Chapter 17
The next month passed in quiet domesticity, but at the end of it, a pair of letters arrived that Helena and Ralph read with individual interest.
The first letter was addressed to Helena from Miss Edwina Cecil.
She had been traveling with her brother, Edward, and although they had journeyed as far as York, Edward had adamantly refused to continue the journey to Carham and impose their presence on a pair of newlyweds.
Edwina sent her love and a promise to visit Helena as soon as the baby arrived.
…Beyond a promise that I may visit you, I must also wring a promise out of Edward to let me visit London.
You were in no condition to speak of this matter when last I saw you, but I will tell you in confidence now that while we were in London, I began a correspondence with one of the most interesting men I have ever met.
He is not, by the world’s accounting, a “gentleman.” Indeed, he is far removed from any connection to the gentry or the aristocracy.
But he is honest and clever and kind, and if you knew the half of what he has done, you would think the same yourself.
Despite the certain censure that would come if this were universally known, I have continued to correspond with him for the last four months.
His letters are short but sharp and incisive.
I learn a little more about him each time he writes, but not enough to satisfy my curiosity.
Edward, who has also become a friend to him, has allowed the correspondence, albeit against his better judgment.
He thinks it best, however, that I do not visit London anytime soon, for he cannot see how this correspondence could ever come to anything more.
And so he has begun a program of travel to tire me out and distract my mind from my unsuitable predilection.
Will it work? So far, I think it will not.
For every place we go and every strange thing we chance upon, I think only of how I shall describe it in my next letter and “What would Mr. P— say to that oddity if he were here?”
If anything further comes of it, I shall be pleased to have you make my ungentlemanly friend’s acquaintance. Perhaps we shall both be in London again next year….
Helena folded the letter carefully and placed it with the others in the drawer of her vanity.
Edwina had always been the more sensible one when they were at seminary together.
No doubt it came from her being a year or two older.
How strange that she was conducting a correspondence with someone whom Helena could only assume was a man of trade.
But then, Helena herself, the daughter of a duke, had contracted a shocking mésalliance with a solicitor, and an illegitimate one to boot.
Over the last several months, she had made the same discovery as her friend, that a man who was honest and clever and kind had far more to recommend him than one who stood to inherit a title.
She had no criticism for Edwina, for to offer censure there would be only to offer censure to herself.
The second letter was addressed to Ralph from Bow Street. He took it from Polly before Helena could see it and retired to his study to read. The matter was short and to the point.
Mr. Aldine,
I have investigated the matter of Miss Clifford.
She is reputed to have entertained many gentlemen at her rooms in the theater, both before and after your brother’s death.
There is no evidence as to what that entertainment may have involved.
The duration of Miss Clifford’s pregnancy is also indeterminate.
The owner of the theater appears to still be unaware of her condition although the other actresses know about it.
Miss Clifford’s thespian associates are either ignorant of the father or unwilling to speak on it.
I do not know whether continued investigation can penetrate this veil of reserve.
If Miss Clifford continues silent on the father of her child, it is unlikely that any paternity can be determined. Although any accusation she might make might cause some pain to your family, without any tangible proof, it will be easily disregarded by the court of public opinion.
I remain your obedient servant, etc.
Jacob Pevensey
Bow Street
The letter dropped onto the desk and Ralph’s steepled fingers tapped gently against each other. Hmm. He had hoped that Pevensey would have been able to unearth more than this.
Ralph shook his head. What a tangle! As much as he disliked the situation, he was not devoid of compassion or a sense of responsibility.
If Will had got a child on this woman, the child ought to be provided for.
As he had been. As Helena’s child would be.
But if Libby Clifford was lying? There was no way of proving it one way or the other.
He had reached point non plus with the Runner’s investigation, but he did not want to ignore the matter lest Miss Clifford decide to approach his stepmother directly. Again, his fingers tapped against each other. What to do?
Ralph reached for the pen and opened the inkwell.
He would write the actress a letter demanding proof.
If she could provide evidence that Will was the father, he would find some way of supporting the child.
But if she could not, then he would preempt her complaints to his stepmother by telling her himself that an actress was trying to batten off of their tragedy by making false claims. And he would intercept any letter by which the actress might attempt to contact Helena. He set the nib of the pen on the paper.
Miss Clifford,
I must inform you that I cannot accede to your request unless you produce some evidence proving my brother is in fact the father…
Helena did not enjoy walking alone. The countryside was too wild, too unfamiliar.
But the cottage was so small that the need for fresh air sometimes overcame her reluctance to take the air by herself.
She wished Edwina Cecil’s brother had not been so adamant in politeness to newlyweds that he had prevented his sister from visiting.
