ENCOUNTER
by JoLayne
[email protected]
Beta'd by MnD! You're the best.
Manzana Core - Dr. Helm, the Apple of Our Eye
Jo's Obsessions - HL QoS WW XF Hitchcock
RATING: Not sure, probably PG-13 or maybe R for violence and a little lust
CATEGORY: Helm/Marta
SUMMARY: Marta gets injured, Helm tends to her wounds, a snippet of his past is revealed.
DISCLAIMER: The characters in this piece belong to Paramount and Fireworks Productions. Helm's past and the events portrayed here are all from my weird imagination.
**1817**
Santa Helena was bustling that morning as another shipment of fresh supplies had arrived and residents were grabbing items before the bushels and boxes could be set out for display. Even though it was still morning, the sun was vibrant and hot. A steady breeze hadn't brought relief from the stagnant, humid air that had settled, but instead brought on a slight dust storm.
One of Tessa's farmhands, Eladio, had driven the wagon into town for supplies and Marta came alone with him. Senorita Alvarado would have normally come, but there was a ranch that had been having trouble with rustlers and The Queen of Swords decided to stop it. Not even the lure of supplies could sway her determination, to try to talk her into waiting another day. Marta knew that what Tessa had to do was for the best. She had helped her into the Queen's attire, watched her ride off on Chico hoping for her safe return. Marta was thrilled that Tessa was making the difference that she was. The fifteen years they spent together started as governess-ward, then became mother-daughter after Senora Alvarado's death. That maternal feeling was still there, but Marta had also become Tessa's closest confidant. Marta was so proud of her but couldn't help but worry everytime she left the casa dressed in black. The prospect that Tessa wouldn't return from an escapade as The Queen made her pace with worry so Marta was glad she had something else do to that morning.
As Eladio was talking with the blacksmith, Marta were engaged in a friendly tug of war over a piece of rose colored silk rolled around a wooden peg. The opposing servant, Rosa, had swooned from the feel of it when she had lifted the corner fold of the fabric to her cheek. "This is the most beautiful fabric I've ever felt. Senora will have to have it."
Marta smiled. It was magnificent silk. Rosa was a servant of Don Fernandez and was one of the first friends she had made in Santa Helena since her and Tessa's return to California. "Come now, Rosa," Marta softly said in a tone that seemed like a concession, but kept a firm grip on her end of the rolled, perfectly dyed cloth, "there is enough fabric for many fine dresses on this bolt. We can share."
Rosa smiled in agreement and the women hid the fine cloth from others who would demand a portion as well. As soon as Marta had caught sight of the silk, she had envisioned the exact style of dress that she would make for Tessa. The fine white lace they found behind the wine cellar would make a perfect accent around the neckline. With the amount of cloth to use, Senorita Alvarado would be able to have an full skirt that will perfectly accentuate her thin waist. Not that Tessa cared about such things, but the public face of Senorita Alvarado did. They had to keep up appearances.
Marta gave Rose coins to purchase half the bolt, completely trusting that she would receive her share in exchange and continued to scan the newly arrived merchandise. In the basket she held in her arms, Marta deposited a small bag of rice, some nuts and a few oranges. She spotted some chocolates, but they were awfully expensive. Tessa wasn't there to decide where her own money went so Marta walked past them even though they were a luxury neither had been able to enjoy since their days in Spain.
Across the square, Marta noticed Dr. Robert Helm escorting Senora Vera Hidalgo out of his office. His hand was gently placed upon her arm as a gentlemanly gesture, but Marta didn't know how to interpret it. He was dressed in dark grey dress pants and a white shirt that to Marta's eye needed pressing, with his sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Senora Hidalgo was wearing a frilly dress without one misplaced hair on her head. By taking a closer look at them across the square, Marta discovered that Vera actually had a diamond pin clasped to hold her curls up when it sparkled in the sunshine.
Vera turned to thank the doctor and exchange pleasantries as she daintily fanned herself with a lace fan, even though the wind was strong enough to tousle the Doctor's hair. Marta was so focused on his hair that she hadn't noticed him softly patting Vera's hand as he gently removed it from his arm. Marta's hand instinctively went to her own long naturally curly hair that was confined behind her head with only a thin strip of tied leather. Marta inspected a lock of her hair and thought it felt gritty, mostly from the dusty air and felt the need to wash it as soon as she returned home.
Marta continued to walk through the merchandise, around people skimming through boxes and baskets and barrels, as she kept her gaze on the doctor and the young, rich Senora with whom he was talking. Marta knew she shouldn't compare herself to wealthy women, but at that instant, she couldn't help it. The image of the two of them together, so casually in conversation made Marta feel...
Envy was the correct emotion and Marta's mind went in a spiral when she grasped it. That couldn't be true! Robert Helm was a doctor, an ex-soldier, definitely from a higher class than herself. Still, she couldn't help but feel jealous of a simple, platonic hand on the arm of the woman who treated her marriage vows as a suggestion, not as law.
Marta kept on slowly walking as she watched Vera elegantly bow and thank Dr. Helm. For what Marta didn't know, but he could have prescribed her a headache remedy. The roots Marta had given Vera's maid obviously hadn't helped or she hadn't given them a chance or Vera just wanted to widen her horizons. That thought made Marta feel jealous again and hated that she so immediately felt that way about a man who had always been polite in group situations, had fixed her hand wound that she self inflicted to save Tessa from being found out just a few weeks before, but that was about it. He couldn't possibly be interested in her, a servant. A Gypsy. She shouldn't have such thoughts. There wasn't any way she could walk up to him to have a conversation, but that didn't make Marta from stop wishing it could happen.
Vera's flirtatious laugh echoed through the air which made Marta's thought process turn from envy to rejection of the situation. To each their own. Marta grabbed two long candles and placed them in the basket and went to purchase the goods she'd collected. She glanced over to Helm's office door once again to see him bid a good day to Senora Hidalgo. Even though it was directed at another woman, his easy smile and slight bow of gentlemanly charm captivated her.
