Chapter 3 #2
"It was all rather exciting, nevertheless. I shall be very glad to stand beside Georgiana whenever she has need of me." Her expression softened. "I must confess, I was equally pleased to hear that you and your family had come to town."
A smile tugged at the corner of Tristan's mouth. "Are you hoping to lose another debate, Helena?"
She looked at him in mock disbelief. "I remember no such thing. If memory serves, it was you who delighted in asking the most impossible questions."
"They were perfectly reasonable," Tristan replied.
"They most certainly were not," Helena protested, laughing. "Besides, I was two years your junior. I think I did remarkably well under the circumstances."
"You are still two years my junior," he observed. "I should be interested to discover whether your arguments have improved with age."
"My arguments have never required improvement," Helena retorted with a teasing smile. "Only your willingness to admit defeat."
"Then I look forward to putting that claim to the test." He smiled. "Tell me, do you still paint?"
"I do," Helena replied, brightening immediately. "It remains one of my favorite pursuits. I think I improve a little with each piece, yet whenever I finish one, I cannot help feeling there is still something I might have done better."
Tristan smiled, unsurprised. "You were always your own harshest critic."
Helena gave a small shrug. "Perhaps. Though I suspect that is the only way one ever truly improves."
"I disagree," Tristan said. "You possessed both talent and skill long before you believed it yourself. I should very much like to see how your work has progressed since I last saw it."
A smile spread across Helena's face. "Then perhaps one day I shall allow you to judge for yourself."
“Are there any particular artists you admire these days?” Tristan asked. “I remember you were forever declaring that one day you would visit every exhibition in London.”
Helena smiled. “It is one of the things I enjoy most about coming to London for the Season. I suppose I ought to say that Rembrandt is my favorite, and indeed I admire him greatly. The way he uses light and shadow, particularly in his portraits, is extraordinary. But if I am perfectly honest, I find myself equally drawn to Turner’s work, and to William Blake’s. ”
Tristan looked interested. “Turner I have heard of, though I confess I know little of his paintings. Blake, however, is entirely unfamiliar.”
“If Mr. Turner exhibits at the Royal Academy while I am here, you must take your sisters. His use of color and light, the movement he creates upon the canvas seems practically impossible with paint alone; his skill with his brushes is astonishing. I could stand before one of his landscapes for an hour and still notice something new.” She paused before continuing.
“As for William Blake, he is not particularly fashionable. I rather think he deserves far greater notice than he receives. His work is so unlike that of other painters that I suspect many simply do not know what to make of it yet. Last year there was a small exhibition of his work in a less respectable part of London, so Mama insisted upon accompanying me because she declared Mary was hardly sufficient protection for such a neighborhood.”
Tristan smiled.
“Mama found the paintings quite shocking,” Helena continued, amusement coloring her voice.
“She declared they were altogether too strange. I thought they were remarkable. Most of his work is religious in subject, but there is such feeling in them. They seem less concerned with painting the world as it appears than as it is experienced.”
“And that appealed to you?” Tristan asked, studying her.
“Very much so.” Helena smiled. “Though I suspect many in society prefer art that asks rather less of them or is not so obviously emotive.”
Tristan nodded in agreement, and Helena found herself smiling.
She could not remember the last time she had spoken with such freedom.
The years between them seemed to fall away, and she spoke without weighing every opinion before she gave it voice.
Charlotte remained her dearest friend, yet that felt different.
With Tristan, she had always found it easy to speak her mind.
"My dearest." Lord Ravenscroft's voice drew her attention. He stepped beside her with a smile before offering his arm. Once she had placed her hand upon it, he looked toward Tristan.
"I have watched the two of you in such earnest conversation for some time," he said pleasantly. "I find myself quite determined to join it, for it appears far too interesting to be missed."
Helena returned his smile, though something in his expression gave her pause. His manner remained perfectly cordial, yet there was a coolness in his eyes that had not been there earlier. She wondered how long he had been observing them.
"Of course," she replied. "Lord Ravenscroft, my fiancé, may I present Lord Blackmere, an old family friend."
