Chapter 11 #2
For several moments Helena remained where she was, looking at the portrait. "You were far too young, Elinor," she murmured sadly.
Although Mrs. Harper would soon return to remove it, Helena reached up and straightened the frame before stepping away. It seemed the respectful thing to do.
As she adjusted it, she felt something shift inside the frame. Frowning, she lifted the lower edge slightly and slipped her fingers beneath it. Something caught against her hand before tumbling to the mantle and onto the carpet with a soft metallic sound.
Helena looked down, and a small brass key lay at her feet.
Bending down, Helena picked up the key and turned it between her fingers, it was far too small for a door. What, then, did it open? Her eyes drifted toward the bookcase, focusing on the ornate wooden box. Before she could think better of it, she had straightened and crossed the room.
With cautious fingers, she slipped the key into the lock. It fitted perfectly, and a soft click echoed softly through the still room as the lock released. Carefully, she lifted the lid and found several neatly folded pages inside.
Helena closed the lid at once and stepped back. Her gaze moved instinctively to Elinor's portrait before returning to the box. She caught her lower lip between her teeth, wondering how great a discourtesy it would be to unfold just one page, if only to discover what had been hidden away.
The only justification she could summon was that there might be a letter intended for Tristan that had never reached him.
If such a letter lay inside, surely it ought to be returned to him.
She knew the reasoning was imperfect, yet it was enough to briefly silence her conscience.
Before she could reconsider, Helena reached forward once more and withdrew the uppermost folded page.
It was not a letter to Tristan. Indeed, Helena was not entirely certain what she was reading. The writing carried an unmistakable air of fear, hinting at some scheme involving a man whom the writer refused to name.
Without names or places to guide her, the passages were difficult to understand and seemed to have been written by someone in profound distress, or even mad. Yet one sentence, underlined with deliberate care, drew her attention.
I must protect him.
A shiver passed through her.
Suddenly aware that she had no right to be reading another person's private thoughts, Helena folded the page exactly as she had found it and returned it to the box. She closed the lid, turned the key until the lock clicked once more, and withdrew it.
Crossing to the window, Helena looked out over the garden, folding her arms as she did so.
The small brass key remained clasped in her hand.
As she stood watching the warmth of the summer afternoon over the gardens, she found herself unable to shake the feeling that Elinor's eyes, from the portrait behind her, were fixed upon her.
When the door opened, Helena jumped, almost dropping the key. She turned to find Tristan standing in the doorway, watching her with concern.
"My apologies," he said. "I seem to have startled you."
"Oh, no." Helena forced a smile, though her pulse had yet to recover. "I was simply lost in thought."
Tristan studied her for a moment. Still dressed in his riding clothes, he looked as though he had only just returned.
"Oliver has persuaded me to take him to the bookseller's," he said. "We wondered whether you might care to accompany us."
"That would be lovely." Helena offered him a more convincing smile.
"I shall only be a few moments. I must change first." He turned toward the door, then paused and looked back at his wife. "Are you quite certain nothing is amiss?"
"Quite certain," Helena replied. Her fingers tightened around the little brass key concealed in her hand. "Some fresh air and a walk will do me good. I shall go down in the meantime."
Tristan nodded, though he did not appear entirely persuaded. Nevertheless, he offered her a small smile before leaving the room, closing the door gently behind him.
Once the door closed, and she heard Tristan's footsteps retreating, Helena tucked the key into the pocket tied beneath her gown and left the room.
She found Oliver waiting impatiently in the entrance hall, shifting from one foot to the other as though he feared they might depart without him.
He looked up as she approached, and surprise quickly gave way to delight.
"You're joining us?"
"So, it would seem." Helena answered with a smile.
Oliver grinned, "Splendid!"
Helena could not help smiling. She had assumed Oliver must have asked Tristan to invite her, yet his surprise made it plain he had known nothing of it. The invitation, then, had been entirely Tristan's own.
"Are we all ready, then?"
Both turned to find Tristan descending the staircase.
He had exchanged his riding clothes for a dark blue coat cut to perfection, with buff breeches, polished Hessian boots, and a neatly tied white cravat.
The afternoon light spilling through the fanlight above the door caught the dark chestnut of his hair.
There was nothing ostentatious about his appearance, yet he carried himself with such effortless confidence that Helena found herself admiring him before she could think better of it.
"At last!" Oliver declared. "If we wait any longer, someone else will purchase the very book I intend to buy."
Tristan raised an eyebrow. "A remarkable feat, considering you have yet to tell me which book that is."
"I shall know it when I see it," Oliver declared, the mischievous smile he cast toward Tristan suggesting he was trying his luck.
"A sound strategy," Tristan replied gravely.
Helena laughed.
Oliver looked between them. "You are both making fun of me."
"Only a little," Tristan admitted. "Shall we?"
The three set out together, Oliver occupying the conversation almost entirely from the moment they stepped into the street.
He spoke enthusiastically of every window display they passed, wondered aloud whether the bookseller might have acquired any new adventure stories, and confidently informed them that he was old enough to own books that did not require anyone else's approval.
By the time they reached the bookseller's, Helena realized that Oliver had spoken enough for all three of them.
The familiar scent of leather bindings, fresh paper, and polished wood greeted them as they entered. Shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, interrupted by ladders and tables laden with the newest publications.
Oliver required no encouragement. "There!" he declared, disappearing toward a display at the far end of the shop.
Tristan followed at a more measured pace. "I should remind you," he called after the boy, "that we came for one book, not half the shop."
Helena wandered only a short distance away, allowing the pair their discussion. Before long she heard Oliver attempting to persuade Tristan that an illustrated volume on His Majesty's warships was not merely desirable but essential.
"But it has pictures," Oliver protested. "How else am I meant to know which ships are which?"
"I have managed remarkably well thus far," Tristan replied.
"That is because you have never had the correct book." Oliver reasoned.
Helena smiled to herself as she examined the titles arranged in the display window.
As she lifted her gaze, she became aware of a gentleman standing across the road.
He appeared to be somewhere in his fifties, plainly but respectably dressed, with nothing about him that would ordinarily draw notice.
Yet he was looking directly at her, and there was unmistakable recognition in his expression, as though he knew precisely who she was and had expected to find her there.
Helena's smile faded. For a moment, neither of them moved. A small group of passersby crossed between the window and the street beyond. When her view cleared, the gentleman had vanished.
She looked along the street and toward the entrance of the bookshop, but there was no sign of him.
"Is everything all right?" Tristan's voice drew Helena's attention away from the window.
"I believe so," she replied. "For a moment, I thought I saw someone I recognized, though I cannot be certain."
Tristan glanced toward the window. "Someone you know?"
Helena hesitated. "That is just it. I am not sure that I know him at all. Yet... he looked at me as though he recognized me."
A slight frown crossed Tristan's face. He stepped to the window and looked out into the street. There was nothing to see but the usual flow of pedestrians and carriages.
Helena turned toward him, intending to reassure her husband, and found him standing much nearer than she had expected. The faint scent of sandalwood and fresh linen lingered about him, and for a moment she forgot what she had meant to say.
"It was nothing," she said at last. "I must simply be more tired than I realized."
Tristan looked at her for a moment before the concern in his expression softened into a small smile. "Perhaps," he said.
Helena returned the smile, but she doubted her explanation had satisfied him.
No doubt she had imagined more than was truly there. After all, London was full of unfamiliar faces, and it was hardly surprising that someone might have looked at her twice after the recent gossip surrounding her marriage.
As content as she could be with the explanation, Helena turned her attention back to Oliver's spirited campaign for his book, though somewhere in the back of her mind the stranger's expression refused to be forgotten.