Chapter 9
“If he sends reinforcements everywhere, he will everywhere be weak.”
“Stand up straight, Helena,” Father ordered. “People are watching.”
I wasn’t sure I could stand any straighter, but I said, “Yes, Father,” and adjusted my sun bonnet so it sat a bit taller on my head to give the impression of height. It was the first truly hot day of the season, and I cursed the ton for scheduling a promenade at Hyde Park today of all days.
I was boiling in my new day dress, which the modiste had finished just in time. It was a cream muslin with tasteful lace adorning the décolletage and sleeves. But had I known it’d be this hot, I would have asked the modiste to sew me a shade tent instead.
At least my two candidates had found refuge from the oppressive heat.
Mr. Marceaux found relief in the shade of a large oak where he spoke with not one but three ladies.
Despite their company, his gaze frequently strayed to mine, as did his brilliant smile.
Lord Cranford walked along the cool shoreline of the lake, poking at the reeds with his bronze-tipped cane, likely in hopes of finding an insect or two.
The only missing candidate was Mr. Hawke. I searched the passersby often, hoping to catch a glimpse of him.
“—and that’s why you need to improve your German. If you don’t—” Father stopped walking and faced me. “Are you listening, Helena?”
“Of course, Father. You want me to improve my German so I can impress Lord Lichtenstein.” Father had been talking nonstop about the old count ever since he’d stepped off the boat from Austria last week.
Father grumbled and resumed walking. “Lichtenstein is a close relation to the Habsburgs, and he’s currently visiting London,” he eyed me pointedly, “in search of a wife.”
In search of a nurse, more like it. “The man is ancient, Father. He predates Johnson’s Dictionary by a full decade.”
“Don’t be flippant, Helena. Lichtenstein is rich and eager to wed. Moreover, he provided handsomely for his previous wife.”
“Don’t you mean wives? He’s buried three already.”
Father narrowed his eyes in warning. “And you may very well become his fourth.”
“I swoon at the very thought,” I muttered under my breath.
“What was that?”
“I said I don’t understand why you want me to pursue Lord Lichtenstein. I thought you were keen on Mr. Hawke.”
“I am, but you are clearly not taking your duty seriously.”
“Come now, Father. These things take time. You’ll be pleased to hear that Mr. Hawke and I waltzed just four days ago.”
“Waltzing is hardly the way to a man’s heart, Helena.” Father lowered his voice. “Last night at the club, Pratt boasted that Mr. Hawke called upon his daughter three times last week. Yet this Edmond fellow has not come to visit you once.”
I nearly tripped on a cobblestone. “What—I mean, why did he call on her?”
“Why does any man call on an unmarried woman?” Father snorted. “You’re more naive than I thought.”
I didn’t understand. I hadn’t seen Mr. Hawke so much as speak with Sybella, but something was clearly going on between them.
My stomach twisted at the thought of them flirting over tea and crumpets.
I wasn’t jealous—such feelings were beneath me—but I couldn’t figure out how Sybella had drawn his attention when I could not.
The contents of this morning’s breakfast threatened to return from whence they came.
“Speaking of the Pratts,” Father pointed across the green, “there they are now.”
Sure enough, all three Pratts were seated on a bench up ahead. I frowned at the sight of Sybella. She seemed to be suffering from allergies, for she was dabbing her nose with her handkerchief. Good. She deserved an itchy nose after all she’d done.
Mrs. Sweete’s investigation had led her to the modiste’s shop.
And although the modiste had no knowledge of the theft, her assistant was more than willing to talk—especially after Mrs. Sweete delivered my strongly worded letter that insinuated the viscount would press charges if she didn’t cooperate.
She didn’t know, of course, that my father was unaware of the whole debacle.
Apparently, Sybella had paid the modiste’s assistant for my design, then commissioned a different modiste to craft it.
As soon as I learned the truth, I wanted to storm over to the Pratts’ residence and tear down the door with accusations—perhaps even call for the constabulary.
But Mrs. Sweete advised against such a display, urging me to make a solid plan of attack first.