Once the introductions had been made and the two gentlemen had exchanged the customary civilities, rather than joining their conversation, Lord Ravenscroft turned to Helena.
"I believe the first set is about to begin. May I have the honor?"
Helena smiled and placed her hand upon his arm. As he led her away, she glanced back over her shoulder, Tristan remained where she had left him, watching them cross the ballroom. The warmth that had lit his face moments before had faded, leaving him with a rather somber expression.
When Helena turned back to her fiancé, she found that his own countenance had altered. His smile remained, but something about the set of his mouth had grown noticeably firmer.
The music began as they took their places among the other couples.
Helena had always enjoyed dancing with the baron.
Unlike many of the younger gentlemen, who frequently missed a step or forgot a figure altogether, he danced with confidence and grace, and their conversations had always made the sets pass pleasantly.
That evening, however, he said nothing.
As the figures brought them together again, she became aware that the hand he placed at her waist rested there more firmly than usual. It was not improper, yet there was an unmistakable possessive quality in his hold that she had never noticed before.
"Are you enjoying the evening?" Helena asked, wondering whether her conversation with Tristan had affected his humor, or whether something else occupied his thoughts.
"Very much so," he replied.
The dance separated them once more before bringing them together again.
"I remember you mentioned a book you wished me to read when we walked in the park," she said, hoping to revive the conversation.
"Indeed. I have not forgotten. I left it in one of the parlors. I shall fetch it for you when the set is over." His answer was perfectly polite, yet it invited no further conversation.
Helena let the silence remain between them. By the time the final figure had been danced, she was more aware of the pressure of his hand than of the music itself.
When the final dance of the set came to an end, Helena found herself relieved. As Lord Ravenscroft escorted her from the floor, his butler approached and spoke quietly in his ear. Helena could not distinguish the words.
"You must forgive me," Lord Ravenscroftsaid, turning back to her. "There is a small matter requiring my attention. My butler will show you to the parlor where I left the book."
Helena nodded her head. "Of course."
Lord Ravenscroft bowed before taking his leave, and Helena offered the butler a polite smile as he invited her to follow him.
The butler led Helena to the parlor and opened the door for her.
She stepped inside and glanced about the room. A small table stood beside the fireplace, several chairs had been arranged for conversation, and a pianoforte occupied one corner, but after searching the room twice, she saw no sign of the promised book.
Turning back toward the door, she said, "Forgive me, but I do not believe the book is here."
The butler looked momentarily thoughtful. "If I may ask, Miss Fairchild, which book did Lord Ravenscroft intend to lend you?"
"I believe it was Coelebs in Search of a Wife," She answered.
"Ah, yes." Recognition crossed his face. "I saw it upon his desk in the study earlier this afternoon. His Lordship must have forgotten where he left it. If you would be so good as to follow me."
Helena smiled and thanked him, then accompanied him from the parlor.
After several turns through the corridor, the butler opened the heavy oak door to Lord Ravenscroft's study.
"There it is, Miss Fairchild."
Helena's gaze immediately fell upon the volume resting neatly upon the desk. She crossed the room while the butler remained by the doorway.
Just as she reached for the book, hurried footsteps echoed along the passage beyond. Two footmen appeared, both looking distinctly flustered. They spoke in hurried whispers to the butler, whose expression grew immediately more serious.
He turned apologetically to Helena. "I beg your pardon, Miss Fairchild. There appears to be a small matter requiring my attention. If you would permit me but a moment, I shall return directly to escort you back to the ballroom."
"Certainly," she responded.
The butler bowed before following the footmen down the corridor, leaving the study door standing open behind him.
Helena looked down at the book in her hands. A faint smile touched her lips as she turned it over, examining the well-worn binding before opening it at random.
Her eyes settled almost immediately upon a passage.
"...her highest ambition was to render home agreeable, and to fulfil with cheerfulness every domestic obligation."
Helena read the line twice before allowing the book to fall shut. A sardonic smile touched her lips. She wondered whether Lord Ravenscroft had chosen the novel because he believed she would enjoy it, or because he imagined it contained some lesson worthy of studying before their marriage.