With great force, and extreme embarrassment, Marta suddenly tumbled head over heels as she tripped over a water bucket on the ground. She lost her hold on the backet, oranges and nuts flew. The candles rolled under the board walk. The water in the bucket somehow ended up splashing on the skirt of her dress. She flipped her hair back behind her head making dust and dirt flutter in the breeze around her. She sat in wonderment of what the hell just happened. A man appeared in front of her face and he roughly said, "Senora, my horse was going to drink that water."
He held his hand out to help her to her feet. Marta cautiously accepted it but the hand hold was broken by the sudden appearance of Dr. Helm. "She may have broken a bone," he quickly said to the man, stopping him from lifting her. He softly spoke to her, "Let me check you before you move."
Marta groused, "The only thing I have suffered, Dr. Helm, was a blow to my dignity." She saw that she had suddenly become the focus of almost everybody's attention even though they only stopped for a moment to watch the event, then went back to grabbing supplies or going about their business. She also caught the sight of two girls with their hands over their mouths as they giggled at her performance.
"You didn't see that coming, eh," Helm asked the Gypsy woman, having a hard time controlling his own wave of laughter from seeing such a sight, but quickly choked it down. Marta caught the jab and saw his suppressed grin, so she was about to hike herself off the ground. That's when Helm's medical instincts kicked in and he settled her back down. His hands moved from Marta's hip to her ankle, then down the other leg, up her back. His quick but careful examination verified that her left knee was injured from the blood stain on the skirt of her dress. When he checked her arms only her right wrist was scraped. No broken bones. He tenderly felt her neck, then clasped his fingertips lightly on her cheeks as he asked her to move her head slowly from side to side.
As she did, she shut her eyes. Her mouth felt tight from embarrassment and from the growing sensation of what his touch had done to her body. She was finding it hard to breathe. "I am fine," she finally said, looking into his concerned dark green eyes. Those eyes that seemed to peer down into her very soul, and may have discovered her untoward thoughts.
"You have some cuts," he said. "Let me bring you to my office and clean them." He repositioned his legs underneath him, knelt beside her, arms under hers, to gently lift her to her feet.
Marta was a dead weight. She needed fanning and quickly or she could lose consciousness at the sudden man handling she had so unexpectantly received from the mysterious, charismatic doctor. The horse head-butted Marta as she made it to her feet and Helm gallantly brushed the horse's head away and said with a giggle, "He likes you."
Marta blurted out as she brushed off the wet spot on her dress, "Even though I am wearing his water?"
The horse's owner asked, "Are you all right, Senora?"
"I am fine," Marta blushed, not at all used to all the attention, and because Dr. Helm's hand was suddenly placed on the small of her back.
"To my office...," Dr. Helm wouldn't let her argue. They were half way across the street before she even knew her legs were working.
Vera had been hovering right after the fall, snapped to attention as soon as Marta stood on her own two feet. She ordered her servant to pick up Marta's items and put them in the Alvarado wagon. Rosa also came forward to see if her friend was all right, and to assure her that the cloth would be delivered to Senorita Alvarado later that afternoon.
Since Dr. Helm had a steady hand on Marta, Vera clasped onto her other arm and stated the obvious, "Marta, that was quite a fall."
"I am fine, Senora Hidalgo."
"Where is Maria Theresa? You are alone in town?"
"She felt ill this morning," Marta lied to cover the real reason why she hadn't made an appearance.
Helm suggested, "Maybe I should pay her a house call?"
"No, Doctor," Marta quickly said. "It's just the heat, and... well... Tessa is fragile."
Vera nodded in agreement. "Dr. Helm gave me some pills to take for the headaches. I haven't had the chance to try the remedies you gave my maid, Marta, but I need all the help I can get." She smiled at Dr. Helm.
Vera hastily switched the subject, "Will you be able to finish my lilac dress before the fiesta next week?"
Dr. Helm squinted from the seemingly crass selfishness the Senora laid upon the injured woman. He knew Vera hadn't been born into money, but she had sure taken on the aristocratic personality he found dreadful. Marta, who wanted no part of sympathy, was glad for the change of topic, "Of course. You should come again for a final fitting."
"I will tomorrow morning," Vera beamed with complete satisfaction. "You take good care of her, Dr. Helm."
"That's what I do," he replied, then opened the door for Marta to enter his domain. After getting Marta comfortably seated on a chair in his office, Helm brought out bandages, towels and a wash basin filled with warm water to tend to her bruises. He pushed his swivel stool in front of her chair and joked, "I've heard of kicking the bucket, but you gave that old expression a whole new meaning." He smiled with great flair, to put her in a better mood.
It worked for an instant, but she cringed from what that display must have looked like and flinched when the wet cloth touched her scraped right palm. "Sorry," Dr. Helm instantly said. "I should have warned you."
He started on the outer edges of the wound to clean off the blood, then tenderly dabbed at her broken skin with a fresh part of the cloth dampened by the warm water. He said, "I suppose you have all sorts of potions or roots or berries or something, but I can get it cleaned out for you." Marta would rather use her aloe, but let the doctor do whatever he wanted. She noticed his hand clutching a wet piece of cotton above her wrist. When she looked up at him, he regretfully said, "This will hurt."
She prepared herself for the reaction and hissed from the rough cloth scraping against her wound even though he did it as carefully as he could. He immediately held her wounded hand close to his mouth as he blew on it to ease the pain, and it helped. With their hands entwined, Marta got a snippet of a vision. Dr. Helm was in a very nice dark suit. He was running down the grand stairs of a large house. An upper class house. A house that was different from the grand palaces that she had seen in Spain. It was well decorated with gold accents and fine art on the walls. Dark wood paneling. Thick carpeting. He was yelling at the top of his lungs but she couldn't tell what it was. His yell echoed and reverberated through the halls which may have just been a grunt. He ran with a knife in his hand, a knife that had blood on it.
