in his subservient wife. Then all expression on his face froze.

"What is that?"

Helen frowned, following Beckett's motionless finger towards her throat, she saw the smallest flash of gold. She blanched and her hand shot to her neck, but Beckett was faster. His fingers closed around the necklace that Julian had given her and he studied it.

"Who gave this to you?" he asked, voice even colder than usual.

It took all of Helen's courage not to turn and run to her room then and there. "A friend," she replied, voice shaking.

Beckett's hand tightened on the chain. "Who gave this to you?" he repeated, gritting his teeth.

Helen tried to wiggle out of her husband's hold, but Beckett clamped a hand down on her shoulder. She gasped, her frightened gaze darting up to clash with Beckett's furious one.

"Have you been lying to me?" he demanded.

"No!" Helen answered, trembling.

"You are lying!" Beckett shouted, his voice breaking into a shout.

He ripped at the necklace and Helen cried out as the delicate chain snapped. Tears welled in her eyes and she staggered backwards, knocking over her chair. Beckett threw the remains of the necklace onto the floor, snarling and turning on Helen. She didn't wait for him to speak, but with a wild sob she turned away, ignoring Beckett's order for her to stop and stumbled out of the room.

Instead of running up the stairs, Helen turned towards the front door. Without pausing to contemplate the possible consequences of her actions, she flung open the door and a burst of wind slapped into her face. Fighting against the gale, she struggled out into the street, slamming the door behind her.

The rain caught her as she turned around and small, sharp pinpricks of water stabbed at her bare arms and loose clothes. Helen's hair plastered to her forehead in seconds, and she wiped a dripping hand across her cold face.

In the mist behind her she heard a voice, easily recognised as the strident call of her husband. Panic clawed at her throat and she started to run, not thinking where she was going. Her slippers splashed into puddles and her dress dragged along the muddy ground. Noises from her pursuer empowered her and, ignoring the cold and her fear, she kept moving.

Helen hadn't realised where she was going until she found herself, dripping and shivering, outside Julian's house. She hammered on the door, casting frightened, guilty looks over her shoulder through the rain. It seemed an age before the door creaked open and Julian's perplexed curly-haired head appeared.

"Helen?" he murmured, blinking.

She pushed past him into the dimly lit hallway, banging the door closed behind them. Gasping, she put her back to the door and slid down it, ending up in a heap on the floor.

"What's happening?" Julian demanded, eyes widening.

When Helen didn't answer, he leant down beside her and took her hands, his grip a little tight. "Helen?"

The sound of footsteps came from outside, and Julian and Helen's heads both snapped up in time to clearly hear the sound of Henry Beckett shouting to someone outside.

Julian paled. "You bought Beckett here?" he whispered.

"He followed me," Helen replied, eyes swimming with tears.

Julian was frozen to the spot, staring dumbly at the door. Seeing Julian's state, Helen clambered to her feet and pulled Julian up after her. As Henry started knocking impatiently on the door, the couple staggered out of the hall and into the next room.

"Please help me?" Helen pleaded. "I cannot bear to stay with Henry another moment!"

Julian was in a daze. He frowned at Helen, hearing her words but not really understanding. The sound of the front door smashing open crashed through his silence.

"How?" Julian asked desperately, features writhing in confusion. "What?"

"Run away with me!" Helen hissed, eyes bright and grip on his arm painful.

Julian opened and closed his mouth, indecision leaking out into his expression as he looked from Helen to the door. Henry was making his way noisily through the corridor towards them, calling Helen's name.

"Julian - please?" Helen begged, tears trailing down her flushed cheeks. "Run away with me like we did before."

Julian's eyes widened. "That was nothing," he protested. "It was harmless fun. A dalliance. We were barely more than children -" Julian's voice trailed off.

"You said you loved me," Helen murmured.

"I did – " he replied distractedly.

Helen grabbed Julian by the chin and forced him to look at her. "Is that all I am to you still, a dalliance?" she demanded through damp, laboured breaths.

Julian's gaze was fixed on the door and he hardly seemed to hear her. As Henry careered into the room, Julian pushed Helen off him and, ignoring her protests, ran towards the open window. All Henry saw was the back of a light brown head and a snatch of a brightly coloured coat before the wooden window shutter slammed shut.

Helen blinked at the window, the lingering warmth of Julian's body beside hers making it impossible to accept that he had gone. Her tears dried up and her hysteria abruptly stopped. She stared unblinkingly at the space where Julian had just been.

In the deathly silence that followed, Henry ran across the room and grabbed Helen by the shoulders. She didn't take her eyes off the window as he shook her and his shouted words fell on deaf ears. He raised a shaking hand and slapped her across the face, sending her head jerking to the side, but she didn't speak.

She didn't even blink.

Somewhere in the street a little way away, a young man in a remarkably colourful coat sunk down onto the ground, put his head in his hands and wept.

///


	12. Chapter the Twelfth

_A/N: I hope everyone had a great Christmas! I'm sorry about the long wait for this chapter - I was busy carousing. _

_I can't thank Nytd enough for beta-reading for me, and for so many authors on this site. I think she deserves an extra awesome Christmas. :)_

_

* * *

_

**Chapter the Twelfth**

Cutler Beckett glared at the dark polished wood of the study door. He snatched his hand away from the faded gold handle like it burned him, as if trying not to touch the door as he opened it.

"You sent for me, father?" he said on entering, bending in a stiff bow.

Henry Beckett didn't look up as his son spoke. He sat behind his desk, eyes riveted on the document he was reading, long fingers distracted by a large gold coin, which he caressed as one might a lover.

Cutler knew better than to interrupt and stood dumbly in the centre of the small room, fixing his impatient gaze on the worn carpet that he was already so familiar with. His feet started to shift with the desire to leave and his hand brushed the corner of the small note in his pocket that he was so dangerously preoccupied with.

Then there came a heavy sigh from the desk and Beckett closed the document with a snap.

"Yes, I did." Beckett's voice was as dry as the accounts surrounding them. "You and I have seen very little of each other lately. I am sorry for that. Now, I have some very good news for you, Master Beckett."

Cutler's hand closed around the note in his pocket. He rightly imagined Beckett that had a different idea than he did about what qualified as good news.

"You have been offered a position in the company where I work," Beckett continued. "The renowned East India Trading Company requires a young business mind like yours." Becket held the letter out to Cutler, a thin smile gracing his face.

After a slight hesitation, Cutler reached across and took the letter.

"I am very pleased with you, boy," Beckett told him with a gleam in his usually dead eyes.

Cutler swallowed. "I have not yet excepted the post," he murmured.

The small smile was snatched off Beckett's pale face. "I beg your pardon?" he replied, voice hardly more than a hiss.

Cutler kept his eyes averted. "I spoke to mother yesterday, she said I was too young for such a - "

Henry Beckett smashed his fist down onto the desk, making the objects on the top jump in a way that would have been comical from anyone but Beckett. Cutler winced and wrapped his hand around the other note in his pocket like it was a protective talisman.

"Never mention that woman in my presence again!" Beckett growled. "She is ill, her mind is confused. _I_ think the sooner you learn what the world is really like, the better. Remember who is master of this house."

Cutler nodded, wishing he could deflect the boiling wrath in his father's cold eyes somewhere other than his frightened face.

Becket drew in a deep breath, ready to launch onto another tirade but Cutler found himself interrupting.

"I have to go."

Cutler's impertinence seemed to momentarily stump Beckett. "What?" he asked.

"I have an appointment," Cutler replied, improvising, "with another company. I have to be there within the hour."

Beckett could only stare. "With who?" he rumbled.

"_Pullman and Harris_." Cutler plucked the name out of the air in front of him, almost as shocked as his father about his daring.

Beckett stared at Cutler, his expression unsure. Cutler stared back, nothing on his face but an honest search for approval. The desperate, worried, trembling reality was hidden behind a mask of calm and control. As he watched Beckett think, Cutler played back the lie in his head, surprised by the sure, compelling person who had spoken with his quiet voice.

"You have my blessing," Beckett finally spoke, his empty smile returning. "Now go."

With a final respectful bow, Cutler left.

His heart rate didn't normalise until he had left the house and was half way down the street. Even as his pulse began to slow, his mind worked furiously. To lie to his father was one thing, to be believed was quite another. He filed this newfound revelation away in his head and turned his thoughts to more immediate matters.

With shaking fingers, he drew the secret note out of the safety of his pocket, gazing hungrily at the now familiar words. The scrawled unsure signature at the bottom was already seared across his heart.

_Marianne Mercer. _

He saw her as soon as he walked around the corner. She sat on the grass by the river, where she had specified in her note, her thin legs crossed and her elbows resting on her knees. Her long light hair was tied back in a plait, which she fingered idly as her pale blue eyes gazed thoughtfully into space.

"Marianne," Cutler called out.

Marianne looked up immediately, uncurling from her seat with a little cry of joy. She bounced up to him, smiling, and flung her arms around Cutler's neck.

"I knew that you would come," she declared with her childlike, blind faith.

Cutler smiled thinly, reaching across to stroke the cheek of her trusting face. "Then why did you look so worried the moment before I arrived?" he asked, trailing a hand down her face and her throat.

Marianne dropped her gaze to her feet. "That wasn't about you," she admitted. "I was scared for my brother."

Cutler felt the familiar twist in his gut at the mention of his former friend. He tried to keep the irritation out of his face. "Whatever has he done now?" he asked, through gritted teeth.

"It's nothing," Marianne replied quickly, seeing something stir in Cutler's eyes. "It's just that he has gone and lost his job." She sighed and when Cutler didn't reply, she ploughed on. "He cannot seem to get another one. Now he's going out at night and coming back with money that he refuses to admit where he has acquired it. Mother is sick with worry, and I don't know what to think. I'm terrified he will get into trouble." Marianne screwed up her face and sighed.

Cutler was hardly listening. "Don't think on it, Marianne," he told her, running a hand through her hair. "I'm sure all is well."

Marianne shock her head, pulling out of Cutler's hold and Cutler's concerned countenance slipped.

"Forget about it - let's go for a walk through the park," he decided, turning to go.

Despite his words, Marianne's bright blue eyes were still touched with worry and she made no move to follow him.

Cutler froze. "Stop thinking about it and smile," he said, turning to her, encouraging.

"It's just – " Marianne began, grimacing.

"Smile," Cutler interrupted with an indignant laugh.

Marianne hesitated, her expression hovering between confusion and upset.

"Smile!" Cutler snapped, his adopted concern for her brother gone, replaced with impatience.

