Chapter 4
CHAPTER 4
B y the time Helen returned to their rented house, she was so exhausted that she collapsed onto her bed without doing anything more than kicking off her boots.
The maid she shared with Patricia (as George had scoffed at the idea of paying two ladies’ maids, thinking it punishment, not knowing that, for most of their lives, the Fletcher sisters had had zero maids between them) had been known to mutter fondly about the old lord, God rest his soul , so Helen was not terribly worried that the girl would report to George, even if she had found Helen face-down on her counterpane, still wearing her cloak. There would be no questions to worry about, not from that quarter.
Patricia was another story—not that she would report to George, of course, but that she had quite a lot of questions.
Helen had not slept nearly as long as she might have hoped before her sister barged into her room.
“Helen. Helen! Helen, why are you sleeping still? It’s nearly noon! Are you ill? Why are you wearing a cloak? What’s going on? Have you been sleepwalking? Oh no, are you dead ?”
The problem with tenderly caring for one’s sweet, shy sister for all one’s days, Helen reflected as she tried to sink into the mattress until they became one entity, is that it eliminated fear. And while Helen didn’t want Patricia to be afraid of her, not really, she wouldn’t have minded just a touch of the reticence that Patricia showed others.
Only at select times, mind. Like when she was trying to sleep after making the devil’s own bargain.
But no. Patricia was undaunted.
Probably because she saves up all her talking for me , Helen thought groggily.
“I’m not dead,” she groaned when her sister began nudging more insistently at her shoulder.
“Oh, good,” Patricia said, not sounding as though she had ever been truly worried. Her nudging became more of a full-bodied affair, and Helen belatedly realized that Patricia was trying to get Helen to make space. She rolled over. It was a trial. She could not believe that people sometimes stayed up until near dawn voluntarily .
And worse, now she was on her back, and there was light in here, and God, it was so bright. She was never getting back to sleep, was she? And if she wasn’t getting back to sleep, that meant that she would have to—God help her—think about what she’d done.
She let out a long groan.
“My goodness,” Patricia said mildly. “What on earth is wrong with you this morning? Tell me you haven’t let George irritate you. Go on; tell me what’s wrong.”
I have gotten myself into an insane situation with an insane man , Helen did not say. She didn’t like lying to her sister, but, God, it wasn’t like she could tell Patricia the truth . It was bad enough knowing that she’d shamelessly gone to a wicked duke and let him strike a bargain that traded matchmaking for—lovemaking? No, that was the wrong word. Bedsport? That seemed closer.
There were coarser words, she knew, ones that she’d heard the farm boys say to one another when they got angry, but she couldn’t even think those words without breaking into hysterics over her new, absolutely mad circumstances.
And she couldn’t tell Patricia about George’s threat…or, well, she could , maybe even should, but she didn’t want to. There was no reason, not when Helen was going to fix it. She was going to do whatever it took to fix it, even let that handsome bedlamite…do things to her.
It was all rather impossible to explain. So, instead, she grunted, “Headache.”
At once, Patricia turned from playfully teasing little sister to a sympathetic ally.
“Oh, you poor thing,” she said. “Let me go get you some tea, and I’ll be right back. You’ll be sorry if you sleep the day away, but you’ll be just as sorry if you don’t have something to eat or drink. Give me just a few minutes, won’t you?”
She bustled away, muttering to herself about remedies and tonics. This had the consequence of making Helen feel like the worst kind of louse. Not only was she lying to her sister, but Patricia was being hopelessly kind about it.
As self-inflicted punishment, Helen made herself get out of bed, get dressed, and splash cold water on her face from the ewer before her sister returned. She was just finishing working through the utter wreck of her plait—which made her recall, with a furious flash of heat, the way she’d jolted with…something when the duke had tugged on her hair like a schoolboy teasing a girl he fancied—when Patricia came back, tray in hand.
“Oh, look at you,” she said approvingly. “Looking better already. Come, now, I bullied Cook into giving me some of that marmalade you like.”
“You’ve never bullied anyone into anything in your life,” Helen countered as her sister came at her with a slice of bread that was indeed heaped high with marmalade.
“I just bullied you out of bed, didn’t I?”
“You’ve never bullied anyone except me in your life,” Helen corrected.