It would have cheered her spirits to accompany her friend along the streets of Carham and the wilder paths surrounding it.
The spring weather was starting to become pleasant—at least, mercurially—and Helena decided to don a pelisse and bonnet to enjoy it.
At least her pelisses still fit, cut as they were to fasten so far above the waist. Ralph had already risen early that morning and gone into the village.
He had no qualms about walking alone. But then, Helena supposed he had probably been alone a good portion of his life, the unhappy result of his parentage.
She laid a hand over her rounded belly. How good of Ralph to spare her child from such a fate.
But then, Ralph was good. He was undoubtedly too good for a foolish girl like her.
Helena sighed and attempted to tuck in a blond curl that had fallen down from her inexpert coiffure to trail beneath her bonnet.
The path that led to Carham Hall was one familiar to Helena, but instead of visiting Lady Compton, she turned off the main way and took the small footpath that circumscribed the grounds.
Wildflowers had sprung up, seemingly overnight—blue and yellow ones, tall and short ones.
Helena, familiar only with the hothouse flowers of Geoffrey’s orangerie or London shops, had no names for the wild beauty of Northumberland foliage.
She was in the midst of collecting a bouquet when she heard herself being hailed from far away.
“Mrs. Aldine? I say, it is Mrs. Aldine. I was right!” The youthful voice belonged to Gerald, and trailing behind him was his black-browed tutor, Mr. Whitmore.
“Hello,” said Helena, directing all her conversation to the younger of the pair. “Are you out enjoying the flowers?”
Gerald’s nose wrinkled. “What flowers? Oh, those?” He wrinkled his nose at the bouquet in Helena’s hands. “No, I’m reconnoitering.” He announced the last word proudly, as if he had just mastered it sometime in the last day or two.
“Oh my,” said Helena. “What does that mean?”
“I’m finding places to set up lines of battle. The Hall’s under attack you see, or at least it will be, once I draw up my regiments.”
“The fresh air suits you, Mrs. Aldine,” said Mr. Whitmore, sidestepping his charge and changing the subject. He wore no hat, perhaps because his pupil had dragged him out of doors in too hurried a fashion. “May we walk with you?”
“I daresay I’m too slow for an energetic lad who wishes to reconnoiter—”
“Nonsense. Gerald can mend his pace to match his elders.” Mr. Whitmore offered Helena his arm, and unsure what else to do, she placed her hand in the crook of his elbow.
Gerald ran ahead, without a word of remonstrance from his tutor, and Helena found herself to be the new topic of conversation.
“How do you like the northern country, Mrs. Aldine? You are from London, I believe?”
“Yes, London is where I live—er, lived. It was busy and full of sights and sounds. But it is very…nice here, as well.” Helena bit her lip.
“Does your husband’s business take him away to London often?”
Helena blinked. She had not considered the possibility that Ralph might be called away from Carham again. “I don’t know,” she blurted out. “I am not certain what his plans are for the next few months.”
The tutor’s dark eyes regarded her. “I daresay you suffer from loneliness, being left so much to your own society. If I had a wife like you at home, I would not leave her for a day. I could not.” His tone became far more intense than civility allowed.
Blushing a shade of horrified scarlet, Helena tried to withdraw her hand from Mr. Whitmore’s arm, but the bend of his elbow crooked even further and held her like a vise. “Lady Compton has been kind of enough to keep me company while my husband is occupied,” said Helena desperately.
“Ah, of course,” said Mr. Whitmore, halting on the path. “But she has her own house and husband to attend to. Should you ever need another friend to cheer you, I would be happy to—”
“Helena! Well met!” said a cheerful voice.
Released from her escort’s grip at last, Helena drew her hand away from Mr. Whitmore’s sleeve as if it were a bed of burning coals. “Ralph!” she gasped.
“How pleasant to see you came looking for me.” He approached her with a few quick steps and deposited a quick kiss on her cheek. He took her arm under his own elbow, and there was a rightness about the way it fit which calmed all of Helena’s nerves.
“Mr. Whitmore,” continued Ralph, his voice much colder than it had been a second ago, “it seems you’ve lost your pupil. I’m surprised you haven’t taken to your heels to look for him.”
“He’s old enough to find his own way,” said Mr. Whitmore in a surly tone, “and there’s nothing dangerous about the estate.”
“Nothing dangerous?” Ralph’s eyebrows rose, and Helena marveled at how haughty her husband could be when he had a mind to put someone in their place.
“How reassuring to know that, for if there were, I certainly wouldn’t want my wife walking alone on these paths.
” He doffed his hat to the hatless tutor.
“Good day to you, Mr. Whitmore.” Then, without waiting for a reply, he strode past the tutor with Helena’s arm tucked neatly under his own.