Chapter 15
Mr. Whitmore had no more half days for his own leisure, and so Helena had no more encounters with him in the music room unless Gerald was there as well.
The stern tutor replaced the overly attentive swain, and Helena, thankfully, began to think that she would have no need to offer him the quelling look or the verbal set-down that Lady Compton had recommended.
On one occasion, Lady Compton invited Gerald and Mr. Whitmore to join them for tea in the drawing room.
“I do not approve of children presuming upon the time that belongs to their elders,” she mentioned to Helena, “but one cannot have a proper tea in the nursery or schoolroom, and it is good for Gerald to practice his manners once a week.”
“What kind of biscuits has Cook baked today?” asked Gerald innocently, his short legs swinging from the edge of the sofa as he waited for the butler to bring the tea tray.
Helena thought that he looked positively cherubic with his round face, but she was all too aware that he was much naughtier than the cherubs Raphael painted.
“Master Gerald,” said Mr. Whitmore threateningly.
“I have asked for nothing,” said Gerald in an offended tone. “Mrs. Aldine is my witness, that I have made no ‘untoward requests.’”
“Of course, you have not, Gerald,” replied his grandmother. “But you are hinting. You must wait until I offer you a biscuit.”
“Very well then,” said Gerald, “I thank you for your offer, and I shall take two biscuits, if you please. Or three if they are small.”
Mr. Whitmore cleared his throat ominously.
“Mrs. Aldine,” said Lady Compton, ignoring the child. “What do you think of the three prospects who came yesterday to interview for the position of cook at the guest house?”
“They were all quite friendly,” said Helena.
After the disaster of Mrs. Jenkins, she cared a great deal about the demeanor of any new domestics to be hired at the guest house.
It was also a good sign that none of them had bristles on their chin.
“But how shall we know if they have any culinary skills? Can we simply believe what they told us?”
“Ah, you are becoming quite discerning, my dear.” Lady Compton beamed.
“I shall tell you the secret I have been keeping. As they were leaving, I had my own cook give them each a biscuit recipe.” They returned this morning with the fruit of their labors, and when the tea tray arrives, we shall see which biscuit is the best.”
“It looks as if I will have to eat three biscuits now,” said Gerald.
Mr. Whitmore leaned forward with a glare. “Must you use the word biscuit in every sentence that comes out of your mouth?”
“If that chap Cicero can work Carthago delenda est into every speech, I don’t see why I can’t bring up biscuits.”
“Not Cicero,” growled Mr. Whitmore. “Cato the Elder!”
Helena thought the tutor very ill-natured.
Without a smile on his face, the severity of his features was so pronounced that he looked like one of Hogarth’s caricatures of a wicked schoolmaster.
Ralph would never have spoken so to a child.
At present moment, Helena decided she would have no difficulty giving Mr. Whitmore a definitive set-down if he turned his attention to her.
The butler entered the room bearing the silver tea tray, followed closely by a footman carrying a platter of baked goods.
On the platter, in three distinct piles were biscuits stamped with different patterns.
A sheaf of wheat showed on one pile, a very dark pile that had browned a little too long before being taken out of the oven.
A fleur-de-lis showed on another pile, a set of perfect squares all the same size.
And a crisscross pattern showed on the third pile, an assortment of imperfect shapes with crumbling corners.
“And now,” said Lady Compton, “will you pour the tea, Mrs. Aldine? I shall distribute the biscuits. Yes, Gerald, in threes.”
After each person had received a beverage and some biscuits, they sat in silence for a moment, nibbling on the buttery treats.
“Well?” asked Lady Compton.
“If you like them burnt,” said Gerald promptly, “the wheat ones do a good job of that.”
“The fleur-de-lis ones are certainly the prettiest,” said Helena, “but these ones with the crosses stamped on them are simply delicious.”
“I agree, Mrs. Aldine,” said Mr. Whitmore. “A very admirable flavor.”
Gerald was too busy filching another set of biscuits from the tray, right under his grandmother’s nose, to give his opinion.