Marianne hesitated and then gave Cutler a weak grin that failed to reach her trouble eyes. He seemed satisfied as he smiled easily back, placing a possessive hand around her small shoulders.

"I missed you while we were apart, Marianne. I never want to be away from you again," he said, voice soothing. "Now shall we take a walk around the park."

This time it wasn't a question.

///

"I assume an apology would fall rather flat in circumstances like these?"

Helen Beckett didn't turn around. "How did you get into my room?" she asked, her voice carefully modulated.

Julian smiled weakly. "It appears I am getting rather good at climbing up balconies."

Helen let her eyes flick up to rest on Julian for a moment and saw the scratches and smudges on his hands and the leaves interwoven in his curly hair and waistcoat. She turned away before he could lock his beguiling eyes with hers.

"Well, kindly practise climbing back down it," Helen said brittlely.

"Helen –" Julian pleaded, closing the distance between them quickly.

"If Beckett finds you here, he will kill you," Helen told him, eyes dead and voice flat. There was a heartbeat's pause. "And possibly kill me as well."

"Just let me speak," Julian asked, throwing up his hands in the air.

Helen didn't answer; she just set her lips in a hard line, and went to sit on the chair facing the fire. She wrapped her arms protectively around her body and waited.

"However useless it may be, I want to apologise," Julian started, coming over to stand beside her, his voice perfectly sincere. Helen vowed she wouldn't let his charm blind her this time.

"This is difficult for me," he continued and Helen snorted. "Truly!" he declared. "This is all rather new to me."

Helen's eyes flashed and she turned to glare at him. "I should hope so!"

Julian winced. "You know me," he appealed, kneeling down next to her. "I seldom stay around for consequences, but with you I started to fall in too deep." He paused, searching Helen's face, which might as well have been carved out of marble.

"I panicked. I was scared!" He was almost pleading now.

"You're a coward," Helen said bluntly, getting to her feet.

"I'm sorry!" Julian cried, all pretence gone, his practised words drained away. He reached for Helen's hands. "Heartfeltly sorry."

Helen looked away from his imploring eyes, and clasped her hands safely behind her back. She drew on years of marriage to Beckett in order to keep her face empty. "I don't need you anymore," she told Julian, her voice hard and cold as glass. "Leave me."

Julian swallowed the lump in his throat painfully. "That's just perfect," he replied, summoning up an ironic smile. "Now you have stopped needing me, it seems I have started needing you."

Helen's whole body froze. Julian's words stabbed straight through her carefully constructed barriers and into her heart; she felt light-headed. Licking dry lips, she managed to form one word: "Leave."

Julian made a noise like a wounded animal.

"Go!" Helen shouted, pointing at the balcony.

Julian's face was twisted in frustration and grief. Helen looked away, treacherous tears spilling out of her eyes, and collapsed back down in her armchair.

She viciously wiped her eyes with her sleeve, but when she turned back around Julian was already gone.

///

Mr. Henry Beckett had just left the house when a woman called his name from across the street.

Beckett's head snapped up, at first glance believing the woman to be his wife. She had the same dark hair and was of the same height, but where his wife was curvaceous, this woman was angular and her appearance more polished.

"Mr. Beckett," she murmured, curtsying neatly and fluttering her eyelashes at him from behind thick glasses.

Beckett recognised her as the woman from the dress shop down the road; her name was Worthing or something…

He bowed stiffly, just as low as was proper and not an inch more.

"Are you well?" the woman, Miss Weaving, asked hopefully, staring into his cold, almost colourless, blue eyes.

"Quite," he replied shortly. "Yourself?"

"Ooh, yes," she simpered. "And how is your wife?"

Henry Beckett licked his bloodless lips. "I assume she is fine," he answered eventually. "Why do you ask?"

"She seemed a little flustered when I last saw her in the dress shop," Miss Weaving replied offhandedly. A little mischief crept into her controlled countenance. "Her cousin was there with her, of course."

Henry's features seemed to freeze. "Cousin?" he asked coldly.

Miss Weaving's face bore a barely concealed smirk. "Yes, a tall young man, rather handsome. He had curly hair and the most divine taste in clothes…"

She trailed off as Henry's face grew steadily bleaker and his hands started to clutch disconcertingly at thin air. Miss Weaving frowned, her desire to stir up trouble unable to contend with Henry's quelling glare. Something in his eyes disturbed her, but she knew that he was no longer thinking about her.

"I'm sure there is a perfectly good explanation," she stammered, but she bit down on her tongue as Henry grabbed her by the shoulders.

"What was his name?" he demanded.

"Julian, I think, but I - "

"Family name?" he barked, tightening his grip on her arms.

"Julian Lewis. Now get your hands off me!" she gasped, squirming in his immovable hold.

"Do you know where he is hiding?" Henry continued, shaking her so hard her glasses rattled against her face.

"Hiding? I don't know," she replied valiantly.

"Lying is a sin," Beckett hissed.

Miss Bessie held her ground in furious silence.

Without another word, Beckett released her and spun on his heels to march back to his house, leaving Miss Bessie Weaving frozen in the middle of the street.

Despite her thick shawl and large woollen stockings, she was shivering.

///


	13. Chapter the Thirteenth

**Chapter the Thirteenth**

The man lurched out of the alleyway, staggering around like a drunkard. The world spun before his red-tinged eyes, every lumbering step breaking the haze and sending it splintering around his skull.

He choked, spitting on the floor, feeling the coppery taste of blood in his mouth, and frowning as he spat out a tooth as well. He tried to laugh but it came out a wretched sob, and he pitched forward, fractured mind intent on something he couldn't quite recall. His head swivelled around the street, disjointed shaking faces flickered in his mind's eye. A figure stepped out of the pain-induced haze. A woman. Dark hair. And a petite figure.

The man lumbered towards her, managing two painful steps before he fell to his knees.

"Helen," he croaked, grasping the back of the woman's cloak.

The woman cried out and spun around. The man had time to realise that she was not Helen before he slipped down the steep slope into unconsciousness.

The woman gasped. She felt nauseous, stepping away from the man as he fell with his battered face down to the earth. Even under the cover of blood and grime, Miss Bessie Weaving recognised him, and it wasn't difficult to connect her words to Henry Beckett the night before and the bruised, bleeding figure slumped at her feet.

She no longer just felt nauseous, but downright sick. Doubling over and retching, the contents of Miss Bessie's stomach joined some of Julian Lewis' lifeblood on the dirty street floor.

///

"Miss Weaving?"

The round, wrinkled face crumpled into a bemused smile and its owner clucked in surprise, peering around the door at the woman standing there.

Miss Bessie Weaving glanced up into the housekeeper's curious face, her own face slightly pale. The old housekeeper struggled to keep the question out of her eyes as she gazed at Miss Weaving, usually so immaculately turned out, with her hair unkempt and her clothes ruffled.

"Mr. Beckett is out," she told the visitor lightly.

"I want to speak to Mrs. Beckett," Miss Bessie replied, her voice cracking. She coughed and after straightening her glass, she adopted her normal cool tone. "Is she in?"

Miss Weaving was lead into the drawing room by a young maid, who then hurried off without a word, but with a curious stare over her shoulder.

Miss Bessie loitered in the drawing room, casting uncomfortable glances from one side of the neatly arranged room to the other. Wiping a quick hand cross her clammy forehead, she sank down into one of the identical armchairs as her shaking legs threatened to betray her. After a moment of respite, she gritted her teeth and forced herself to her feet so when Helen Beckett finally appeared in the drawing room, she was outwardly in control.

"Mrs. Beckett," she said politely, curtsying low.

Helen's surprise was evident in her eyes and her expression was more than a little hostile, but she curtsied neatly back. "Miss Weaving, what a pleasant surprise."

Miss Bessie grimaced. "I fear I bring bad tidings," she began carefully.

Helen stiffened. "Has something happened to Henry?" she asked.

"No, it concerns your cousin," Miss Bessie corrected her.

Helen frowned. "You must be mistaken," she started to reply but she caught the look in Miss Bessie's eyes and clamped her mouth shut.

"You can't possibly –" she stammered.

"He has been beaten up by ruffians," Miss Bessie told her. "My sister and I have looked after him as best we can, but he is asking for you."

Helen's face drained of colour and her hand shot unconsciously to her throat, only to find that the necklace wasn't there.

"I can't – " she murmured, with a guilty look over her shoulder.

Miss Bessie swallowed the lump in her throat. "I told Henry about the day in the dress shop," she confessed, voice unusually quiet.

Helen's eyes flashed and a spark of colour returned to her cheeks. She made as if to grab the older woman but she stopped herself, all the fight draining out of her. She collapsed into a chair, chest heavy with suppressed emotions.

Miss Bessie bit her lips. "I'm sorry," she said, very slowly, as if the phrase was difficult to squeeze out of her mouth.

Helen waved her words away with a jerk of her hand. "Henry," she whispered. "There is no chance that he will let me out of the house. He locks my bedroom door at night – he is convinced that I plan to run away."

Miss Bessie's usual strict expression had softened. "Go to Julian," she told her. "He needs you."

Helen flinched at her choice of words, as the memory of her last conversation with Julian was burned into her mind with a clarity she found almost painful.

"Come," the older woman ordered with characteristic briskness and Helen let herself be lead out of the drawing room.

Leaving a note to Henry and a carefully spun lie for the flustered housekeeper, Helen followed Miss Bessie out of the house, her heart bursting with inexplicable terror. Throughout the short journey to the dress shop, Bessie kept Helen anchored, leading her firmly by the arm when she looked most like she would drift away.

They reached the shop and Helen struggled to gather herself. Miss Bessie locked the door behind Helen and she was ushered into the private rooms beyond the shop front. She found herself in a small, warm kitchen, where Miss Barbara Weaving was hovering over a stove cooking a broth. When she saw Helen she curtsied low, her frilly hat tipping forward and brushing the floor. Seeing Helen's over bright eyes and flushed face, she smiled pityingly.

"I think I'll put on a nice cup of tea," she decided.

Looking over Barbara's bobbing head, Helen saw a dimly lit room, and Miss Bessie caught her stare. "I believe he is asleep," she said.

Helen's stomach clenched and her heart felt like a lump of lead inside her chest. Stooping under the strain, she turned into the room, not hearing Miss Barbara's words of murmured comfort.

The room was small and comfortable. The furniture was neat, a bunch of flowers sat on the windowsill, and lace curtains were pulled carefully shut behind it. The whole room smelt of lavender. In the centre of the room was a small wooden bed, covered with a thick purple blanket, and tucked under the blanket was Julian.

Helen felt like her heart was being prised out of her chest as she looked at his small, pale form. In the bed with his eyes screwed tightly shut, he looked vulnerable, and the force of his personality was muted.

