Chapter Twenty-Five
Prudence was at peace. Helene, not so.
Grief overcame her in continuous suffocating waves since laying her sister to rest eight days ago. There, at the foot of the grave, she’d stayed with Prudence until the last shovel of soil had been turned.
With grief came anger, and like Pandora’s box, it lifted the lid on emotions, unleashing pent-up tumultuous hostility because of her sister’s violation of righteous principles. The dire consequences of one long-lived lie were too many to count.
Now, perched on the edge of her bed, Helene stared without seeing the opposite wall of her bedchamber.
Though the room was awash in glorious afternoon sunshine, she saw only darkness.
In her hands she bunched the material of her voluminous skirts.
Ten years she’d been made the scapegoat for Prudence’s misdeed.
Ten years of missed opportunities, of thinking herself worthless and unworthy of anything and anyone.
Unworthy of life itself. She’d seen fit to forgive her sister, but Helene grappled with how to process and reconcile what Prudence had done to her, as well as coming to terms with the injustice of having lost a sibling who was too young to die.
Nothing good will come from dwelling on the past, or giving life to ill feelings.
Easy enough to say, but her father’s words at the private family funeral gave her no measure of help or healing, especially having been spoken with a stiff upper lip.
At the time, his meek apology to Helene for his uncharitable, misguided rejection of her all these years fell on deaf ears.
In the same private family dialogue, Robert had voiced profound apologies for his wrongdoing towards her and had seconded their father’s advice.
Little comfort, and too late. Nonetheless, it would be erroneous not to concur with her father’s counsel.
Indeed, what purpose would be served to recount and dwell on the past?
Closed eyes and deep breaths settled and calmed her nerves.
Images, unbidden, sprang to mind. Mountains, moorlands, rivers, and lochs.
Those images helped her to see her way forward, and she clung to hope, to the one person who might make a difference in her life.
Someone who’d help her digest and surmount the hurt in her heavy heart.
Lachlan MacLanoch. The man who’d irrevocably captured and won her heart.
Granted, had it not been for Prudence, Helene might never have found her way to the laird, nor might she have known what it was to love a man so freely, so deeply, and so completely.
For that, she’d be ever grateful to her sister.
If this was fate’s way of atoning for all Helene had suffered, then she’d accept it as a precious gift, just as she’d gifted Prudence forgiveness, and in honouring her sister’s final promise, Helene would gladly gift her heart to Lachlan if only he were here to accept or refuse it.
Lachlan. Why had he not called or come to see her? Was he already on his way back to Scotland, his clan, and his family?
This past week had plunged her too deep in her grief to go in search of him, and when she was not alone in her room, weeping, there were visitors to face, those who came to pay their respects and convey their condolences after word spread of the earl’s long-forgotten poorly younger daughter who’d come home to die.
Helene buried her face in her hands as another wave of grief split her soul in two.
There came a sudden, sharp rap on the door. ‘What is it?’ she called, without turning to see who entered the room.
‘Lady Helene, Lord Penforth requests your immediate presence in his study.’
Helene recognised the maid’s voice. ‘Thank you. I shall be down in a moment.’
The door clicked closed.
Helene stepped over to the washbasin, splashed cold water on her face, and dabbed it dry with the linen cloth.
She glanced at herself in the looking glass.
Her eyes were red and swollen, her face pale, strained, and puffy.
What was so urgent that her father needed to see her now?
It couldn’t be more visitors, not at this late hour of the afternoon.
Besides, if anyone had come to see them, they’d be received in the drawing room, not her father’s study.
Helene made her way down the stairs, her black muslin mourning skirts shushing with each step. At her sister’s insistence, she’d be sure to shuck the drab, dreary clothes soon enough. For now, whilst under her father’s roof, she’d adhere to social mores for the bereaved.
One hard knock on the library door, and his voice bid she enter. She slipped inside and closed the door behind her. ‘You wished to see me, Father?’
‘Yes. Come sit awhile.’
Helene sank down onto a seat opposite him.
His elbows rested on the arms of his chair, and he thoughtfully studied his steepled, long-fingered hands before his face. ‘I’ve had two more formal requests for your hand in marriage.’
Helene stiffened.
‘You’d needn’t look so affronted. Both men came to me before Prudence passed.’
