Chapter Twenty-Three
“The Dowager Duchess has requested your presence in the conservatory.”
Helena looked up from the household accounts she had been reviewing, a habit she had maintained even now, when the estate’s finances were healthy and her oversight was more ritual than necessity.
The footman stood in the doorway of the morning room, his expression carefully neutral in the way of servants who had learned not to show surprise.
“The conservatory?” Helena repeated. She could not recall the last time the Dowager had summoned anyone anywhere.
Ever since Helena’s arrival at Westmere, the Dowager Duchess had remained a distant, almost phantom presence, glimpsed in shadowy corridors or presiding silently over formal dinners, yet perpetually withdrawn from those around her.
Though an earlier evening had offered a fleeting glimmer of agreement, the weeks following had seen her retreat once more into the seclusion of her private chambers, consumed anew by her quiet grief.
“Yes, Your Grace. She asked specifically for you.”
Helena set aside her quill. “Tell her I shall be there directly.”
***
The conservatory was at the back of Westmere Park, a glass-walled structure that had been built by Edmund’s grandfather to house exotic plants and provide a warm retreat during the cold months.
Helena had explored it briefly during her early weeks at the estate, but she had not returned often.
She understood now, from fragments Edmund had shared, that the conservatory had been the Dowager’s domain.
She had spent hours here with her husband, cultivating orchids and planning additions to the collection.
After his demise, and then Henry’s, following so quickly, she had stopped visiting.
The conservatory had become another room haunted by loss.
Helena paused at the glass door, suddenly uncertain. The Dowager had never sought her out before. Had never, in fact, shown any particular interest in developing a relationship beyond the minimal courtesies their positions required. She was overcome by curiosity.
Only one way to find out.
Helena pushed open the door and stepped inside.
The conservatory was warmer than she had expected, with the spring sun streaming through the glass walls, heating the air to a gentle embrace.
Plants surrounded her on all sides: palms and ferns and flowering specimens she could not identify, their leaves glossy with health despite the years of emotional neglect. The gardeners had done their work well.
The Dowager Duchess stood at the far end of the space, beside a table covered with terra cotta pots and gardening tools.
She was dressed simply, more simply than Helena had ever seen her, in a grey morning gown without jewellery, her silver hair pinned back loosely.
She looked, Helena thought with surprise, almost approachable.
“Your Grace.” Helena approached cautiously. “You wished to see me?”
The Dowager turned. Her face was composed, as always, but something in her expression had shifted since their last encounter. The frozen quality that had characterised her for so long seemed to have softened slightly, like ice beginning to thaw at the edges.
“Helena.” The use of her Christian name was startling. “Thank you for coming. I was not certain you would.”
“Of course I came. You asked for me.”
“I have asked for very little, these past years.” The Dowager’s voice was quiet. “I have hidden in my chambers and my grief and let the world continue without me. It was easier than facing what I had lost.”
“I understand,” she said finally. “Grief is complicated.”
“Grief is selfish.” The Dowager’s words were blunt, unexpected. “I have been selfish, Helena. I lost my husband and then my son, and I allowed that loss to swallow me entirely. I retreated from everything, from my duties, from society, from Edmund.” She paused. “Especially from Edmund.”
Helena’s heart clenched. She thought of Edmund as he had been when she first arrived at Westmere, composed, careful, and profoundly lonely.
A man who had lost his father and brother and then watched his mother disappear into grief, leaving him utterly alone with a title he had never wanted and responsibilities he had never been prepared to bear.
“He never blamed you,” Helena said quietly. “He understood.”
“He should have blamed me. He lost everyone, just as I did, but he did not have the luxury of retreat. He had to become the Duke. Had to manage the estate, navigate society, and face Reginald’s machinations, all of it alone, because I was too consumed by my own pain to help him.
” The Dowager’s voice cracked slightly. “I failed him. For years, I failed him.”
“You were grieving.”
“I was hiding.” The Dowager met Helena’s eyes directly. “There is a difference, and I have only recently come to understand it. Grief is natural. Necessary, even. But what I did, retreating so completely, abandoning my surviving son, that was not grief. That was cowardice.”
