Chapter 25
HELENA
Helena waved as Miss Marlena, the new governess, took Lavinia away for a walk in the gardens.
They had been at Blackthorne now for a little over three weeks, and it was beginning to feel more like home.
She had not exactly made friends in the village, but she had grown quite close to Mrs. Strom, and to a few of the maids besides.
Life at Blackthorne was considerably different from what she had expected, and she was beginning to enjoy it.
Huxley’s estate had never felt like her own — she had always been a visitor there, and not a particularly welcome one.
Here she could imagine, for the first time, that somewhere like this might truly belong to her.
She came back through the front door, the butler closing it quietly behind her, and stood for a moment in the hall.
Why couldn’t it have been different? The thought crept in before she could stop it, as it had been doing with increasing frequency since their arrival.
Why couldn’t I have met Gideon first? Why couldn’t my father have introduced us, years ago, when we were both younger?
He might have been spared Cassandra, and I—
She shook her head and made her way up to the library.
These thoughts had been haunting her. She did not often speak to anyone about what life with Huxley had truly been — it was not something she liked to revisit.
But now that she was married to Gideon, even if it was not a real marriage, she had been given a glimpse of what life might have been, had the cards fallen differently.
“Your Grace,” Mary said, appearing from down the hall.
Helena turned. “You do not need to call me that. Lady Helena is fine. Or simply Helena, as it used to be.”
“You know I cannot,” Mary said, though she was smiling.
“Not with all these other servants about.” She fell into step alongside her.
“I must tell you — I never knew what it could be like to live in a house with this many servants. There are at least twice as many here as there were at the Vale estate.”
“It must be considerably easier for you,” Helena said, genuinely glad to see Mary so well settled.
“Indeed it is. Though I confess I sometimes feel as though there is nothing left for me to do.”
“Then enjoy it. Or perhaps write a letter to your suitor.”
Mary’s cheeks turned an impressive shade of red. “There is no suitor, Your Grace. And even if there were, it would be most improper for an unmarried lady to write to a gentleman unsolicited.”
“And yet I have observed letters arriving rather regularly over the past fortnight.”
Mary looked at her feet. Then she nodded toward the library door. Helena followed her inside.
“It is true,” Mary said, when the door was closed. “Sir Franklin has written more than once. But it is not what you think. He is attempting to lure me away from you.”
“Lure you away from me?” Helena said. “I was not aware he was in need of a ladies’ maid.”
“He is not.” Mary suppressed a smile. “A housekeeper.”
“Oh,” Helena said. “And are you considering it?”
“No,” Mary said. “Though I will say — even if his letters speak of desiring a housekeeper, there is an undertone that makes it quite clear there is rather more to it than that.”
“So I was right.”
“You were.”
“But you are not leaving.”
“I could never leave you here,” Mary said. “This estate is grand and beautiful, but you need someone at your side who knows you.” She paused. “Speaking of which — did I see you and His Grace taking a walk together this morning?”
Helena looked away. “Yes. Before he went to meet with his steward, he and I walked around the lake. It was very—”
“Pleasant?” Mary said. “I saw the two of you laughing.”
“He said something amusing. He has always had a healthy sense of humour. I have always appreciated it.” She paused. “Huxley never made me laugh. Not after the first few meetings, and even then it was more out of politeness.”
Mary’s smile widened considerably. “You do this often these days. Comparing His Grace to your former husband.”
She had known she was doing it. She had not been aware she was doing it out loud, in front of Mary. Had she been doing it in front of anyone else?
“Do not fret,” Mary said, as though reading her thoughts. “I only notice because I know you better than anyone. But you are not wrong to compare them — if only to show yourself what a good man His Grace truly is.”
“I know it.”
“Lord Vale would never have attempted to make daisy chains with you.”
She laughed at this. She could not help it. “No. He never would.”
“Did you notice that the one you made together is hanging in his study?”
She had, in fact, noticed that. “Yes,” she said. “He tries very hard to be kind to Lavinia. I do not think he will make a bad father figure to her at all.”
“He is not only trying to be kind to her,” Mary said. “He is trying to be kind to you. And I think you know that.”
“I do,” she admitted. “I really do. But we can never be anything more than what we are.”
“Why? Because of the past? Because Lord Vale was a dreadful husband?”
The memory of her time with Huxley pressed in on her, uncomfortable and unwelcome. She shook her head, trying to clear it.
“I was mistaken once,” she said. “I was under the illusion that he loved me, and I was wrong. This time I know better.”