But perhaps I could simply elicit a confession from Sybella herself.
“Let’s go say hello, shall we?” I said. “I have so very much I’d like to say to them.”
“As do I,” Father grumbled. “Pratt and I have unresolved business from the club.”
As soon as we approached the bench, I realized that Sybella’s handkerchief was not drying a stuffy nose but rather tears. Father seemed to notice it too, for he stiffened at the unsightly display of female emotion.
Father tipped his hat to the Pratts. “Good afternoon. Is all well? Perhaps I can be of assistance.”
“Lord Highcliffe,” Mr. Pratt said tersely. “I’m quite sure your family has done enough, thank you very much.”
Father frowned. “What on earth is that supposed to mean?”
“You know very well what it means,” Mrs. Pratt said with a glare.
My lips pressed together. Something was rotten in the state of Denmark—or, in this case, Hyde Park.
“Sybella, come now.” I stepped closer. “Tell us what has you all in a fuss.”
But Sybella buried her face in her handkerchief and released a terrible sob. It drew more than a few looks from people promenading nearby.
“How dare you, of all people, ask her that,” Mr. Pratt barked, “especially after what you put her through at the spring soirée.”
I blinked. “What I put her through?”
“Pratt, what is this bickering all about?” Father asked.
Mr. Pratt stood. “Your daughter insulted mine. Deeply.”
I withheld a scoff. “What could I possibly—”
“Enough, Hel!” Sybella cried. She stood, though her mother still held her hand. She looked at me with large, pleading eyes. “They know the truth about the dress, Hel. There’s no use hiding it anymore.”
I was stunned into silence. Her parents already knew? That wasn’t like Sybella at all. She was the type who’d rather go down in flames than raise the white flag, even in the face of certain defeat. No, something was afoot.
“Someone tell me what is going on at once,” Father said.
“Hel is such a dear friend,” Sybella whimpered, “so I didn’t want to say anything at all. But she is clearly insistent on abusing me, and I can no longer stay silent.”
My eyes narrowed. “What are you doing, Sybella?”
“At t-the spring soirée,” Sybella blubbered, “Hel s-stole my dress design.”
“What?”
Mrs. Pratt stood and wrapped her other arm around her daughter. “Go on, darling. Be brave.”
Sybella drew in a shaky breath. “Hel altered her own dress to resemble mine. You know how good she is at altering dresses—she’s done it to her whole wardrobe.
” She sniffled loudly. “Thank goodness Mrs. Lowther stepped in and made Hel cover up with that curtain, or else I would have been humiliated!”
I stared at Sybella, stunned. Were I not the victim of her scheming, I might have admired the precision with which she shifted blame.
“That’s a lie.” I kept my voice down so as not to attract attention. “I designed that dress myself. I have the sketch to prove it.”
“You mean my sketch you stole from the modiste?” Sybella said.
“That I stole? How convenient for you to twist reality for your own benefit. Tell me, can you turn the sky yellow too?”
“I thought we were friends!” Sybella cried. “I don’t understand why you’re antagonizing me!”
Father whirled around to me. “Is all this true, Helena?”
“Are you doubting my daughter?” Mr. Pratt’s voice was low and dangerous, like a bull about to charge.
Father pulled back. “Of course not.”
An unbelieving laugh escaped my throat. How predictable. This scene was playing out just like it had ten years ago.
But an idea came to me like a shining beacon. “I still have the receipt from the modiste. Why don’t we compare it to Sybella’s? You’ll see that I ordered the dress first, which means I am the original owner of the design.”
“Hel, please,” Sybella begged. “Everyone knows the truth now. There’s no more need to lie.”
“I’m not lying, I’m merely stating facts.”
“Enough, Helena!” Father hissed. “Apologize to Sybella at once.”
I turned to him and spoke quickly. “Sybella is accusing me of theft. Think of our reputation if this ridiculous notion gets out.”
“Apologize. Now.”
“The receipt is at home. I’ll fetch it quickly and—”
Father grabbed my arm tight enough to bruise. I bit down a yelp.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. Ten years ago, I couldn’t prove Sybella was lying. This time, I could. And yet, Father still wasn’t letting me.
