Frail

by Susanna Ives

  ∞∞∞

  In Theo’s mind, Helena was like a portrait—a model captured in time, always wearing a pearl gown, her glossed lips lifted in a mischievous smile, and her pale eyes, all glittery. But when she pushed up the brim of her bonnet, the changes to her face sent a shiver of cold shock through him, halting him in his tracks. She was thinner, her lips red and chapped about the edges, and her eyes—he had seen the same look in the eyes of soldiers. Haunted, afraid and lost in some frightening internal landscape.

  She rose, clutching her reticule tightly to her belly. “Hello, Mr. Mallory.”

  He made a terse bow, feeling awkward under the weight of everyone’s eyes. “I’ve come to escort you to your cousin, Mrs. Pengwern. You should know she is unable to walk such a distance.” He studied Helena’s face to gauge her reaction. She nibbled the edge of her lower lip and focused over his shoulders at the mountains in the distance.

  “I see,” she said after a pause and reached down to collect some coins from the ground. “If you could kindly give me instructions, I shall go myself.”

  “You can’t manage that trunk.” He jerked his head at the boy. “Ben, get the other side,” he said in Welsh, moving to take a handle.

  She stepped sideways, blocking the trunk with her body. “Here,” she said, holding out a coin to the boy. “For your trouble if you help me carry the trunk to Mrs. Pengwern’s residence.”

  The boy didn’t understand a word she said, but knew the value of English money well enough—more than Helena, it seemed. “A whole pound!” he cried. He shoved the coin in his pocket and grabbed a handle. Helena took the other, lifting the heavy trunk from the ground.

  Theo emitted a frustrated breath. “Very well, then.”

  He led them over the bridge and up the steep street leading to a field, constantly peering over his shoulder to check on her progress. She was bent, her neck and arms straining from the weight, but she didn’t speak, keeping her gaze trained on the ground. Branwen, curious of the new stranger, sniffed about the edges of her hem. Residents lingered in the doorways, watching the small parade pass. At the public house where he had been waiting for the coach to arrive, a drunken crowd cheered at the sight of her lugging the trunk. He sliced his hand through the air, silencing them.

  “Miss Gillingham, allow me to help you,” he ordered.

  She shot him a hot glare, perspiration shining on her forehead. “I said I could carry it,” she snapped.

  A few feet further, the pavers stopped and a rutted road with rough hedges bordering either side continued up the hill.

  “Ugh!” The handle slipped from Helena’s fingers and the trunk thudded on the ground. “How much further do we have to go?” she cried, shaking out her hands.

  Theo nodded towards a gate opening to a field of sheep. “Ben, would you pardon us for a moment, please?”

  As the boy clambered over the wood slats in the gate, she slumped onto the trunk and pressed her palm to her chest, trying to catch her breath. It struck Theo how much her eyes matched the sky. Wisps of long, straight black hair had escaped her bonnet and now framed her face. She was even more beautiful out of her stiff curls and fancy clothes.

  She caught him staring at her, and he averted his eyes. Overhead, a huge bank of clouds had gathered on the horizon, blowing in from the sea.

  “It’s beautiful here,” she whispered, gazing around her.

  “That’s right, you adore Wales,” he said, not intending anything, but still the words brought back the evening of the ball and remorse.

  Her head jerked back. For a moment, they were quiet except for the low rush of wind.

  He began again, this time more softly. “I’m sorry, Miss Gillingham, about your father.” He studied her face. Did she know the truth? Had Scotland Yard kept his promise? All he saw in her eyes was pain.

  “Thank you,” she said. A strand of hair blew across her cheek and nose. “It’s been difficult.”

  He knelt before her. Branwen immediately rubbed against him, wanting to be petted. But it was Helena who reached over and scratched the hound’s ears.

  “I don’t think you shall enjoy living here,” Theo said, trying to catch her gaze, but she kept her eyes safe from his as she rubbed Branwen’s ears. “Your cousin is quite ill. She can’t wait upon you.”

  “She invited me,” Helena cried. “She said it would be a pleasure for me to come. And I am to help. I will teach her daughter.”

