Chapter 6 #2
Helena took a deep breath and determined to take the bull by the horns. “Yes, I have had my own misfortunes as well. My...brother passed away recently.” It was what Mr. Aldine had asked, was it not? To call Will her “brother”?
“Oh, I am so very sorry,” said Lady Compton, putting her lifeless beverage down on the tea table. Her eyes scanned Helena’s face. “Were you close?”
“Very,” said Helena, feeling the red spots brighten on her cheeks.
At least Lady Compton had no idea just how close they had been.
For a fleeting instant, Helena remembered the pressure of Will’s lips on hers, and then her mind’s eye lit upon the picture of his cold, white corpse laid out in the parlor of his family home.
A few tears began to well in the rims of her blue eyes.
“My poor dear,” said Lady Compton, leaning across the settee. She took Helena’s hand in hers and pressed it.
For an instant, Helena shuddered at the contact, but then she relaxed and allowed Lady Compton to comfort her. The grim picture of Will vanished like a nightmare as Lady Compton began to rub her back in a circular fashion.
“I hope you will not take exception to this—but you bring to mind my own daughter when she was in her younger years. And if your grief can bear company, I should love to sit beside you. Carham is a lovely place...and a lonely one at times. Will you visit me up at the big house?”
“I am...not sure,” said Helena. “I had not thought to go visiting while I am still in blacks.” Whatever Mr. Aldine said, she would not give up her blacks for at least six months.
Or perhaps a year would be more fitting, for Will had been a husband to her.
..almost. And he had been linked with her body and soul in a way his half-brother would never be.
“We are a simple folk here,” said Lady Carham, “and good sense takes precedence over some of the social niceties. No one would fault you for stopping by your landlady’s home.
Besides,” she said, releasing Helena’s hand, “you must give me advice on my parlor there. Your husband tells me you come but lately from the metropolis, and I suppose you must know all the latest London fashions. I mean to refurbish the parlor this summer. Sir Anthony cannot tell his violets from his maroons and is no help at all! I covet your opinion. I shan’t invite anyone else, of course.
It shall be just the two of us for tea—real tea, unlike what Mrs. Jenkins has given us. ”
“Oh, very well,” said Helena, softening, “if it is just to be an informal visit, I shall accept.”
"Perfect,” said Lady Compton, rising to her feet with alacrity. The bright coral of her gown surged with energy, and Helena imagined that the lady had a great many errands planned for the afternoon beyond this one short stop for tea. “Let us plan for Tuesday next.”
Helena saw her guest out the door, surprised to have enjoyed the unexpected visit so much. As the front door closed, the house felt empty and bereft, like an orchestra pit after the musicians had filed out.
She looked upwards at the ceiling, wondering briefly if Mr. Aldine had taken any tea in his new study upstairs.
Then again, he may have avoided the questionable beverage on purpose.
The dark, potent taste of the coffee she had drunk that morning came back to her as a distant memory.
What would she give for another cup of that elixir!
It occurred to her that she had never thanked Mr. Aldine for the drink and the sweet rolls.
Taking a clean sheet of paper, she began to compose another letter to the gentleman upstairs. Then, quartering it, she rang for Polly. “Would you be so good as to deliver this to Mr. Aldine?”
At dinner, Ralph noted with pleasure that the housemaid had set his place next to Helena’s tonight. She was learning.
Mrs. Jenkins, on the other hand, showed no signs of improvement in her duties. The ham set before them was as dry as an Oxford professor. Ralph raised his eyebrows at Helena as he tried to cut it.
"I am sorry,” she said, dissolving into heated blushes.
The fairness of her countenance betrayed her all too frequently, and Ralph experienced a surge of heat in his own body as her cheeks flamed red with embarrassment.
Mercy, but she was lovely! He still carried her short letter from earlier today in the pocket of his jacket, next to his heart.
“My dear, I hope you do not think I am blaming you for the circumstances. You did talk to Cook, yes?”
“N-no.” The word was almost inaudible.
Ralph put down the carving knife, unsure of how to respond.
The way her blond curls framed her pink cheeks was completely beguiling.
He could not help but be irritated that she had ignored their domestic crisis, but her alluring appearance was swiftly dispelling that irritation.
What were two or three burnt dinners next to the face that launched a thousand ships?
“Did you forget?” he asked, keeping his voice quiet and dispassionate.
“N-no,” she said again, refusing to meet his eye.
Ralph cringed inwardly at the unnerving evidence that his wife was afraid of him.
He was asking too much of her—too much, too soon—and he would drive her even further away from him if he was not careful.
Using his knife judiciously, Ralph attempted a very small piece of the dry ham.
“Lady Compton came to call, you see, and she stayed for quite some time, and it went out of my head completely until the late afternoon, and by the time I remembered it, I thought Mrs. Jenkins would already be in the thick of making dinner....” Helena’s words tumbled over each other like an avalanche of pebbles.
“I will have a word with Mrs. Jenkins myself.” Ralph closed the door on that topic of conversation. “Did you enjoy Lady Compton’s company?” At least the cauliflower accompanying the ham was edible.
“Yes, she was very welcoming.” Helena looked up at him through her eyelashes. “She invited me to tea next week.”
"I hope you shall accept?” He had been impressed with Lady Compton when he met her yesterday, encouraging her to visit Helena while vaguely alluding to his wife’s melancholic spirits.
“Yes, she said it would not be improper for me to visit in my blacks.” Helena paused and pushed the cauliflower around her plate with her fork.
“I have been thinking—you are quite right about the mourning clothes. People will talk, and we don’t want that.
I told Lady Compton it was my brother who died. ” Helena swallowed visibly.
Ralph stared. He set down his fork and waited a moment to be sure that he had heard her correctly. “I am sorry, my dear. I was under the impression you wanted nothing but the truth on that subject. I told Sir Anthony yesterday that it was my brother we were in mourning for.”
Helena looked as mortified as Ralph felt. “Perhaps they will not compare stories.”
"Perhaps,” echoed Ralph, but he was none too sure of that. Lady Compton had struck him as a shrewd woman, able to size up one’s character in a single conversation. Without a doubt she would suspect some havey-cavey business was afoot. But what would she do about it? That was the question.