She drifted to his side, as if walking in a dream. Sinking down beside him, she wrapped her fingers around his right hand; his left was wrapped in a bandage, and she let out a whispered sigh. Both Julian's eyes were puffy and angry shades of red, a shallow scratch was trailing down the side of his face, and his normally smirking lips were cut and bruised.

He was asleep, his eyes shifting beneath their lids and his lips mouthing words Helen couldn't quite catch. Perhaps he was dreaming, Helen thought, and then she wondered if he was dreaming about her.

As Miss Bessie entered the room quietly behind her, Helen started to cry. Bessie's lips tightened and she halted in the doorway. Carefully she reached across a hesitant hand and placed it on Helen's shoulder. Helen let out a loud sob and turning her head, she buried it in Bessie's carefully trimmed dress, clutching at the expensive fabric.

Bessie jumped at first, tensing as if to pull away. Gradually she relaxed and encircled Helen in her immaculate cream-gloved embrace.

"Crying will not help anything," she told Helen, but her voice didn't hold its normal conviction.

Behind her Miss Barbara bustled in, smiling sadly. She pushed a cup of tea into Helen's hands, patting her on the cheek and sighing heavily. "It'll all turn out alright in the end," she assured her, comfortingly.

Helen stared through misty eyes at Barbara, saying nothing.

///

Helen had fallen into a troubled sleep, slumped in the wooden chair beside the bed. She whimpered and twitched, as in her dreams faceless men chased her around her home, the empty laugh of her husband filling her sleeping ears.

Sharply she jolted awake. Breathing rapidly, she squinted about the murky room, slowly remembering where she was. The first morning light peeked in the lace curtains and Helen relaxed, sinking down onto her chair and rubbing her tired eyes.

"Good morning," a hoarse voice murmured.

Helen jumped, sitting bolt upright, the sleep blinking rapidly out of her hazy eyes. In the bed beside her there was a soft rustling, and Julian pulled himself up onto one elbow, looking at her through smiling eyes. Helen watched him in silence, her expression nearly as tightly still as the hands clasped in her lap.

Julian met Helen's controlled gaze with a bright one. "I wasn't sure you'd come," he began, with a soft look that touched Helen like a caress.

She kept her eyes flinty. "Of course you knew I would come."

Julian hesitated. He gave a short laugh at her expression, his lips curling into a smile, which even cut and battered was as appealing and infectious as always. When Helen met his bruised eyes with a wounded expression of her own, Julian's mobile features arranged themselves into something more sombre.

"Helen," he said seriously. "Thank you. I understand what it must have cost you to come here."

"Of course you don't," she interrupted him, her tone weary.

Julian was momentarily speechless. He looked into Helen's downcast face, trying to gage her mood.

"I always come back to you," Helen said, her voice low and bitter. "I was terrified for you, but I should have known whatever happened you would come out smiling."

Julian stared at her, his sure smile wavering. "Helen, you weren't the only one who risked something when we were together," he retorted.

"I risked everything!" Helen bit back.

"Are you saying I risked nothing? Your husband sent men after me," Julian reminded her with a brittle laugh.

"It hardly matters," Helen said stiffly. "It's over and we would be foolish to try and continue it in the face of such opposition. We have to pick up the pieces of our lives alone."

Julian's sneer was cutting. "You can not possibly go back to Henry now. I've shown you there is more to life than that, you won't be able to stand it."

"I'll have to," replied Helen coldly.

The expression on Julian's face flickered. "You can't go back to Henry," he repeated.

Helen just glared at him.

"You can't possibly be resigned to returning to that man?" he maintained, pulling himself upright and grasping Helen's sleeve.

Helen wriggled out of his grip. "Were you not listening? I've estranged myself from you," she told him.

Julian's eyes were wide and surprised. He sank back in his bed, shock sapping the strength from his limbs. "But – "

Helen wouldn't meet his eyes. "You cannot be trusted," she pressed. "I have to make my own way, I see that now."

Julian remained still and silent. Helen's brow knotted and her features struggled to think of a way to arrange themselves. She opened her mouth to continue her argument but she bit her tongue at the sight of Julian's defeated expression. Her guilty darting glance took in his bruises and cuts, once again lit by the morning sunlight, and a lump grew in her dry throat.

"You don't need me, you only think you do," Helen pressed, as if reminding herself as much as she was reprimanding him. "And I do not want you either."

Julian raised his head slowly, meeting Helen's wavering gaze. "I accept that you no longer want me," he whispered, "but I must warn you, I will not take responsibility for what I intend to do if Beckett so much as touches you."

Helen choked on her answer. Retreating from the shadows in Julian's normally bright eyes, she fell into uncomfortable silence, where they each lost themselves in their individual dark thoughts.

///

_A/N: Thank you, Nytd, for the helpful beta reading. I really needed it! :)_

_Reviews would be treasured._

_~Damsel _


	14. Chapter the Fourteenth

**Chapter the Fourteenth**

A dark cloaked figure marched down the street. Under the folds of thick cloth the man's body was rigid, his lips were compressed into a fixed frown, and the lines of a deep scowl on his face were harshly visible in the gentle light of the morning. Passers by scurried to the other side of the path to avoid the thunderous expression on the man's face. He didn't seem to notice their furtive glances, as he crushed the grit under his stamping feet and purposefully strode forward.

Coming to a sudden jerking stop outside a shop, the man raised a fist and hammered on the door. Standing on the doorstep, immovably still, he drew in angry, grating breaths, while the fist he'd used to knock on the door hung by his side, still fiercely clenched.

After a long moment of silence, the soft sound of footsteps padded up to the other side of the door and a key rattled. The door opened a crack and a face appeared around the side, looking out from behind large spectacles.

"Where is my wife?" the man demanded.

The eyes widened behind the glasses; a slow vapid smile grew across the owner's face. "Mr. Beckett, how lovely to see you. We get so few visitors." Miss Barbara dropped a simpering curtsy.

"Helen?" Beckett pressed.

Miss Barbara blinked. "Who?" she asked.

"Get out of my way," Beckett snapped, roughly pushing the little woman to one side.

Barbara gripped the doorframe with surprising strength, planting her feet firmly, and Beckett hesitated.

"What is going on?" another woman asked and Beckett was glared at through another pair of thick spectacles, which had appeared at Barbara's shoulder.

"It's all right," a soft voice interrupted. "I am here, husband."

Helen stepped past the sisters to face Beckett and quietly closed the door behind them, shielding whatever was inside from Henry. Henry's narrowed eyes locked with Helen's. He darted forward, grabbing his young wife by the wrist.

"How dare you disobey a direct command to stay at home?" he hissed. "I only discovered that you had gone when the servants told me at breakfast."

Helen held her head high, refusing to bow to the threats in Beckett's eyes.

"You can't keep me locked up forever. I have the right to visit my friends if I choose." Helen's voice was steady, but her hard eyes were broken with worry.

"I can and I will!" Beckett shouted back.

Helen saw people in the street cast uncomfortable glances at them and winced. Beckett failed to notice their scrutiny as he barked, "You are my wife, bound before God."

"You say that as if it explains everything," Helen replied, pulling out of her husband's grip.

Beckett wrapped his hand around her upper arm instead, grasping her tighter, and Helen bit her lip rather than give him the satisfaction of seeing her flinch.

Henry turned to the two Miss Weavings, who had been standing, wringing their hands, just behind Helen. "My wife is not well, she should not be out alone."

"Unwell – " Helen started to snap but stopped with a bitten off gasp as Beckett dug his nails into the soft flesh of her arm.

Tears formed in her eyes as Helen forced herself not to acknowledge the pain in front of Beckett, but she was rewarded only by a glare that sent a shiver down her spine.

"Helen has been under a lot of strain recently and I fear her good sense has been affected," Henry told Bessie and Barbara, as he used his hold on her arm to rattle his wife like a doll. "She should be safely shut up at home, for her own good.

Before either could manage a reply, he had turned around, roughly pulling Helen after him. With a final act of defiance, Helen dug her heels in and wrenched herself out of his clutches. Beckett snarled and spun after her, but instead of bolting Helen was still.

Drawing herself up so she could look Beckett in the eyes, she held her arm out to him, her bearing resolute. Beckett's lip curled but he linked arms with her and bid Miss Bessie and Miss Barbara goodbye with a curt nod.

Arm in arm, the couple walked back towards their home, clinging so close that they looked to casual observers like a couple bound not only by their marriage vows but by a bond of tenderness. No one looked past the façade to see how taut the expression on Helen's white, drawn face was, or how hard Beckett's teeth were gritted as he held her cruelly in place.

_///_

Miss Barbara Weaving sat at the breakfast table. Distractedly, she stirred a stewing cup of tea, her other hand propping up her chin. She sighed, looking dejectedly into space, the feathers of her purple silk hat drooping sadly.

Lifting her head a little, she glanced across at her sister, who was pacing the little kitchen, her lips compressed in thought.

Barbara cleared her throat softly, gazing at her sister with worried eyes. "Sit down, Bessie," she pleaded. "Have something to eat."

Bessie Weaving spun around and glared at Barbara. "How can I? We have to do something to help Helen," she snapped.

"What about Helen?" a voice asked from behind them.

Bessie wrenched her face around to gaze at Julian. Barbara buried her head in her hands, closing her eyes.

Bessie recovered first. "Mr. Lewis, how wonderful to see you on your feet."

Julian's face darkened with trepidation. "Beckett has taken her back."

The sisters exchanged a look. "He came while we were eating breakfast and you were resting," Miss Bessie finally replied.

There was a long silence, during which Julian's face got steadily bleaker. The shadows of bruises under his eyes deepened, and the cuts on his face stood out as his face paled.

Miss Bessie faltered. "Please do not do anything hasty," she pleaded.

Julian ignored her, striding towards the door.

"What are you going to do?" Barbara demanded, leaping to her feet.

Julian flung open the front door, his grip on the frame trembled with barely suppressed rage. He refused to meet either of the sisters' searching eyes. "Something I should have done long before," he snapped.

Then he stalked out into the street, slamming the door behind him.

///

Helen Beckett choked back tears as she looked steadfastly away from her husband's empty, probing eyes.

The room echoed with resounding silence, so stifling that Helen felt she might suffocate. She slumped in a chair, her hands gripping at the fabric of her dress, twisting and stretching it around her fingers until they turned blue from lack of blood. Her chest rose and fell irregularly, every breath of the air in the Beckett's house clawing at her throat. Squirming under the folds of her dress, she tapped her foot, shaking with the supreme effort required not to leap to her feet and flee the room.