  “What do you know of your cousin? Have you met her since you were four?”

  Helena lowered her head until the brim of her bonnet covered her face.

  “Do you realize she doesn’t live in the privileged way that you’re accustomed? She has been quite poor this whole time.”

  “I don’t know if you read the papers, Mr. Theodotus, but it seems I am quite poor, as well,” she shot back and bolted to her feet. She strode several steps away from him to compose herself. “She said it would be a pleasure to have me.”

  He made a low humming noise. He had been correct in his assumption; she had nowhere to go. Emily was her only salvation.

  “And now, if you would be so kind as to point me in the direction of my cousin, I shall continue alone. That is, with the help of that boy.”

  He strode to her, resting a hand on her shoulder. Her muscles were tight cords. She was much thinner since he had held her in his arms and danced.

  She threaded a strand of hair behind her ear. “Please go.”

  “First, let me make a painful correction for you, then,” he said. “In your letter, you mentioned Mrs. Pengwern’s adorable son. Eustace died of typhoid like his papa.”

  “Oh!” she cried and then “Oh.” again. She winced and shook her head as if confused. “So much death.” The sensation of pain flowed into him from where he touched her shoulder.

  The arrogant and wild Helena he had deserted on the ballroom floor wasn’t the damaged lady before him now. What hell had she been through these last weeks? He knew he had done the right thing turning in her father—he couldn’t knowingly let a man steal from his soldiers—but he didn’t want to believe he had caused that scared, broken look in her eyes. He understood the terror beneath their surface.

  His fingers slid down her arm and he reached for the trunk handle. “Allow me,” he whispered. “It’s a wearying trip from London. You need to rest.”

  Five

  She berated herself for being stupid. How could she not have known her cousin had lost a child? A dull, knotted ache burned in her innards. She tried not to think anymore, for fear she would break down. She watched the swing of Mr. Mallory’s long coat as he and Ben carried her trunk. They climbed even higher on the narrow road snaking up the side of a hill. Along the edge of the fields ran an ancient gray stone wall, spotted with moss and spilling over with tendrils of red and green vines. High on the hill a round tower lined with arched windows like the ones she remembered from Conwy castle so many years before peeked above the spreading boughs of oak trees.

  “The tower is my home,” Mr. Mallory said and nodded up ahead. “I’m Mrs. Pengwern’s neighbor.”

  Helena wished her cousin had mentioned that in her letters. But would it have made a difference? She had nowhere else to go until she heard from Jonathan. If she heard from him.

  “You reside in a tower?” she asked. “Am I in Wales or some German fairytale?” She chuckled at her words, knocking something loose inside of her. Laughter gurgled up from deep in her belly. She laughed and laughed, feeling like her whole body was breaking into pieces. She could see Theo and the boy studying her, confusion in Ben’s eyes, concern in Theo’s. She pressed her hand to her mouth, but she couldn’t stop the hysterical sound. The laughter flowed forth like water from a spring.

  She heard Ben say something in Welsh to Mr. Mallory.

  “No, she’s well,” Theo replied in English. “She’s suffered a great deal.”

  Helena brushed away the wetness from under her eyes with the side of her thumb. Theo set down his
side of the trunk, produced a folded handkerchief from his pocket and offered it. Her fingers were shaking as she took it from him.

  He laid his hand on her shoulder. Its heaviness and warmth flowed like calming waters over her. He searched her face from under the shadowy brim of his hat. “Better?”

  She nodded, afraid to open her mouth, not knowing whether she would laugh or break into sobs. She hated the man, hated how he made her feel about herself, but, at that moment, his touch was keeping her from breaking down.

  Several seconds passed before he spoke. “Come, then,” he said quietly, releasing her. “We are almost there.”

  Further on, the hedge narrowed, revealing a wooden fence beneath the branches. Mr. Mallory pulled up the latch on a barred gate, and it swung open with a long, creaking groan. He gestured for Helena to pass, and she stepped into a small garden, scattering the crows pecking about the grass that was riddled with rabbit and other vermin holes. A rut of compacted dirt led to what looked to be two houses shoved together to make one. The left side was a squat medieval structure with a heavy slanting roof that must have been thatched years ago, but now was shingled with gray slate. Thick windows with blue shutters were dispersed at uneven intervals along the timber and daub. On the other side of the glass, plants sprouted in various vases. Built on the side of this low wing was an unpainted, collapsing pen. The beaks of geese poked though the slats.