“Oh, fine,” Patricia agreed. “I simply asked very nicely. But if you don’t want it…” She made as though she were going to eat the bread herself. Helen swooped it out of her hand before she could and took a hearty bite, which made Patricia laugh happily.
The sound grounded Helen. It reminded her why she was doing all this. Besides, the marmalade was phenomenally delicious and was almost enough to lift her mood. Almost.
The weight of their circumstances prevented her from anything approaching good cheer, however.
Marriage to a man like George… It would crush Patricia. It would take all the goodness and kindness in her and squeeze it out until she was nothing but a shadow of her former self. And that would just be the start. After that, Patricia would be forced to…endure. To suffer daily at the hands of that awful bully of a man.
And if Helen had to trade herself to some duke in order to avoid that fate, she would. Patricia was the only person that Helen loved in this world, and that love knew no limits.
She would protect her sister, no matter what it took.
“Are you really all right?” Patricia asked when Helen had finished her slice of bread and had started in on her tea. “It’s really just a headache? You’re not vexed at me about last night?”
Helen choked. “Last night?” she gasped around a lungful of scalding tea.
“Yes—goodness, don’t hurt yourself over it, Helen. I am sorry that you had to rescue me from that duke. I simply started to worry that it would be rude to leave, and we were having a rather interesting discussion, that I did forget, just a bit, that it was important to my reputation that I not get caught alone with him. Nobody back home cared if I had a conversation with someone,” she added wistfully.
Helen could commiserate. Home on Northton Estate, life had seemed so very simple. Life had been peaceful. The biggest incident the estate had seen for as long as Helen could remember was that time when Mr. MacDun’s sheep had wandered so far that they’d gotten over the Scottish border, which had caused a great deal of arguing when the owner had tried to get them back—a problem only exacerbated when they learned that the owner of the lands onto which the sheep had roamed was Mr. MacDun’s second cousin, with whom he had a longstanding enmity because Mrs. MacDun had defected to England to marry instead of staying in Scotland and marrying the cousin in question.
Helen missed living in a place where people had talked about sheep-based gossip for nigh on a year after the sheep had been (very begrudgingly) returned to their original owner and that only after Mrs. MacDun had agreed to admit, before witnesses, that the Scottish MacDun had aged very handsomely.
“It was easier there,” Helen agreed. “But we’re here now, and we’ll have to learn the rules quickly if we wish to keep our heads above water. Then, hopefully we can find you the kind of husband who likes animals and prefers to spend most of his year in the countryside.”
“And you, too,” Patricia said because she was the optimistic kind of girl who thought that Helen could afford to have preferences in a husband that went beyond not George . “We’ll find you the kind of man who thinks that you are the most perfect woman alive, who positively dotes on you, who sees you for all that you are.”
Sweet Patricia. She saw the world as such a kind place.
“Of course,” Helen said, as there was simply no point getting into this argument with her sister again. They just didn’t have the time for it. “But maybe we’ll find you a well-to-do…oh, what do they call that job where you’re a physician for animals, again?”
“A veterinarian,” Patricia said dreamily. This, of course, had been Helen’s aim; she’d not forgotten the word at all, but she knew it would distract her sister from inquiring further about Helen’s condition or her potential relationship with any dukes. “Yes, it truly is the most noble profession, for animals are very wonderful, of course, but quite unable to nurse themselves. Not to mention that they aren’t always grateful for the help you offer them, so you must have a great deal of patience…”
Helen had enjoyed two full cups of tea by the time Patricia finished her happy pontificating on animal welfare.
Good things, alas, could not last forever. While gesturing to indicate something to do with an injured horse (Helen was not, she admitted, listening particularly closely), Patricia shifted, causing something in her lap to crinkle.
“Oh,” said Patricia eventually. “I nearly forgot. George said that we should read the gossip pages that so we know about who is who in the ton .”
Patricia sounded approximately as excited by this prospect as Helen felt. There was almost certainly not going to be a single mention of sheep in the London gossip rags. More’s the pity.
“Oh, very well,” Helen said, holding out a hand for the paper that Patricia had produced from beneath the tea tray. “Let me see that.”
She took the papers and skimmed through the text, looking for something interesting to read aloud.
“All right, let’s look here… Here’s something. ’ Oh, my dearest readers, do let me bend your ears— ’ Goodness, they are always terribly flowery about things, aren’t they? ‘— so that I might regale you with tales of the most eligible gentlemen to grace our dance halls this season .’” Helen arched an eyebrow at her sister. “Do you think they just…never undo the typeface for that sentence? I mean, that’s the whole purpose of these rags, isn’t it? Do you think they print this every day?”