Henry Beckett was the picture of calm and poise. He sat in an armchair, his feet together and his back straight, watching Helen with his colourless eyes. Helen chewed the inside of her cheek until it bled, writhing under the stabs of her husband's pointed attention.

The silence was broken by a tentative knock at the door. Helen almost fainted with relief as the maid slipped in and Beckett's eyes swerved towards her.

"Pardon me, sir," said the maid, Laura, dropping a polite curtsy. "There's a letter for Mrs. Beckett."

Beckett looked sidelong at Helen. "Who sent it?" he asked.

"The gentleman didn't leave a name," Laura replied.

Henry glanced back at Laura. "Give it to me," he commanded, holding out a hand.

Laura hesitated. "The sender implored me to give it to Mrs. Beckett personally," she whispered, casting a helpless look at Helen.

Helen didn't lift her gaze from the floor, the line of her lips as straight as a rod.

"Your loyalty is touching but misplaced. Now hand me the letter." Beckett accentuated his words with a shake of his outstretched hand.

The young maid frowned at the folded paper in her hand, but placed it slowly on Henry's outstretched palm.

"Leave us," Beckett told her.

Laura gazed uncertainly at her mistress's bowed head and pale face, but faltered as she felt the threatening eyes of Beckett on her back. Gulping, Laura turned and stumbled out of the room, forgetting to curtsy in her hasty retreat.

Beckett didn't take any notice. Deliberately he broke the seal on the letter, unfolding it carefully. He passed it to Helen.

"Read it to me," he ordered.

Helen wouldn't touch the letter as it was dropped in her lap. All expression had been bled out of her face and her eyes were windows leading to empty corridors.

"Read it!" Beckett barked.

Very slowly, as if her limbs were moving through treacle, Helen picked up the letter.

"Dearest Helen," she began, voice hollow and hesitant. "I can bear it no longer. I will come for you tonight whatever you say. Be ready. Yours, J."

An ominous silence followed Helen's halting recital, broken when Henry reached forward, slid the letter out of Helen's weak grip and ripped it into strips. He leant across and sprinkled the torn pieces in front of Helen, who remained tense and still. Beckett turned his back on her, walking over to his writing desk, where he took out a pen and parchment.

"Why don't you write your lover a reply? You would not want to keep him waiting." Henry's voice was colder than ice and Helen shivered.

"Come along," he snapped when she failed to answer, "or should I write it for you?"

Helen raised her weary head. "Leave me alone."

Henry smashed the pen and parchment back down on the table. "You tell me and I shall write it down for you." He was shouting now, spitting out words between sharp breaths. "I'll begin. Dearest Julian – "

Helen's tired eyes strayed to the window and she sighed heavily.

"Look at me, Helen!" Beckett roared. "Listen to me!"

Helen twisted her head and gazed contemptuously at her raging husband. "Why should I?" she asked.

Henry knocked the inkwell off the table as he charged at Helen. She had already leapt to her feet and pushed her chair in Henry's path. He smashed into it, shouting out a curse. Nursing his leg as Helen hitched up her skirts and ran out of the room, Henry could only pursue her with vicious threats.

Helen skidded across the empty hallway, taking the staircase two at a time, hearing the hem of her dress rip as she stamped on it. Thundering footsteps behind her heralded Henry's approach and when she stole a glance over her shoulder she caught a glimpse of two blazing eyes and a scowl, like a wound left by a knife, across his face.

Helen stumbled over the last step, flinging herself towards her room. She felt Henry's hot breath on the back of her neck and the freezing touch of his long fingers on the bare skin of her arm, then she slammed her bedroom door, turning the key at the same moment her husband's body slammed into the other side.

She slumped against the wall, the sweat warm on her skin and her chest heaving with panting breaths. Henry let out a shout of frustration, smashing a fist against her locked door. Helen could taste his fury through the thick wood separating them, and feel the thump of his boiling blood pulsing in his veins. She held herself in shaking stasis, straining to hear what he was doing on the other side of the wall.

"If that's where you want to stay, so be it." Henry's voice was nothing more than a snarl. "It will take more than your lovesick friend to get you out!"

Helen listened as he spun around and marched down the corridor. She leant against the door for support, sinking to the floor as her legs gave way under the weight of her situation.

She whispered one shuddering word: "Julian."

///

Beckett strode towards his study, moving his limbs stiffly as if they were made of stone. Once inside, he eased himself into his chair, mechanically pulling out his pocket watch and checking the time. Slipping the watch back into his coat, he picked up a pen and scribbled a note that was taken his servant.

That done, he relaxed back into his seat. Reaching a lazy hand into his desk, he pulled out a small ornate pistol and placed it on the desk. With one hand resting on the pistol, he stared at the sun through his window as it sunk inevitably towards the horizon, and waited patiently for the dusk.

///

_A/N: Cliffhanger. Teehee. _

_Thanks everyone for sticking with me and this story - I promise not to leave you hanging too long. _

_Thank you, Nytd, for reading through this chapter and correcting my mistakes, especially the painfully blatant ones I still missed. :)_

_~Damsel_


	15. Chapter the Fifteenth

**Chapter the Fifteenth**

Two soldiers stood side by side in the silent garden. A blanket of frost-tinged darkness had fallen over the pair, and they shifted shakily from one icy foot to the other, hands thrust deep into their pockets for warmth. The night around them was still. A clear sky, dotted with cold shining pinpricks of light and a perfect half moon hung over their heads, like a painting. The house at their backs seemed to be sleeping. No light shone from the bolted windows, save for a tentative flame from a candle in the study.

As the hours wore on, the soldiers' faces grew more drawn and their quiet grumbling more insistent. "Do you think 'e's comin'?" one hissed to the other, voice muffled by the heavy stillness.

His companion shrugged. "Mr. Beckett seemed fairly sure," he replied shortly.

His friend scowled, blowing on his hands. Both men glanced up at the silent house, to a small window on the top floor, preoccupied with thoughts of the woman locked inside.

Neither man noticed, meanwhile, a tall silhouette creeping across the rooftop in the moonlight. The figure scrambled along the top, clawing and slipping from one roof to another. He clung to a chimneypiece, feet sliding on the icy tiles and his expression lost in the reflected glare of the stars.

Very carefully he made his way, unobserved, across the unusual pathway and onto the roof of the Beckett house.

///

Helen lay in the pitch blackness. Tears had dried around her open eyes and she gazed blankly out into the dark. Her face was perfectly still, frozen, and she was curled into a tight circle on the top of her bed, her knees pulled up to her chest.

The faint chiming of a clock crept under the locked door of her room. Twelve distinct notes, long and sad, filled the corners of the silent room. Helen's eyelids fluttered and she blinked. Then, like something out of a fairytale, she came to life at midnight. A light was rekindled in her staring eyes, her marble features softened; she sighed and, very slowly, she got to her feet.

Treading deliberately softly, she didn't light a candle and padded across to her door. She knelt down, placing a tentative green eye against the keyhole. Staring silently out, her secret scrutiny was directed at the bowed head of a stranger. Dressed in a soldier's uniform, his sword left on the table, he sat in the corridor outside, snoring contentedly.

Helen turned back towards the shadow of her room, her green eyes hard and bright, like emeralds. She walked soundlessly across to her bed and reached under her pillow. When her hand appeared again, she had a small, grey key held tightly in her trembling fingers.

///

Julian stood at the top of the Beckett's staircase, clothed in a thin armour of silence, clutching his shield of darkness to his body for comfort.

He heard a noise and gazed searchingly about the corridor until he realised, with a sick feeling in his churning stomach, that it was his own frightened breathing. He swallowed, snatching looks over his shoulder, practically stopping his heart for fear someone would hear its rapid beats.

With soft, hurried steps, he slunk towards Helen's room, keeping as close to the wall as he could. Muted snores reached his sensitised ears, and he peered around a corner to see a hunched shadow, breathing steadily and sitting still.

Treading lightly, Julian crept around the sleeping guard and stopped outside Helen's door. Fumbling slightly in the dark, he sought the handle, but he paused, his brow knotting with worry as the door swung open.

Careful not to make a sound, he stepped into the dark bedroom and breathed Helen's name. A bleak silence answered his call, and as Julian's eyes became accustomed to the blackness, he had to bite his tongue to trap a cry of frustration. The room was empty.

"What's going on – " an unfamiliar voice slurred.

Julian pivoted around to stare at the bleary-eyed soldier, then darting like a snake, he lunged to one side and grabbed at the soldier's swords. The soldier got to it first, using it to slice at the unarmed attacker. Julian sidestepped the attack, wrapping his hand around the pistol hidden in his belt.

The soldier didn't give him a chance to draw it, as he leapt to his feet and slashed at Julian's hand. Julian snatched his stinging hand back; the wound, although superficial, was enough to renew his energy.

He pushed the table the soldier had been resting on into him, causing a tremendous crash in the silent corridor, and then sprinted past the winded soldier. The man wasn't stopped for long. He raced after Julian, reaching him in a series of long strides.

The soldier stabbed at Julian, his wild eyes registering shock at the bone jarring sound of metal hitting metal. Wielding a short sword, Julian parried the soldier's first attack. His unexpected assault stumped the trained fighter for no more than a moment, and after that it was only luck that kept Julian alive through the man's calculated slashes and thrusts.

They locked blades; Julian winced as he slid forward and his wounded hand, slick with blood, began losing grip on his weapon. Physically stronger than Julian, the soldier laughed, billowing rancid breath into Julian's face, and forced the slighter man to his knees.

The weapon clattered out of Julian's hold and, smirking, the soldier levelled his sword at his defeated opponent's throat. The soldier opened his mouth to shout for the others but then there was a smash, followed by a cascade of broken glass.

The man dropped faster than a stone down a well, leaving in his place a tussle-haired Helen gripping the shattered handle of a vase.

Julian let out a snort of surprised laugher. He stumbled forwards, stepping over the fallen man and reaching out to Helen. She let go of the remains of the vase, tumbling into his embrace and pressing her hot face against his chest.

"You came back," she muttered, speaking into his shirt.

She felt Julian's laugh reverberate around his chest. "I thought you no longer wanted me," he murmured, lightly stroking her hot brow with a slightly unsteady hand.

"That's right," she replied promptly, her face still safely tucked against his shoulder.

Julian's face broke into a grin, and some of the deeper lines of worry around his eyes smoothed out. Helen raised her head from Julian's chest, catching his relieved eye. She felt her lips move into a smile entirely of their own making and placed a hand against Julian's cheek.

