by Susanna Ives
“Oh, no, I was atrocious. I tormented both my brothers. I fell off rooftops, out of trees, gave my younger brother a black eye, almost got the older one sent down from Eton...”
“Tell me more,” she said.
Despite his claim of being an atrocious child, the stories of his childhood were filled with loving siblings, kindly servants, and hundreds of empty acres to roam. She laughed at his tales, imagining an idyllic life in one of those lush estates she had seen from the windows of trains. She had never left London, except to venture out in the summers to house parties. Most of her childhood was spent in the nursery of whatever new London home her father had acquired.
She deflected Mr. Mallory’s attempts to learn more about her childhood. Every story was tainted now. She would only find more clues or signs she had missed about her father’s crimes. She preferred listening to his voice—rich, slightly hoarse, and quiet. His words flowed with an easy, steady cadence. In earlier days, she would have tried to flirt with him, gauging his reaction to her toying words, making sure he was enamored of her. Now she only wanted to listen, content to be out of herself.
They came to the last stem.
“Is there any more I can do to help you?” she asked. “You promised to work us to the bone.”
“I think I promised to work Megan to the bone, which is always an empty threat. She is as stubborn as her mother.”
“Do you mind if I walk in the tulip labyrinth then?”
“Of course not.”
A beat pulsed between them as she fumbled for how to end their conversation. Finally, she handed him the trowel. “Thank you,” she said.
“You shouldn’t thank me for covering you with dirt.”
“For your wonderful stories. Your family home sounds lovely.”
“It is.” His eyes met hers. “You would like it there.”
She kept the smile pasted on her lips as annoyance flared in her breast. I understand perfectly. You don’t want me here.
“Perhaps.” She bobbed a curtsy and headed for the garden.
∞∞∞
Theo watched her retreating figure as he loaded the shovels into the wheelbarrow. She carried her spine stiff and erect, as if she knew he were watching. The wind rifled her skirts and blew the hem of her cloak. She turned under the arc in the west wing by the old tower and disappeared from sight.
He lingered a moment more, cursed to himself, then turned and trotted into his house. He discarded his mud-caked boots in the hall, knowing he would receive a cold shoulder and evil eye from Efa.
In only his socks, he strode through the rooms and corridors, making his way to the blue parlor—the only chamber in the old wing that was somewhat inhabitable. Thick wool carpets covered the ancient floors, and fading tapestries lined the stone walls to trap in the heat. Two indigo sofas covered in blankets were pulled by the massive, blackened fireplace cavernous enough to roast a boar.
He edged back a curtain and, through the wavy old glass, he spied her in the labyrinth. Her head was bowed. She ambled slowly, allowing her fingertips to lightly graze the tips of the tulips.
He released an uneven breath, remembering the contours of her body against his as he held her outside the church.
Stop watching her, man. Turn away. But he didn’t move.
∞∞∞
An hour later Helena saw Mr. Mallory and Megan strolling under the old wing toward her. Even from a distance, Helena knew something was wrong from how tightly Megan clutched the ball of yarn to her chest and the protective hand Mr. Mallory kept on her shoulder. She hurried through the center path of the labyrinth.
“Did the villagers make trouble?” she asked Megan.
The girl didn’t respond.
“Come now,” Helena said quietly. “Tell me.”
“Mrs. Davies at the shop said that I shouldn’t be listening to you,” Megan said. “That I’ll become wild like you. I told her to be quiet. She said that I wasn’t respecting my elders, and I was already learning your bad ways.” The girl’s chin was high with a brittle defiance, concealing the deeper hurt. How well Helena could read her now. “She doesn’t even know you. How can she talk about someone she doesn’t even know?”
Helena had accepted that she was the living embodiment of her father’s crimes. But Megan never knew Helena’s father or received help from him when her brother and father were dying. She was as much a victim as the people who had lost their savings. Megan and her mother didn’t deserve to suffer for simply offering charity to Helena. They had already endured enough.