“Do you think Mr. Aldine will care more about flavor than presentation?” asked Lady Compton, looking at Helena with an amused smile.
“Yes,” said Helena without hesitation. “I know he will.” It was strange that she should know it without ever having asked him, but somehow, she was beginning to recognize the steady pulse of his character that undergirded everything he did.
Ralph Aldine was a man of substance, and he cared about things of substance.
“Then it’s decided,” said Lady Compton. She nodded to the butler, and he handed her a slip of paper to consult. “Ah, those biscuits were made by Mrs. Mabley. If you pen some lines this afternoon, you can secure her as your new cook.”
“Another use for elegant penmanship, Master Gerald,” said Mr. Whitmore in a teacherly tone. “There will be no further biscuits unless Mrs. Aldine can successfully convey her wishes to Mrs. Mabley in writing.”
“Oh?” said Gerald, his mouth still full. “Is she writing Mrs. Mabley in Latin then? ‘My hunger delenda est?’”
“No,” said Helena with a smile. “I daresay English will work quite well to communicate with Mrs. Mabley. But you will have many more important letters to write when you are grown, Gerald, and a knowledge of Latin will serve you in good stead.”
Gerald grumbled a little at that, but he took Helena’s words with better grace than he did his tutor’s.
Later, when Gerald was engaged at the window, pointing out a horse to Lady Compton, Mr. Whitmore approached Helena’s seat on the sofa from behind and leaned his head near her own over the top of the cushion.
“Thank you for dropping a word to Gerald, Mrs. Aldine. You are gentleness itself.”
Helena colored at that overblown compliment, but as Mr. Whitmore straightened right away, and passed by to the other side of the room, she decided to make no response.
After a week and a half had passed, Helena began to feel fretful about Ralph’s absence.
Any time she found herself alone, she was perpetually counting on her fingers.
It was four days there and four days back, and two or three days to complete his errands—surely, he could not need more time than that!
She visited the guest house on the day Mrs. Mabley began her duties and introduced the woman to Polly.
“Mrs. Mabley will be our new cook.” Helena had copied down a stack of recipes from Lady Compton’s cook of meals she liked well, and she gave those to the new queen of the kitchen.
“Do you think you could practice these meals while the house is empty so you know what to do when Mr. Aldine and I return?”
“Of course, ma’am,” said Mrs. Mabley, bobbing a curtsy. She took the sheaf of recipes and began to read through them.
Helena almost pinched herself to prove she wasn’t dreaming. How easy that had been! If Mrs. Mabley continued to be so compliant and to make such excellent biscuits, Helena felt that half of her troubles would melt away.
“Ah can go to market for ye, if ye like,” said Polly.
“That would be useful some days,” said Mrs. Mabley, giving a faint smile. When she smiled, Helena could see that the woman was still quite young. She wondered where the cook had come from since her accent was not quite as pronounced as the Carham folk.
The two servants had fallen into a pleasant camaraderie examining the spices and vegetables that were already there, and Helena left them to it.
She wandered out of the kitchen and back upstairs, her eyes catching on the emerald sofa where she and Ralph had sat during the storm.
Slowly, she climbed the stairs to the upstairs rooms. Her own room, which she had left in disarray, had been tidied by Polly.
Finch’s adjoining room was bare of all but the furniture.
She walked across the narrow corridor and entered Ralph’s study.
There was nothing sitting out on the desk.
No paper. No letters. No hints as to what his business in London might have been.
With effort, Helena edged around the desk to the other side.
A half dozen drawers met her eyes. She wondered if any of them held a clue about her husband’s journey.
Hesitantly, she reached out a hand and was just about to open the middle drawer when she heard footsteps on the stairs.
Mortified that she might be caught spying on her husband’s private affairs, Helena hurried back to the other side of the desk, bruising her shin in the process.
“What is it, Polly?” she asked, reaching the door of the study right when the scullery maid was approaching from the other side of the lintel.
“Lady Compton’s carriage is here,” said the girl, “come to take ye back to th’ house.”
“I shall be right down,” said Helena, trying to hide her breathless anxiety.
