Chapter 7
The next afternoon, Helena settled in the drawing room of her dower house, her demeanor calm as a pale April sun filtered through the lace curtains, scattering light onto the Aubusson rug.
The footman had just delivered her guest, and already the room seemed to tighten with anticipation, or forbidding, she truly could not say.
She chose the wingback chair, a relic upholstered in peacock blue, positioned to face both the door and the fireplace.
Clasping her hands in her lap, she quickly unlaced them, smoothing her skirts with unnecessary precision.
Every part of her composure was accounted for except her hands, which performed small, restless motions, eager to betray her.
William stood at the hearth, his stance straight despite the soft Persian carpet beneath him.
He wore his black coat, a waistcoat the color of stormwater, and starched white linen at his throat.
His presence seemed to draw heat from the fire, focusing it just above his left shoulder, where the play of light sharpened the angle of his jaw.
They exchanged the usual pleasantries, their words skimming the surface like waterfowl avoiding the plunge. The footman withdrew silently, leaving them in a room thick with unasked questions and the faint aroma of sandalwood.
Helena tilted her head, an invitation and a challenge. “You are punctual, as always.”
He regarded her, a smile flickering at the edge of formality. “I find lateness signals either indifference or incompetence. I hope never to be accused of either.”
She let the silence stretch, fighting the urge to throw herself into his arms.
He examined the mantel, then the assorted objects there. A clock, a miniature, a handful of polished stones. His hands clasped tightly behind his back, fingers interlocked. “Are we to remain in silence?”
Helena leaned forward, shifting from relaxation to intent. “I want to be clear about something, Your Grace.”
He turned, leaving the safety of the fireplace. “Clarity,” he said, “is a rare commodity. By all means.”
Helena fixed her gaze on his, steady and unblinking. “I value our arrangement. I value the understanding we share.” She released a slow, measured breath. “But I have no desire to be married again. Not to you. Not to anyone. And yet, I wish for our liaison to continue.”
She watched as the words registered, a ripple of shadow crossing his face before being disciplined away. His jaw tensed, the muscle twitching beneath the skin, but when he spoke, his tone was more analytical than affronted.
“You consider matrimony a loss of independence?”
“I consider it,” she replied, her voice steady, “a forfeiture of time. My own. And that is the only thing I have ever truly wanted. To have it, at last, for myself.”
He nodded sharply. “A fair desire.”
She expected protest, or at least a question—What of love, of necessity, or the machinery of lineage and inheritance? Instead, he surprised her.
“Sometimes I envy your freedom, Helena.” His eyes flicked away, then back.
“The title was never mine by birthright. I was intended for the Church, or perhaps the army. Instead, I inherited a chain of obligations I neither sought nor enjoyed. My life is an abacus of other people’s requirements.
Even this,” he gestured between them, “is dictated by you.”
Helena found herself at a loss. She stood, smoothed her skirt again, and crossed to the sideboard, ostensibly to refill her glass. The movement brought them within three feet, the line between them suddenly tangible, as if they were two poles in a broken compass.
She poured a measure of sherry and offered the decanter to him. He shook his head.
“Does this change things between us?” she asked, her voice more vulnerable than she liked.
He regarded her over the rim of his glasses, his eyes glinting with something she could not name. “Only in that I understand you better now.”
She leaned against the mahogany, letting the cool surface steady her. “You are not disappointed?”
He laughed, a short, dry sound. “I suspect you have already decided which outcome would suit you best.”
She considered this, then allowed herself a small, rueful smile. “You are quite right.”
He stepped away from the mantel, closing the distance between them. “Would you like me to go?”
The question was gentle, almost tender.
“No,” she said, and did not elaborate.
The sun had dipped, casting fresh shadows through the lace and creating a lattice of gold across his cheek. He reached out as if to touch her face, then checked himself and lowered his hand.
“Then I will stay,” he said.
They stood like that, two figures locked in an intimacy that was neither romantic nor adversarial, but deeply honest.
Helena realized she was no longer smoothing her skirts.
She lifted her glass, and for the first time, toasted him. “To time,” she said. “Ours, at last.”