Helena knew she had another hard decision to make: to unmoor and move on.
But, as much as the villagers despised her, she wanted to linger a little longer in Emily’s home and Mr. Mallory’s gardens. She was selfish to try to hold onto the affection and beauty she found here.
“Please consider my offer, Miss Gillingham,” Mr. Mallory said, guessing her thoughts. “You have to see it is the best course for you and your cousins.”
Helena knew he spoke the truth, but she couldn’t muster the words to tell him so.
Megan’s gaze darted between him and Helena. “What offer?”
Theo studied Megan. Helena knew he was choosing how to best tell the sensitive girl.
“I’ve asked Miss Gillingham to remove to my family’s estate in Kent,” he said. “I fear her presence will only worsen your mother’s delicate health. Rest assured Miss Gillingham will find shelter with my family. No one can utter mean words that hurt. And you can visit her whenever you like, for as long as you like. I shall deliver you myself.”
Theo’s explanation did nothing to sooth the fears it flamed.
“Are… are you going to leave?” Megan demanded of Helena. Her fingers dug into the yarn ball she clutched.
“I think it might be best,” Helena conceded.
The girl’s chin trembled. Helena could see the hurt in her dark eyes. She had betrayed her loyal cousin’s trust.
“Give mama the yarn,” Megan cried, shoving the ball at Helena.
The girl took off, her heels kicking up her skirt. Branwen rushed after her.
“She thinks I’m abandoning her.” Helena pressed her hand to her forehead. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Yes, you do,” Mr. Mallory said softly. “You will not be accepted here. I know Megan’s upset, but the longer you stay, the more difficult it will be for her and her mother. Please understand it pains me to say these words. I only want your happiness.”
“You’ve told me that before.”
“Because it’s true.”
She studied the strings of yarn, keeping her eyes from Mr. Mallory’s probing gaze. She felt so weary and disheartened. Would the anger ever burn out? Would she ever be able to take root anywhere? She hardly knew his parents, but at least Mr. Mallory’s proposition was respectable, unlike Jonathan’s. And since she hadn’t heard from Jonathan, and Officer Wilson assured her she never would, she had little choice.
“I’d better go back,” she murmured.
“I’ll take you.” He offered his arm.
She tried to think as they walked in silence, but her problems overwhelmed her. All she could manage was to take in the simplest things: the insect trapped tightly in a robin’s beak, the smooth stones stuck hard in the earth, and the contours of the muscles bulging around Mr. Mallory’s elbow.
Finally, Mr. Mallory spoke. “Did you enjoy your walk in the tulip garden?”
“Very much,” she assured him. “I think your garden could possibly be one of my favorite places in the world.”
“You are being kind. It’s all an outcrop of my madness.”
She halted, dropped his arm, and gazed dead at him. “I’m not being kind,” she said, surprised at the force, born of frustration, in her words. “I’m being honest. You are talented. Brilliant, really.”
He started to say something, stopped, and then began again after a pause, “Thank you. Your good opinion means a great deal to me.”
“You mi
ght be the only person in England who feels that way.” She tossed him a laugh and continued to Emily’s gate.
∞∞∞
Her cousin’s home smelled of stewing celery and onions. Helena and Mr. Mallory found Emily, slumped against the sofa armrest, daintily snoring. Thread dangled from her fingers and an embroidery hoop was in danger of capsizing from in her lap.
“Let her rest,” Mr. Mallory whispered.
They turned slowly, trying to escape undetected, but a plank under the carpet creaked. Emily began to thrash, surfacing from her nap. Her eyes darted, confused, until she realized she had fallen asleep. “Good heavens, I drifted off. I blame this tedious embroidery pattern. Pray, what time is it?”
“A little before five o’clock,” Helena replied.
“Good heavens. I could have slept through dinner.”
She began to push herself from the armrest. In a twinkling, Mr. Mallory was on his knee to aid her.
