Chapter Twenty-Two #2
“Marcus’s standards for reading are notoriously low.
He considers anyone who finishes a novel without falling asleep to be intellectually exceptional.
” Edmund smiled. “But yes. I remember him mentioning Hartley as a man of genuine substance. If Rosalind has attracted his attention, I suspect the match would be a good one.”
Rosalind practically bounced in her chair. “Then you approve? Both of you?”
“We approve of you being happy,” Helena said carefully. “If Mr Hartley makes you happy, if he continues to prove himself worthy of your regard, then yes. We approve.”
“Oh, Helena.” Rosalind launched herself across the space between them, throwing her arms around her sister in a heartfelt embrace. “Thank you. Thank you for everything. For the Season, for the gowns, for the dowry, for all of it. I know what you sacrificed to give me this chance.”
Helena held her sister tightly, blinking back the tears that threatened to fall.
“I sacrificed nothing,” she said quietly. “I gained everything. Do not ever think otherwise.”
***
Later that evening, after Rosalind had retired to her chamber to dream about poets and Dante and young men who asked questions, Helena found herself standing at the window of the library.
The lamp lit streets of London stretched beneath the vast dark sky, echoing with the distant clatter of carriages. Helena’s reflection gazed back at her from the window: a woman draped in silk and pearls, every inch the Duchess she had never envisioned herself becoming.
Yet beneath the fine attire, she remained Helena Whitmore, the vicar’s daughter who had once stood in her father’s study, granting herself a single minute of despair before summoning her fortitude.
She was still the woman who had written desperate appeals, faced formidable odds, and refused to surrender when surrender offered the easier path.
“You are brooding.”
Edmund’s voice came from the doorway. Helena turned to find him watching her with that particular expression, the one that said he saw everything she was feeling, even the things she had not put into words.
“I am reflecting,” she corrected. “There is a difference.”
“Is there?” He crossed the room to stand beside her, his shoulder brushing hers. “In my experience, reflecting and brooding look remarkably similar. They both involve staring pensively out of windows and ignoring perfectly good books.”
Helena smiled despite herself. “I was thinking about Rosalind. About how far she has come. About how happy she is.”
“She is very happy. That young Hartley seems promising.”
“He does.” Helena turned to face Edmund. “She said he reminds her of our father. The way he pays attention. The way he makes her feel like her thoughts matter.”
“That is high praise.”
“The highest she could give.” Helena was quiet for a moment.
“I promised myself, when Papa passed, that I would take care of them. Mama and Rosalind. That I would do whatever was necessary to give them security, futures, and to make sure they never had to feel as afraid as I felt in those first terrible months.”
Edmund took her hand. “You kept your promise.”
“I did.” Helena’s voice wavered slightly. “But I never imagined that keeping my promise would lead to this. To you. To a life I actually want, not just one I am enduring for the sake of others.”
“Helena.” Edmund turned her to face him fully, his hands on her shoulders.
“You deserve happiness. You always did. The fact that you could not see it, the fact that you believed you were only worthy of sacrifice and duty, that was never the truth. It was simply the story you told yourself because admitting you wanted more felt too dangerous.”
She knew he was right. She had spent years believing that her purpose was to serve others, to be the strong one, the capable one, the one who managed everything so that no one else had to suffer.
The idea that she might also deserve joy, might also deserve love, had seemed almost obscene. A luxury she could not afford.
Yet here she stood: cherished, joyful, and resolute, but no longer bearing her burdens in solitude.
“I was once plagued by nightmares,” she murmured, “in those agonising weeks before your proposal. I dreamt I was drowning, that the dark waters were closing over me, and I would awaken gasping, convinced our ruin was upon us.”
Edmund’s embrace tightened upon her shoulders. “And now?” “Now I dream about gardens.” She smiled. “About roses blooming in summer. About walking through Westmere with you, planning where to plant new varieties. About a future that stretches out before me, full of possibility rather than dread.”
“That sounds considerably better than drowning.”
“It is. It is so much better that sometimes I cannot believe it is real.” She reached up, touching his face. “But it is real. You are real. And I am so grateful, Edmund. For all of it. For everything you have given me.”
“You have given me just as much.” He caught her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. “More, perhaps. I was resigned to loneliness before you. Resigned to duty without joy. You showed me that I could have both, that I deserved both.” He paused. “We saved each other, Helena. That is the truth of it.”
She leaned into him, resting her head against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath her cheek.
Outside, the London night continued, carriages rolling past, voices calling in the distance, the endless bustle of a city that never quite slept.
But here, in this library, surrounded by books and firelight and the man she loved, Helena felt perfectly still.
Perfectly at peace.
“Rosalind will wed her Mr Hartley,” she said. “I am certain of it. He will propose within the month, and she will accept, and she will be happy.”
“You sound very confident.”
“I am.” Helena smiled against his chest. “I have learned to recognise affection when I see it. It took me long enough to recognise my own, but Rosalind’s is written all over her face. She is utterly smitten.”
“And you approve?”
“I approve of her having what I have.” Helena pulled back to look at him.
“A partner who sees her. Who pays attention? Who makes her feel like she matters?” She paused.
“That is all I ever wanted for her, Edmund. Not the fortune or the title or the grand house. Just someone who would cherish her properly.”
“You are a remarkable sister.”
“I am a sister who was lucky enough to find a remarkable husband.” She kissed him softly. “And now I intend to use that luck to help Rosalind find the same.”
Edmund smiled, that full, unguarded smile she treasured. “Then I suggest we invite Mr Hartley to dinner. Give him a chance to prove himself in front of the family.”
“An interrogation disguised as hospitality?”
“Precisely.” His eyes twinkled. “I find that nothing reveals a man’s character quite like being questioned over roast beef by an overprotective sister and her formidable husband.”
Helena laughed. “You are not formidable.”
“I can be formidable when the occasion demands.” He drew himself up to his full height, adopting an expression of ducal severity. “I am the Duke of Westmere. I have quelled parliamentary debates with a single glance, I have made solicitors tremble.”
“You have also counted my smiles and kept a log in a journal like a besotted schoolboy.” Edmund’s severe expression cracked. “That is classified information.”
“I shall keep it to myself.” Helena reached up, smoothing the lapels of his coat. “Though I reserve the right to mention it should you ever become too formidable. It is useful to have ammunition against ducal pretension.”
“You are a dangerous woman, Helena Ridley.”
“I learned from the best.” She kissed him again.
“Now. Shall we plan this interrogation dinner?” They retired to the desk together, pulling out paper and quill beginning to compose the invitation that would bring Mr William Hartley into their family circle.
And as Helena wrote, as she planned and organised and managed, as she had always done, she felt nothing but joy.
This was not the life she had expected. It was not the life she had planned or prepared for or believed herself capable of achieving.
It was better.
It was so much better.
And it was hers.