Her fingers brushed the day-old scratches left by his attackers and he flinched. Helen hesitated, then leant forward to touch her lips to his face, lingering so when her mouth was parted from him, her soft breath still left its comforting caress.

Julian stirred slowly, raising limbs that suddenly seemed to be impossibly heavy, and caught Helen into a tighter embrace. She fitted against the contours of his body with a familiar rightness, as if they were two pieces in the same puzzle.

A disgusted shout interrupted them. They broke apart enough to turn and stare into the wide eyes of Henry Beckett, whose face held more shock than fury.

Julian's mouth was almost touching Helen's ear. "I think we should continue at another time," he suggested in a breathy whisper, making Helen giggle.

Across the corridor, Beckett mastered himself and pointed a pistol at the interlocked couple.

The wall behind Julian's head exploded as the shot went wide, but before Beckett could correct his mistake, Julian flattered himself to one side, thrusting Helen behind him. He pulled the pistol out of his belt, fumbling to ready it.

Henry fired another wild shot at the couple and Julian answered it with a badly aimed shot of his own. As Henry ducked for cover, Julian slid his hand into Helen's.

"Run," he hissed.

Helen clung to his side as Julian raced down the corridor, shooting blindly over his shoulder and feeling Beckett's returned fire blaze past his face and graze his ear. The pain was hardly registered; he was preoccupied with the feel of Helen's soft, warm fingers interwoven tightly with his own.

Just behind them, a pulse thudded in Beckett's temple as he stumbled down the corridor. Almost purple with disgusted anger, his sneering lips parted and he let out a feral snarl. Tattered breaths ripped at his lungs as he tried to keep up with Julian and Helen, wielding a pistol with no more shot.

He watched as a door was yanked open and his wife and Julian disappeared inside. Too later, Beckett crashed into the locked barrier, kicking it and demanding they open up, blood flecking his bony knuckles as he hammered the wood. Insolent silence answered his panting orders.

Beckett pulled away with a grunt, his voice cracking as he shouted for help. Three soldiers stumbled down the corridor, one clutching a bleeding head, the other two, confused, with the garden's dew still clinging to their boots.

Beckett illustrated his commands with the customary jab of his hand, which was pale, bloody and quivering with rage. The soldiers shook the lethargy of their vigils from their limbs. Taking a running jump at the door, they assaulted it with shoulders, wincing as the wood held firm against their bruising flesh.

"Hurry!" Beckett snapped, fingers flexing on his pistol.

The door groaned its protest but buckled under the soldiers' strength. They staggered inside, propelled by their own momentum, and fell to the floor. Beckett leapt over their fallen figures, marching into the bedroom, his wife's name a curse on the end of his tongue.

He froze, dropping his pistol to the floor with a clatter. Mouth hanging open, his eyes darted around the room and he let out a shuddering moan. A breeze danced in the slit of the open balcony door, chilling the air of the empty room.

Beckett turned to the three soldiers, stooping to pick up his pistol. He ground his teeth and managed to spit out one order. "Find them."

///

In the room next door, a young man huddled under his blankets. Pillow held protectively over his ears, his eyes were screwed shut and he was lying as if petrified.

As silence replaced the shouts and pistol shots that had been ringing in his ears all evening, he opened his eyes. Gulping, he slowly moved position and clambered to his feet. He turned to his window, creeping up to peek out from behind the curtains.

In the street just beyond his garden wall, two figures were creeping through the shadows. The boy swallowed, watching in silence as his mother ran away. When the couple was too far away to see, he wiped his eyes on a crisply ironed sleeve, his face a poignant mix of sorrow and confusion.

A hoarse rumble of conversation interrupted his grief. Young Cutler Beckett turned away from the window, smothering the flames of his distress with a dose of renewed anger. He dried his tears on his own and then turned to stride out of the room, following the familiar voice.

"Father."

Henry Beckett was deep in discussion with the soldiers.

"Father," Cutler tried again, standing ignored behind the four men.

When they still failed to acknowledge him, Cutler exhaled slowly and then cleared his throat. "Excuse me, Father."

Beckett shot Cutler a quelling glare. "Not now, boy."

Cutler met his father's slightly bloodshot eyes with glacial calm. "Mother went past Market Street and towards the Docks. I watched it from my window."

Beckett leapt away from the soldiers, grabbing Cutler by the shoulders. "Why didn't you tell me before?" he demanded. "You are as useless as she was."

Cutler didn't even flinch. "She took a bag, she must intend to leave by ship," he continued.

Beckett spun away from Cutler, snapping orders at the three soldiers. "We must intercept her!"

Cutler's voice was quiet and sliced across his father's thunderous shout like a bolt of icy lightning. "Judging by the weather, the ships won't be able to leave until the morning. You have time."

Beckett turned back to Cutler with a tiny, vicious smile on his face. "I see you have finally realised which side you are on," he said with savage glee.

Without waiting for an answer, he motioned to the soldiers and strode out of the room, leaving a trail of commands.

Cutler stayed where he was, his young face haggard.

"I am on no one's side but my own," he told the empty room. "It is the only side I can trust."

///

_ A/N: Phew. You made it through another chapter!_

_Huge thanks to my lovely beta Nytd; I couldn't write coherently without you. And Nytd, there's always time for snuggling in fanfiction! :P_

_~Damsel_


	16. Chapter the Sixteenth

**Chapter the Sixteenth**

The day dawned slowly, as if the dark fist of night was reluctant to relinquish its grip on the day. Winter's brisk touch stained every surface, creating a sharp clarity against the unbroken canvas of the blue sky. A touch of icy breath lingered in the deep tracks made by the sunlight and real ice, like pieces of broken glass, littered the well-trodden paths of the ground.

The docks were very still. A painful reflection of the sun's sparse brightness blinked in the windows of the warehouses. Bitter wind breathed through the ropes of the docked ships, making them leap and jangle as the pale sun rose over the motionless ocean.

The frozen silence was shattered into shards by the sound of running feet. A door slammed somewhere and something fell over with a resounding thump. There was a long creak, as a warehouse door opened, and a curly haired man poked his head around the side, to look one way and then the other.

"It's clear," he hissed.

Almost on tiptoes, he danced into the open, leading a dark haired woman by the hand. He ran across the path, the woman trailing after him, and came to a skidding halt outside another large derelict-looking building. The woman cannoned into his back and yelped, then scowled at him as he turned around, motioning her to be quiet. She rolled her eyes but let him pull her after him as he opened the door and crept inside.

The woman glanced furtively over her shoulder one last time, and then pulled the warehouse door shut behind her.

///

Footsteps on the brittle ground sounded unusually loud in the empty docks. A small group of soldiers marched around the corner, cloudy breath billowing out in front of them, hands gripping the handles of swords.

A dark figure followed them, his bearing erect despite the glare of the early morning frost, a thin black coat the only thing keeping off the biting chill. He held a small, newly loaded pistol in his boney white hand.

The soldiers faltered as they reached the end of the path and saw the row of looming warehouses. The tall figure ground his teeth.

"Keep looking," he ordered.

The soldiers wrinkled their foreheads in distaste, but after a glance at the man's face they kept their silence. Henry Beckett's expression was as cold and hard as the ground they walked on, and equally immovable.

///

Cutler Beckett stared at the entrance to the docks, his hands in his pockets, his feet rooted to the dirt, frozen in place by more than just the cold.

Disappearing around the corner of a long row of warehouses was his father, the group of soldiers following closely at his heels. Cutler closed his eyes, shutting out the image of the sunlight glinting off the sharpened edge of their swords, and inhaled deeply.

"Cutler," a small voice from behind him intruded on his thoughts.

"Marianne." The word was hardly out of his mouth before a small golden head buried itself against his chest. His surprise eclipsed his anxiousness as he put his arms around the girl's thin shoulders and realised she was trembling. "Whatever's the matter?"

Marianne swallowed a sob. "I'm so pleased I found you," she murmured, wiping her nose on her sleeve. "Mercer has killed a man."

Cutler's frown cut a deep gash into his smooth face. "What?" he asked, holding Marianne at arms length.

She stared at him with huge luminous eyes. "They are going to hang him. It was only an accident – he was drunk, he got in a fight – " Marianne trailed off into a series of damp breaths.

She buried her head in the curve of her arm, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. "You must help," she pleaded. "There is no one else to ask!"

Cutler was looking past her, biting his lip. "I'll think of something," he snapped.

Marianne's breath caught. "You will?" She looked up at him, her eyes like those of a young puppy.

Cutler made a dismissive gesture. "Of course, but that isn't important."

"Not important?" she asked in a small voice.

"No," Cutler replied, "I have problems of my own."

Marianne was immediately contrite. "I didn't think," she murmured. "Is it very important?"

Cutler wasn't looking at her. "Incredibly."

There was a pause and a tiny frown wrinkled Marianne's tearstained face. "More important than mine?" she asked.

Cutler absentmindedly nodded, his mind not on Marianne so he failed to see the flicker of pain cross her face. His attention was a caught by noise from across the path.

A tall, light-haired man ran into view, his features obscured by a tangled mass of hair that clung to his pale, sweat-smeared brow. His feet were a blur as they kicked up dirt and his unbuttoned waistcoat whipped out on either side of him like small, brightly coloured wings.

Following just behind him, Cutler saw his mother. Face flushed, she clasped the man's hand tightly, her other lost in the fabric of her skirts as she held them out of the way of her feet, revealing torn, muddy stockings.

Panting, they stumbled across Cutler's vision, and even from so far away he could see the couple's eyes both held the haunted desperation of those being chased.

There was a shout and Cutler turned to see his father.

"Here! They went this way!" Henry Beckett cried.

He stood at a meeting of paths, looking down one and then another with a furious expression on his face. When no one answered his call, he snarled and turned away, disgust curling his lip. Taking as little notice of Cutler as Helen had, Beckett drew his pistol and made to follow the retreating figures.

Cutler blinked at his disappearing back. "Come on," he snapped to Marianne.

Without waiting for a reply, he set off in his father's footsteps, with Marianne following instinctively at his command.

///

"Did we lose him?"

Helen's voice sounded thready in the empty warehouse. Her eyelids glittered with unshed tears in the half-darkness and her grip on Julian's arm was damp.

Before Julian could answer, the door opened and hit the wall with an echoing crash. Beckett's tall figure was framed by a nimbus of cold light as he stepped into the warehouse. While he took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the change in brightness, Julian propelled Helen into another burst of running.

"The ledge," he hissed, pointing to a ledge jutting out of one of the warehouse walls, a long ladder leading up to it.

Helen stumbled, her limbs uncooperative through tiredness and fear, but Julian pushed her forwards. He manoeuvred himself so he stood between her and her approaching husband, who'd taken his first vague step in their direction.

