Chapter 26
HELENA
“Helena,” he said. “I have not raised my voice at you.”
He let go of her arm as he said it, because he could see that she looked utterly frightened, and that alarmed him considerably more than her anger had.
“Are you afraid of me?” he asked.
She looked up at him and shook her head. “No. I simply do not like it when you raise your voice. I do not like it when you assert your authority in such a manner.”
He ran a hand through his hair. He was not sure how to take this.
What had she expected him to do — stand there and let the steward rob them blind?
Say nothing while the man spoke to him in that fashion in his own house?
He had let the fellow go and the man had not taken it kindly.
There was no way to resolve such a thing quietly.
And yet Helena was looking at him as though he were the worst of men for it.
“I understand that you must manage the estate as you see fit,” she said. “That does not mean I am obliged to like it.”
“Helena.” He paused, choosing his words with care.
“I have noticed you reacting this way more than once. When a door slammed during our tour of the house. At the farmers’ tribunal.
At Almack’s with Lord Henry.” He looked at her steadily.
“Something has made you very uneasy around any show of temper. What has happened to you to make you react in such a way?”
“I do not wish to talk about it,” she said. “I only wish for you to be less waspish.”
He stepped back. He could not argue with that without raising his voice further, which seemed rather to prove her point, and he was not going to do that.
But he wanted it noted — if only to himself — that there was nothing waspish about him.
He had always been even-tempered. Even when Cassandra had made a thorough fool of him, he had never raised his voice at her. He had never laid a hand on her.
“I… I must say….”
He got no further, because she turned and hurried away, and he was left staring after her in complete bewilderment.
* * *
He returned to the study and gathered his papers.
He sat down at the desk and attempted to work, but found he could not.
Helena’s expression stayed with him — the wide eyes, the rigid set of her shoulders, the way she had pressed herself into the corner.
Something was not right. Something was considerably more wrong than a disagreement about the steward.
He got up and went upstairs. As he neared her chamber, he heard quiet crying through the door, and Mary’s low voice. He stood there for a moment, then turned and nearly walked straight into Miss Marlena, the new governess, who was coming along the corridor with Lavinia on her hip.
“Your Grace,” she said. “I was just bringing Miss Lavinia back to her mother.”
“Her Grace is unavailable at present, she is unwell,” he said. “I shall take her.” He held out his arms and Miss Marlena transferred the child to him, looking slightly uncertain about the arrangement.
“I was going to give the little lady her bath, Your Grace.”
“I will do it,” he said. She looked at him as though she could not quite decide what to make of this, and then apparently decided to take the free afternoon while it was offered.
“Baba,” Lavinia said, with satisfaction.
“Indeed you shall have a bath,” he agreed.
He rang for the valet and had a child’s tub brought up to the upstairs drawing room, along with hot water, a towel, a wash ball, and cloths. Once the maids and footman had gone, he sat and stared at Lavinia, who was sitting on the floor attempting to insert her big toe into her mouth.
How did one bathe a child? He had absolutely no idea. It had been a very long time since he had been small enough to require it, and he had no memory of the process whatsoever.
He supposed one must undress the child first. However, Lavinia was wearing a cloth nappy.
What was one to do with it if it had been used?
Throw it away? Set it aside? He tested the water with his hand — warm, not hot, which seemed right, though he had no great confidence in his own judgement on this point.
And was he to wash her hair with the wash ball, or only her person?
Lavinia looked up at him. “Giddy. Baba.”
“Yes,” he said. “One moment.” He began attempting to undo the small buttons at the back of her yellow dress and found that his fingers were not equal to the task. One came off, bounced across the floor, and disappeared under the chair.
Why did you send the governess home? he thought. That was among the most foolish things you have done in recent memory.
A knock at the door interrupted this grim reflection. He had hoped it might be Helena, but it was Mrs. Strom, who put her head around the door with an expression of benign inquiry.
“Your Grace. I heard you were attempting to give Miss Lavinia a bath and wondered whether you might require some assistance.”
“I would be most grateful for it,” he said. “My first difficulty was the nappy. My second was a button, which is now somewhere under that chair. My third is that I am no longer certain the water is the right temperature.”
Mrs. Strom came in, rolled up her sleeve, and submerged her forearm in the tub.
“It has gone cold, Your Grace.” She put her head out of the door and called for a footman to bring another bucket of hot water.
“As for the nappy — it is set aside for the maids to deal with, as everything else is. And we shall find the button later.” She looked at him. “Shall I help you?”
“I should be most grateful,” he said, with considerable relief.