A prickling along the back of Helene’s neck sent her into a panic. It was exactly as her sister had predicted. With Prudence fresh in her grave, their father was set to marry Helene off into what would be a loveless marriage. That would never do. Never! Not for Helene. ‘Father, I—’
His raised hand cut her off. ‘I’ve made a decision with regard to which one you will marry.’
Will marry? Those words struck fear in Helene’s heart. Her mouth opened to protest, but again, her father cut her off.
‘He has proved himself to be a man of integrity, a man of honour. He is a powerful man in his own right and financially secure.’ Penforth blew out a breath. ‘I’ve encountered many oath-breakers in my time, but not him. He is—’
‘A peer of the realm, no doubt. And what’s in it for you?’ Helene could not hide the sarcasm in her voice.
‘I was going to say, he is a man of his word and can offer you a good life. He’s earned my respect, and I hold him in high regard. I’ve given him my blessing, as has your brother. Robert and I firmly believe this man is the one for you.’
Anger propelled Helene to her feet. Blood rushed to her cheeks, and her fists clenched by her sides.
‘And what about my happiness, Father? Have you or Robert ever factored that into your matchmaking checklist? I’d sooner be left to shrivel up on the shelf than be shackled to a man unknown to me.
A man who has yet to earn my respect and my high regard.
‘Your marriage to Mother might have been one of financial and social gain, but if I cannot marry a man of my choosing, a man whom I love, then I shall not marry at all. Tell your man I refuse his hand!’
Penforth raised his eyes to hers. ‘You can tell him yourself. He awaits you now, in the drawing room.’
Helene sucked in a breath and stared in dismay at her father. How she despised him. His placid, nonchalant demeanour inflamed her ire.
‘If you had the slightest care for me or my opinion, you would not have contrived such a deliberate set-up. Be assured, Father, I have absolutely no qualms in facing and refusing the man who awaits me beyond these walls. I understand I am a burden and a disappointment to you. I have been ever since—’ Helene choked on her emotion, unable to finish the sentence.
She inhaled a deep, shuddering breath. ‘I shall leave tomorrow and make my own way in this world.’
Her father’s silence and expressionless stare galled her.
Not one word of objection. No offer of financial assistance.
No thought to ask where she might go or whom she might turn to.
She was on her own. Just as well she still had Cuthbert’s promissory note in her possession.
She turned smartly on her heel and strode towards the door.
‘Helene!’
Her father’s commanding voice brought her to a halt, yet she didn’t turn to face him.
‘You might find this difficult to believe, but it’s because I do love you, and wish only for your future happiness, that I give this union my heartfelt and genuine blessing.’
That longed-for spoken word from her father’s lips almost brought Helene undone.
She wanted so desperately to believe it true, that he did indeed love her as a father should love and cherish his daughter.
It was one thing to tell her how he felt, and yet it was another to demonstrate proof of its meaning. She continued towards the door.
‘Helene!’
Her hand paused over the latch.
‘If you refuse him, I’ll—’
‘You’ll what, Father?’ She snapped her head around to glare at him. ‘Send me to an early death and banish me to Bethlem? Just as you did with Prudence?’ Helene pushed through the door, leaving her ashen-faced father to deal with his demons.
The footman, seeing Helene stride with determined intent towards the drawing room, hurried to open the door. She swept into the room, and at the same time as the door shut behind her, the man standing by the window with his back to her whipped around.
Helene came to a halt. Confused, her gaze made a clean sweep of the room. Only she, and he, occupied the room. ‘Lachlan?’
He stared at her for long moments before greeting her with a stiff bow.
A tailor-made coat of expensive cloth hugged his broad frame.
Breeches encased powerful thighs, and sunlight streaming in through the window gave his highly polished buckled shoes that extra gleam.
His russet hair was unbound, falling to his shoulders, giving him that wild Highland appearance, just the way she preferred it.
Optimism sent her heart aflutter, and a quickening in her entire being forced from her a silent prayer that Lachlan was indeed the expectant groom her father had spoken of. ‘What brings you here?’
His approach was slow, almost hesitant. A wintry sadness clouded his eyes, with worry etched in the crease of his brow. At the point of standing toe-to-toe with Helene, he gently cupped her cheek with the palm of his hand.