“Do you?” Mary said. “Or are you judging a man who might be a truly wonderful husband by the actions of a man who was, by all accounts, a very poor one?”
She wet her lips. “Huxley was not always bad. When he chose to be charming, he could be very charming indeed.”
“No,” Mary agreed. “He was not always bad. But I saw the other side of him. That side I have not once seen in your current husband.”
She was quiet.
“In any case,” she said at last, “even if I were to consider making our marriage a real one — he has made it clear that he does not want that. He was hurt by Cassandra. He does not believe in love any more than I do.”
“That is the thing about love,” Mary said. “You do not always have to believe in it for it to find you. Sometimes it finds you whether you believe in it or not. All I am saying is — do not shut out the possibility of it because of old wounds.”
Helena swallowed. She knew Mary was right. She knew she ought not to judge him by her past. But knowing it and following through on it were two different things.
“By the way,” Mary said, and pointed to a trunk in the corner. “Has he told you about this yet?”
“No. What is it?”
“Gothic novels. Apparently he came across them in the village — a man who was moving away and had intended to start a circulating library but had received a better offer elsewhere. He left the entire trunk, and His Grace paid him handsomely for it, because they are almost all of them Gothic novels, which he knows you like.”
Something else Lord Vale would never have done.
Mary patted her arm and left, leaving Helena alone with the trunk. She opened it. Inside, she found several of her favorites, along with many she had never read but had always intended to. Her chest warmed, and the warmth spread until she could feel it throughout her entire body.
He was trying so hard. And she had been judging him for things that were not his fault at all.
She had been wrong to do so.
She got up and made her way out of the library.
Her footsteps were swallowed by the heavy carpet as she walked down the corridor, a smile pulling at her lips.
She was going to thank him. She was going to thank him for the books, and for his kindness, and she was going to suggest that they take breakfast together in the mornings as well as dinner — with Lavinia, properly, as a family.
She would like that. And Gideon? She was almost certain he would be delighted.
She came down to the main floor and walked through the portrait gallery, past the ancestors Gideon was only loosely connected to, toward the dark back corner where his study was situated.
The door flew open before she reached it — flew open with such force that the handle cracked into the wall and ricocheted back, very nearly catching the man who was stepping out.
“This is not the end of it, Your Grace,” the man said. “I will not be dismissed in such a manner.”
“You will most certainly be dismissed in such a manner,” Gideon replied, “because you have thoroughly deserved it. I will not suffer such mismanagement on my estate.”
“Your predecessor was ten times the man you are.”
“Well then it is a considerable shame that he got himself killed in a curricle race, is it not? Though I dare say the farmers will be rather the better for it, given how thoroughly you have been robbing them on his behalf.”
“Corrupt? I will not be spoken to—”
“In fact, you will, and you have been, and now you are dismissed.” His voice rose to something she had never heard before — a low, hard roar, his right arm extended, one finger pointing toward the door. “Get out.”
The man turned. He spotted Helena pressed into the corner where the two walls met, and faltered for a moment.
“Excuse me, Your Grace,” he said, and then walked quickly down the hall and out of sight.
“Helena,” Gideon said, when he saw her. His voice had dropped. “What is the matter?”
“I do not like that manner of conduct,” she said. Her voice was very quiet.
“Neither do I,” he said. “He was out of line. He has been stealing from us — from the farmers — mismanaging—”
“No,” she said. “I mean — the way you raised your voice. The way you spoke to him. The anger.” She pressed her back against the wall. “I do not want that in my house.”
“The anger?” He looked genuinely taken aback. “You heard how he spoke to me. Was I simply to stand there and let him say whatever he pleased in my own home?”
“No,” she said, and even as she said it she knew it was unreasonable, knew that her reaction was not about him and not about the steward — and yet her body was rigid and she could not stop the words coming. “But I do not want that behaviour. Not here.”
“Lavinia is nowhere near,” he said. “And I would never raise my voice to her, or to you, or to anyone who did not thoroughly deserve it. He was stealing from us. He was stealing from our tenants—”
“I do not care,” she said. “I do not want it.”
She slipped past him and walked quickly down the corridor, her heels ringing against the exposed boards before the carpet swallowed the sound.
She was almost to the stairs when she heard him behind her, and then his hand closed around her wrist — not hard, not painful, but enough.
The panic surged through her before she could catch it.
She spun around and yanked her hand free, and stood staring at him, breathing fast.
His face had been full of frustration. But when his eyes met hers, all of that changed at once, and what replaced it was something else — a look of slow, dawning, and appalled understanding.