Remembering the last time he treated her hand and what she had said to him, Helm saw her eyes glaze over, but still stared at him, just as she had done before. He set her hand on her lap. "Don't do that," he gently warned. He was irritated as well as distraught at her invasion but was also trying to maintain a composure that wouldn't signal to her that she was searching for a truth that he had tried to put behind him.
"This is the second time you have tended to my wounds."
"Yes," he smiled, tried to be light but wondered what she just saw. "One more visit of yours and I can afford the rent on bigger office space."
"Senorita Alvarado will of course pay the bill."
"I was joking."
"Payment is not a joking matter."
"No payment is necessary. A little bit of water and a little bandaging is all it takes."
"But your time..."
"There's no charge, Marta," he emphatically stated as he bandaged her wrist.
"When I fell over that bucket," she started to admit without thinking that she didn't see it because her eyes were focused on him, and luckily didn't finish the sentence.
Helm finished it for her, "You weren't looking where you were going?" He tied a loose knot and looked up at her from his hunched over position, "It would be best if you think about where you place your feet."
Proud of his bandaging of her hand, he sat up straight. He knew there weren't any more wounds on her upper body, but he knew there was a knee that needed his attention. It would be too forward to just hike up her dress. "May I?" he asked, pointing at her left leg.
Marta had been reflecting on what house he might have been in, why he was running and yelling, and what he was yelling in the vision. Just how interesting his face was when it was just a half a foot from hers, how tender his touch was, how green his eyes were, how wonderfully sculpted his neck was, how she wanted to run her hand through his still windswept hair, how interesting his English accent was. She finally asked, "Hm?" when she realized that he had said something but she missed it.
He repeated, "May I take a look at your knee?" He showed her the transferred blood on the skirt of her dress.
"Yes, of course," she said, still in a trance of trying to make sense of what she had visioned in a flash and what she saw right there in front of her. She hadn't even realized that he had lifted the skirt of her dress and had positioned the gathered material on her lap. Only the sudden air on her legs pointed it out. She modestly lowered her dress again. He was surprised by her movement as he was just going to wipe the scrape clean with a freshly dampened cloth.
"Working through fabric makes it harder but..." he smiled once again. His smile brightened not only his face, her mood, but the entire room.
Marta just couldn't figure out how that gentle man could have been so angry in the mysterious house. She had to know. She took the cloth out of his hand and set it on the desk at her side. Dr. Helm was confused, and a little bit trepidatious, when she again took his hand. Even more so when she wrapped her fingers between his, sandwiching his between hers. She closed her eyes and softly moaned, "So much pain."
"Yes," he hesitantly replied. "I'm sure your knee hurts. Let me take a look at it."
Even though he half heartedly tried to take his hand back, she kept a firm grip on it as more of the vision flowed through her mind. It was so unlike the doctor they all knew, she couldn't be sure she was seeing things correctly. Then a thought came to her and she verbalized it, "Betrayal... There was no one after you...," she said, still trying to make out a clear vision. "You weren't after anyone... Why run in such a tranquil house?"
"Pardon me?" He felt electrified by the gypsy's touch, the power in her hands, even though one was bandaged. She couldn't possibly know what he was or what he had done, but she was obviously seeing something.
"That was your house," Marta cautiously said. Then she changed her mind. "No, it wasn't your house. It was the house you grew up in. In England. Or a house you played in when you were a child. But you're a grown man, like you are now. And you ran."
Dr. Helm couldn't even guess that she was so close to the truth. He could only regard her as a seer who was tossing out a few theories. If you threw out enough, one had to be true. He jerked his hand away from her and quickly stated, "The more time that passes with air hitting your wound, the more its going to hurt to heal it. Lift your skirt!"
His abruptness startled her, but she did as he asked so he could clean off her bloody knee that she had to admit hurt like Diablo himself had left his mark on her. When she unbent her knee for him to be able to see it, she cried out from the unexpected sear of pain. Dr. Helm wasn't concerned with how it might look, he just wanted to be able to see her knee more clearly without having to hunch over. He wanted it closer to his face and in the light that shone from an oil lamp on his desk. He lifted her leg up onto his lap and Marta quickly punched folds of her skirt between her legs. He hadn't noticed her modesty or if he did, he hadn't reacted. His sole attention was on the dirt in the wound. He leaned over her knee to reach the cloth on the desk and quickly rewet it and wrung it out.
Marta hoped that no one would walk in while she was in that position, legs apart in the company of a single man. It was purely professional, of course. But Marta couldn't help but feel almost brazen. Her right knee brushed against Dr. Helm's hip and she saw him tilt his head down and off to the side, but didn't say anything or move her away.
Dr. Helm wanted to hurriedly do a thorough job of getting her wound clean and bandaged so he could get Marta out of his office. Not that he didn't want anything more to do with her. In fact, when her knee brushed his hip, he reacted in more ways than just turning his head, and it was purely physical. The problem was that she might have seen something he had taken great pains to hide. The reason he changed his name. The reason he left England. The reason he would never return to his homeland. He leaned over her knee again to rewet the cloth and only then did he realize her hand was on his upper arm. He looked into her eyes and saw that she hadn't done so because of want or lust. It was because she was curious. He brushed her hand off his white shirt sleeve. "You'll have to stop that," he warned, a little too forcefully.
"He is dead," Marta weakly revealed. "Your father is dead."
Dr. Helm bolted up from the stool with his eyes flared. The loss of the stability of his lap made her injured knee bang into the side of the desk. She leaned over and moaned from the pain of the jostlement of the half cleaned wound. The doctor in him suddenly kicked back in and he apologized for causing her pain. "Just... let me tend to you and that's it. Right?"
"Yes, Doctor," she agreed. "I was only trying to help you."
"Funny," he smirked. "So was I."
Marta realized his breathing was stronger, as if he was suddenly having a panic attack. "I'm sorry. I was being forward."
"Yes, you were."
