Chapter 9
The next day Helena was surprised, and a little pleased, to have Gerald visit in the afternoon during one of the breaks in the rain.
His tutor Mr. Whitmore was in attendance.
The boy handed her a folded sheet of paper, and she opened it to enjoy a haphazardly written missive on the state of his health and the state of the weather in Carham.
“I didn’t think I needed to tell you it was raining this morning,” said Gerald, “since you must have seen it raining here at the guest house too, but he insisted.”
He jerked a thumb in Mr. Whitmore’s direction. Helena smiled understandingly.
“Is it almost time for tea?” asked Gerald, rubbing his toe against a tassel on the edge of the carpet.
“Master Gerald!” said his tutor in a thundering voice.
“What? I didn’t ask for food, did I? I only asked if it was time for tea.”
“I think it might be just about time,” said Helena, ringing for Polly. Ralph had procured some more sweet rolls from the village, and Helena served one to Gerald and one to his tutor.
“I didn’t ask. She offered,” Gerald grunted between bites, eyeing the remaining rolls longingly.
By the time Gerald and Mr. Whitmore had departed, the rolls had all disappeared and the official post had arrived.
Helena saw a letter from her friend Miss Cecil and a letter for Mr. Aldine—nay, for Ralph.
She would make an effort to remember. She held the missive for a moment, her brow furrowing, and then decided to take it upstairs.
Outside of Ralph’s study, she took a breath. He had not yet invited her to see the improvements he had made—indeed, she had not seen the inside of the room since the day she had first toured the guest house. Raising a tentative hand, she knocked.
“Come in,” said Ralph’s clear, firm voice. No doubt he assumed she was Polly. Helena opened the door and was startled to see his face brighten as he looked up from his desk. “Helena!” He deposited his pen in the inkwell immediately and looked at her expectantly.
“A letter came.” She motioned to him to forgo rising—there was no need to stand on her account when she only came to deliver a letter. It took two steps to reach the edge of his desk.
“Thank you.” He split the seal and skimmed the contents.
Helena’s eyes wandered around the small room.
A shelf of books on various legal aspects covered one wall.
On the other walls were paintings, all pastoral in nature, the sort of wild beauty one might see from the bank of the River Tweed outside Carham.
Had they come from his office—or his house—in London?
He must enjoy the country then, or at least the idea of it.
Her eyes flicked back to his face as he absorbed the letter.
“It is from my office in London...questions about some of our clients.”
“I see.” She watched his brow furrow with interest as he examined the page.
Helena had never thought much about her husband’s work in London or considered that it might have been a sacrifice for him to give it up.
After all, was it not better to be a moneyed gentleman of leisure than a solicitor chained to his desk?
And yet, what leisure did he enjoy here by the border of Scotland? Rather than spending his time spending her money, his time was now spent chained to her!
“Do you miss it?” she asked. As soon as she said it, she felt too forward, as if she were peeking inside a reticule that did not belong to her.
Ralph set down the letter, eyebrows lifting like a kite in the wind. “A little. But not enough to regret six months in the border country with the most beautiful woman of my acquaintance."
How like him to answer the question gallantly. “Should you like to return to being a solicitor after...the six months?”
“Perhaps. It depends on a great many things, chief of which is you, my dear. Should you like to return to London society?”
Helena hesitated, touched by his consideration. “I don’t know. I barely had time to experience it. I was just out of the schoolroom when...when I met Will.”
His face froze, and the nearness they were approaching disappeared like a flickering flame before an icy blast of air. “Yes, so you were. Well, there will be time enough to discuss it later.” He picked up the letter. “Pardon me, but I must answer this immediately.”
“Yes, of course,” said Helena, stepping hastily to the door.
Her heart was racing as she shut it behind her.
At the mention of Will, her mind could not help but travel back to that night—when Will had enticed her into a cloakroom at a private ball, when he had pressed his kisses passionately on her trembling lips, when she had protested faintly as he fumbled with her dress, when he had sworn that he loved her and meant to make her his—and apparently Ralph’s mind had traveled to that same night as well.
She had seen his face harden with scorn the minute Will’s name was mentioned.
How he must despise her for her frailty!
A bright tear slipped down Helena’s cheek, followed by another, and another.
She retreated across the corridor to her own room and without summoning Finch to help her undress, crawled in amongst the bedclothes.
As much as she had loved Will—nay, still loved him!
—she could not help but wish that she had met Ralph under different circumstances.
She would not come down for dinner. Sleep was what she needed.
She was too heartsick to remember...and too forlorn to forget.
Ralph tossed the letter aside as soon as the door closed and tried to keep his clenched fist from beating against the desk.
Hades and perdition! When he thought of what Will had done to that orphaned girl—the innocent life he had ruined with his selfishness, the manner in which he had tried to escape his responsibilities, the contempt with which he treated her once his hand was forced—he almost wished that the grave would yield up its dead so he could kill Will all over again.
Ralph groaned. He had not meant to fall in love with Helena Angiers.
While settling Will’s wretched business with the Duke of Tilbury, he had glimpsed her twice in her own home, but it was not until Christmas dinner that they had been officially introduced.
Her sweet nature and deference to his stepmother, Lady Aldine, had charmed him.
..as much as Will’s cavalier treatment towards her that night had rankled.
And then days later, when Will had deserted her at an assembly to drink and gamble, he’d had the privilege of leading her onto the dance floor.
His heart had ached at the wistful worry in her eyes and marveled that she still managed to be kind and attentive to a nobody such as himself.
And somewhere on that dance floor, he had fallen in love with a star that was so far above him he would never be able to trace its path through the heavens.