Helena did not argue. She sensed that the Dowager needed to say these things, needed to acknowledge them aloud, and that any attempt to soften the truth would be unwelcome.
“What changed?” she asked instead.
The Dowager was quiet for a long moment. Then, slowly, she smiled, a real smile, faint but genuine.
“You did.”
They walked together through the conservatory, the Dowager leading Helena past beds of flowering plants and trellises heavy with climbing vines. The air was thick with the scent of growing things, earth and greenery and the sweet perfume of blossoms Helena could not name.
“When Edmund announced his intention to wed,” the Dowager said, “I assumed the worst. A desperate match to satisfy the terms of his father’s will. A woman of no consequence, selected for convenience rather than affection.” She glanced at Helena. “I was not kind in my assumptions.”
“You were not unkind either,” Helena said carefully. “You were absent. Which was, in some ways, a mercy.”
“A mercy?” The Dowager’s eyebrows rose.
“You did not add to the difficulties I was already facing. The ton’s scrutiny, Reginald’s schemes, my own uncertainty about my place here, those were challenges enough. If you had actively opposed the match, it would have been considerably harder.”
The Dowager considered this. “I suppose that is one way to view my neglect.”
“I have learned to find silver linings where I can.” Helena paused beside a magnificent orchid, its purple blooms cascading from a moss-covered branch. “This is beautiful. What is it?”
“A Dendrobium. My husband brought it back from an expedition to the Orient, years ago.” The Dowager reached out, touching one of the delicate petals with surprising gentleness.
“He treasured collecting specimens. Rare plants, unusual varieties. He would travel for months to find something new, and then spend hours in this conservatory, coaxing it to thrive.”
“Edmund inherited that passion,” Helena observed. “The rose garden. The grafting experiments.”
“He did.” The Dowager’s voice softened. “I had not noticed, until recently. I had been so immersed in what I had lost that I failed to see what remained.” She turned to face Helena fully.
“But you noticed. You saw Edmund, truly saw him, when I could not. You drew him out of the shell he had built around himself. You made him laugh again.”
Helena felt heat rise to her cheeks. “He makes me laugh as well. It is mutual.”
“It is more than mutual. It is transformative.” The Dowager’s gaze was intent. “I watched you both at dinner, a few weeks ago. The way he looks at you. The way you look at him. There is nothing convenient about that match, Helena. There never was.”
“No,” Helena agreed quietly. “There was not. Though it took us both some time to understand it.”
“Understanding takes time. Especially for those of us who have been hurt.” The Dowager moved to a nearby bench, settling onto it with a grace that spoke of breeding and training so deep it had become instinctive. “Sit with me. Please.”
Helena sat.
They were quiet for a moment, surrounded by the gentle sounds of the conservatory, the drip of water somewhere, the rustle of leaves, the distant call of birds in the garden beyond the glass walls.
It was peaceful there. Helena understood why the Dowager had cherished the space once, and why losing it must have felt like losing another piece of her heart.
“I have something for you,” the Dowager said finally. She reached into the pocket of her gown and withdrew a small velvet box. “Something I should have given you months ago.”
Helena accepted the box with uncertain hands. It was old, the velvet worn soft with age, the hinges slightly stiff when she lifted the lid.
Inside, nestled on faded silk, lay a ring.
It was not ostentatious, not like the grand jewels Helena had been given to wear at society events, borrowed from the Westmere collection and never quite feeling like hers.
This was simpler: a band of gold set with a single sapphire, deep blue and perfectly clear.
The setting was antique, the craftsmanship exquisite in its restraint.
“It was my mother’s,” the Dowager said. “And her mother’s before that. It has been in my family for four generations, longer than the Ridley name, longer than the Dukedom.” She paused. “It is the most precious thing I own.”
Helena’s throat tightened. “I cannot accept this.”
“You can. You must.” The Dowager’s voice was firm.
“It is meant to be given from mother to daughter. I had always planned to give it to Henry’s wife, when he wedded, but it was not meant to be.
” She pause and took a long breath. “I finally reconciled myself to Edmund’s matrimony, and recognised that his wife deserved a proper welcome. ”
“You are giving me your mother’s ring.”