"It is not my business."
"No. It is not," he firmly stated.
Instead of once again dealing with the stool, the chair, her leg on his, touching her, worse yet for his sanity her touching him.... he motioned to the examination table and asked her to lay on it. She nodded and tried to get upon it, but she was too short. He quickly swept her into his arms and set her on the table, then moved back.
Marta was embarrassed laying on the table exposed to him as he glared at her. She hadn't wanted to cause him distress when he was only doing his job. She wanted to leave. She sat up to do just that, but it was his turn to put his hand on her. On her shoulder, which he gently nudged back down. He collected his thoughts and then slid up the skirt of her dress. He smiled when she clasped her hands together and placed them on her gut, then lower to make sure her dress wouldn't slip up to reveal more than her lower legs. But he could see her legs. Except for the nasty, dirty scrape, Helm was very well informed that Marta had fabulous legs.
Helm grabbed the towel once again to gently wipe out more grains of dirt from her wound as she bit back each wave of pain. He lessened the haste in which he cleaned the wound wanting to make it as easy as possible for her.
She spoke again, "An unexamined trauma only festers in your mind, Dr. Helm."
"An inquisitive patient only annoys me, Marta," he shortly replied.
Marta once again looked at his face, his changed demeanor once a portion of his past was revealed as he tended her wound. "You are The Hermit," she stated as a fact.
He had to laugh, "The what? Hermit? That's the last thing I am. I'm not a recluse. Or a loner."
"No," she said, not as a question. "You are like the tarot card, The Hermit. One who is full of secrets. One who changes his life and future to protect the past."
"I don't know anything about that, Marta," he said. He was pleased that the conversation had drifted off into another vein, one that didn't involve his haunted past, but he realized to his chagrin, that it had swung back to him. He wished she would stop her prodding and just let him do his work.
"But you know that I am right."
"You have no right to tell me that I made a bad choice," he blurted out a little too forcefully and threw the cloth into the basin. Water splashed against the wall and across the table. Helm wanted to be a cordial doctor with the pleasant bedside manner but the skills instilled in him by His Majesty's Service bubbled to the surface. He ran his hands roughly up and down on his face and through his hair to calm himself. She had opened his emotional wound so suddenly that even he was mystified by his intense reaction.
Marta knew she had gone too far, she had meddled too far. One thing she learned was that if someone didn't want to talk about their past or inner thoughts it wasn't her place to force the issue. She was only concerned about him. The visions were so unlike what he had portrayed to the town. She knew his secrets were eating him up inside and that he had to deal with whatever his past held.
Helm was close to hyperventilating from distress when he placed his hands on the table alongside her body and bent his head in frustration. He turned and got another roll of bandages to wrap her knee and couldn't help but hesitantly ask, "How do you see things?"
"What do you mean?"
"Whatever you think you just saw in my past. How do you do it?"
Marta smiled, he was open to at least discussing her skills. "I only see what you allow me to see."
"That doesn't make sense."
"Yes, it does," she smiled, not wanting to scare him again. "I don't go around touching things or people and instantly knowing everything. I only see when a door has been opened to me. You have tried to hide the truth and it's eating away at your soul. I can feel that. That's why I have wanted to see more. You're inner voice is crying out to be heard."
He tied a knot on the side of her knee to hold the bandage in place and it was done. She was fixed up. All he needed to do was tell her to take it easy, give her some more bandaging and set her off on her merry way. That was all he had to do and it would be over. He held out his hand to her and she took it. He pulled her up to a sitting position and stepped back. His hands firmly clasped behind him not wanting her to see anything more. He truly didn't believe in the paranormal, the mystical... but she had to be a very good guesser if she hadn't indeed seen the actual truth. 'You're inner voice is crying out to be heard.' That sentence weighed on him. Maybe it was. Maybe he wanted a civilian to know what he had done. Maybe he wanted to be judged by an impartial jury.
Marta swung her legs over the edge of the table, but before she could slip down to the floor Dr. Helm stepped forward and took hold of her shoulders. He looked straight into her eyes as he told her, "I don't believe in your magic."
"That's all right," Marta said, not in the least jarred. She was used to it. "I don't have a lot of faith in your medicine."
"Touche," he ironically grinned, then slowly slipped his hands down her arms to take hold of her hands. Marta obliged his gesture that came with a great amount of uneasiness and held his hands. They looked into each other's eyes, and he waited a long silent moment. He gravely asked, "What do you see?"
She opened her mind to capture anything that may come to her as she concentrated on his thoughts. Marta slowly shook her head, "Nothing." She was seeing his glorious face, with a mask covering his true emotions, very clearly. "You aren't allowing me access."
"But I want to," he whispered.
For that, she was glad, on so many levels. She told him, "Then don't block me."
"I'm not," he said, suddenly feeling foolish. Marta held onto his hands tighter when it seemed to her that he was going to move away. She closed her eyes and sensed that Dr. Helm was slowly dropping his defenses. She saw him once again running, this time in the dark, outside. He was wearing the suit and could hear him taking heaving breaths.
He asked, with a little bit of bitterness that his openness to her skills weren't working, "Do you need your tarot cards?" He was going to step away and maybe tell her the old fashioned way what had happened but wondered if he was still open to having her know the worst about himself.
The vision was gone, just as Marta was making some sort of sense of it all. He blocked her again. "No," Marta intoned, not wanting herself to break the mood also. "My cards predict the future or solidify the perceptions of the present. You need to release your past. Shall we try again?"
She pulled on his hand, moving him closer to her until he was standing between her legs. Helm was certain she hadn't realized what she had done. Still, he didn't move. Instead he studied her slender neck. He closed his eyes to smell her without any distractions. She smelled of flowers. But musky. A very interesting natural scent that couldn't have come from a bottle.