“Please tell Lady Compton I shall not keep her waiting more than a moment.” She closed the door of the study with a modicum of regret.
This house—her house, the one she shared with Ralph—would have to remain empty a little longer until her husband came back to her again.
The following evening, Lady Compton begged Helena to play for them after dinner. Sir Anthony added his voice to hers, and thus it came about that Helena was seated properly at the pianoforte while the whole family waited for her to begin.
“I hope she plays something jolly,” said Gerald, without a care for whether the performer could hear him, “for I don’t like sad songs or songs that make you think you ought to fall asleep even though it’s not bedtime.”
“I am certain whatever Mrs. Aldine plays will be divine,” said Mr. Whitmore, counterbalancing Gerald’s complaint with excessive praise.
Helena had been about to select a doleful prelude, but, taking pity on Gerald, she found a quick sonatina with a livelier mood.
The playing was exemplary, the applause was enthusiastic, and Helena soon found herself playing another set of pieces.
But even with the lively tempo, Master Gerald found it difficult to keep his eyelids open.
From the corner of her eye, Helena could see Sir Anthony rise and scoop Gerald up in his arms. Lady Compton, pointing to his cane, insisted that he pass the sleeping child over to her.
“No need to stop, my dear,” said Lady Compton to Helena.
“Sir Anthony and I shall just take this young scamp up to bed and return momentarily.”
The Comptons left the room, and Helena continued to play.
A minute later, she felt, rather than saw, a shadow over her shoulder, a shadow that turned into an arm sliding past her shoulder to turn her pages.
It was Mr. Whitmore, taking advantage of the Comptons’ absence to encroach once again.
Helena breathed deeply through her nose.
She wanted nothing more than for him to keep his distance.
How exactly could she follow Lady Compton’s advice and give the fellow a set-down?
Should she stop playing and tell him her fingers were tired?
Before she could decide how best to proceed, a voice echoed above the Mozart in the music room. “Good evening! I hope I am not interrupting.”
Helena started in shock. The music ended abruptly. She turned around on the bench of the pianoforte, her cheeks a bright shade of pink. “Ralph! You have returned!”
Mr. Whitmore took a step to the side of the Comptons’ pianoforte, put in his place by her husband’s sudden entrance rather than by any wit of her own.
“Yes,” Ralph replied, his mouth twisted into a wry smile. His eyes were inscrutable as he looked at Helena. “You’re looking well, my dear.”
“Th-thank you,” said Helena, too mortified to attempt any further reply. Her fingers began to twist the black crepe of her skirt. Mr. Whitmore nonchalantly retreated to the sofa and took a seat.
“Ah, Mr. Aldine,” said Lady Compton, sweeping back into the room.
“Our butler informed me that you had arrived, on the wings of the winter twilight, as it were. How pleasant to have you back amongst us once again. Sir Anthony is upstairs saying prayers with Gerald. I daresay they’re not expecting you at the guest house.
You must spend the night here and we will let you go home tomorrow. ”
“Thank you, Lady Compton,” said Ralph. “That is most considerate of you to trouble yourself on my account.”
“Oh, it is no trouble at all,” said Lady Compton. “After all, we already have a room made up for your charming wife.” She looked between the two of them. Helena felt a growing sense of panic as the import of Lady Compton’s words washed over her.
A room. A single room.
“I daresay you have much to talk about. I’ll have a footman bring your trunk upstairs, and there’s no need to stand on ceremony with us.” She nodded at Helena. “Good night to you both.”
Mechanically, Helena rose to her feet and approached Ralph, focusing only on putting one foot in front of the other. She expected him to offer his arm, but instead he took her hand in his. “Good night, Lady Compton.” Ralph’s fingers interlaced with hers.
With a gentle pressure, he led her to the stairs, and they followed the footman bearing Ralph’s trunk. Up, up, up they climbed. Helena could barely draw breath.
The footman entered the room and deposited the trunk inside. Ralph and Helena lingered in the corridor until the servant came out again. Then they entered a room that Helena had, up until five minutes ago, expected to have all to herself that night.