He yanked my ear to his mouth. Flecks of his spittle coated my cheek as he whispered, “Pratt is my closest business partner. He keeps our finances afloat. You are threatening everything with your childish behavior. Remember what happened last time you didn’t obey me?”
Last time. A chill ran through my veins, and my muscles locked up.
Father had never said outright that he blamed me for Mother’s death.
But we both knew the truth. If I hadn’t run away, Mother would have never come looking for me.
She would have never fallen and hurt herself. She would have never gotten sick.
My fingers tightened around the scarlet ribbon in my pocket—my reminder to win at any cost.
“I did not steal Sybella’s dress, Father.”
“I don’t care if the king himself appears and declares you innocent. As long as Pratt wants an apology, you’ll give it! Or else what little funds we still have will disappear, and you’ll be wed to Lichtenstein by Sunday. Do you understand?”
My skin boiled, but my voice—when I found it—was ice. “Perfectly.”
Father released me, and I turned to Sybella, my nails digging into my palms.
I drew in a deep breath, the words physically painful to utter. “I—I apologize.”
“For what?” Sybella said, no longer crying.
My nails cut deeper into my skin. “I apologize for letting this ridiculous rivalry get this far. Only a vain fool would stoop so low as to steal from a friend to better her own standing.”
Sybella had the gall to look insulted. Her parents looked like they were about to burst with rage.
“Helena,” Father growled. “People are watching.”
Sure enough, everyone on the promenade was stealing glances our way. We were far enough away that no one could hear the details of our conversation, but rumors would still spread. Even Lord Cranford was peering at us from the reeds, his brow drawn.
I muttered a silent prayer of strength and spoke through gritted teeth. “I apologize. For stealing. The dress.”
Sybella threw her arms around me, and I prickled beneath her touch. “Oh, thank you for your apology, Hel. I forgive you completely. You are my dearest friend, after all. We must spend more time together to rebuild our friendship.”
“Well done, my dear Sybella,” Mr. Pratt said.
“Isn’t she magnanimous?” Mrs. Pratt said.
More like mendacious, I thought.
Sybella released me, smiling with innocent eyes. “I just care deeply about Hel, that’s all.”
“Well, that’s that,” Father grumbled. “Pratt, I’ll see you at the club later? We can smooth the rest of this out.”
“You’ll buy the drinks, of course,” Mr. Pratt said.
Father stiffened. “Of course.”
“I am so excited for all the time we’ll spend together now that we’ve reconciled,” Sybella said.
My throat tightened. “I can’t wait.”
As soon as the Pratts walked off, Father spun to me with a dark anger in his eyes. “What were you thinking, Helena? You almost jeopardized our good name in front of the Pratts, no—the entire ton! People are whispering about us even now!”
The breath slowly deflated out of my lungs. Father’s words felt like a stone, each one heavier than the last, pressing down on my chest. Or perhaps thrown at me.
“Your foolishness could jeopardize everything,” he continued. “The Westons are supposed to be above reproach, yet you nearly dragged us through the mud.”
The ground beneath me seemed to sway. I tried to draw a breath, but my throat felt as if it were closing. My clenched hands were shaking.
“And all this fuss for what? A dress?” Father scoffed. “You’ll be lucky if Lichtenstein gives us an offer after your display—"
I could barely hear him now. My pulse roared in my ears. I looked down at my hands, trying to still my swirling vision. It was then I saw the blood. My nails had pierced the skin of my palms. A drop slid from my hand and landed onto the cream muslin of my skirt.
Bright red on white.
In the back of my mind, I heard Mother’s voice again, calling out my name. The last time I’d ever hear her speak.
I couldn’t let history repeat itself. I would not lie down and succumb to the Pratts.
“—obey me if it’s the last thing you do.” Father leveled me with a threatening glare. “I trust you will not make such a foolish mistake again. Not even a wrinkle.”
I balled my fists to keep the blood from staining my dress. “No, Father. I will not.”