by Susanna Ives
“Branwen rolled in manure,” Megan confessed. “Helena and I bathed her.”
“And I think I bathed myself, as well,” Helena added.
Branwen tried to lick Theo’s chin, but he gently pushed her nozzle away. “No, very bad dog. You’re sleeping in the greenhouse tonight. We’ve discussed your manure predilection before.” He rose. “I’m terribly sorry, ladies. Next time Branwen decides to fertilize herself in your presence, let me know. I’ll send one of my poor servants to fetch her.”
Emily waved her hand. “Pooh, the girls had a fine time splashing about in the river.”
“So, how are you going to entertain me this fine evening, Mrs. Pengwern?” Theo said, rubbing his hands together. “I am your pest… I mean, guest.”
She picked up her sewing hoop and tossed it at him. He caught it with one hand. “You may try this impossible pattern.”
“This should be easy enough.” He made a show of pulling the tiny needle through the fabric with his large fingers. “Ouch! You don’t mind a little blood on your work, do you? It will surely ornament the design.”
Helena chuckled. He swiveled and found her now sitting on the sofa, gazing at him. For a moment, he lost track of his thoughts.
Emily unwittingly rescued him. “No, I do not find your blood ornamental in the least.”
“Let us play cards then,” he said to annoy Megan. “Now that we have four of us, we might manage a fair game of whist.”
“I despise whist!” the girl cried. “I refuse to play.”
“Well then, if you all insist on being terrible hostesses, I’ll just sit here on the sofa and quietly read the latest chapter from Great Expectations. You may all bore yourselves to flinders, but not me. I shall be finely entertained.”
He released a dramatic put-upon sigh, hitched his trousers at the knee, and sat on the sofa. He pulled the journal from his coat and pretended to read, ignoring the ladies. All the while, he was aware of Helena next to him. She shifted in her seat, clasped her hands, and then unclasped them. He noticed her fingers were pale and her nails bitten down.
“Oh, let me read it,” Megan begged. “Please. You can talk to Mother or Helena.”
“Good heavens, no,” he said. “I’ve been waiting all these days for the new installment after finding out that addled Miss Havisham isn’t his patroness, but that prisoner gent from the beginning of the story. And are Pip and Estella going to get married? I’m on tenterhooks.”
“I don’t care for Pip and Estella,” Megan said.
“I know, it’s all very romantic and you don’t like romance,” he pointed out.
“I do enjoy romance!” Megan protested. “But Estella is mean to Pip. So is Miss Havisham. She’s cruel-hearted.”
“Shall I read it aloud?” Theo suggested.
“You always make those terrible voices,” Megan said.
“I’ll behave,” he vowed with his hand on his heart. “I’ll be drearily serious. No terrible voices. Well, perhaps one or two.”
“Go on, Theo,” Emily said.
Megan huffed and flung herself into the wing chair. “But he never reads it correctly.”
Theo cleared his throat and shook his head, letting his hair fall over his eyes. “I have to feel the character,” he explained to Helena. He adopted a crusty, low voice for Magwitch, sounding very much like a lusty bullfrog.
Helena giggled.
“Please, this is very serious literature,” he admonished her.
“I told you he was horrid,” Megan said.
“I’m sorry,” Helena said. “I’ll be quite serious, too.” She made a show of composing herself, but her lips trembled.
As he read, he drank in the heat of Helena’s gaze on his profile and the musical sound of her quiet chuckles. Pleasing her excited him, making him clown the characters even more, despite Megan’s huffs of annoyance. When Pip visited Estella and Miss Havisham, Theo adopted a high-pitched falsetto for the women’s parts, finally causing Helena to break into laughter.
“He’s ruining the story,” Megan cried.
“Helena, will you read the female roles?” Emily said. “Theo doesn’t understand the delicate female mind.”
“And Charles Dickens does?” he countered, feigning hurt.
Helena shook her head. “I don’t know this story. I only read the beginning before… before my father—”
“There isn’t much to know,” he cut in quickly to keep her from having to speak of her father’s death. “Estella is young, beautiful and atrocious. Miss Havisham is old, withered, and atrocious. She was spurned in her youth by her fiancé and still wears her wedding dress and keeps her rotting bride cake about.”