“Maybe they write it for the benefit of those who are new to the ton , like us,” Patricia offered.
“We might be new to London, but I rather think the phrase ‘gossip rag’ is self-explanatory,” Helen countered.
“But this one says that it’s clearly discussing eligible gentlemen, not scandalous ones. I suppose that’s why George wished us to read this edition,” Patricia said musingly. Helen felt that Patricia could stand to be a bit more judgmental about things. If one couldn’t mock tawdry gossip rags, what could one make jabs about?
Helen read along each thinly veiled reference as the paper disclosed the exploits of Marquess H— and Lord M— of W—B— and all the other men of that ilk. The two sisters giggled over the flowery descriptions (there were only so many times one could read the phrase “flaxen hair” without losing one’s composure), but Helen found herself struggling to keep her tone light when she got to the final paragraphs of the pamphlet.
“’ And I’m sure I need not remind you, readers, of the gentleman we know in our pages as Duke L, the unparalleled catch of this Season (and, indeed, of many Seasons previous). Long have debutantes and seasoned misses alike tried to capture the hand and heart of leader of the illustrious L— clan, and even a widow or two has had her head turned by that gentleman’s charms. Any lady would be lucky to have him, for who would not offer herself before the promise of a ducal title and a husband in his prime? But Duke X has not yet fallen for their tricks…though many, it is rumored, have fallen for his. What shall transpire this Season, gentle readers? Shall His Grace finally succumb to the pull of the altar, or will he convince more ladies to give up their most precious gifts in an effort to lure him, without success, into matrimony? Only time will tell.’”
“Well, that’s a bit crass, isn’t it,” Helen commented as she finished reading. “They’ve all but outright written that he’s ruined scores of women. Really, they ought to be ashamed of themselves. How do you think those poor women must be feeling, reading this, being treated as though they are only one in a faceless crowd? Distasteful. It’s just very distasteful.”
Helen had thought she had sounded convincingly nonchalant, but when she looked up at Patricia, she found that her sister was giving her a highly concerned look.
“Helen,” she said carefully. “That duke fellow—I’m sure that’s who they must be talking about—he didn’t…harm you in any way after you rescued me, did he?”
She looked as mortified by the question as Helen felt.
“Lord, no!” Helen exclaimed. “No, no, nothing like that. He was a touch rude, that was all.”
At the ball, at least , she told herself, as if this made it less of a lie.
“You’re sure?” Patricia didn’t look wholly convinced. “Because you have been in a rather peculiar mood all morning…”
“I’m sure,” Helen assured her. “The Duke of Godwin didn’t do anything to me, not at all.”
She thought of that glancing kiss on the cheek, of the way he’d laughed at her shock. Rudeness but nothing more—yes, that was all the Duke of Godwin had done. Perhaps she wasn’t as much of a liar as she feared.
“Very well,” Patricia said with a sigh. “I suppose I should go get ready. We’re meant to promenade with George in little more than a quarter of an hour.”
“Drat,” Helen said.
“Just so,” Patricia agreed. “If you’re sure you’re really all right? I can make your excuses, if you need me to…”
“No,” Helen insisted. “By which I mean, yes, I’m all right. Just go, go. I’ll be right behind you. We’ll all get an earful if George is kept waiting, and I do not intend to let him bother you.”
She ushered her sister out the door, feeling pleased that at least this last thing was undisputably the truth.
“My goodness, Xander, what are you doing?”
Catherine’s voice urged Xander’s attention away from the letter he was penning to his estate manager regarding the modernization of water that could be piped directly into one’s home. It was an utterly mad extravagance, one that had only belonged to royalty up until an improvement in design some twenty years past by a Scottish inventor. It would cost a mint and would take absolute ages to install, but they were the Lightholders.
If the king had something first, the Lightholders had it second.
Xander would do what was necessary to make it so. He had a family legacy to uphold, after all. He would not be the first in a dozen generations to let their good name suffer.
But part of that family legacy relied on not ignoring his sister, so he laid his pen aside.
“Catherine,” he said pointedly. “How are you today? It’s so lovely to see you.”
Fortunately, the family legacy did not include a promise not to tease his sister. That was still allowed.
