Chapter 19 #2
The corner of his mouth lifted in amusement. "I see that."
He did not release her hand. Instead, his grip eased little by little, until, seeming to realize he still held it, he withdrew his hand at last. Only then did he let go of the mare's bridle and gather his own reins once more.
Helena watched him for a second before turning her attention back to the path ahead.
Tristan was not a demonstrative man. His care was most often shown in practical ways; in acts of thoughtfulness that asked for no acknowledgement.
Yet, for those few seconds, instinct had overtaken restraint.
He had reached for her without hesitation, and only afterward remembered himself. She found it unexpectedly comforting.
The return home was uneventful. Tristan excused himself to the study to read through his correspondence concerning the summer haymaking, the sheep shearing, and matters relating to his tenants and the upkeep of the estate.
And Helena changed out of her riding attire and went directly to her sitting room, the key to the box still in hand.
The next folded page revealed Elinor in a more lucid state. Her handwriting was controlled and her sentences carefully structured. She wrote that several hours had passed since her fever had last risen, and that she was able to think more clearly. Helena read the page with care.
I must use this time wisely to record what I know, in case I do not survive this.
My deepest worry, is for Frederick. He confided in me, most concerned, that he had invested money in the scheme Tristan had warned him against. He explained that the investment had failed and his money was lost, but upon making inquiries of his own, he discovered that it had not been a lawful investment at all.
He had, without knowing it, been funding a shipment of smuggled goods.
Frederick told me that he confronted Lord Ravenscroft about the scheme and demanded that his money be returned, or he would go to the authorities.
I pressed Frederick to go to the authorities regardless, but the Baron is a man of considerable social standing, and Frederick fears that he may have bow runners and officials in his employ.
Tristan was not due to return for another week, as he was away on a hunting expedition, and I knew not what counsel to give him.
I decided to write to the baron myself, as Countess of Blackmere. I warned him not to threaten any member of the family and advised him to return Frederick's money. I also made it clear that, upon Tristan's return, I would inform him of all that had taken place.
I received no reply.
I fell ill before Tristan returned, and Frederick has since gone to London to speak with the baron himself and bring an end to this ugly chapter. I would have had Tristan accompany him, but as I am ill, my husband is determined to remain at my side.
I fear for Frederick, but I do not know what to say to my husband. Is it the fever that makes me think so unclearly? Will all be resolved? Will Frederick feel that I have betrayed his confidence if I say anything? I do not know.
My eyes grow heavy, and my head is beginning to spin.
Mrs. Fenwick says I am pushing myself too hard by writing these supposed letters to a dear friend, but putting these thoughts to paper soothes me.
And, if anything were to happen to Frederick, if I do not survive this unnamed illness, then at least my concerns may be read.
Helena lowered the page slowly.
For several moments, she did not move. The phrase smuggled goods seemed to remain before her even after she had looked away from the page.
Frederick had not merely lost money in some ill-advised investment.
He had discovered something far more serious, confronted Lord Ravenscroft and threatened to expose him.
And Elinor had known. Helena looked down at the page again, her eyes returning to the final lines.
Elinor had written them while ill, uncertain whether she would live long enough to explain what she knew.
Her account matched what Tristan had told Helena of Frederick, and a deep apprehension gathered within her as she reached for the next folded page.
Frederick is dead.
The words were written in a hand far less controlled than before.
I am fading. I no longer know what day it is, nor how many hours I sleep away. Each time I wake, I find myself weaker than before. But Frederick is gone, and I know in my heart that his death was no accident.
I tried to tell Tristan when he brought me the news, but I could not put my thoughts into proper sentences. He wept beside my bed as I drifted into sleep once more, and I could do nothing to comfort him.
I am so helpless. I know not what to do, nor what I can do.
Mrs. Fenwick has returned.
Is she my angel of death?
Helena determined to press on, though she felt a deep ache for the poor woman whose words she read. The next folded page was the last. She unfolded it carefully and found only a single line, the words barely legible beneath the trembling hand that had written them.
Frederick, I shall soon be with you.
Tears welled in Helena’s eyes, blurring the single line written on the page.
It was devastating, not only Elinor’s death, but the knowledge that she had understood the danger Frederick was in and had been powerless to prevent what followed.
Helena lifted the last page and read the passage before her once more.
Elinor had questioned whether Mrs. Fenwick was her angel of death.
Through her sadness and shock, Helena could not help but wonder whether Elinor had begun to suspect Mrs. Fenwick herself.
“I must tell Tristan,” she whispered.