After Will’s death, the only sensible thing was for her to be sent away—to birth her baby in obscurity until she could be separated from it and return to London with no one the wiser.
His own mother had faced the same situation but had had the luxury of depositing her infant on his father’s doorstep.
There he had been raised as the illegitimate elder son, accepted as long as he made himself useful to the family.
For Helena’s child, there was not even this option.
Without a husband, she could do little else but shuffle the baby off to a foundling home.
And so, trembling at his own unworthiness, he had offered himself as her means of escape, to save Helena from a tarnished reputation and to acknowledge the baby that Will had fathered.
And what did she think of him—that he had done it for the money? To escape his life as a solicitor and batten off her dowry? If she only knew!
Ralph leafed through a sheaf of paper and extracted a single sheet of stationery. Instead of answering his business associates, he began to pen the thoughts spinning feverishly through his brain like a child’s top.
My One and Only Love...
An hour later, exhausted from the overflow of his emotions, he cast the freshly blotted letter into a drawer, stood up stiffly from his desk chair, and stretched his cramped limbs.
Yes, he had written his heart, but no, he could not share it with her.
She was still grieving for Will—the white knight she would always view on a pedestal.
He had died before his dastardly behavior could be exposed, and death had a way of making martyrs of the worst villains.
Glancing out the small window, Ralph saw that the rain had begun again and that the dark was rapidly gaining on the day.
He lit another lamp and reached for a book, but soon, the text began to swim before his eyes.
He checked his pocket watch. Surely, Polly would knock any moment to alert him that dinner was ready.
Rising of his own accord, he descended the narrow stairs and discovered that both the parlor and the dining room were empty.
The racket coming from the kitchen, however, more than made up for the silence in the other rooms. Striding into the scullery, Ralph observed Polly cowering in the corner while Mrs. Jenkins banged pot after pan on the counter, using her ladle on the tin vessels as a bosun uses a cat on the backs of mutineers.
“‘Is she unweel?’ Ah ask. ‘Nae, she jist dinna want yer fare.’ All high in th’ instep th’ lot o’ them! When th’ colonel was here, ah ne’er had a single complaint about mah cookin’.” She brought the ladle down sharply on a dented pot.
“How now, Mrs. Jenkins!” said Ralph sharply. “What is the meaning of this?”
The cook glowered and refused to respond. Ralph turned to Polly, hoping for an explanation.
“Miss Finch came down an’ said th’ mistress’ll not be dinin’ tonicht, an’ when Cook asked why—”
“—she said mah food could poison an ox an’ that th’ mistress prefers to stay alive.” Mrs. Jenkins panted heavily. The saucepan she was holding was far too heavy for a woman with murder in her eye.
Ralph goggled at the humorous insult Finch had dealt their unskilled chef and spent so much time choking down his laughter that he was unable to respond. His failure to palliate Cook, however, left her in no doubt of where he stood on the matter.
“Ah’ll not stay where ah’m not appreciated,” she huffed.
He glanced at the empty ladle in the cook’s hand—a quite superfluous implement, he suspected, as he’d never tasted a sauce of any kind coming from this kitchen. “Perhaps if you improved your cooking, Mrs. Jenkins, the appreciation would be ladled on more liberally.”
The bristles on the cook’s chin stood out in sharp relief on her cherry-colored face. “Ye’ve seen th’last o’ me then.” She threw the ladle on the floor. “Ah’ll pack mah things this very minute.”
Ralph watched stoically as the cook disappeared into the servants’ chambers and then walked out again five minutes later carrying a bag stuffed with skirts and aprons, and a wooden box that seemed to be full of knives.
He fished into his pocket and came out with a few coins. “Your wages, Mrs. Jenkins.”
She palmed them ungratefully and was soon out the door, banging it behind her as she disappeared into the misty evening.
“Ack, sir!” gasped Polly, who looked as if she’d been holding her breath for the last five minutes. “What are we to do? She’s left no dinner fer ye.”
“Praise be!” said Ralph. “I wouldn’t eat it if she had.” He shucked off his coat and rolled up his sleeves. “Now, Polly, have you ever heard of an omelet? I trust we have some eggs in the larder.”
“Yes, sir,” said Polly, wide-eyed.
“Then off with you to fetch them,” said Ralph. He examined the nearby pans until he found one the right size. “Mrs. Jenkins is not the only person capable of cooking an egg.”
“She’s no comin’ back then?” said Polly, shoulders tensed as she smoothed out her pinafore.
“Certainly not. Mrs. Aldine shall hire a new cook who knows how to wield a ladle in ways other than as an instrument of death.”
“How soon?”
“As soon as possible."
“An’ should ah forgo mah day off, tomorrow?” Polly asked, a concerned look etched on her brow. “Mah mam’s expectin’ me, you see. But who’ll tend to th’ house?”
“No, no,” said Ralph. “You may take your afternoon as usual tomorrow. I can keep a fire lit in the grate and the dusting can wait. Now be off with you and fetch me those eggs!” Ralph rustled around in the baskets he found on the counter, looking for just the right herbs.
At his flat in London, he’d had a woman come in to do the cleaning and make a few pots of stew for him, but there’d been no ready dinner every night.
It was either a pie from a street vendor or cook his own fare if he didn’t want to starve.
He found a little satchel and, smelling it, decided it must be dried parsley from the kitchen garden.
He rubbed the green herb between his fingers.
He hoped Helena would find an omelet tempting—she needed to eat if the baby was to be healthy and strong.
Perhaps Finch’s outburst was all for the best. Perhaps a new cook would make life much happier for all of them at the Carham Hall guest house.