He smiled, slow and dangerous. “To time,” he replied. “May we enjoy it while it lasts.”
“How cryptic.” She laughed, raising her glass.
They drank. The silence that followed was companionable, the first of its kind.
In the thinning light, hunger sharpened into resolve. Not a future, but an evening. Two equals, at rest and at arms, together by their own choice.
She wondered, not for the first time, whether that would be enough.
She suspected it would. Leastwise for her.
William strode through Piccadilly with the purposeful gait of a man on an important errand, his steps measured. At Hatchards, the musty scent of old paper enveloped him, the quiet ambiance whispering of a place that revered ideas.
The bookseller, a man whose mustache often overshadowed his smile, nodded in recognition. “Your Grace.”
William acknowledged the courtesy with a slight nod before beginning to browse the shelves.
He passed the obvious attractions, the new novels, colorful atlases, and stacks of treatises on agriculture, until he reached the glass-fronted case of rare poetry.
Here, the air felt different, colors muted, as if even the dust respected the weight of the works.
William’s reflection appeared alongside him in the glass, a silent companion marked by faint shadows beneath his eyes.
The bookseller approached, keys jingling softly. “Something specific, Your Grace?”
William scanned the shelves, his gaze landing on a slim, blue-black volume. “The Sappho, if you please. Greek and Latin, side by side.”
The man unlocked the case, carefully removing the book and placing it on a velvet pad where its gilt edge shimmered under the dim gaslight.
William handled the volume delicately, opening it just enough to ensure its flexibility without straining the spine.
The paper bore a watermark, each sheet slightly lined, the text in an elegant, clear font.
He thumbed through the opening ode and then to the final page, where a previous owner's hand had inscribed a date: 1806.
“It’s a fine edition,” the bookseller said quietly.
“It is.” William closed the book, feeling its weight in his hand. “Wrap it in plain paper. No card, no seal.”
The man nodded and moved to the counter. William followed, anticipation bubbling beneath his calm exterior.
The price would have daunted a less determined buyer, but William did not hesitate. He placed the coins in the tray, accepted the package, and left the shop quietly.
After dusk, William returned to the district housing the dower house.
He avoided the main street, instead taking the garden wall at the back and navigating the familiar alleyways with the ease of someone for whom secrecy was second nature.
He kept to the shadows, slipping through the narrow postern gate, his boots silent on the gravel.
The house glowed with muted light. Only two or three windows were illuminated, the servants retired, while the mistress of the house likely read by candle or gas. William skirted the rose beds, his breath visible in the chill, and reached the stone bench beneath the east-facing library window.
He set the package down, anchoring it with a smooth river rock. For a moment, he considered adding a note, something clever or dry, but dismissed the idea. She would know it was he who had left it.
He glanced at the lit pane, half-expecting to see her silhouette, but the curtains were drawn. He waited ten seconds before turning to leave, the satisfaction of his act warming him against the night.
Helena rose at dawn and took her tea in the small walled garden behind the house. She draped a shawl over her shoulders, her hair pinned up with minimal concessions to fashion, and set her cup on the iron table with care.
She noticed the package immediately. Even from her seat, the neat wrapping and its perfect placement revealed its origin.
After finishing her tea, she retrieved it, bringing it to the table and sitting down. Her fingers ran over the plain brown paper, feeling the memory of his touch tingling across her fingertips. She untied the twine with precision and peeled back the layers to reveal the book.
Her heart skipped a beat.
She opened the cover, tracing the Greek letters with her nail, then the Latin, then back again.
She read the inscription—1806, nothing more—and felt the intimacy of the gesture keenly.
The lack of flourish, no possessive declaration, just the text itself, raw and whole, entrusted to her.
She swallowed against the rising lump in her throat.
Helena glanced over her shoulder, half-expecting a footman to appear, some witness to her feelings. But the garden was empty, the city unaware of the transaction that had taken place.
Pressing the book to her chest in an unguarded motion, she composed herself, then rewrapped it carefully. As she rose to reenter the house, she carried the volume at her side.
Crossing the threshold, she recited the opening ode under her breath, savoring the words on her tongue, the gift in her heart.
She wondered, not for the first time, what marriage to William would be like.