He received a small swat for his exertions. “I don’t require help to merely sit up,” Emily said. She pressed her skirt flat and tidied the ruffles on her bodice. “Are you going to dine with us, Theo? Of course, you are.”
“I wish I could, but I fear I ate a second enormous breakfast at Reverend Jeffries’ and then skipped luncheon. Efa is furious with me for wasting her food. So, for my well-being, I should dine at home.” He kissed Emily on the cheek. “But I shall return to fetch my hound. She has run away with Megan.”
On the way to the door, he nodded goodbye to Helena and then halted as if he had forgotten something. He leaned in and kissed her cheek as he had Emily’s. His beard tickled her skin. She released an involuntary sigh.
“Thank you for assisting me,” he said and nodded again before strolling away.
Emily brushed the hoop from her lap, letting it fall to the floor. “I’m sick to death of sitting all day with a needle. I wish I could have gone with you and Megan. Did you have a lovely time?”
“Yes,” Helena said, which was a half-truth. “Mr. Mallory’s gardens are quite beautiful.”
A devilish twinkle lit in her cousin’s eyes. “And he is quite handsome, don’t you think?”
Helena set the yarn beside Emily’s sewing box. “In London, they say he is mad, unhinged, even violent.”
“Does he seem so to you?”
Helena shrugged. “I don’t know. I can’t make out his character. He confuses me. He seems to be many men in one.”
“Ah, he has seen too many terrible things. He sometimes gets lost in his dark ruminations, and we must pull him from his dark fancies.”
Helena came to sit beside her cousin. “What was he like when he first arrived in Wales?”
Emily laughed and tapped Helena’s knee. “Oh, dear, you wouldn’t believe what I thought of the poor man.”
“Pray, tell me.”
“I found him gruff, odd, and quite cold. But he and my husband rubbed along very nicely, thus we invited him over to dine. Theo would move the food round on his plate and make deadly boring conversation.” Emily laughed. “He and Stephen would drone on and on and on about guns, horses, races, brandy, while I sat quietly stifling yawns behind my linen and fantasizing of throwing peas or rolls at our guest. Oh, but later in the quiet of our bedchamber, Stephen would receive quite an earful about subjecting me to such a tedious evening.”
“You found Mr. Mallory to be dull?” She couldn’t imagine that anything about Mr. Mallory could be considered dull. He was one mystery after another. Helena could usually predict many people’s next action or words after conversing with them for a few minutes. They were like familiar characters saying the lines from an old play. Mr. Mallory wasn’t so easy to guess. She wondered what thoughts flowed in his mind, what he saw when he gazed at his beautiful world.
“Terribly so,” Emily answered. “But I didn’t know then that he was awfully afraid of me. Can you imagine anyone being afraid of me? How silly! But Stephen always said I could be quite a shrew if annoyed.”
“And Mr. Mallory annoyed you?”
“At first, but oh, he changed, he changed, my dear. And I changed. When Stephen became ill...” Emily pursed her lips. When she spoke again, her voice was higher and thin. “And I couldn’t manage the property. Theo would come and… and… I could converse with him. I could tell him things I wouldn’t tell others. How scared and sad—almost resentful I was. He never judged me. And then he took in Megan when…” Emily closed her eyes, her pain crumpling her face.
Helena always felt clumsy when she tried to comfort people. She never knew if she should embrace them, and her words of consolation stuck, thick and chewy, on her tongue. Now she readily leaned in and drew Emily to her. Over the last days, Helena had stopped seeing her cousin as thin and sickly. Emily’s vivid, feisty personality somehow camouflaged the extent of her weakened body. But with her form pressed against Emily’s, all Helena could feel was hard collarbone and shoulder, no softness of fat or muscle seemed to exist between Emily’s flesh and the bones underneath. In a place inside Helena, where deep, visceral emotions pooled, she understood Mr. Mallory’s powerful desire to protect Emily, to push away anything and anyone threatening her frail health. And that included Helena.
