Chapter 22
HELENA
Helena left her meeting with Mrs. Strom feeling considerably more confident than she had expected to.
The estate was large, but its management was not, in its essential shape, so very different from what she had done at Vale.
The main distinction was one of scale, and of expectation — as they were new to the area and new to the house, there was no pressure to host dinners or balls for some months yet, which simplified matters considerably.
Mary had taken Lavinia upstairs for her nap, and Helena went in search of Gideon.
She found him in the portrait gallery, standing quite still in front of one of the paintings.
The afternoon light came through the tall windows and caught him at an angle that made him look not unlike one of the statues in the sculpture garden, though rather less pale, and with considerably more evidence of life about him.
“There you are,” he said, turning at once. “Are you ready?”
“I am — but first, will you introduce me to this gentleman?” She nodded toward the portrait. “He seems to have captured your attention rather thoroughly.”
“Ah. My great-grandfather. The common ancestor between myself and my predecessor here. By all accounts, one of the finest Dukes this estate has seen — fierce, loyal to his people, and absolutely devoted to his tenants.” He paused. “He died in a duel.”
“A duel? I thought those were outlawed.”
“They are now. But in his day they were still the preferred method of settling certain disagreements. The story goes that a neighboring lord’s son committed a rather horrific crime against one of the young maids on the estate.
My great-grandfather gave the fellow such a thorough thrashing that the father challenged him to satisfaction.
Unfortunately—” he tilted his head at the portrait “—as quick and accurate as he apparently was with his fists, he had rather less skill with a pistol.”
“He looks very distinguished,” she said, studying the painting — the white hair, the deeply lined face, the slight stoop of the shoulders. “How old was he?”
“Five and seventy.”
“Five and seventy,” she repeated. “And he agreed to a duel?”
“Apparently that was very much his nature.”
“Formidable,” she said, and laughed.
“Indeed. Though I hope your own formidable nature will not lead you to issue challenges at five and seventy.”
“I intend to have sons to do it for me by then,” she said — and then heard what she had said, and felt her smile falter slightly. Sons. Their sons. She wet her lips. “Gideon—”
He raised a hand. “It was only a jest. Nothing more. Now — will you help me make this place rather more presentable?”
“I will. And I think we should keep him,” she said, nodding at the portrait. “In the entrance hall, in fact. A guest arriving for the first time would find his story rather impressive.”
“I adore the idea. Very well — Great-grandfather Frederick goes into the main hall.” He offered his arm. “Now — you mentioned there were certain pieces you found appalling. Will you point them out?”
“Gladly,” she said.
She stopped almost immediately in the next corridor, looking up at a large hanging tapestry depicting a mermaid on a rock, its colors faded and its needlework unravelling at one corner. “That,” she said, “is truly horrifying.”
“You do not like mermaids?”
“I find the idea of being a woman with a tail in the place of legs absolutely terrifying. No. It has to go.”
“I take it you are not much of a swimmer.”
“Not in the least. I cannot swim at all.”
“That cannot go on,” he said, with genuine concern.
“Not with that lake behind us. When I was a boy we would sometimes come here in the summers and swim — not often, as we were rather distantly related to the previous Duke, but occasionally. We used to imagine all sorts of creatures beneath the surface. Poseidon rising from the depths.”
“Is this not rather the wrong country for Poseidon?”
He smirked. “Must you be so—”
“Geographically accurate?” she finished.
“I was going to say contrary.” He placed a hand lightly at the small of her back to steer her around a particularly hideous floor vase, and left it there. She was aware of it — more aware than she expected to be. It was oddly comfortable. She ought to move away. She did not.
They continued through the house. The carpets on the first floor were unanimously condemned. Several paintings were earmarked for removal. The candleholders throughout were agreed to be inadequate.
It was in the library that she paused longest.
“The leather chairs,” she said. “They are very worn. Both of them.”
“My predecessor was an avid reader. You can see the evidence. I think we ought to replace them both so they match.”
She moved to the fireplace. It was old-fashioned compared to the others — heavy and dark and slightly oppressive. “This ought to go as well. I would like something with a little gold to it.” She glanced at him. “Is that dreadfully Gothic?”
“This is your home,” he said. “You may have what you like.”
“Our home,” she corrected. “Which is precisely why I am taking you on this tour — so we may each decide what we like and what we do not. And if you do not like gold—”
“I can agree to gold,” he said. “You see — the arrangement is already working out rather well.”
It was, she had to admit. Rather better than she had expected.
“Have you looked through the books?” he asked.
“I have. They are eclectic. A great many travel books — were there explorers among your ancestors?”
“Not that I know of. My father always said his relatives had never left England, not even for the continent. It was actually one of the reasons I joined the militia — I was under the mistaken impression that we would be travelling.”
“Ah, but that would be the military. Or the Navy specifically.” She kept her tone light. “Although, given what my father told me about your conduct aboard that particular vessel—”
“Will you stop—” He turned, laughing, and it was playful, entirely playful and yet the sudden movement caught something in her chest and she took a sharp step back.
He stopped at once.
“Are you quite all right?” His voice had changed. His hand rose and he placed it on her arm, very gently, and somehow that made it worse.
“Perfectly,” she said. “It is a very good thing you did not end up in the Navy. Any number of terrible things might have befallen you. Seasickness, for one.”
“Indeed,” he said — but the warmth had gone out of his voice.
They continued the tour a little while longer, moving up to the floor where the bedchambers were. She was not quite ready to part ways, which surprised her.
“I understand there is a circulating library in the village,” she said.
“Is there? I had not heard. We could go together, if you like.” He said it easily, then seemed to think better of it and added, “We ought to be seen together with some regularity in any case — as Duke and Duchess it is expected.”
“Of course,” she said. “Yes.”
They stood for a moment in the corridor, neither quite moving.
“Do you suppose,” he began, “that you will take an interest in the village in the usual way? I am told it is customary for the Duchess to be involved with the parish and so on. My — I am not sure what to call her. I used to say aunt, but that is not quite accurate, as she was my predecessor’s mother, which makes her—” he waved a hand.
“She was apparently very engaged with charitable work locally.”
“I imagine I shall find something to occupy me,” she said.
She was about to say more when a door slammed somewhere behind her, followed by a sharp voice — a maid, evidently unaware that anyone was nearby. The sound hit her like cold water.
“It is only a maid,” Gideon said at once. “They do not know we are here.”
“Of course,” she said. “I ought to go. I am rather tired.”
She knew it was abrupt. She could see in his face that it confused him, and she was sorry for it, but she could not help herself. Between his sudden turning in the library and the slamming door, her body had gone rigid and she wanted very much to be alone.
“Of course. Rest well. I will see you at dinner.”
“You will,” she said, and went.
As she walked to her chamber the feeling only increased.
Her arms were stiff, her shoulders drawn up.
Her mind felt foggy at the edges. She recognized all of it — recognized it with a deep and unhappy familiarity.
These were the feelings she had lived with at the Vale estate.
The heightened attention, the wariness, the bracing.
Huxley raising his voice. Huxley raising his hand.
She had nearly forgotten this feeling. It had left her gradually in the months she had lived alone in Bloomsbury, fading so slowly she had not noticed it going. And now here it was again, sitting in her bones like old cold.
Gideon was not Huxley. She knew that. This house was not Vale. She knew that too.
And yet she could not seem to make her body believe it. And she did not know how long it would take, or what it would cost her, before it finally did.