  The right wing was more modern and built of brown brick. Two long, rectangular windows, curtained with thin muslin, flanked the door. Rows of four smaller windows were evenly spaced along the upper floor, and twin dormer windows peered out from the roof.

  Behind the house, the fields continued, dotted with several timbered barns. The wind blew off the fields with a low, unceasing shush, whistling through the hedges and smelling of grass, dirt, and sheep dung. The entire estate had a feeling of a resigned decay, as if it had conceded defeat to this harsh land and now was content to rot back to nature.

  She could never stay anywhere so squalid. She began to back up, tears burning in her eyes No, no, no. How could her father leave her to this filth? She could only hope Jonathan found a means to keep her. A shameful, hidden mistress was a thousand fold better than slow dingy death.

  “I can’t…can’t,” she choked. “I—-”

  The door opened, and a thin woman stepped out. An ugly robin egg blue shawl draped her black dress. She had the proportions of a doll—her head and eyes entirely too large for her gaunt body. Rich auburn hair fell in lovely natural curls about her forehead and cheeks, but her face was ashen with brown hollows beneath her eyes.

  “Helena!” she cried, opening her arms, the shawl hanging like drooping wings. “Do you remember your cousin Emily?”

  Helena stifled her instinct to flinch. Mr. Mallory had warned her that her cousin was infirm, but in her mind, Helena still had vague recollections of a vivacious girl with bubbling laughter. The woman before her had yellow-tinged flesh that appeared to hang on her bony frame, sinking around her eyes and under her cheekbones. The woman wrapped her thin arms around Helena. “I’m so glad you came. I was worried about you. You are safe at home now.”

  The kind words melted Helena’s disgust. She clung to her cousin’s frail frame.

  Emily rocked Helena as if she were a five-year-old child. “Come in from this wind,” her cousin said. “You appear so tired.”

  She led Helena into a narrow hall painted a garish green. The embroidered birds, pears, apples, roses, and lilies that hung about the walls did little to soften the stark ugliness of the room with its sloping settled floor and uneven walls.

  They passed through a doorway into a small parlor.

  “There now, it’s nice and warm in here,” Cousin Emily said and then called over her shoulder. “Theo, may you and Ben fetch the trunk, please?”

  The air stung Helena’s nose. It was thick, dry, and tinged with the scent of smoke, cloves, and stringent medicine. By a lumpy, brown sofa, rose a round table draped in white embroidered linen, holding a large array of apothecary bottles and a sewing box so full it couldn’t be closed, but overflowed with notions and yarn.

  Above the mantel hung an oval portrait of a beautiful young woman with cascading auburn curls, warm brown eyes, creamy skin, and a mysterious smile—the young Mrs. Pengwern Helena had visited years before. Two daguerreotypes were propped on the frame’s bezel—one was a handsome man with thick curls and whiskers and penetrating dark eyes. Mr. Pengwern. The other image was of a child. He stared at the viewer with unfocused, glassy dead eyes. Behind his feet, Helena could make out the edge of the device holding him upright. The son.

  “It’s a lovely parlor,” Helena lied.

  “Thank you,” her cousin said and motioned to someone past Helena’s shoulder. “And this is my daughter Megan.”

  Helena spun around to find a young girl standing by the door. She was thirteen or fourteen, that awkward age between being a girl and a woman. Her dress was smocked across the top and the skirt fell in a series of intricate pleats, trimmed in lace and pressed stiff. The delicate creation contrasted with the girl’s stained stockings and scuffed boots. She glared at Helena with coal black eyes, her pretty features pinched with unmasked hostility.

  “What a beautiful young lady,” Helena said pleasantly and curtsied.

  “What do you say, dear?” A gentle smile graced Mrs. Pengwern’s lips as she combed her hand through her daughter’s hair, oblivious to the heated glower in the girl’s eyes.