With practiced hands she removed the dress, the underdress, the small cotton pants, and the nappy, while the footman poured the fresh hot water in. She swirled it with her forearm, tested it, nodded, and placed Lavinia in.
Lavinia burst into delighted laughter and smacked both palms down on the water.
“Now then,” Mrs. Strom said, picking up the wash ball and cloth, “this is how you go about it.” He watched carefully so that he could manage it himself the next time.
Lavinia enjoyed her bath enormously, splashing with such enthusiasm that the water came over the rim of the tub and soaked a considerable patch of floor.
When it was finished, Mrs. Strom lifted her out, dried her off, and showed him how to put the nappy back on.
Once dressed again, the little girl tottered off to examine a picture book he had purchased for her in the village.
“It is commendable that you are trying to be a real father to her,” Mrs. Strom said quietly.
“I hope she will think so in time,” he said. “And her mother.”
The housekeeper was quiet for a moment, regarding him with the steady, measured look he had come to associate with her. Then she cleared her throat. “Your Grace, I hope you will not take it amiss — I could not help but overhear the quarrel earlier.”
“I did not realize we were so loud.”
“You were not. I was coming up the servants’ staircase at the wrong moment. Would you like a piece of advice?”
“I would be very grateful for it,” he said. “I am at my wits’ end.”
“I take it Her Grace was not so reserved with you in London.”
“Mrs. Strom, it is a long and rather complicated story. Suffice to say that this was not a love match, and yet we were — I had thought we were friends. And then certain rumors made the rounds about her background—”
“The rumors about her birth,” Mrs. Strom said. “I should tell you those reached us long before you arrived. But in these parts people do not greatly care. In fact I think they find it rather makes her more agreeable to them.”
“I am glad of it. It was very difficult for her in London. But the adjustment here has been difficult too, in its own way. We were close in London, friends, you might say, and yet she has kept me at a distance since we arrived. And I have noticed that she becomes very uneasy whenever there is any sign of conflict around her.”
Mrs. Strom pressed her lips together. “I am not one for gossip, Your Grace. But I have worked in several grand houses over the years, and I can tell you that when a lady of the house behaves as Her Grace does it is generally because of something that has occurred in her past. A father. A brother.” She paused. “A previous husband.”
He was quiet for a moment. He thought of what Clara had told him that the marriage had not been a happy one.
“You are suggesting she may have been mistreated.”
“I am suggesting it is a possibility worth considering. And perhaps, in a quiet moment, worth asking her about.”
He nodded slowly. “Thank you, Mrs. Strom. Truly. You have been a godsend to us both.”
She smiled, and left him alone with Lavinia.
He spent another hour on the floor with the little girl building a tower from the small wooden blocks, watching her knock it over with d satisfaction, building it again until he heard Helena’s footstep in the corridor.
She appeared in the doorway. She had put herself back together, her color restored, her expression composed. But her eyes, when they met his, carried a weariness he hadn’t seen in them before.
“Mrs. Strom tells me you attempted to give Lavinia a bath,” she said.
“We required assistance,” he said. “But we managed in the end. She is doing rather well, I think.”
“She looks it.” Helena came in and crouched down. Lavinia ran to her at once, and Helena lifted her up and settled her against her shoulder. Lavinia promptly closed her eyes. “She always sleeps after her bath,” Helena said. Then, more quietly: “You did not have to do that.”
“I know. But I wished to.”
She was quiet for a moment. “I am sorry for how I spoke to you earlier.”
“And I should not have taken hold of your arm,” he said. “I could see it frightened you, and I am sorry for it.”
“It did,” she said. “Though not for the reasons you might think.”
He looked at her. He chose his words carefully. “Helena, you must know that I would never harm you.”
She glanced up sharply.
“I know that,” she said. “And I understand that you must do what you must to manage the estate. It is only that I—” She stopped. “I do not wish to speak of it further.”
“I will not press you,” he said. He paused.
“I will only say this. I have noticed more than once how you react to a show of temper near you. And if something happened to you I want you to know that Huxley Vale is very fortunate to be already dead. Because otherwise I would have something rather pointed to say to him.”
She said nothing. But the stiffness went out of her shoulders, very slightly, and she looked down at Lavinia’s sleeping face.
“Will I see you at dinner?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. She hesitated. “And perhaps tomorrow — for breakfast. Together.”
He had not expected that. He felt it land somewhere in his chest and stayed there warmly.
“I would like that very much,” he said.
She got up, carried the sleeping Lavinia out, and left him behind — feeling, for the first time since they had arrived at Blackthorne, that something had shifted between them. Not much. But perhaps enough.