"Open yourself to me," Marta whispered. Helm gently moved his head forward until his forehead touched hers. He took a deep breath and thought of nothing but her scent. Suddenly, Marta saw him on that dark night. Then just as swiftly, he was back running in the house. She had to calm herself as the flashes were hastily running in reverse order. Helm had squeezed her hand, making her wound sear with pain. She flinched, losing contact with his memory again.
"I'm sorry," he said. Helm had given up, he hadn't even known what was expected of him. 'Open yourself'? He hadn't the foggiest notion what that meant. Her magic or faith or abilities were completely out of his realm of understanding.
Marta wouldn't let go of his hand. She bent her head, closed her eyes and uttered a name that she knew had been important to him. "Ethan?"
Helm was dumbfounded! Whatever he thought of her skills or 'gifts', there wasn't any way she could have come up with that unless she truly saw something. She lifted her head and regarded him steadily as he tried to control his breathing.
She closed her eyes again and bobbed her head, "I can see." Still slowly nodding, she said, "If you want me to discover it, join me."
Her voice was soft, her skills astounding and he needed to see if it were actually possible to read one's mind, an experiment. "What do I need to do?"
"Let go of your fear."
That was a tall order, considering the fact that he was ashamed and hadn't wanted anyone to know for so long. But Helm did it. Marta might be angry with him when she found out. She may tell everyone in the town to stay away from him. He could be jailed. Executed. There were a lot of things that could happen by having the truth released... but not in this life. Anything that would happen on earth wouldn't be anything he couldn't deal with. It was after this life was over, his judgment day, when he would have to explain himself.
Regardless of his hesitation, Helm relived the reasons for his personal pain and did hope that Marta would be able to join him in his revisitation. If only to solidify the fact that he was a monster.
*****
King and Country. That was all that mattered to the young Lieutenant of His Majesty's Service. Their ideals had been his life since the man who came to call himself Robert Helm was 18 years old. King and Country. Robert Helm was born Viscount Robert Birchwick, eldest son and heir to the Earl of Birchwick. They were a noted family who's land holdings were extensive. Over the centuries the family had been stable in their prosperity, much to the aggravation of the royal family who's assets grew and shrunk with every war. One of the Birchwick's most prized acreage was the property that the crown had endowed to get one of Robert's ancestors to allow the army access from the sea.
Robert grew up in luxury, schooled by tutors who came to their estate, raised by a governess Sarah, who he came to look upon as more of a mother than his own. Sarah had three sons, Ethan was just a few hours older than Robert. Not only did they celebrate their birthdays with a yearly celebration, they did everything together and truly thought of themselves as brothers. Ethan knew his boundaries; he couldn't do the things that Robert took for granted. Robert wouldn't think twice about interrupting the Earl in his study, didn't care if he was in a meeting. Ethan would hover outside in the hallway after coming to a screeching stop at the door and not running inside the room. They would explore the Birchwick's vast property, played hide and seek in the kitchen much to the exasperation the chef and his staff, and played pranks on each other's younger sisters.
When Robert and Ethan turned 18, the Earl decided that the military was the only option for his privileged son as the Birchwicks had had a long, proud history of serving the Union Jack. Ethan's entry into the military was his only option of making a life for himself that could make him rise above his lowly station in life. They joined up together. After basic training, they wanted to use their brains and their love of science classes that they had sailed through as children and soon switched to medical trainees. Just before their final year of schooling, Robert was recruited into Intelligence while Ethan went on to became a doctor.
**1813**
King and Country. The country was Britain, but it was hard to figure out who the King rightfully was. George III still wore the crown but by all accounts the man was insane. The Prince of Wales had been named Prince Regent and called the shots for the last two years. The War of 1812--or as the British called it the Second War in America--was in full swing.
Since Robert and Ethan were assigned on opposite sides of the Atlantic, they didn't see each other at all since they had parted company and specialties. Only a seldom, highly cherished letter would get through, that would turn out to have been written months earlier. Robert was happy that he was going to America on a mission and he would have the opportunity to meet up with Ethan on the ship he had been assigned to as medical officer.
When Robert got off the ship in New Foundland, he heard news that hit him like a ton of bricks. His first thought was that Britain had lost their premiere ship in the fleet when it was fired upon in ambush in the thick of night. All aboard were lost when it sunk beneath the surface of Lake Erie. Robert's second thought was that Ethan was on that ship and he was lost along with his crewmen. When Robert realized the order of how things affected him, he was devastated that his training and the mind set he'd had to use in Intelligence had overtaken the deep brotherly affection he felt for his life-long friend. It was only then that Robert realized that he had changed, to his mind, irrevocably changed. He hadn't realized that he had become ruthless and had done his duty well, putting Britain before all else, especially his humanity.
Conflicted between private pain and patriotic revenge, Robert got word that he was to return to England immediately. That familiar rumble in his gut made him knew what was expected of him. That rumble was the fire that he had to stoke to make himself the emotionally dead killing machine his superiors made sure he was. He had to do the work that was expected of him. He was well trained, one of their best operatives.
Robert was an assassin in cases where there was no room for barristers, politics and deal making. He was selected and trained for the position because of his intelligence. His medical training was a bonus. If you knew how to save a life, you would know how to quickly end one. When Robert received word to return home, he knew it was to find and plug the leak that made the ambush of the ship possible. For that, he was ecstatic. His mantra was, "Oh, he will SURELY pay!" Those words in his head made everything he did to prepare and plan so much easier. He would revenge Britain's loss that could very well lead to their losing the war as well as Ethan's sacrifice and couldn't wait for it to happen.
**1814**
After a period of long and careful planning, gaining the trust of nefarious factions that supplied the military with everything from wood for their ships to bullets for their guns, Robert and his new partner, Lord Bromley, had narrowed down the field of possible traitors to five. Lord Bromley was Robert's godfather, the Earl of Birchwick's best friend, and was highly placed in society. Only someone in Bromley's social set and business dealings would be in the position to sell secrets to the United States.
