Chapter 5
Helena spent the rest of the afternoon in a desultory fashion, flitting from parlor to dining room to bedroom and back again.
She had spent the last week of the Christmas season in a state of overwhelming grief, barely able to get out of bed, and refusing all callers except her dear friend Miss Cecil.
But now, although she refused to admit that her grief had abated in the slightest, it was steadily borne in on her that the luxury of locking oneself in one’s chamber was far more satisfying when the chamber was spacious and well-appointed.
In a bedroom where there was scarcely space to open the wardrobe door, the experience produced more a sense of claustrophobia than eternal devotion.
Finch was in the adjoining room, letting out the seams of Helena’s other day dress, a process that seemed to take all day, for Helena did not catch a single glimpse of her in the hallway.
More than once, as Helena meandered through the parlor, she wished there was a pianoforte to occupy her fingers.
If she must rusticate here in Carham for the next six months, it would be more pleasant to have music to console and enhance her lamentations.
Her former repertoire had been vivacious and sprightly, with music by Mozart her favorite, but she knew of a few dirges she could learn to put music to her melancholy.
As the afternoon waned, she began to wonder where Mr. Aldine was.
Surely, he was not so angry with her that he meant to leave her alone in the wilds of Northumberland with an unschooled scullery maid and a bearded cook?
She found herself staring out the window more than once, looking down the road to see if anyone would come walking up it.
The sky darkened. It began to rain. The steady streams soon turned into a torrent.
No one should be walking about in this weather.
Perhaps she should have been more reasonable about Mr. Aldine’s request. He was quite right that it would put him—both of them—in a predicament should she say she was in mourning for his brother!
But at the same time, she did not want to be false to Will—to lie, to shutter up his memory like a broken window as if she were ashamed of him.
Helena began to grow hungry. Cook had sent a meager tea into the parlor, but once again, the weakness of the brew left Helena feeling vexed.
She recalled that she had forgotten to set a time for dinner when she spoke with Mrs. Jenkins earlier.
Hopefully, the woman kept country hours.
There was no reason to wait until late into evening to have supper as gentlefolk did in London.
Helena’s brow crinkled. Perhaps there was another side to the argument; there was the baby to think of too.
Will’s son would have a better chance of success in this world if the world did not think him to be Will’s son.
Perhaps the only way to be true to Will’s son was to be false in the matter of Will’s mourning?
Helena rubbed her eyes. She would not dwell upon it any longer.
Nearly all the light was gone when Helena saw a carriage coming up the drive, the wheels causing a great splash as they passed through each puddle.
She hurried over to the window, nearly pressing her nose against it like a little child.
Mr. Aldine disembarked, and, without thinking, Helena stepped out of the parlor to open the front door for him.
He entered the house on the wings of a gale, wind and water blowing in behind him until he seized the door from Helena’s hands and shouldered it closed.
Water was streaming down from the folds of his great coat, and the brim of his hat had turned into a castle moat.
Helena turned instinctively to look for a footman, realizing half a second later that none would be forthcoming.
“Let me help you,” she said as puddles began to form beneath the hem of Mr. Aldine’s coat.
“Oh, no—you will get your gown wet,” protested Mr. Aldine, but she was already lifting the dripping beaver from his head. He shrugged off his own coat and found a hook in the corner of the hall where it could drip dry.
“I beg your pardon if I am late for dinner.” He made a half bow and took the wet beaver from her hands.
"You are not late,” said Helena, “for there is no hour set for it.” She gripped the skirt of her black dress between her fingers, crumpling the fabric as she dried the water on her hands.
She saw Polly out of the corner of her eye, lurking by the entry to the scullery.
“Polly, could you inform Cook that Mr. Aldine is here, and she may serve dinner now, as soon as it is ready.” Polly bobbed quickly and scurried away.
“There,” said Helena, eyebrows lifting. “We may get some food after all."
“Has she been starving you?” Mr. Aldine’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper.
“Not exactly,” said Helena, surprised to find him so congenial, “but her version of tea certainly leaves something to be desired. And there is no coffee in the house—none!”
Mr. Aldine grinned, his face still beaded with raindrops.
“The heavens are weeping at the thought of such a tragedy! I shall change out of my wet things and be down presently.” And then, to Helena’s utter surprise, he gave her a wink before turning to go upstairs, his wet leather boots squeaking with each step he took.
Ralph’s fingers flew as he tied on a new cravat and raked his hands through his wet brown hair to give it some semblance of order.
After last night’s difficult dinner, he had been unsure how Helena would receive him.
Her cordiality downstairs befuddled him even more.
Was it so dull here at the house that she was glad to have him return?
He had spent the whole day away, thinking that it would allow her time to settle into her new surroundings without the continual jarring of his presence.
Truth be told, he had no idea how he was to settle into the new surroundings.
It had been almost a decade since he had begun working in a solicitor’s office.
He was unused to the idle ways of the moneyed class.
What was he to do with himself for six months in Carham?
Finished dressing, he skipped jauntily down the stairs, pushing off the railing at the end and rounding the banister to head for the dining room.
Helena had not stood on ceremony—which would have been incongruous with their little bungalow—and was already seated at the foot of the table.
Once again, Ralph’s own setting was at the far end.
He seated himself in the burgundy-upholstered chair, begrudging the distance between himself and his dining partner and marveling that such a small dining room could possess such an inconveniently long table.
“Can you tell—has the rain let up?” asked Ralph, politely commencing the conversation of trivialities that characterized a relationship such as theirs.
“A little,” replied Helena. “You were fortunate to have a carriage bring you home.”