There was a smash and an explosion of dust as Julian pushed a sack over. He kicked the falling object at Henry, who gasped as it struck him in the stomach, the air escaping from his lungs.

Not trusting herself with a backwards glance, Helen started clambering up the ladder, her feet slipping on the disused rungs and her soft, unworked hands catching and tearing on the coarse, jagged edges.

Beckett was seized by a bout of coughing and Julian toppled another sack. In the cloud of particles that followed, Julian groped for an escape, but the dust muddled his senses. Out of the haze, he felt the indistinct presence of another person and reached out, his hand closing on a cold, bony shoulder.

As Beckett twisted towards him, Julian ducked, the pistol shot missing his head by a hair's breadth. He dropped to the ground, tumbling out of Beckett's range. The dust started to disperse and Julian was gifted the sight of Beckett's freezing eyes, glaring out of his blotchy face, the scowl etched into his skin like a carving.

Julian threw himself at the ladder, catching the corner of his shirt a jutting piece of wood and wrenching it free, ignoring the jagged cut it made in the material and scrambled upwards. A claw-like hand closed around his ankle but he kicked out and his foot met Beckett's face with a crunch. Breaking away, he scrambled up the ladder, reaching for the ledge with the desperate tips of his fingers. Blistered hands reached down and grasped his own. Julian looked up into Helen's white face before he was pulled onto the ledge.

There was no time to catch breath. Julian forced himself to his feet and looked down at the warehouse below.

"It's too far to jump," he told Helen.

Helen pulled herself to standing using the wall, and as she leant back against some zigzagging boards, they snapped. She stared out of the boarded up window she had accidentally discovered.

"There's a roof a few feet below," she gasped.

Julian started towards her, but at that moment Henry Beckett staggered onto the ledge.

"Julian Lewis – you are a dead man."

Beckett's voice held no malice; only his eyes were as black as pitch, like a window into his black soul. He was hardly standing, but his grip on the pistol was strong and it pointed directly at Julian.

Julian jerkily pulled out his own gun and readied it, but Henry's was already aimed unwaveringly at his chest.

"Helen, run!" he shouted.

Across from them, Helen ripped her gaze from one man to smash instead onto the other and then flick restlessly back again. Her expression was fluctuating and her muscles were tense as her body shook with the primal indecision of whether she should stand and fight or turn and run.

"Henry, I beg you – " Helen's voice shattered into a broken shriek. "I'll do anything!"

Henry's face contorted as her words hit home. He tightened his grip on the gun and set his lips into a grim line.

Julian's eyes snapped shut as simultaneously Beckett squeezed the trigger and Helen came to a rapid decision. Biting his tongue, Julian fired his own pistol in reflex. Raising his arm to shield his face, he took a stumbling step backwards, his knees almost giving way under the crushing inevitability of anticipated pain.

The air shuddered with the dull echo of the two shots. Then the silence was broken by a soft, unobtrusive, thump.

Julian opened a single eye, seeing but not understanding. He could make out the outline of a dark-haired head, the snatch of a blue satin dress, and then he focused on the all too familiar, shocked, green eyes.

A pain erupted in his chest, rivalling the expected agony of the bullet. He could only dither on the spot, torn between despair and disbelief, as there was another whisper of movement and Helen Beckett dropped to her knees. Somehow, without his mind registering a thought or his muscles receiving any instruction, Julian found himself bent over Helen's fallen form, cradling her in his arms.

Her clear eyes were streaked with confusion. She pressed a small hand to her front, blinking rapidly, and when she pulled her hand away the pale skin was stained red. Her confusion turned to fear, and she let out a silent scream, trying to break away to escape the sudden tidal wave of pain and terror. Julian gripped her tight, holding her against his chest, telling himself he was not seeing the blossom of blood seeping onto her dress and growing on her front, like a poison.

Helen stopped thrashing, pressing her hand to her mouth to hold back a bubbling sob. Another sob, like an echo, sounded from the other side of the ledge. Marianne Mercer had appeared from the top of the ladder, stuffing her fist into her mouth as furious tears dripped down her cheeks. Beside her, Cutler was gazing at the scene with bemused fascination.

He tore his eyes away from his mother and his attention was captured by Beckett, who teetered dangerously at the edge of the ledge, blood soaking his shirt. Julian's blind shot had pierced his shoulder, and his cold eyes were unfocused as he struggled to regain his balance.

"Cutler – " Marianne gasped, pointing at his father.

Cutler had already foreseen it. He drew a sharp breath and started towards Henry but it was too late. He stepped backwards over the edge.

Marianne let out a strangled cry and ran forwards. Cutler followed her, grabbing her arm and leaning over. Far below, Henry Beckett lay on the cold floor of the warehouse. His eyes were screwed shut, his long limbs twisted gruesomely beneath him, but his chest rose and fell with rasping breaths.

Marianne turned to Cuter her face drained of colour. "He's alive," she whispered, eyes wide.

Cutler didn't answer, he was watching a small uniformed figure, who'd just entered the warehouse, run over to the fallen man's side. He turned and hurried to the exit, calling for help.

Cutler inhaled slowly, turning back around with a supreme effort, as if he held a great burden on his young shoulders. His reluctant gaze twisted around the tiny space until it was pulled, magnetically, back to Helen. Julian was the only thing keeping her in place. He stroked her brow, breathing soothing words into her ear, letting her cling to him as her breath came in short shivering snatches. He shifted position, and Helen dug her fingers into his arms, eyes struggling to focus on his face.

Helen's tears mingled with her blood as they both fell onto Julian's skin. He winced at each drop as if they burned him. The words of comfort he wanted to say were drowned out by the flood of his own grief stricken sobs, made worse by the sure knowledge that the bullet killing Helen had not been meant for her.

Meanwhile, Cutler watched his mother dying with the detachment of a stranger. As if looking from a great distance, he saw Marianne, her lids heavy with expressive tears, and Julian, his mouth split open in desperate exclamation, but he heard nothing save the roar of his blood in his ears and the steady thump of his own heart. He absentmindedly watched the small red stream grow, as it dripped into the cracks in the ground and crawled sluggishly towards him. His mind was as blank as the grey stones that he stood on.

Then Helen's eyes, still light with a bitter echo of the life she had burned so brightly with, turned to him. A small smile tugged at the corner of her worn, bloodless lips, and his mother reached out to him, possibly for the last time, giving Cutler a peculiar tug in his soul. His reality came crashing back down.

He heard Marianne crying, felt her warm hands pulling at his arm, and tasted his own salty tears on his lips, ones he hadn't even known that he had shed. Realisation slapped him in the face, and he pulled Marianne into a tense hug, allowing himself a moment of grief. Cutler closed his eyes on his mother, leaving her where she had always wanted to be, lying in the arms of her lover.

Her lover could only grip her tighter as Helen's own hold on him slackened and her laboured breathing began to quieten. Julian's whole body trembled with alarm.

"Helen?"

He pulled her against his chest, so he could feel her heartbeat along his own. He bit his tongue until it bled, losing his hot tearstained face in her familiar hair, and holding as still as his shaking limbs would allow.

He stayed like that, feeling the two hearts beating in perfect symmetry, and then one heartbeat began to slow. He refused to move, even when he felt one heartbeat falter.

And then stop completely.

///


	17. Chapter the Seventeenth

_A/N: This is the second to last chapter of 'One for Sorrow'. I think I will miss writing this and hearing what you wonderful reviewers have to say. :( _

_To my anonymous reviewer: I'm so glad you enjoyed this! Thank you for commenting. Both Mercer and Cutler are such interesting characters to write. :)_

* * *

**Chapter the Seventeenth**

A thin candle flickered and died. The hall drained of light and a shadow of morbid silence came to rest over the room like a shroud.

The sound hardly dented the quiet as Cutler Beckett entered the room with slow, hesitant steps. He stopped in the doorway, lamps from the room behind him casting a small pool of gold on the grey carpet. He hesitated, as if reluctant to step into the darkness.

"Marianne?"

Marianne Mercer didn't even glance up. Her eyes, still raw from weeping, stared emptily at her hands.

Cutler inhaled shakily. "Father is alive, but the doctors warn us he may not last much longer."

Marianne clenched her hands in her lap, mouth tightly closed, and Cutler found himself drawn to her side. His eyes were sad as he looked at her tense, downcast face.

"Taking recent events into consideration, I have assumed temporary control of the household. I will be managing the Beckett business." He paused and the brisk, adult tone dissolved into something more hesitant. "I hoped you might stay. I have control of the house. You – and your brother – are welcome. It should not be difficult for me to get him freed with the backing of the entire Beckett fortune."

Cutler smiled briefly and very slowly Marianne raised her head.

She swallowed, staring at Cutler in exhausted disbelief. "Your father is not even dead," she whispered, "and your mother is not even buried." Her voice broke and her deep blue eyes looked at Cutler as if seeing at him for the very first time.

Cutler gazed back at her over-bright eyes with a bleak intensity. "I know my father would not have wanted the family business, which he took such pains in maintaining, to die with him."

"What about your mother?" Marianne demanded, her voice rising shrilly.

This time, Cutler wouldn't meet her eyes. "My mother would have wanted what was best for the family," he replied. "She would have wanted whatever my father told her to want. She was a dutiful wife. Her untimely death at the hands of the lunatic Julian Lewis was a tragedy."

Marianne's light eyes were as wide as plates and a small gasp escaped her lips. "How could you?" she choked.

Cutler's voice was nothing more than a whisper. "Because I have to."

A deep silence separated them, and Cutler was unable to reach Marianne across its void. Looking out from under lashes heavy with tears, Marianne watched him. He drew in a breath, as if about to speak, but the clock at the back of the hall struck the hour with long dolorous notes and he let the breath out in a long sigh.

Marianne's eyes were sad. "All I want is to go home, Cutler," she said wearily.

Cutler swallowed and with a sudden shift of position, grabbed Marianne's small pale hand.

"Do not leave me, Marianne," he murmured. "I could not bear to lose you too."

Marianne let Cutler hold her, but the soft voice that agreed to stay with him was not her own. As he leant across and clung to her in a tight embrace, she raised her eyes to stare forlornly at the closed front door. Whatever the thoughts going through her fair, young head, she kept locked safely in her heart.

///

The corridor they led him down had a low ceiling, and was lit by a row of lanterns, all coated in grime.

He stopped, a handkerchief held protectively to his upturned nose, outside the bolted door they pointed out to him. His disgusted expression briefly rearranged itself briefly into a smile as he was let into the cell.