  Mr. Mallory cleared his throat. He leaned against the threshold between the parlor and hall.

  “I’m so pleased that you are staying with us,” the girl said. The words sounded memorized and flat. She stepped forward and mechanically lifted her arms where she held a deep red wool creation. “My mother and I desire to give this shawl to you.”

  “Thank you,” Helena whispered, taking the creation and unfolding a shawl much like her cousin was wearing. She wouldn’t be caught in anything this garish in London; well, except perhaps as a joke for her friends. “How beautiful,” she lied.

  “Should we take the trunk upstairs?” Mr. Mallory asked.

  “Please!” Cousin Emily said. “It’s…” Her smile wavered. “Eustace’s old bedchamber. Megan, why don’t you show her?” She placed her hand on Helena. “You rest for a while. I know you must be exhausted.”

  Megan gazed heavenward, blew out a put-upon huff, and beckoned Helena with a curt wave of her hand.

  Helena followed Mr. Mallory, Ben, and Megan to the very top of the house where the ceiling was so low Mr. Mallory had to duck his head. He opened the door to a small white room with a dormer window. The furniture was plain, stark, and full of nicks and scrapes. The bed jutted into the room opposite the window. The ivory bedcovers and curtains were edged with a looping design made from knots of pale blue thread. A low oak commode which matched the ladder-back chair by the hearth was pushed beneath the eaves. On its surface was a plain white washbowl and pitcher.

  The servants’ rooms in my old house were better, she thought.

  “This is your chamber while you are here,” Megan said. “Betry—that’s our maid—and I cleaned it out. We took away all my brother’s things for you, so you may put your belongings away now.” The girl turned on her heel.

  “Megan!” Mr. Mallory admonished.

  “I showed her the chamber,” the girl replied, refusing to understand her neighbor.

  “You could have been a little more…” Mr. Mallory paused, his gaze drifted to Helena. “Never mind.”

  Megan walked away. Theo dismissed Ben, leaving him alone with Helena in the small space. He was more handsome than when she first saw him in his ill-fitting formal clothes and stiff expression. A tiny bit of that initial fluster she felt for him remained, but mostly she was edgy and prickly. The cruel words he had spoken to her in London had festered in her mind all these weeks. You are a vain, ignorant, and selfish girl. He had seen the real Helena before anyone else and she still resent
ed him for it, which was ridiculous. Now her life was exposed to everyone.

  He leaned against the wall by the door, his arms crossed over his chest.

  She crossed the room, keeping her back to him and laid her new shawl on the bed, running her hands over the soft yarn, each even knot done by her cousin’s small hands. “Does my cousin have consumption?”

  “No,” he said, quietly. “Fever weakened her already-frail constitution. Now, she must stay still for most of the day, not exert herself and avoid becoming ill. A simple cold might kill her if she isn’t careful.” He gave a small snort. “And she’s not. Under that gentle exterior is one determined lady.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Do you have other relatives or friends who might keep you? This is more than you or Emily can contend with.”

  She didn’t want to tell him the truth. She walked to the window.

  “You have nowhere else to go, have you?” he surmised.

  She pushed the curtain back. Bright light streamed into the room, bathing her face. She had a view of the back of the house. To the left rose an old barn. Most of the daub was gone, leaving the bones of the frame. On the other side was more of Mr. Mallory’s wall, except the top had crumbled in two places, exposing little slices of his property. She saw an arbor covered in a frenzy of vines, rising above it was a gray house and the ancient tower. Through the other gape, she glimpsed a neat garden, leaves of purple, red, silver, and green sprouted from rectangles of topiary and stone. Further back, against a brick wall covered with a climbing shrub, were rows of young trees spotted with tiny white buds.

  “Is that your garden?” she asked, temporarily lifted from her sadness.

  “Yes,” he said so quietly she almost didn’t hear.

  “’Tis beautiful.”

  He started to shift on his feet, as he had done the night he came undone at the ball. He gripped the doorknob, his jaw working, his gaze fixed on the shawl spread across her bed.

  “To belong somewhere so beautiful,” she murmured. “To have a place of one’s own. I should love to see it.”