Lord Bromley had sent out a communication that only the traitor would fall for. The clandestine meeting would take place during a party at the Bromley estate. The leak would be the only interested party and would face Lieutenant Robert Birchwick filled with his mercenary expertise, patriotism and want of revenge for the death of his friend in Bromley's study for the 'meeting'.
Five minutes after the meeting was scheduled, Robert walked through the crowded ballroom. He didn't mingle with the people he'd known since childhood. All he could focus on was that the turncoat would certainly be in Lord Bromley's study. He also focused on how he would kill. There were so many options, but he had earlier decided on a knife. Knives were silent. He would have to do it quickly. Robert felt the dagger in his right sock, just ready to be plucked and thrown across the room to his target knowing he wouldn't miss. Or maybe he should stab him in the heart up close. Then he would be able to see his reflection in those traitorous eyes as they would lose their lifeblood. Killing with a knife had the appeal of being a quick, quiet death that he could savor close up, rather than one which would attract attention.
He sauntered up the steps to the second floor. The sounds of music and dancing of the party slowly diminished with each step. As he reached the landing all Robert could hear was Ethan's easy childhood laughter ring in his ear. Robert felt he was hearing his friend to get his mind in the correct mood. Anger. Revenge. His friend, his 'brother', had been so cruelly silenced. Robert had to make it personal. Then he envisioned the flaming ship swallowed up by the churning seas in the blackest night. Ethan's playful laughter tapered off in Robert's memory only to be replaced by what he imagined were the cries and screams of Ethan and his shipmates fruitlessly trying to save each other and their dying ship.
Robert reached the door of Lord Bromley's study and put his hand on the knob. He paused to listen if there was a sound from inside. There was the squeak of Bromley's leather desk chair but nothing else. Robert used the knob to steady himself as he bent down to get the dagger out of his sock all the while looking both ways down the hallway to see if there were any witnesses.
His anger for the worthless human being on the other side of the door was intense and he did nothing to squelch it. In fact, he fanned that fire within him. That emotion made it so much easier to perform his duty. For King and Country. For Ethan.
He turned the knob and pushed open the door. A man with dark hair and graying temples was indeed sitting in the leather chair behind Lord Bromley's desk. Robert could only see the top half of the back of his head as he was facing the other way, out the window to the well manicured gardens lit by a string of lanterns for the party. Robert shut the door behind him, leaned against it, made sure his grip on the handle of the dagger was secure. He could see his reflection in the window from the glowing oil lamp on the desk. If he could see his reflection, the bastard in that chair could also.
As soon as the chair started to turn, Robert deftly glided across the room and got a hand on the back of the chair before whoever was in it could react. The dagger entered the traitor's heart before he knew what hit him. With pleasure, Robert twisted the handle then slid the dagger to slice to the side between the ribs to make sure no one would be able to save him.
That's when Robert saw the man's terrorized face. The knife was still embedded in the Judas' body. The man was responsible for killing hundreds of comrades, countrymen. He had spit upon the Union Jack, the very symbol that Robert had lived for and killed for. The man had by extension of his deeds killed his best friend in the world. That man was Edward, the Earl of Birchwick. Robert's father.
Instead of feeling regret, pain or shock of his father being the one in that chair, Robert only felt betrayal. The man who had lived in luxury fanning the patriotic flames when it suited his own dealings had been the one who revealed secrets to the enemy. Robert moaned from the bitterness of complete and utter hatred that had taken over his soul in a flash of an instant that would never diminish. He yanked the knife from his chest and looked into his father's soon to be lifeless eyes. His father's face, fat from excessive living, turned red. His forehead was wrinkled from astonishment. His mouth was wide with dismay, in too much pain and shocked to even make a sound. With complete hatred, Robert raised the knife and plunged it back into his father's chest again with full force.
"You bastard!" He stabbed him again. Yelling more, stabbing repeatedly, Robert took all the surprise and frustration he felt out on his father, by this time a corpse. He yanked the knife out and swayed from lightheadedness as his father fell to the floor. He looked up to see his reflection in the window and didn't recognize himself. His face was monstrously contorted. His chest heaved with every breath he took. His father's hand had landed on his shoe. Robert stepped back focused on that hand that he suddenly remembered from his childhood.
With great force, Robert stepped on it. The bones crunched beneath his foot. "Burn in hell," Robert yelled as he stepped back, to the door. "I hope you burn in hell!"
He ran out of the room, back down the hall and down the stairs, crying, moaning and yelling as he made his way to the side entrance away from the party. Only a footman outside happened to see him. When he did, he cowered back into the bushes to get out of his way. Robert's right arm and hand was full of blood, splatters were on his face and crisp white shirt. He didn't stop running. He didn't care that he was seen. He ran into the dark of night to get as far away from the madness as he could.
Robert only stopped running when he was miles from the mansion because of sheer exhaustion. It had felt wonderful to run, to put as much distance from his father and his deed as he could. He bent over, hooking his hands on his knees and gasped for breath. That's when he saw the blood on his arm. He sunk to his knees and brought his hands out in front of him. He saw his father's blood shine clearly in the moonlight. He felt the remnants of his father's drying life substance matted into his hair and the congealing gel smeared on his hands. For the first time, he realized it was actually his own father that he had killed so easily for King, Country and the memory of his best friend. His father.
He collapsed to the ground, face smashed into the dirt and moaned. He couldn't breathe, not because of the marathon he had just completed. He saw his mother's face as she would hear the news that her husband was dead. He saw his sister, Claire, trying to comfort their mother in her own state of shock while at the same time comforting her own children. Robert had been trained too well to know that emotion had no place while performing his duty. None. He had failed in so many ways that evening. The guilt washed over him making it hard for him to even breath. Then he wept with bitter regret. All his father owned and had been perceived to be was now his. Viscount Robert Birchwick was the rightful heir to the lands and fortune his father's family had amassed for centuries.