He sensed the unspoken question—whose? “Yes, I spent the day at the manor house. Sir Anthony Compton was kind enough to show me all over the house and grounds and to lend me his carriage since the storm broke just as I was coming home.”
“How very kind,” echoed Helena, just as Polly carried in the main course and removed the cover.
“Thank you, that will be all,” said Ralph, dismissing her with a friendly nod. Since Helena seemed to be talking to him now, he was eager to continue in that vein uninterrupted.
“I hope your jaw is well exercised.” Ralph gestured with his fork and knife to the well-done chicken that sat between them.
Indeed, the dish was so centrally placed that neither of them could reach it without rising from their chairs.
“Allow me,” said Ralph. Rising from his seat, he threw his napkin over his arm like a well-trained butler, picked up the platter, and brought it toward Helena.
It was a curious dish, and not one that Ralph desired to learn more about.
Arranged around the chicken were six withered mushrooms, the same color as the mahogany brown bird.
“Oh dear,” said Helena, as she attempted to carve the bird. The skin was as impenetrable as shoe leather.
“The deer was last night,” said Ralph with an attempt at wit, “but I’ll own that this looks just as appetizing.”
Helena made one last effort to puncture the bird, but the knife glanced down the side of it, almost cutting her hand.
“Steady there,” said Ralph, taking the carving knife away from her. He wedged the point into a joint and managed to detach a leg. “There,” he said, serving Helena. “And if you don’t mind, I shall bring my plate hither so we can actually hear each other talk in this palatial room.”
Retrieving his utensils and plate from the head of the table, Ralph sat down on Helena’s right. “Now then, it looks as if the menu planning with Cook went well?”
Helena, busy poking at the dry chicken leg with her fork, turned scarlet from the tip of her nose to the tops of her ears.
Ralph saw immediately that he had made a misstep.
“I assure you,” began Helena, a note of injury in her voice, “that this is not at all what—”
“I apologize,” Ralph interjected, trying to put a stopper in the hole in the dike before the sea of mistrust came crashing down.
“I have been a bachelor for too long, it seems, and I am unaware what levities will offend fine ladies.” How could he amend his mistake?
“I am certain that this is not what you asked Cook to make. No one outside of Bedlam would have asked Cook to make this.” His brown eyes looked at her pleadingly, and he marveled that a girl ten years his junior should have this much power over him, that he should care so much about pleasing her.
“Now then,” Ralph continued, “we both know that you told her to make something different—”
“Chicken fricassée,” said Helena miserably.
“—and this is what came out of the infernal fires?”
Helena nodded. “I don’t think she knows how to cook any other way.”
Ralph sighed sympathetically. “Well, we shall give her an honest trial and make a change if she cannot learn. Tomorrow, you can inform her that Londoners like their meat a little less well-done.”
He could see Helena visibly shrink at that prospect.
She must already have a sizable terror of Mrs. Jenkins.
It was on the tip of his tongue to assure her that he would see to it, that she need not worry herself about it anymore, but the thought occurred to him that perhaps such interference was not for the best. Yes, he could manage Helena’s life for her—he was used to managing things for his mother and sister—but how much more glorious would it be to enable her to manage her own?
Perhaps, in the grander scheme of things, it was more valuable to help her confront her terror and master it.
He watched her swallow down an objection, admiring the graceful lines of her long white neck.
“Mr. Aldine—”
Was she so frightened of him too that she would not call him by his first name? “Ralph. I beg you.”
She blushed again, almost as red as when he had teased her about the chicken. “Very well...Ralph, can you please tell me what exactly I should say to her? I am not clever, like you, and I am afraid that I am quite unused to running a house, even a house as small as this one.”
Ralph put down his fork, surprised that she would have the humility to admit as much. And who had taken pains to make the girl think she was not clever? He could not see her brother Geoffrey doing so. Was it Will, then?
“Certainly. Let us practice. I shall be the stern Mrs. Jenkins.” He adopted a mock-scowl and rubbed his beardless chin. “And you shall be the delightful Mrs. Aldine, who is sweet and reasonable and far more clever than she thinks she is.”
She gave a faint little laugh, but Ralph could sense that her nerves were still stretched to the breaking point. She swallowed. “This chicken is very bad, Mrs. Jenkins.”
“What do you mean, ’bad,’ Mrs. Aldine?” said Ralph gruffly, waggling his eyebrows.
“It is...over-cooked,” said Helena. She looked as if she were about to cry.
"Yes, Mrs. Aldine,” said Ralph penitently, realizing that it would be dangerous to press the point farther. “I see that you are right. I will endeavor to do better tomorrow.”
"But she will not say anything of the sort!” said Helena, exasperated at their little charade.
"No,” said Ralph, adopting a more serious demeanor, “she will not. But that is not any fault of yours. We must speak the truth in love and let others receive it as they will.”
She looked away from him and would not meet his eye.
“I will always tell you the truth, Helena.” He did not know what prompted him to say it.
Perhaps it was the fact that Will had surrounded her with deceit—promising to marry her when it had never been his intention, declaring his love for her when he had only loved his own gratification, and concealing all the affairs that she had the right to know about.
Ralph leaned back in his chair and gave a barely audible sigh. And because of Will’s death, the truth of all of it—the drunkenness, the gambling debts, the actresses—had never come out. Helena still thought him a paragon of excellence, his virtues made even more rarefied by his unfortunate demise.
Blast! She was crying now. Why must he always make a mull of it? He took a bite of the chicken and attempted to chew it. He would do better tomorrow—and the first thing to be done was to get some proper food into this house.