Chapter 8
The morning room at Powis House embraced sunlight.
Six tall windows welcomed the day. The effect was an eternal morning, the light a thin gold that polished the silver tea service and drew attention to every minor blemish on the linen.
The room carried the scent of lemon oil, old paper, and a faint trace of camphor, the late Duke’s defense against mildew.
William sat at the table, his posture signaling a stalemate.
He had neither tasted his tea nor looked at it.
His hands rested on either side of the cup, thumbs pressing against the delicate porcelain as if to prevent its collapse.
The only other occupant was the family solicitor, whose suit hinted at mourning and whose whiskers dominated his face.
The solicitor cleared his throat, a sound steeped in decades of informing men of consequence of unwelcome truths. “Your Grace,” he began, “I trust you are well this morning.”
William glanced at the clock on the mantle, then at the solicitor. “I am as well as the hour permits.”
“Very good. Then, with your leave, I should like to address a matter of some urgency.”
William gestured, palm up, inviting the words to settle on the table alongside the untouched toast and unopened letters.
“There is the issue, Your Grace, of the Atteberry bequest. As you know it is in addition to the entailed estates and is more than significant. This matter is not new, but it has gained urgency following the settlement of the last entail.” He carefully drew a parchment from his folio.
“The late Duke’s instructions were explicit regarding the conditions. ”
William’s jaw tightened slightly, a motion that could have been mistaken for a tic. “I am familiar with my uncle’s affection for posthumous meddling,” he said, his tone crisp.
The solicitor nodded, evidently relieved by the hint of sarcasm.
“He was, as you know, a man of foresight.” A faint smile flickered before he continued, “The estate is to be secured by a grant from the Pembroke Trust, conditional upon your marriage to a suitable, that is to say, faultless bride before the conclusion of the present Season. Should you fail, you will be left without the funds necessary to sustain the duchy in the matter to which you are accustomed.”
The word ‘faultless’ lingered, a challenge in the air.
William’s gaze narrowed. “I see. And how, precisely, is faultless defined in this instance?”
The solicitor cleared his throat, less out of necessity than as a prelude. “The language of the will is particular, Your Grace. It specifies a lady of reputable lineage, unimpeachable character, and, I must add, no previous alliances or attachments.”
William’s grip tightened on the cup, the fine china emitting a quiet sound. “No widows,” he said.
“None, Your Grace. Nor any woman of ambiguous standing.”
A long pause stretched, measured by the slow cooling of the tea and the mounting pressure behind William’s eyes.
The solicitor pressed on, striving for discretion. “It is widely understood that the Trust will interpret this clause to mean an unblemished debutante, preferably with connections advantageous to the House of Powis. The Season is nearly half spent.”
William inclined his head in a mock gesture of gratitude. “I appreciate your candor.”
He could see, beneath the veil of professional etiquette, that the solicitor longed to say more and wanted to acknowledge that the clause was a relic of spite, a condemnation of all that William valued.
But the solicitor’s face betrayed only restraint, his hands folded with the patience of one who had witnessed too many men reduced to compliance by family obligation.
William cleared his throat, and the ensuing silence felt heavy. “And if I fail to comply?”
The solicitor’s expression remained unchanged, but his pupils constricted. “The grant would revert to your nearest male cousin, Lord George’s son, as matters stand.”
“Thomas,” William said, the name sounding like an insult.
“Yes, Your Grace. He is…” The solicitor searched for a word and let the sentence drop, finding none.
William turned his attention to the garden beyond the windows. The grounds were immaculate, yet the new grass exhibited a restlessness, a refusal to conform to geometry. He watched the gardeners at work, their livery too green for the season, their movements a continuous erasure of anything untidy.
He returned his gaze to the solicitor. “It is unfortunate, then, that the candidate pool is so constrained.”
The solicitor allowed himself a wince, quickly masked. “I took the liberty of drafting a list of suitable candidates, Your Grace. Should you desire it.”
William’s lips barely moved. “Set it with the other papers.”
“Very good, Your Grace. And if I may, time is of the essence. The Trust expects confirmation of your intentions by the first of June.”
“Understood.”
The solicitor stood, bowing awkwardly. He gathered his folio and moved toward the door, pausing only long enough to glance back at William’s unreadable face.
Once alone, William sat motionless for a full minute, the ticking clock the only indication that time had not stopped. He exhaled, long and silent, and let his hands fall away from the cup.
He considered the absurdity of the situation. A man who had spent his life as a rogue now threatened with losing everything for failing to acquire a bride of perfect pedigree. The logic of it was flawless. The cruelty, remarkable.
He did not think of Helena. Or rather, he did not allow himself to think of her as anything other than an abstraction, a point of data, a variable in the equation he had to solve.
He recalled her wit, her disdain for protocol, the way she had laughed at him for being too careful.
He thought, with a bitterness that was almost sweet, of the clarity of her gaze and how utterly it had ruined his appetite for anything less than her.
He reached for the list of candidates, unfolded it, and scanned the names. There were five, each a perfect example of breeding and virtue, each as empty as the space between the lines. He set the list down, then folded it with a violence that left creases in the paper.
Suddenly, he stood and crossed to the window. The light had shifted, a new layer of gold illuminating the garden and the gardeners as they worked. William pressed his forehead to the glass, the chill a small mercy.