"You're not going to rise to greet me?" Cutler Beckett asked, an ironic smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Mercer's scowl was as dark as the room he sat in. He ran his tongue over his teeth, muscles straining in his lower arm as he leant as far towards Cutler as the shackles anchoring him in place would allow.

Cutler's smile was as cold and sharp as ice. He flicked his eyes around the small, grey room.

"I don't like it here," he murmured. "These close walls and low ceiling – one feels rather trapped."

Mercer ground his teeth. "What do you want?" he barked, his shackles rattling disconcertingly as he glared at the self-satisfied look on Cutler's face.

Cutler cleared his throat to cover a laugh. He lounged back in the rough, wooden chair he'd been given. "I've come to set you free," he told him, his tone offhand.

Mercer's reply was almost immediate. "What do you want in return?"

Cutler spread his arms wide. "Only to help out an old friend," he answered with a snake-like smile. There was a heavy pause. "Perhaps one thing," he admitted.

Mercer's features were completely still as he waited. Cutler Beckett picked an invisible speck off his coat and watched it fall to the floor.

"I require nothing more than your unswerving loyalty," he replied at length, in a voice as smooth as silk. "Nothing less."

Shock registered fleetingly on Mercer's taciturn face. "How can you be sure I would not desert you the moment I was freed?"

Cutler's gaze didn't flicker. "Where would you go? I offer you employment, indefinitely. I can set you free, but I can send you back just as easily," he cautioned.

Mercer's cold gaze was cutting, but Cutler stared back with equal emphasis.

"What is your life worth?" Cutler asked, his tone soft and persuasive.

"You put a price on life?" Mercer retorted.

"I put a price on everything," Cutler replied without a pause.

Mercer let out an unpleasant chuckle, his mouth twisting into a shape that could have been a smile. "I don't think I have much choice," he murmured.

Cutler stood up, dusting his clothes down with the back of his hand.

"So we have an accord," he said carefully.

There was a split second pause, and then Mercer gave his silent assent with a single curt nod.

///

The night outside the half-closed shutters was thick, and the small, quivering candle on the windowsill was too weak to puncture it.

A silence, like that of the grave, clung heavily in the air. In the centre of the dimly lit room, Henry Beckett was lying in the bed. Jagged breaths rattled in his dry throat, but his thin chest hardly mounded the surface of the sheets.

His breath turned to mist in front of his open, staring eyes and twisted into the darkness above his head. He shivered, the tremor running from his top, where the folds of greying skin hung loosely about his face, to the tips of his white, boney toes, which were trapped beneath the pile of blankets.

Out of the blackness in one corner, a dark figure stepped forward. The candlelight fell on his indistinct face, illuminating the harsh lines of his eyes and revealing the shadow as flesh. The man's fingers twitched at the butt of a pistol, which pointed, with trembling contempt for accuracy, at the body in the bed. He advanced into the room haltingly and he stopped before he reached his destination, as if an invisible barrier separated him from Henry Beckett.

The man's eyes fixed on Beckett's sunken face, but he gripped the weapon with a sweating palm and unsteady fingers. After a long pause, he clenched his jaw, stepped forward and aimed the pistol directly at the other man's face. Beckett blinked a couple of times but his filmy eyes held no understanding. He remained still, as if already dead.

The man wielding the pistol frowned, the expression hardly noticeable amongst the lines already etched into his face, and his shoulders sagged.

The hand holding the gun wavered.

///

"I demand to see Helen Beckett."

Miss Bessie Weaving's authoritative tones slashed across the hall like a whip. She strode imperiously into Beckett's house, glared at the small blond girl who tried to stand in her way.

The girl hesitated, one hand still holding the door she had tried to close on the visitors. "I'm afraid, it is impossible," she murmured, her modestly down-turned face crumpling into a sad frown.

"I think you will find Helen will want to see us," Miss Barbara Weaving said in her soft voice, putting a warm hand on the young girl's shoulder.

The girl shook her head. "You don't understand," she replied, refusing to meet the sister's eyes. "Mrs. Beckett is dead."

Barbara snatched back her hand as if it had been stung. Bessie's jaw shot open and then smashed closed, disbelief flashing in her eyes. Very deliberately, the girl shut the front door behind them, keeping her back to the sisters so she could avoid their stricken faces.

"How did it happen?" Bessie asked woodenly.

The girl paled. "She was shot," she answered, looking visibly sick.

Miss Bessie's intense stare didn't waver. "By who?"

All but choking on the name, the young girl managed to reply, "Julian Lewis."

Both Bessie and Barbara tried to speak at the same time. The girl put her hands over he ears, tears welling in her eyes, turning away from them with flustered aimlessness.

Bessie's expression hardened. "I demand to speak with Henry Beckett."

"You can't," the girl replied with a little sob.

Bessie clicked her tongue in irritation. "Who are you?" she demanded.

"Marianne Mercer," the small voice replied. "Cutler's friend."

Bessie shut her eyes, controlling a simmering temper. Barbara stepped past her sister, handing a small white handkerchief to Marianne, who took it with wide-eyed gratitude. She buried her face in the gift, inhaling raggedly.

"Where is Cutler?" Barbara asked gently.

"Out," the girl replied.

"And where is his father?" Barbara continued, her voice softly coaxing.

"Upstairs," she answered, "but you should not – "

Bessie had already pushed past Marianne, her dress billowing out on either side of he like a sail. Barbara smiled briefly at Marianne and then hurried after Bessie, leaving her gripping the handkerchief for purchase in an unsure world. The two sisters mounted the stairs, disappearing from view in a ripple of silk and lace.

Marianne started to follow, but she heard the front door click almost soundlessly open behind her. She spun around, the handkerchief gripped tightly in her hand and pressed close at her breast.

Cutler Beckett frowned into her teary eyes. "Marianne?" he asked, one foot over the threshold into the house, the other still hesitating outside.

"I tried to stop them," she began helplessly.

She felt Cutler's sudden, sharp intake of breath. "Father?" he asked her.

Marianne nodded once and stood, wringing her hands, when he strode past her into the house.

"Mercer!" he called over his shoulder as he neared the stairs.

Marianne caught her breath and turned to her brother. She reached out to him, but he brushed past without a word, running to catch up with Cutler. Marianne could only stare, her vision soon blurred by more tears. She brushed them away distractedly, as if used to them by now.

The two boys vanished up the stairs, leaving a final clatter of purposeful feet. Marianne waited in silence, retreating into herself and hunching her shoulders. She tried to keep her mind blank but the silence screamed in the gap and Marianne sighed.

Raising her head to peer at the stillness of upstairs, she drew in a breath. Casting a furtive look over her shoulder, she took a tentative step forwards. There was another moment of complete silence, then the sound of Marianne's tumbling footsteps as she hurried up the stairs. It sounded like a series of toppling dominos.

///


	18. Chapter the Eighteenth

**Chapter the Eighteenth**

It made a gruesome tableau. In the centre of a room, an indistinct figure bent over a bed, pausing over a gaunt, wrecked body. Two women, hovering between the bed and the door, gloved hands pressed to shivering hearts, were distracted into uncharacteristic silence. One boy, appearing in the doorway, stopped to stare dumbly into the barrel of a gun.

"Julian, please – " Miss Bessie Weaving stammered, managed to be the first to break the chains of shock keeping all the players in place.

Julian's wide eyes flicked restlessly to the sisters. He stood over the bed, almost on tiptoes, his whole body shaking with each panicked breath. Avoiding Bessie's intense stare, he focused on Cutler, hardly able to keep the gun steady.

"Go away," he told them. "My quarrel is with him." He jerked the pistol in the direction of the bed.

As he spoke, Mercer appeared in the doorway at Cutler Beckett's shoulder and the pistol swung to aim at him. He and Cutler advanced into the room and Julian, trembling with indecision, let the pistol hesitate between them, before turning back to Henry Beckett.

Cutler started towards Julian but Mercer motioned him back and, palming a dagger, he sprang forward.

"No," Miss Bessie cried, grasping at the back of his shirt.

Mercer kept going, reaching Julian in a series of rapid leaps. Julian shrank back, and Mercer grabbed his arm and twisted him into a bone crushing hold. The knife went to Julian's neck, but he threw his head back to smash into Mercer's face and Mercer's grip loosened. Wriggling like an eel, Julian pulled away and pressed the gun to Beckett's temple.

"I'll shoot!" he warned, his smooth, lilting voice cracked and roughened until it most resembled a bark.

Mercer stopped a few feet away from Julian, his knife faltering between them.

"Mercer," Cutler called, a note of warning in his tone.

Mercer ground his teeth, refusing to back away. Through the open door behind him, Marianne appeared. She gasped and plastered her hands across her frightened mouth. No one so much as looked at her.

"Julian, do not do this!" Bessie called.

"He murdered Helen," Julian snapped, the gun pressed to Henry's pale forehead.

Bessie shook her head sadly. "This will do her no good," she declared. "Helen is dead."

Julian's features contorted with sudden pain. He stared down on Beckett, gritting his teeth on the violent emotions forming a lump in his throat.

"It is not what Helen would have wanted," Barbara agreed, her good-natured face sharp with a new urgency. "It will make you as bad as Beckett."

Julian's reply came out as a hiss, "I no longer care."

"You're many things, Julian Lewis," Bessie countered, her voice dropping in a last murmured defiance, "but you are not a murderer."

Julian's face became a mask of furious concentration, and he gripped the pistol with such unexpected anger that it dug into his palm. Marianne recoiled from the sight, screwing her eyes tightly shut. Cutler opened his mouth to speak, and Miss Bessie drew herself up to interrupt him, but both were cut off by the explosion of the pistol firing.

Each person in the room tensed, as if expecting to feel the hot fury of the bullet, and Miss Bessie was shocked into a stumbled backwards step. The sound of the shot seemed to take forever to finish reverberating off the four astonished walls and thick, grey tongues of smoke lingered in the air around their heads.

When the haze cleared, a clogging silence took its place. Five pairs of eyes blinked in faces frozen by shock and five tongues fell, silenced by fright. The room raised its gaze to the whitewashed ceiling, where, just above the bed, the pistol shot had been embedded. The pistol itself had vanished.

Then the window shutter creaked and slammed closed with a sudden snap. There was one final flash of a torn and dirty, but still brightly coloured jacket, before it disappeared into the pre-dawn darkness.

///

Rhythmic tapping and the sound of silent sobbing were loud in the oppressive Drawing Room. His back to the other people in the small space, Cutler Becket stoically glared out of the window, agitated fingers drumming out their frustration on the sill.

