Chapter 6
Helena slept fitfully all night and only passed into a deep, exhausted slumber when the sun was making ready to rise. It was nearly noon before she began to stir, and when she did, it was to the smell of something quite sharp, bitter, and altogether delightful entering the room on a breakfast tray.
“Why, this is coffee!” said Helena in surprise. She took a sip. “And it’s quite good!”
Polly giggled. “Mr. Aldine fetched it for ye from th’ village, an’ made it himself.”
“In the kitchen?” Helena gasped. She could not imagine anyone, even Mr. Aldine, braving the dragon in her lair.
“Och aye, ma’am. Where else?”
Alongside the coffee on the tray was a sweet roll that must have come from some village shop. Helena bit into it with ecstasy, enjoying the flaky sweetness that melted on her tongue.
“Where is Mr. Aldine now?”
“He’s seein’ to the room across th’ hallway. Means to turn it into a study, he says.” Polly walked over to the tiny fireplace to tend to the banked fire and add a log or two.
Helena raised her golden eyebrows. A study?
It was an excellent notion, for if the confines of a tiny parlor suited her little, it would suit an industrious man like Mr. Aldine even less.
He needed a place to write his correspondence, to transact his business, whatever that might entail.
How fortunate then that he could use the spare room adjoining his own bedchamber.
Taking another sip of coffee, Helena heard the sound of hammering. Mr. Aldine must be hanging things on the wall. She wondered if he would invite her to look at his study later—for invite her he must, or she would never enter it. A study was a gentleman’s sanctum, just as a bedroom was a lady’s.
Finch entered, carrying the day dress that had been the subject of her needle all yesterday. Her angular face looked even more pinched than usual.
“Look here, Finch,” said Helena, still wielding her teacup. “There’s coffee.” The world, although still gray without Will in it, was a little brighter shade of gray now.
“Indeed, my lady,” said Finch, a satisfactory response, but one not quite appreciative of the marvelous nature of the drink in question.
The lady’s maid assisted Helena into her newly tailored black day dress. Helena had not realized how uncomfortable she had been in her clothes until she found herself, once more, in a dress that fit. “Thank you, Finch. I no longer feel like a sausage stuffed into its casing.”
“I’ll work on your other day dress tomorrow, my lady. And an evening gown after that.”
“No need for an evening gown. I shan’t be going anywhere that requires I dress for dinner.”
Finch grunted noncommittally. “If you have the opportunity to eat dinner from a kitchen other than this one, I advise you to take it, my lady.”
Helena nodded at her maid—Mrs. Jenkins must be a sore trial for her as well. How thoughtless of Helena to think only of her own stomach.
“Polly,” said Helena, seeing that the girl had finished with the fire. “Are there any more of these sweet rolls?”
“Aye, Mrs. Aldine,” said the girl. “A whole dozen.”
“Then I should like two—no, three more,” said Helena, determined to make up for lost time. “And do bring some for Finch and have one yourself.”
Polly’s freckled face broke into a rapturous smile. “Aye, ma’am! Thank ye, ma’am!” She scurried down the hallway even faster than usual, and Helena could hear her skipping down the stairs.
“Do you have any letters for the post?” asked Finch.
“I believe Mr. Aldine took them yesterday.”
“I’m bound for the village then to post my own.”
Helena gave her a look of surprise.
“You’ll not be forgetting it’s my day off, my lady?”
“Oh, of course not,” said Helena, ashamed to think of the omnipresence she expected from her lady’s maid. “I do hope you enjoy yourself.”
Finch’s lips tightened. “I’ll do my best, my lady.”
It was mid-afternoon by the time Helena went down to the parlor.
She reflected that in London, she would be getting ready to receive visitors at this time.
Friday was one of her “at-home” days, and her friends and their mothers often came for tea.
She wondered what they were saying about her now.
Did they still think she was ensconced in her brother Geoffrey’s house, refusing to see callers?
Had word leaked out of her elopement? The marquis would be discreet, she was certain, but there was no guarantee that servants’ gossip had not drifted around the parlors of Mayfair.
There was no need to set “at-home” times here in Carham—no one knew she was here, and no one would call. And besides, she was so newly into mourning, she could hardly be expected to receive anyone.
Going over to a tiny table in the parlor, Helena found writing implements and paper.
She would compose a letter to Geoffrey and another to her friend Miss Cecil.
