Winning the War Hero's Heart. Mary Nichols

those with an axe to grind, so he started the Record. That was eight years ago.’

      ‘I meant how long have you been doing it?’

      ‘I used to love helping my father as a child and learned the business along with my growing up, especially after we moved here. When he died last year, he left the business to me.’ She did not add that it was all he had to leave. His many clashes with authority had left him almost penniless. No one was interested in buying the business as a going concern; the only offer she had ever had was for the machinery. She was not told who the prospective buyer was, but suspected it was someone who had no interest in running the Record, but rather wished to shut it down. Far from discouraging her, it had given her the impetus to keep going, especially as Tom and Edgar were both behind her.

      ‘Why did your father choose to leave London and come to Warburton?’ he asked. ‘Norfolk is hardly the hub of government.’

      ‘It was my mother’s birthplace; as she was mortally ill, she wanted to die here where she had spent her childhood and where her parents had lived and died.’

      ‘I am sorry for your loss,’ he said softly.

      ‘Thank you, my—’ She stopped and corrected herself. ‘Thank you, sir.’

      He bent over and whispered in her ear, so close his warm breath was having a strange effect on her limbs. ‘That’s better than “my lord”, but it’s still not the address I asked for.’

      She pulled herself together. ‘Oh, I cannot use that. It wouldn’t be proper.’

      ‘Is it also improper for me to address you as Helen?’

      ‘You know it is, but no doubt you will continue to do as you please.’

      ‘But I like the name. It rolls off the tongue so readily.’

      ‘Now you are bamming me.’

      ‘No. That would be ungentlemanly.’

      ‘Ah, but at the moment you are not dressed as a gentleman. Why the disguise?’

      ‘Do you think I would learn anything in my usual garb? I would be hounded off the common. At least this way I can be an ordinary soldier back from the war, which I am.’ He looked about him. ‘I see a goodly number of those here, including Roger Blakestone. He was in my regiment, a troublemaker even then.’

      ‘No one has said he is a troublemaker. He is out of work, as they all are. The farmers have stood the men off because the crops, if they ever grew at all, have been ruined by the weather; there’s no work for the soldiers, either. There ought to be something they could do that is not reliant on the weather.’

      ‘And how will listening to a man like Jason Hardacre help that?’ he queried. ‘He is for insurrection, which will surely make matters worse.’

      ‘Oh, I do not think the people will be swayed by him. They simply want to make their voices heard and have a day out that doesn’t cost them anything but a copper or two for a pie and a glass of cordial.’

      The behaviour of the crowd seemed to bear that out.

      Many of them were in family groups, having a picnic. ‘I never thought of sustenance,’ he said. ‘And I’m suddenly devilish hungry. Would you like something to eat, Miss … Oh, dear, it will have to be Helen, after all.’

      ‘No, thank you.’

      ‘I intend to have something. There’s a woman over there selling hot pies. I think I will try one of those.’

      He left her and she thought that was the last she would see of him; suddenly she felt rather alone, even with the noisy crowds pushing and shoving and threatening to topple her over. She made her way to the edge of the throng where she could breathe freely. Five minutes later he was beside her again. ‘I thought I’d lost you,’ he said, handing her a paper packet in which reposed a succulent meat pie.

      ‘But I said no thank you,’ she said. ‘Do you never listen?’

      ‘Oh, I heard you, but I did not believe you. We have been standing about an age and I was ready to wager you would eat it if it were put before you.’

      She considered refusing, but the pie did smell rather savoury. ‘I hate to waste it,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’ She took a bite and realised she was indeed rather hungry.

      They stood together, enjoying their pies and not speaking, until a flourish of a bugle heralded the arrival of Jason Hardacre. A cheer went up as he mounted the cart with Mr Blakestone. But even before the latter opened his mouth to introduce the speaker, a troop of militia rode onto the common at a fast trot, right into the middle of the crowd, who attempted to scatter in terror, but they were so close-packed it was almost impossible to escape. There were shouts and screams as people were knocked over by the horses or hit by the blunt edge of a sword or the sharp point of a spur. Even if they had wanted to depart, which most of them did, they could not get away. In turning from one horseman, they were confronted by another.

      Miles was swift to act. He guided Helen into the shelter of an elder bush, then ran into the middle of the mêlée. Picking up two small children who were in danger of being trampled and tucking one under each arm, he pushed his way towards the lieutenant of the troop. ‘Call your men off,’ he commanded. ‘Someone will be killed. This was a peaceful gathering until you arrived.’

      ‘It is a seditious meeting,’ the lieutenant said. ‘In tended to encourage rebellion against the law of the land. I am empowered to put it down by whatever means I think fit.’

      ‘By whose order?’

      ‘His lordship, the Earl of Warburton, sitting as a magistrate.’

      ‘And I am ordering you to call off your men before someone is killed.’

      ‘And who are you to be giving orders?’

      He had obviously not been recognised in his lowly clothes. It made him smile. ‘My name is Captain Miles Cavenham of his Majesty’s Dragoon Guards. As your superior officer, I order you to call off your men and ride slowly from the field.’ His manner of delivering the order left no doubt he was used to command, even if he did choose to dress like every other man there.

      The lieutenant obeyed reluctantly, but it was some time before order was restored and the people had the common to themselves again. Roger Blakestone and Jason Hardacre had disappeared as soon as the soldiers appeared. Miles returned the children to their weeping mother and set about assessing the casualties. He was joined by Helen.

      There were a few broken bones, some blood and many bruises, but mercifully no one had been killed. Helen put that down to the Viscount’s timely intervention. He had undoubtedly also saved her, for there had been a horseman bearing down on them when he pushed her into the shelter of the bush.

      ‘This is what happens when people hold unlawful meetings,’ he said.

      ‘This is what happens when men like the Earl order mounted soldiers against innocent women and children,’ she retorted.

      He knew she was right and did not respond. Instead he said, ‘We need medical assistance. Will the doctor come?’

      ‘I’ll fetch him.’

      ‘No, send a boy. He’ll be quicker. I need you to help me with the casualties. We must separate those who can go home and look to their own wounds from those who need medical attention. And we need pads and bandages. You do not faint at the sight of blood, I hope.’

      ‘No, I am not squeamish.’

      Looking about her for someone to send, she noticed a skinny fellow in rags watching them intently. It was difficult to tell how old he was—he had a childlike look about him, though he must have been in his thirties. He was grinning and dancing from one foot to the other, his eyes bright with excitement.

      ‘Poor idiot,’ Miles said, as he suddenly darted away. ‘I hope someone is looking after him.’

      Helen