“Yes, yes, you’re very droll,” she said. Her fingers were fussing with her bonnet ribbons until they were tied in the fashionable way beneath one ear. “Are you not ready yet? You don’t look ready, and it’s nearly time to go.”
He frowned. “Ready for what?”
Catherine, who had never met a problem that she didn’t want to fix, particularly when said problem was of her brothers’ making, gave him an assessing look. It was not at all right that his younger sister could make him feel guilty about things so easily.
“You’ve not been sleeping again,” she said.
“Kitty,” he sighed.
“No, I’ll scold you about it later,” she said, interrupting him. Catherine was on a very short list of people whom Xander would let get away with interrupting him, not to mention bullying him out of his chair with rapid shushing motions. “For now, you’ve got to go make yourself presentable. We’re going to the park with Ari, remember?”
Xander supposed he vaguely remembered something of the sort. He tried to look like a man who remembered everything perfectly.
“And you need me to be present for this why?” he asked, though he did let Catherine usher him toward the door. He cast a faintly longing glance back at his desk.
“Because,” she said with the air of a person who had already explained this too many times to count, “it is Ariadne’s first Season and she is nervous, so we are all going on a promenade together—yes, all of us , Xander; don’t argue—to show our support.”
He had been about to argue, and it was highly irksome that Catherine knew that. Sisters, no matter how dear, could be such a trial.
“Did Ari say that she’s nervous?” he asked. It was probably a foolish question; Catherine was disturbingly competent, though her tendency toward the managerial did occasionally go a bit far. If she reported on something happening in this house, it was happening.
“Of course not,” Catherine said, checking her reflection even as they kept moving down the hallway. She looked perfect, of course. She never did have so much as a hair out of place. “It’s Ari. She’d never admit it. But the poor thing has bitten her nails down to the quick, so her nerves are obvious enough.”
Ariadne detested public attention. Perhaps it was unforgivably soft, but Xander was tempted to humor his youngest sibling, particularly if she was hurting herself over her anxiety.
“Perhaps we should let her stall a year, Kitty,” he said quietly, pausing outside his bedchamber. “She’s only just eighteen. It wouldn’t damage her reputation overmuch to let her wait.”
Catherine shook her head, though she didn’t look unsympathetic. “It wouldn’t do her good,” she said firmly. “It would just make her nerves linger for another year.” He must have still looked doubtful because she gave him a reassuring smile. “It’s normal for a girl to be nervous when she makes her debut,” she reminded him. “I was beside myself.”
“You were never,” he retorted.
“I was too. I just didn’t let it show. But I’m me and Ari is Ari, so we can see the effects of things more. It will get easier as she goes along. Besides, she’d hate the gossip that would circulate if she didn’t debut twice as much as she’ll hate actually going out and entering Society.”
“Please,” Xander scoffed. “As if I’d let them gossip about Ari.”
Catherine laughed, every inch the knowing sister. “You might be very fearsome, Your Grace,” she teased. “But even you cannot control people’s tongues, and they’ll only think you foolish for trying to overuse your influence. No, the best thing you can do is just stand at Ariadne’s side as she makes her way—though you are free to glower at people, if you so desire.”
He rolled her eyes at her playfully. He suspected he would end up glowering at someone before the day was out, however. There were simply too many fools in Society to suspect otherwise.
And yet, his sister was probably correct in her assessment of his power over gossip. Tragically, there were some things beyond his control. Not many, but some.
“Oh, go off with you, then,” he told Catherine. “I’ll get myself ready quickly. Tell Ari and Jason that I’ll be along presently.” He turned to enter his bedchamber so he could get himself properly dressed as the public’s vision of the Duke of Godwin, then paused. “And Kit?”
“Hm?”
“Thanks.”
She gave him an understanding smile. They both knew that Catherine was the only person with whom Xander ever fully let his guard down. The gap between him and their other siblings was too big, and their mother… Well, she was not terribly equipped to help anyone through a storm, even a brief one.
And nobody else was family. Xander would never trust someone who was not family.
Catherine also knew him well enough not to make a fuss.
“Just get dressed quickly ,” she urged. “We’ll meet you downstairs.”
Xander was used to being the one giving the orders, the one in charge of everything. But sometimes it was just the tiniest bit comforting to let himself give in to his sister’s demands…even if he would never admit it, not even to her.