“Very curious,” Helena said, scooting over and taking half of the magazine in her hand. She pressed her lips together as she scanned the page for where he had left off reading. She tucked her curls from her face and then sunk her chest and peered at him with the eyes of an old croon. When she read Miss Havisham’s words, her voice was a gravelly creak.
“Not you, too!” Megan cried. “Let me read it.”
“Don’t listen to her,” Theo said. “She has no appreciation for the arts.”
Theo continued on, dramatically accusing Havisham of making Pip believe she was his benefactor all these years. “‘In humoring my mistake, Miss Havisham, you punished.’” His playful façade hid the prick of shame. Was he not guilty of the same crimes as Havisham? Was he not at this moment misleading Helena by refusing to tell her the truth?
Helena, oblivious to his dark thoughts, rose from her seat, her head trembling with feigned rage as she read her dialogue. “‘You made your own snares. I never made them.’”
Emily clapped. “My own theater. I adore it.”
“‘Estella, you know I love—’” Theo swallowed. The words popped from the page: I love you. You know that I have loved you…
Helena glanced at the passage and must have guessed the reason for his silence. Her cheeks flamed. Several awkward seconds ticked by. Could she sense his desire? Could she sense that the words felt too natural on his tongue to be acted?
“M-Megan, you read Estella,” Helena said.
Trying to cover his embarrassment, he dropped to his knee before Megan, declaring Pip’s love in comic tones.
Megan, unaware of the quiet transaction that had passed between Helena and Theo, rolled her eyes. “I’m not engaging in your game.”
“Oh, come, Megan,” Helena said. “It will be practice for you when all the young men come declaring their love for you.”
The girl screwed her face. “No man is going to do that for me.”
“Oh, but wait a year or two,” Helena said. “You’ll have more suitors than you can count. You’ll be dripping in men who adore you and plead for your hand. You’ll see.” She perched on Megan’s armrest and shared the magazine.
Megan coolly studied the words and, in a stiff, tentative voice, read Estella’s cruel rejection of Pip.
Theo clutched his heart and fell back to the floor, his legs sprawled, his eyes rolled up.
“You can’t die of a broken heart yet,” Helena said, holding the magazine over his head. “See, you still have more dialogue.”
He tried reading his role from the floor, but Branwen scrambled over and began licking his chin. “Ah!” Trying to shield his face from his hound’s persistent tongue, he accidentally knocked the magazine from Helena’s hands.
Megan bolted from her seat and snatched it from the floor. “Ah! Now I shall read it properly.”
“Come here,” Helena said, pulling away his dog. Branwen immediately rolled over, exposing her belly. “All you want is constant adoration.” She gave the hound a nice scratch.
Megan continued reading in a smooth, sedate voice, devoid of any drama. Theo remained on the floor but propped his back against the bottom of the wing chair.
The light coming off the coals fired the rich tones of Helena’s curls and danced on the side of her face as she bowed her head over the hound
. Her lashes cast shadows on her cheeks, and her lips were slightly puckered. Helena, the firelight, the lulling warmth, and Megan’s gentle cadence soothed his mind. If only he could stay in this room and never go home to face the letter from Wilson asking for the documents incriminating Helena’s father.
Megan finished reading. Estella admitted she was marrying someone else, thus breaking Pip’s heart. Helena raised her eyes, catching Theo staring.
He released a long dramatic yawn, stretching his arms wide. “I was much better,” he teased Megan. “You almost lulled me to sleep.” For that, he was hit on the head with a ball of yarn that Emily threw. “I’m never calling again. You don’t appreciate what a fine actor I am.”
“I thought you read wonderfully,” Helena assured her cousin.
“I agree.” Theo winked at the girl. “Megan knows I enjoy pestering her.”
“We had great fun, didn’t we, Branwen?” Helena caressed the dog’s ear as the hound rested her muzzle on Helena’s knee.