There was little enough to tell—the midnight marriage, the new house—and much that she would leave unsaid—the awkwardness of dinner across from Mr. Aldine, the bedrooms separated by a hallway, the argument over mourning clothes, his insistence that she manage the menus.
Helena put down the pen that she was grasping far too tightly.
She had forgotten—or tried to forget—that she must summon Cook for another interview this afternoon.
A sick feeling gathered in the pit of her stomach.
She picked up a sheet of paper and fanned herself.
The distinctive crunch of carriage wheels could be heard coming down the drive. Helena rose from her seat and hurried to the window. Was it the same carriage that had brought Ralph home last night?
A lady was disembarking, a formidable-looking older woman with a dress of pink coral and a navy taffeta pelisse.
Her iron-gray hair was surmounted by a chip bonnet with pink coral roses.
The coachman handed her up to the step in front of the house, and from the window, Helena could see her rapping upon the door, a brisk rat-a-tat that would not be denied.
Oh dear! It seemed she was to have callers after all.
For a brief instant, she hoped Polly would have the good sense to make the lady wait in the hall while she inquired whether the mistress was at home.
But then that hope was dashed as she realized that such a formality was ludicrous in this cottage setting.
The woman would see Helena sitting there unoccupied in the parlor as soon as the door from the hallway opened. One was always “at-home” in Carham.
As it was, Polly showed Lady Compton into the parlor with little ceremony beyond announcing her name.
Helena pasted a wan smile onto her lips as the lady proceeded into the room like a merchantman in full sail.
The brightness of her visitor’s coral dress was a little incongruous with her age, but Helena determined to withhold judgment until she could assess the lady’s character.
"How do you do?” Helena offered her hand.
"My dear Mrs. Aldine,” said Lady Compton, taking Helena’s bare fingers in her own gloved ones.
“I had the pleasure of meeting your delightful husband yesterday and could not resist sallying over this afternoon to make your acquaintance. And besides, the rain has let up. One must take advantage of every dry afternoon one can, don’t you think? ”
"Oh, of course,” said Helena, who thought nothing of the kind. Her outings in London had rarely taken the weather into account. She gestured to the settee, and they both sat down. “Polly, will you have Mrs. Jenkins send up the tea?” The girl bobbed a curtsy and disappeared.
“And how are you enjoying the guest house?” Lady Compton asked.
“Very much,” said Helena. “It is quite snug, isn’t it?”
“Yes, just the word for it,” said Lady Compton, looking around the little parlor with approval. “Sir Anthony’s father had it constructed during his early days, and I had everything redone and refitted ten years ago.”
“How lovely,” said Helena, unaware that the lady had so much personal interest in the little cottage. “It is just as it should be.” She gestured to the blue and gray flocked paper on the walls. “The colors in this parlor are very soothing.”
The tea arrived and Polly set it in front of Helena so that she might do the honors and then disappeared again to the kitchen.
Helena looked at her cultured guest and had a sudden wave of panic—she had forgotten just how inferior the beverage would be. “Does everyone in Carham enjoy their tea weak, or is it just our cook that seems to think it should be so?”
Lady Compton laughed. She removed her gloves and put them in her reticule as Helena filled the cups.
“I must confess I was a little surprised that you had kept Mrs. Jenkins on. The fellow who let the cottage before you was an old colonel—teeth like a horse’s and stomach as hard as iron.
He never noticed Mrs. Jenkins’ peccadilloes, but. ..well, let us say the rest of us did.”
Helena blushed. “She is on a trial basis. So far it has not gone well.” She looked down at the comestibles provided with the tea—more of the rustic bread and none of the cakes and sweet rolls she so enjoyed.
“I am not surprised,” said Lady Compton. She leaned in confidentially. “I think it was more for her company than her cooking that he kept her on, for he was a lonely soul.”
Helena’s eyes widened in surprise. She could not imagine Mrs. Jenkins being desirable company for even the most unfastidious.
“What happened to the colonel?”
“Oh, dear me, a sad story. He passed away almost two weeks ago—was seized by heart palpitations and fell down lifeless on the spot. He...oh—I do beg your pardon!” Lady Compton cleared her throat and looked away from Helena.
Helena looked down at her black dress and two bright red spots appeared on her high cheekbones. Apparently, Lady Compton had remembered her etiquette and was regretting her cavalier description of the colonel’s death in front of one so recently bereaved.