Without meaning to, he began to count the days remaining in the Season. It was a calculation he had performed countless times, usually in anticipation of release. Now, the arithmetic was different. Each day was not a reprieve but an extinction.
He watched as one of the gardeners paused, straightening to wipe his brow, and their eyes met through the glass. The man looked away.
William remained at the window until the cold forced him back to himself. He straightened his cuffs, reset his face to an expression of disinterest, and prepared to face the day’s obligations.
He had, he reminded himself, always preferred a challenge. But this one felt less like a puzzle to solve than a sentence to serve.
Helena had always viewed the drawing room of her dower house as a stage, and today she occupied its center.
The afternoon light, filtered through budding leaves and etched glass, cast intricate patterns on the damask and made her tea service shimmer.
She chose her seat deliberately. Not the settee, which invited confidences, nor the high-backed chair by the hearth, which suggested distance, but the window seat, offering both a view and a retreat.
Her guest, Mrs. Winthrop, a widow of several seasons, entered with an air of boundless, if occasionally misguided, goodwill.
Clad in pale lavenders and forget-me-not blue, she wore gloves so white they nearly obscured her hands.
With a peculiar talent, she produced a handkerchief embroidered with the initials of every hostess she visited.
Helena found herself torn between charm and strangeness.
The conversation drifted through bland remarks about the weather and health, punctuated by standard complaints about the state of the roads.
Helena offered cake, which Mrs. Winthrop initially declined, then accepted after a moment's reflection.
They sipped and nibbled, moving in the rhythm of practiced sociability.
Only when the clock on the mantel chimed the half-hour did Mrs. Winthrop’s demeanor shift. She set down her cup with care, leaning forward, her elbows just grazing the edge of the table.
“My dear Lady Fairfax,” she said, her voice low, “I hope you will forgive me for broaching a subject of some delicacy.”
Helena nodded, her smile unwavering. “You cannot offend me, Mrs. Winthrop. Please continue.”
The widow hesitated, loyalty and discretion warring within her, before pressing on. “I have heard, from sources I trust, that a certain individual, well-meaning I’m sure, has taken an interest in managing your estate.”
Helena’s fingers tightened slightly around her cup. “I was under the impression that my estate did not require management.”
Mrs. Winthrop flushed but pressed forward. “It’s just that, in my experience, gentlemen can be overzealous in their duties. Some believe women are happier when relieved of burdens like ledgers and receipts.”
Helena set her cup down, the motion deliberate and quiet. “I assure you, Mrs. Winthrop, that I am fully capable of managing my ledgers and receipts. If anyone believes otherwise, they will be quickly corrected.”
“Oh, I knew you would say so!” The widow fanned herself with her handkerchief. “You have always been so very composed.”
Helena offered a small, sharp smile. “It is my chief flaw.”
Mrs. Winthrop rushed her next words, as if regretting the entire conversation. “I didn’t mean to imply you were lacking. Only that, in certain circles, there is talk. You must know how much I value your confidence, Helena.”
“I do,” Helena replied, sincerity in her tone.
A silence fell, both women considering the pattern in the carpet, weighing the next exchange.
Helena lifted the tray and offered more cake.
Mrs. Winthrop declined with a regretful pat of her belly.
They shifted to safer topics including the perennial disappointment of the flower show, the upcoming garden party at Harrington House, expected to be just as dull as its predecessors. Mrs. Winthrop visibly relaxed, grateful for the return to familiar subjects.
When the clock struck four, the visit concluded with a palpable sense of duty fulfilled. Mrs. Winthrop rose, smoothing her skirts with quick gestures, and took both of Helena’s hands in hers. “Promise me you will call if you ever wish for company. I am not so busy as all that.”
Helena promised. The moment lingered a bit too long, then the widow was gone, leaving a faint trace of lavender and good intentions in her wake.
Helena did not sit. She crossed to the window and stared out at the garden, neither as wild nor as beautiful as the one at Powis House, but entirely hers. The sunlight dimmed, obscured by an approaching squall, and shadows on the grass flickered uneasily.
Her hand drifted to the writing desk, where account books stood stacked like soldiers awaiting inspection. The spines were neatly labeled, edges squared, each volume a testament to years of careful management. She ran her finger along the top ledger, feeling the resistance of paper and glue.
She was well aware her husband had named William to oversee her jointure, but said scoundrel had never seen fit to interfere before. Leastwise, not to her knowledge.
Helena did not yet believe the rumor. But she understood how quickly whispers could transform into reality. She recalled, with nostalgia, the days when men handled her finances, their only qualifications being gender and a knack for creative accounting. The memory tightened her lips.
She considered opening the top ledger for a line-by-line audit but dismissed it as unnecessary dramatics. There was no crisis. Her affairs were in order. She would not be swayed by the speculations of others, however well-meaning.
Yet, as she stood at the window, the first droplets of rain traced erratic paths down the glass, and a small tremor of doubt lodged beneath her ribs, persistent like a muscle ache. She knew it would remain until she proved it unfounded.
Straightening, she squared her shoulders and resumed her place at the window. Outside, the world gradually shifted from sun to rain, from certainty to something less clear. Helena watched, waited, and did not blink.
She would pay a call on her solicitor. She’d planned to do so soon to discuss her charitable endeavor and now the visit could also serve to enlighten her as to wether or not William was involving himself in her affairs.
Yes, she would visit at once. Helena strode from the room.