“No doubt you would have preferred the excitement of the London nights,” Theo said, crossing his arms over his chest. “But we simple folk manage to amuse ourselves.”
“No,” she answered. “It was a lovely, lovely night. Much better than London ever was.” As her gaze moved from Emily, to Megan, to him, her eyes became plaintive, almost sad. “How lucky you are,” she whispered.
Eleven
Helena lay curled on her side in her bed, facing the window. Outside, the dense clouds covered the moon, turning the night a deep, velvet black. How wonderful the night had been, not the noisy, demanding entertainment of a London ballroom or theater to which she was accustomed, but easy and personal. Was this a normal evening for most families? Not that Mr. Mallory was part of Emily’s family, but he behaved like a big, protective brother.
Again Helena felt the sting of being an outsider—she wanted to be a part of their snug circle. She wanted a true home. But if Helena stayed, she would only strain the bonds that held them together. Soon she would have to return all her clothes and belongings to her trunk and set out again. In two days, Emily would insist on attending church. Then she would see firsthand the depth of the troubles Theo had been trying to explain to her. Helena couldn’t see staying beyond another week. But she would hoard what little time she had left.
Mr. Mallory assured her she would enjoy his parents’ estate, but she couldn’t help but think it was another version of her home in London with her father—a grandiose and cold place where she was tolerated, but not wanted.
But there was a gentleman in London who claimed he wanted her. And she, in desperation, had consented to be his mistress. Remembering their conversation made her belly burn. She hoped Officer Wilson was correct and she wouldn’t hear from Jonathan again.
She forced herself to think of the lovely tulip garden, walking through it in her mind. She didn’t know when she fell asleep, but she awoke to a tap on her door. She opened her eyes to lovely white sunlight bathing the room.
“It’s Saturday,” Megan called from the other side of the door. “We must hang the laundry.”
Helen and Megan didn’t sit for breakfast, but gobbled slices of cheese from the kitchen table and gulped down some tea, then hurried to the back garden. The sky was a clear, vibrant blue, as if the night had cleansed and polished it. Helena watched as Betry plunged a dolly into a large washing tub, rolling a petticoat about the side. The servant’s face was shiny with perspiration. She bit down on her lip and grunted from the strain as she lifted the dolly and held out the sopping laundry for Megan to remove.
Megan snatched the wet petticoat and spun it in circles over her head, flinging water, as she raced up the field to an old timbered barn.
Betry leaned down and tried to pick up another garment but stumbled. Helena caught the servant’s arm, accidentally brushing against the bulge of her unborn child. Again Helena felt the pang of envy.
“Allow me,” she said, pulling the dolly from Betry’s hands.
“Please, miss,” Betry protested. “’Tis how I earn my keep, else I must go to the workhouse.”
“Well, I need to earn my keep, as well. Show me how.”
“Nothing to be done but move the cloth around. Maybe sling it in the water a few times.”
Helena released a laugh from deep in her throat. “I shall pretend it’s Officer Wilson—a vile man who took everything from my house and kept me under his control.”
“Aye, there’s more vile fellows in the world than good. Like the boy that got me into this condition.”
“What happened?”
“It’s my own fault. My mama and papa did the same thing to me. They told my grandmother they would come back for me. Left me for the mines, they did, and then my grandmother never heard from them again. Deserted by her own daughter. Now Peter run off for the mines after all his pretty words.”
Helena had stopped working and gave all her attention to Betry. She felt a kinship to this lowly woman—both of them having been lied to, deserted, and now living on the graces of Emily. “I’m sorry.”
Betry nodded. “My grandmother always warned me to stay tidy. Not to give into the boys. But I fancied Peter was different and that I was in love.” She glanced down and worked a tuft of grass with her shoe. “I’m glad my grandmother is dead and in heaven with all those choirs of angels. I would have broken her heart with what I’ve done.”
“Do you think Peter will come back?”
Betry shook her head. “My cousin, who works in the Blaenau Ffestiniog mines, says Peter was married to a girl in Porthmadog. I didn’t know, I swear it. And now he’s taken up with another woman.”