But Robert never returned to his family home. Where he turned to days later was to his commander, to tell him that the mission had been completed. As he stood at attention in his office, his commander knew who it was that Robert had taken out. Robert stood at attention waiting--wanting--the reprecussions to begin. To his astonishment, his commander promoted him. The moral dilemma of patricide wasn't an issue with his superior officer. In fact, it made him an even more valuable asset to the British cause.
His father's memory was never soiled. The Earl of Birchwick was buried in the family plot next to the wetlands he had hunted for game all his life. No one but Robert, Bromley and Robert's superior knew the truth that the Earl had sold his soul to the devil. The family wasn't broken financially because of it. The family wasn't cast in a notorious light. The matter had been taken care of, why make it more unpleasant for the people who were left to carry on? The Earl's death had been attributed to a anti-monarchist. After the press and gossip at parties got a hold of the news, the Earl of Birchwick was painted a martyr for Loyalists.
His superior gave Robert a short leave to tend to family matters saying, "The Crown is proud of your service, Birchwick."
"Helm," Robert quickly said. Ethan was no longer able to carry on his mission on earth, but Robert found that he could. The maternal Sarah Helm who raised him and had showed him more love than his own mother had would be pleased. He said Ethan's last name quickly, without thinking, but it felt so right.
"Excuse me, Officer?"
"My name is Robert Helm from now on," Robert gravely said.
His superior considered it, then solemnly nodded. "I understand." He shuffled some papers on his desk and handed them over to Robert. "Lt. Helm, Spain. Your transport leaves in the morning."
Robert scanned the paper which contained his orders. There were sketchy details of a Corporal who had been seen in the company of the French. British Intelligence was concerned that if the price was right, he could be ready to sell secrets of their troop movements. Time was of the essence. Robert's gut started to rumble again, his subconscious started to once again get his head and body ready for what was expected of him. Robert folded the paper and put it in his pocket. He took a deep breath and saluted his commander.
The act of killing Ian Latham in Spain was done smoothly, quickly. He had recaptured the plans. He did his duty for King and Country. A couple of nights later, Robert laid on a cot in a tent in a military camp over fifty miles from the front, the scene of his last assassination. He stared up at the tenting above his head and could barely make out the texture of the fabric through the darkness. The flap was open and he could hear patrols keeping watch but the night was so black, the moon was blotted out by a heavy layer of clouds. Robert thought back to Latham's killing and couldn't even picture the man's face. He could only remember the uniform that Robert instantly thought he hadn't deserved to wear. Soon, before Robert realized what his mind had done to him, he visualized his father's face lying on the Spanish battle-scarred plain, wearing Latham's uniform.
Robert sat up with a groan and laid his head in his hands. He had started to not be able to accept the long, dark nights. All his deeds he had done for King and Country were starting to make his blood run cold. All the assassinations were starting to blend into one long, devious act. He had to stop! He had to regain his sanity. King and Country turned him into what he had become. King and Country were so proud of his ruthlessness, of his inhumanity.
Robert noticed, but had not heard, that a messenger had arrived at his tent door. "Sir?" the young man, almost a boy asked. Robert couldn't see his face but the high pitch of his voice gave away his naivete. He wondered at that moment if he himself had ever been so young and starry-eyed. "Sir?" the boy repeated again.
"What do you want?" Robert rubbed his eyes and stood.
The messenger handed him a piece of paper and said quite excitedly, "From High Command..."
Another piece of paper. Another mission. Someone else needed to be taken out for King and Country. Helm couldn't make out what the orders actually were on the paper, but he could imagine what the look on the young messenger's face would be, the excitement of covert activities of war. A chance to make a difference in the grand scheme of things. Wishing for more responsibility than they had given him.
"Did you read this?" Helm asked.
"No, sir," the boy said. "I only deliver messages."
"Well, you did your duty," Helm quickly said. "Good night, Private."
He half heartedly returned the messenger's exuberant salute and closed the tent flap, shutting the boy and the world out. He turned on a lamp and sat back on the cot. The orders were still in his hand. His shaky hand. It flittered back and forth so violently, he couldn't control it. The paper fluttered to the ground.
He stood, flapping his arms to work out all traces of stress on his body. Robert knew what he had to do. He hurriedly packed his canvas bag and stepped over the orders on his way out of the tent. He was through. King and Country would have to make do without him. He got on his horse and rode off into that dark night. He didn't stop until he was at a port of departure. He sold the horse and boarded a ship readying for a journey to the United States. It was a purely symbolic gesture to go to the victors of the war against his homeland. Along with being a man without a country, Robert Helm felt like a man without a soul.
**1817**
Helm's eyes were still clamped shut as he relived his terrible deed in his own mind. His forehead was still butted up against Marta's. He was completely undone by the experience of mentally reliving it and started to shake. Marta had access to snippets of his memories and opened her eyes, not really knowing it all, but had a pretty good glimpse. His body language as his mind went through the past signalled her to his anger, betrayal, acceptance. The last instinct she had felt was his turning his back on everything he was and had in life. Through her own tears, she saw those of Helm's. She released his hand to wipe his cheek. Her touch startled him and his eyes sprang open. He quickly asked, "Did you see it?"
She closed her eyes once again and shrugged. "Some." But she didn't move. Helm expected her to flee, slap him, throttle him, at least push him away. That was what he felt he deserved. The fresh reliving of his deed had made him hate himself once again. He looked at her face and tried to make out what she was showing him. He was astonished to see what he decided was concern. One of her hands was still holding his, the other caressed his cheek. "So much pain," she softly said.
He was so confused by her reacion and stated, "You didn't see it. You couldn't have."
She didn't turn away, she looked straight into his eyes to tell him, "I saw enough."
His insides were in turmoil. His shoulders shook with each guttural cry he couldn't hold back. Marta moved her hands from his face to massage his shoulders, then wrapped her arms around him. He collapsed against her, laid his head on her shoulder as he returned the hug and openly wept. He bitterly admitted aloud, "I killed my own father."
Marta softly shushed him, and whispered, "He sacrificed innocent men."
