Chapter 9 #2
“He’s…” Goodness, how did one even begin to describe Lord Hawke? “He’s certainly one of those things,” she muttered, more to herself than Juliet.
“For pity’s sake, Helena, you’re a dreadful tease!” Juliet set her teacup in the saucer. “Which one is it? Is he handsome, or wicked?”
“He isn’t wicked.” The ton might whisper all they liked about him, but nothing on earth could persuade her he was wicked. Confused, yes. Heartbroken, certainly.
But wicked? No. He wasn’t that.
“Ah, he’s as handsome as rumor says, then! But I’m surprised to hear you say he’s not wicked, dearest, given what you’ve said of him in the past about his shameful neglect of his boys.”
She had thought him shameful at one time, hadn’t she?
Shameful and selfish. Yet it seemed a long time ago that she’d believed that about him, despite his only having been at Hawke’s Run for one week.
Everything had changed so drastically since then!
“That was when I believed he kept away because he preferred debauchery to fatherhood.”
“That’s not the case, then? I must say I’m relieved at it, Helena. One doesn’t like to think of those naughty, wonderful boys without a proper father.”
“No. His wife died, and I think…I think he was heartbroken, Juliet, and for a long while couldn’t bear to be at Hawke’s Run.
” This was pure speculation on her part, of course.
She didn’t know much about the late Lady Hawke, but since Lord Hawke’s return, Mrs. Norris had made a few comments that indicated it was something of that nature.
“Oh, dear. That’s terribly sad. Lady Hawke must have been quite young when she died.”
“She was.” Young and beautiful, if the portrait of her that hung in the gallery was an accurate representation. “Her death was sudden and unexpected. A fever, Mrs. Norris said.”
Juliet sighed. “I see. I’m very sorry for Lord Hawke, then. Grief does make people behave unlike themselves, doesn’t it?”
They were both quiet for a moment, and Helena knew they were each thinking of their own father, who’d passed away the previous year, after their mother had abandoned them all and fled to the Continent with her lover.
She’d died there, and less than two years later their father had followed her to the grave, his heart broken.
They’d lost him to his grief, and she couldn’t bear to see the same thing happen to Ryan and Etienne.
“What sort of father is Lord Hawke?” Juliet asked. “I can’t imagine he doesn’t dote on those boys.”
“He does, but he’s cautious with them, and uncertain. He’s been gone long enough that he no longer knows how to interact with them, but he wants to, Juliet.” She met her sister’s eyes. “He loves them very much, and they adore him.”
“Well, one can’t ask for more than that, can one? As long as they love each other, it can’t help but come right in the end. Yet you still seem troubled, Helena. Is there something else?”
The truth was right there on the edge of her lips, and goodness knew if she could confide her troubles to anyone, it was Juliet. Yet still she hesitated. It was just…well, it was all just so ridiculous, like something out of a romantic novel.
How could she possibly look her sister in the eyes and admit that when she saw Lord Hawke making his lonely way across the frozen stable yard in the dark every morning her heart shuddered in her chest, as if it might break?
How could she tell her sister his touch made her burn?
Or describe the fierce love he had for his boys, and confess that it made her wish for that love for herself, and for things that could never be?
She was far too sensible a lady to imagine any good could ever come of such absurd fantasies.
Lord Hawke was an earl. Her two elder sisters might be countesses now, but their marriages had been utter flukes, not to mention uproarious scandals.
The ton still whispered that Emmeline and Juliet had fed their husbands some sort of magic love potion, for pity’s sake.
If anything, the Templetons were even more notorious now than they’d been before her sisters married.
Lord Hawke wasn’t going to marry his sons’ scandalous governess. Really, it was so entirely out of the question, there didn’t seem much point in even mentioning it, so she swallowed the flood of words, and shook her head. “No, there’s nothing, dearest. I just worry about the boys, as you know.”
“I do know.” Juliet was quiet for a while, seemingly lost in her own thoughts, but then she asked, “Do you suppose Lord Hawke intends to remain in Oxfordshire with his sons this time, or will he return to London?”
“I wish I knew. I think he wants to stay, but nothing’s certain at this point.”
“It would be just as well if he did stay.” Juliet avoided Helena’s eyes. “Now more than ever.”
Helena raised an eyebrow at that cryptic comment. “What does that mean? Come, Juliet, what’s the matter? You’re acting strange.”
“I suppose there’s no sense putting it off any longer.” Juliet let out a long sigh. “Dearest, there’s something I must speak to you about, and…well, the truth is I’ve been dreading it, as I know it’s going to upset you.”
“What is it? It’s not Euphemia or Tilly, is it?” Dread tightened Helena’s throat. “It can’t be Emmeline. I’ve just had a letter from her, and she seems very well—”
“No, it’s nothing like that. No one’s ill. At least, not physically.”
“Just say it, Juliet! You know I can’t bear this sort of waffling.”
“Yes, all right. It is Euphemia. She’s lonely, Helena. She doesn’t say so,” Juliet added, before Helena could speak, “But she is. One need only read between the lines of her letters to see it.”
Helena abandoned her tea cake on her plate, her appetite gone. “Yes, I’ve noticed that as well. It must seem dreadfully quiet at home, with just Phee and Tilly there.”
“Yes. I daresay five young ladies make a great deal more noise than two.”
Yes, but it wasn’t just that. Euphemia was the eldest, and she’d taken care of them all after their mother left.
Phee’s own romantic prospects had been shattered by their mother’s scandal, so Phee had stepped into their mother’s place.
“It must seem to her as if we’ve all abandoned her,” Helena murmured, a pang in her chest.
“I think it must, rather. She knows we haven’t, of course, but what one knows logically and how one feels are not, alas, the same thing.”
“No, they’re not.” Not at all. If she’d learned nothing else since Lord Hawke came to Hawke’s Run, she’d learned that. “But I thought Phee agreed to spend more time here with you at Steeple Cross, and with Emmeline and Lord Melrose.”
Juliet gave a helpless shrug. “I’ve tried to coax her to come here, Helena. Miles and I have done everything we can think of to lure her to Steeple Cross, and I know and Emmeline and Johnathan have done the same. We can’t persuade her to leave Hambleden House.”
“Not even for Tilly’s sake?” Tilly was their youngest sister, and rather a wild little hellion. “Tilly won’t be content to remain cooped up at home if she can be here, or with Emmeline in Kent.”
“Yes, and I’m afraid that only makes it worse. As Tilly gets a glimpse of life beyond the tiny town of Hambleden, she’ll want to leave more often, and Phee won’t deny her. She’d never stand in the way of Tilly’s happiness.”
“Then Phee will be alone.” Alone, in that rambling old place with the sloped floors and drafty windows, with nothing but her memories to keep her company. It was an unbearable fate for poor Phee, so awful it didn’t bear thinking about.
Juliet reached for her hand, her gaze pleading. “Yes. Something must be done, Helena.”
Only then did it dawn on her what Juliet was saying, what she was asking.
One of them would have to go home.
It couldn’t be Emmeline or Juliet. They were both married now, with their homes and their husbands to think of, and children were sure to follow soon enough.
There was only one logical solution, only one of them who could go.
She was going to have to leave Hawke’s Run.