Helena couldn’t judge. Hadn’t she in theory given herself to be a man’s mistress? Hadn’t she spent a lifetime believing lies?
“Take that, abhorrent men!” Helena cried and plunged the dolly deep into the water. Betry laughed. Soon both women held the dolly, releasing their anger on soiled linen.
Emily pulled a chair just outside the kitchen entrance. “Enjoying the laundry?” she asked, an amused brow hiked as she watched them violently whirl about a sheet.
“Immensely,” Helena replied. She and Betry shared a conspiratorial giggle.
“I’m not even going to ask what is amusing you so,” Emily said and pulled a long train of white thread through the muslin from the sewing basket at her feet.
Megan walked back and forth between the house and barn, fetching the clean items and hanging them up. She rolled her eyes and demanded, “What is so funny?” But Betry and Helena couldn’t reply, breaking into giggles again.
“You’ll understand when you’re older,” Emily explained.
“They are behaving as silly as the village girls!” her daughter complained.
∞∞∞
Helena took the final piece, one of Megan’s dresses, and skipped along to the barn herself. The door had rotted at the bottom and was held open by a rock. A black and white cat rubbed its back against the wood. When it saw Helena, the feline bolted inside. She followed, and gasped as she entered the old building.
Once, the barn must have risen four or five stories, but now all that remained were the naked beams where all the white linens, sheets, and petticoats wafted in the wind rushing through the timbers. Patches of the roof had fallen away and huge swatches of sunlight illuminated the dust in the air. Somewhere above her, Megan was singing a low, sweet song in Welsh, accompanied by the coo of pigeons. Helena paused and listened to the beautiful sound. Then from behind a sheet, Megan appeared, balancing on a beam several feet above Helena.
“I have a dress of yours,” Helena said.
“Throw it to me.”
Helena shook her head. “How did you get up there?”
Megan pointed behind her. “There is a ladder.”
Helena walked under the waving laundry and found a ladder nailed to the back wall. Tossing her skirts over her arm, she climbed the rungs to meet Megan. They were not so far up that they couldn’t jump and land
safely on the floor of dirty hay. Overhead, the network of timbers continued at least thirty feet. At the very top, a triangle formed where the sides of the roof met. Helena glimpsed sky and the pale gray peaks of the mountains.
A brown bird flew in, landed on the rafter overhead, made several chirps, gazed down at Helena and sailed off again.
“I want to climb up there,” Helena said, handing Megan her wet dress to hang.
“You mustn’t. It’s not safe.”
“I’m going to climb to the top of the ladder. That is all.”
But once there, she was too close to the wall and couldn’t see anything, except a slice of trees from Mr. Mallory’s land.
“You must come down now.” Megan’s voice had turned anxious.
“Just a moment.” Helena gripped the rung with one hand and undid her boots with the other, letting them tumble in the air and drop with a thud to the ground.
“What are you doing?”
“I can’t see,” Helena said, untying her stockings and kicking them off her leg. “I need to go across.”
“No!” Megan cried. “You are too high. Please.”
Helena gazed down. Megan’s eyes were wide with panic.
“I shall be careful,” Helena assured the girl.
Gripping a rung, Helena stepped cautiously onto the beam. The wood was solid and unmoving under her bare feet. She extended her other arm, balancing herself, and then slowly released the ladder. Megan whimpered below.
Helena held her breath and edged forward, knocking a feather off the joist with her toe. It rocked on the wind as it fell down, down, down to where the sheets flapped in the wind. She could grab a rafter for support. The beam shook in her hand, she heard a loud squawk, and bird wings fluttered in her periphery.
“Stop!” Megan yelled. “Come down now.”
“I’m almost there.”
Gripping the rafter, Helena inched along until she reached the point where the two sides of the roof met, forming a gaping triangle. Below the barn, the stream cut through the field and wound down the hill like a ribbon and flowed through the village. Green hills vaulted up from the valley but were dwarfed by the jagged Snowdonia Mountains soaring high into the sky. The sunlight flashed on the white caps, making it appear as if the peaks were winking at her.