“Theo is an honest, decent man.” Emily drew back from Helena’s shoulder. “He’s not unhinged or violent. Pooh. Those people in London know nothing.” She picked up the folded handkerchief on the side table and dried her eyes. “And he is exceedingly handsome, which covers many character defects!”
∞∞∞
Helena watched poor Betry struggle in the kitchen. She lumbered about with her swollen belly, dropping a crock of butter, boiling the carrots to a soggy mush, and roasting the evening’s mutton until it was leathery. Helena wanted to help, but she didn’t even know how to light the oven, much less cook, so she offered to set the table.
As Helena collected the plates and glasses from the dining room cupboard, she considered Mr. Mallory, the man so protective of his home and those he loved. She yearned to be part of his sheltered circle, even as he was trying hard to push her away.
She wondered if he had ever loved a woman. Did he secretly court one now? Megan hadn’t mentioned anyone, but Helena wouldn’t be surprised if Mr. Mallory kept his deep affections hidden. Perhaps he kept a secret mistress. What sort of lady would tempt him? What were her passions? What did she whisper to him? Perhaps because Helena knew he would never consider her as a wife or mistress, she felt safe to let her imagination wander. She stopped in her work, her arm still loaded with plates, and stared unseeing at a chink on a saucer, while in her mind’s eye she envisioned his bare body, all those hard muscles exposed, her fingers caressing him with the intimacy of a spouse. She wanted to feel again the safety of his embrace.
She desired to love him.
The creak of the door woke her from her improper daydreams. She whirled around to find Megan in the doorway. “Quick!” the girl said. “I need help before Theo finds out.”
∞∞∞
Theo sat alone at his dinner table, gazing out the window at the gloaming sky. The mountains were black against the purple and orange tones. But the lovely dusk image made no impression on his mind tonight. Helena consumed his thoughts. She had listened to the stories of his childhood, her silvery laughter exciting his nerves. As the sunlight had glinted off her eyes, he had desired to touch her, kiss her—do things he shouldn’t fantasize about with the woman whose life he had almost destroyed.
He had told Emily he would call later, but now he was having second thoughts. Helena was dangerous.
He rose and rang for one of the village boys in his employment to fetch Branwen. When the boy of about fifteen appeared at the door, Theo asked him to tell Emily a matter had arisen to which he must attend. The boy nodded and turned to leave.
“Wait!” Theo said without thinking.
The lad swiveled around.
Theo stared at him, conflicting emotions splitting his mind. He shouldn’t go down to Emily’s. He shouldn’t
see Helena.
“Sir?”
“Never mind,” Theo said. “I’ll tell them myself.”
After dinner, he folded the copy of All the Year Round that had arrived that day and slid it in his coat pocket. He unhooked a lantern from the peg on the back scullery door, lit it, and strode down to his neighbor’s.
He stopped outside Emily’s window. The curtains to the parlor were open and gold light burned from the windows. Helena and Megan were standing by the fire, waving their skirts back and forth before the grate, as if they were dancing. A large wet stain covered the top of Helena’s black bodice.
He stepped behind an oak tree and peered around its trunk. He didn’t want to go inside and pretend not to desire her, silently battling his guilt. He waited in the darkness for several minutes and observed her animated conversation with Megan. All the tension that infused her features these last days had lifted. Her skin was flushed, and she laughed as easily as she had that night in London when they danced, but without the deviousness lurking below. Her happiness was innocent.
Then he saw Megan drag Branwen closer to the fire and Helena rub a cloth all over her furry coat. What had his wily little hound done now?
He strolled to the door and let himself in. “I’ve come to collect my recalcitrant hound,” he said, entering the salon. The coals were blazing in the grate and the air was as hot as mid-summer.
Branwen scampered to him, her wagging tail whapping the furniture, excited to see her master. Her usually oily fur, yellowed from rolling about in the dirt, was now fluffy, gleaming, and slightly damp. He knelt down and scratched her clean neck.
“Is this my dog?” he asked.