Miss Bessie Weaving watched him unrelentingly, hardly noticing Marianne weeping quietly into Miss Barbara's handkerchief at her side. Miss Barbara had a comforting arm around the young girl's shoulders, but Marianne was too far fallen in her own selfish grief to pay her heed.

There was a discordant creak as the door opened, and the Weaving sisters raised simultaneous, anxious faces. Cutler Beckett spun around a moment later but froze as Mercer, his face like the sky during a storm, stepped inside and gave the tiniest shake of his head.

"You let him escape?" Cutler demanded, the question a chill sliver of sound.

"Julian Lewis evaded my capture," Mercer replied through gritted teeth. "I apologise." The words were thrown down at Cutler's feet; Mercer refused to look at him.

"Your apology is neither relevant or useful." Cutler waved a hand in dismissal. "Keep looking."

Mercer hesitated as if to answer back. He looked down into his employer's pale eyes and their gazes locked and held. Mercer glanced away first and, without a word, he swept out of the room.

Marianne watched it all from behind the safety of her handkerchief.

"Cutler?" she asked quietly.

Cutler had turned back to the window and Marianne could only appeal to his uncaring back.

"Can I go home?"

Cutler remained still, not bothering to look across at Marianne.

"No, I want you with me," he told her eventually.

Her small body convulsed at his answer. She let out a wretched sob, one trembling hand shooting to her mouth, the other pressing to her stomach as she bent at the waist, hot, unstoppable tears overflowing down her cheeks and falling to the floor.

Miss Barbara flung her arm around the girl's shaking shoulders, all but holding the girl up. Miss Bessie finally seemed to notice Marianne and clenched her gloved fists at her sides.

"Marianne is not ready to face events like these," she clipped. "Let her go home!"

Cutler twitched in irritation but didn't turn around. "There are many unpleasant things in life that we must face, even if we do not want to," he replied.

Bessie drew her lips into an indignant line. "But this is not Marianne's problem to confront," she snapped. "She should not be forced to witness events that she is not equip to deal with!"

Cutler twisted around, his temper just visible under a layer of sharp glacial control.

Before he could speak, Bessie hurried on. "It is cruel and selfish to do this to someone, especially one you profess to love."

Cutler faltered and Bessie drew herself up, seizing the pause in order to continue. "In fact," she declared, "you are acting precisely like your father."

Cutler's mouth closed with an audible crack. Miss Bessie's smile of triumph wavered as his face drained so completely of colour it looked like he might faint. Miss Barbara took half a step towards him, her plump cheeks drawn in with worry. During the minutes that followed, even Marianne was silent, looking curiously at Cutler through tear-drenched lashes.

Cutler stood very still, holding himself with brittle caution. He turned carefully to look into Marianne's molten eyes.

"You wish to leave me?" he asked quietly.

Marianne snatched a shivering breath. "I just want to go home," she answered.

Miss Barbara tightened her hold on Marianne's shoulders. "And you will," she promised. "We shall take you."

Cutler looked from one sister to the other, but his expression seemed to have faded and they found his white face impossible to read.

"Very well," he breathed.

Marianne's face lit up and she took a step towards Cutler, her heart shining in her liquid blue eyes.

"No," Cutler muttered, shying away from her touch.

Marianne drew her hand back with a tiny gasp, and Cutler turned his back on her.

"Please, leave," he asked. "Quickly."

Barbara took Marianne by the elbow and steered her towards the door. Once more tears were sparkling in Marianne's eyes, but she no longer seemed aware of them. Twisting out of Barbara's arms, she ran to Cutler's side.

"Goodbye," she whispered.

When he turned in surprise at her unexpected appearance, she touched her lips to his cheek in a last sweet kiss. He jumped at the contact but by the time he had tried to reach out to her, Marianne was gone.

Miss Bessie waited, holding the door Marianne had disappeared through. Her direct stare trained on Cutler.

"You have a lot of your mother in you," she observed softly.

Cutler's eyebrows drew together with a snap. "I do not want to be like my mother," he replied.

"If you turn away from her influence, all you have left is your father," Bessie reminded him, her voice bland.

Cutler shook his head in vehement denial. "You're wrong," he said.

Bessie searched his face, and her expression became troubled. "Perhaps," she murmured, her voice strangely soft. "You know where to find us, if you ever need any help," she offered.

"I want no one's help," Cutler snapped.

Bessie's expression was weary. "I tried," she said, almost to herself.

Then she spun on her heel and marched out of the room without a backwards glance. Cutler stayed rooted to the spot, hardly hearing the door slam closed with all the finality of a lid coming down on a coffin.

_///_

His breath was a grey mist in front of his face. Clenching long, thin fingers, he dug his claw-like nails into the thick blankets as he was seized by a paralysing bout of coughing. The walls looked dully onwards as he collapsed into a wheezing silence, the tips of his skeletal fingers trembling.

The room was in darkness, shutters smothering the first tentative rays of morning sunlight. Heavy, crushing silence was laying across his thin chest, making it difficult to breath. He opened his dry mouth to cry out but the words withered on his tongue.

He coughed once again, arching his bony back and dragging in a final ragged breath. When he fell back onto the hot, tangled covers, Henry Beckett was dead.

Outside the open window, a warm amber glow was playing at the top of the rooftops. A bird song trembled in the early morning air, welcoming the start of a new day.

///


	19. Epilogue

**Epilogue **

A small, carefully carved profile of an angel, her delicate face turned upwards and her tiny hands folded in prayer, could just be seen in the dimming light. The name on the grave stone she graced was lost in shadow, but the bright yellow roses laid on the freshly dug soil at its base made the approaching darkness a little less daunting.

A figure knelt by the grave, his back purposely turned to the one next to it, where a matching stone jutted out of the dirt. The figure bowed his head, his expression hidden under a protective circle of light curly hair. He cleared his throat, looking at the grave with vision blurred by tears. Wiping his eyes on the back of his wrist, he sighed and a small smile crept shyly across his face.

He reached into a top pocket and dew out a gold necklace. Laying it across his palm, he presented it to the stone, the smile becoming a grin.

"I took it from Beckett's house when I was rescuing you," the man confided. "It was unbearable to see it broken so I thought I would take it and fix it." He hesitated. "It was going to be a surprise."

Bending down, he dug at the loose soil with one hand and gently placed the necklace in the small hole he had made. With a last lingering look at the precious golden gift, he pushed the dirt back over it and patted the spot. "There. I hope you like it as much now as you did once before," he murmured.

Stiffly, the man got to his feet, looking down on her grave with a fond expression on his face, unaware the look in his eyes was almost identical to the one he used to have when he, half asleep himself, had watched her drift slowly to sleep after lovemaking.

With a visible effort, he tore his eyes away from the gravestone, shouldering a travel bag. He looked towards the sea, but then his eyes were drawn helplessly back to the grave.

"Don't forget me," he whispered. "I know I will never forget you."

Dragging unresponsive feet, he turned around and, with a last sigh, walked away from the grave. When he reached the gate, he stopped and looked back but the scene had been swallowed up by the gathering dark. Bowing his head, he continued walking and after a moment he had also disappeared into the night. The graveyard fell into stillness and silence, as if the man had never been there at all.

///

Opening the door without a sound, Mercer entered the study, his footfalls as soft as any predators. He coughed politely and the boy behind the desk jerked his head up with a start.

"Apologies for interrupting," Mercer began, his voice flat.

Cutler Beckett waved an imperious, dismissive hand, his eyes returning to the papers swimming in front of him. Mercer paused, waiting for Cutler to speak, but finally he nodded to the pile of sheets strew across the desk instead.

"Remembering?" he asked, his eyes lingering on a small crumpled portrait of a woman.

Cutler raised his eyes briefly. "I was clearing up," he replied, his voice mild.

With a flick of his hand, he pushed the old portrait of his mother onto the floor, where it fell face down amongst the other rubbish.

"Was there something you wanted?" Cutler asked, shuffling the papers on the desk in front of him.

Mercer inclined his head. "The East India Trading Company sent a message asking you to meet their man in Europe as soon as possible."

Cutler nodded. "Good. Has anyone taken up my offer on the house?"

"Not yet," Mercer answered quickly, but then he pursed his lips and queried after a pause, "You still intend to sell the house?"

"Of course." Cutler didn't look up from the desk but deep creases appeared in the document he was holding as his grip tightened.

"I thought - " Mercer began.

"You thought what?" Cutler demanded, cutting him off.

Mercer's face remained still. "Nothing."

Cutler stared distractedly at the papers he was sorting. "There is nothing for me here," he continued, deliberately separating the papers into precise piles, straightening them with an obsessive eye to detail.

Mercer's voice was carefully indifferent. "Except memories."

"There is nothing here worth remembering," Cutler replied coldly, his eyes drifting to the portrait amongst the crumpled papers and then swiftly back to the desk. "Nothing that has not already been forgotten."

He reached down and scooped up the papers from the floor. "Take these and have them burnt," he ordered as he dropped them into Mercer's arms.

The papers rustling in his hold, Mercer bowed and turned to leave the room. It wasn't until he reached the door that he glanced down at the little pile and winced at what he found on the top: Helen Beckett, regarding him with her tired, accusing, green eyes.

Behind him, Cutler Beckett sat back down at his father's desk, picking up an accounts book at random. The small oil lamp on the table beside him was burning sluggishly, shining a grudging light on the boy's young face. When the door clicked closed on Mercer, Cutler let the carefully neutral expression fall off his face. In the sparse light, he looked exhausted.

///

A vein of lightening darted across the sky, bathing the graveyard in piercing white light. Clumps of black clouds were rolling in off the ocean, borne inland on a furious wind, and large, cold drops of rain began to fall out of the darkening sky.

Thunder rumble ominously in the distance, followed by another jagged slice of lightening. As the sharp brightness lit the scene for a moment, the upturned face of a delicate carved angel on a gravestone was thrown into sudden relief.

A raindrop had fallen on her small face and was sliding slowly down her perfectly formed cheek. The lightening was caught in the droplet for a moment, vivid against the cold, grey stone.

Then the moment was gone and the graveyard was dark again. The raindrop fell unseen to the ground - a last, forgotten tear.

**End.**

///

_A/N: There we go. I do hope you liked it. I'll miss writing this story and hearing what you all have to say. You've been the best bunch of readers any writer could wish for!_

_I also can't thank the indispensable Nytd enough for beta'ing this whole story. I don't know what I would do without her help. She deserves a virtual bouquet of flowers for never letting me down and probably needs a bit of a holiday. :D_

_Thank you again, readers. __The pleasure has been all mine. _

_~Damsel _

_:)_


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Pirates of the Caribbean, Angst, Romance