He nodded, his cheek moving her shoulder up and down as he had pressed in so close. "It was war. It was my job."
"Yes," Marta replied, holding him. She couldn't comprehend what he was feeling. She had no idea what the horrors of war was like for the men who waged them. She had only been on the sidelines praying Spain would survive. She had never killed another. She couldn't ever have had the thought of killing her own father, but her father was a peaceful Gitano, not a butcherer of hundreds by his dealings. One thing she did know was patriotism and how powerful that emotion was. Also, she knew how regretful Helm was at that moment.
"The impulse to kill him so savagely came so quickly," Helm cried out. "As if he was nothing to me."
"That is what you have to accept. It still causes you pain because you loved him."
"No," Helm lifted his head and rapidly shook it. He still didn't know how he felt about his old man, especially after he would stifle any thought he would have of him since he took him out of this world.
She tried again, "You admired him."
"Never," he moaned, because it felt right to completely disregard any feelings he had ever had for the man.
"He failed you."
"Stop it!" Helm looked into her eyes. "Those are excuses that I've already tried on for size. They all fit. They all work. But the fact is, my mother's husband, my sisters' father, is dead by my hand." He realized how Marta had reacted. She hadn't been shocked, angered, disgusted. "I don't want to feel better! Don't do that!"
"That's the last thing I'm trying to do, Dr. Helm," Marta calmly said. "I'm trying to get you to talk about it. To accept it."
"I have."
"No," she sadly shook her head. "You've lived with it. You've been very successful in covering it up. But you haven't accepted it."
He heard her, and for the first time the feeling of despair crept in. He got a sense of what his problem had been all along, he needed to pay for his deed. He never had. The few people who knew the truth... no one had ever told him that he had done wrong! In fact, he had been promoted for it.
Startling him, Marta put her hand on his neck to make sure he heard her, "You did what you had to do." She knew. She had not only seen part of his burden, she could read his thoughts at that moment. "Yes, it is wrong to kill anyone. You made your family lose one of their own." He was surprised that she was correctly portraying him as an outsider to his own family. "Would it make you feel better if the task of killing the traitor was left to someone else?"
He panted, but it sounded like, "Marta..." She was so open to him wanting to talk it out, to help him release his guilt, to understand what he had been living with for years. Alone. What would rattle in his head in the dark of night, while traveling long distances with only his horse as company. When he would have to resort to violence.
He gulped in air, hoping it would ease the tightness of the back of his throat. It didn't. Her soothing brown eyes stared at him, evaluated every emotion that flooded over his face. It was as if she understood. Her legs were on each side of his hips. He had finally unloaded his burden on another and she was making it clear for him. She wasn't condescending, she was trying to help him find clarity.
He clasped his hands on her cheeks and pulled her to him. His kiss was fierce, possessive, his mouth open, his tongue hungrily trying to part her lips. Then he pulled back, softened his desire and tried again. Tender. With the different tactic, he felt Marta's hands wipe the last of his tears away and press her legs tighter against him. Her hands traveled up his back making all his nerve endings snap to attention. Her lips parted.
Helm leaned Marta back onto the table, covering her upper body with his own. He brushed at her shoulder and lowered her neckline with a slide of his hand. He noticed her hair had flared out on the table, surrounding her head like a halo. He lifted up and gazed into her eyes, trying to decipher if he had gone too far with her.
Marta was as surprised by their fervor as he was. She felt like she was in a trance, dizzy with emotion. She hadn't expected it. In fact while riding into town with Eladio that morning, she hadn't a hint of what the day would bring for her. Marta never expected to be able to see so far into the doctor's past, and be both touched and thrilled by it. He had trusted her enough to bare his soul. His kiss was passionate and she had responded in kind. He had reawakened feelings she had come to think she would never experience again.
Helm misread her stunned silence and immediately straightened up. He adjusted his collar and rebuttoned ones that had come undone. It had all happened too fast. As he straightened his clothes he was angry with himself for letting her into his personal thoughts so fast. It was all too fast. He should have been protective, not open! He was declaring himself a fool and making plans to never put himself in that position again.
Marta sat up as they both separately collected themselves. Helm was going to apologize for being so forceful, but she silenced him with a finger to his lips and a gentle shake of her head. Marta knew that her gifts worked best when the other didn't have time to prepare, to build up walls, to only let her see the half truths. She was glad he had. She was also glad that he had responded to her, but could see that it was probably the worst thing that could have happened. To know another's secrets was a heavy load to keep.
A hard knock echoed on his door. Helm hurried to the other side of the office and looked at Marta to see if she was prepared for visitors. Marta slipped off the table and quickly straightened her dress. She was readjusting the bandage on her wrist when Helm yelled, "Come in!"
Eladio hesitantly opened the door, his hat in his hands. "Doctor? Senora? We should be getting back."
"Yes, Eladio," Marta smiled and walked to him. Helm intercepted her stride with a hand on her arm and asked her to wait for a moment.
Helm left her side to walk to the desk. Her gaze shifted between Eladio and the doctor, hoping Eladio hadn't gotten a hint of what had passed between them. Helm returned with a roll of bandages and told her to change them before retiring for the night.
"Yes, Doctor, and thank you," she said in a voice that was a little more guttural than she had intended. She got the distinct impression that Helm would have wanted to come to change them himself and she blushed once again. "I will."
Helm wanted to tell her so much, if anything to apologize for unburdening himself on her. He wanted to talk with her about her reaction to his past, and also about how she had responded to his kiss. There was no time at the present though as Eladio had started to escort Marta to the door.
During her time in Helm's office, Marta had forgotten that the world even existed. She needed to return home to see if Tessa had made it through another escapade. She hoped that she didn't appear as flustered as she felt on the inside. With a nod of her head and a slight smile, she bid goodbye to Helm. She hoped he could tell that she wanted to see him again to counsel him on his trauma. And to revisit the intimacy they had shared if only for a moment. The sooner the better.
THE END
But there will be more