Frail

by Susanna Ives

  The tiny trickle of brave souls soon dried up.

  “I hope you will let me call on you tomorrow,” the reverend told Helena. He scanned the churchyard. The villagers were segregated in clusters by the degree of their hate. “I must think,” Reverend Jeffries muttered in the absent manner of speaking to oneself.

  In Helena’s mind, there was nothing to think about. There were no more doubts, no more questions. She had to go.

  Emily entwined her small fingers through Helena’s and held out her other hand for her young daughter to take. “Let’s say goodbye to my boys.”

  With her head erect, Emily led Helena and her daughter across the yard to a slate gravestone unmarred by moss or water stains as the others were. Bluebells grew about the stone. Emily knelt down. She kissed her fingers and then ran them over the etching in the stone. “Stephen Abraham Pengwern, 1824 - 1859 Beloved Husband.” Below that was written “Stephen Eustace Pengwern 1854 - 1859” and then the single word: “Son.”

  “Goodbye.” Emily bowed her head, remaining quiet for a moment, her fingers resting on the grave. Then she raised her head and glanced around at the people staring back at her. She kept her hard chin high, but hurt and betrayal imbued her eyes. “How dare they,” she murmured.

  “Let me take you home,” Mr. Mallory said gently. He squatted down, put his arm over her shoulder and gently lifted her. As she and Mr. Mallory started for the carriage, Helena lingered behind at the gravestone.

  Her father was left shrouded to decay in his library for almost a week as Scotland Yard investigated. Officer Wilson thought given the circumstances her father shouldn’t have a funeral. He wasn’t buried beside his wife, but was given a pauper’s burial at St. Brides. Helena gazed at the son and father, buried side by side. Were they together now in some afterlife? Where was her father? Had he descended to hell to be tortured for eternity for his evil sins, as some people would claim? Helena didn’t want a heaven or hell when she died. She wanted silent nothingness, where all emotion, memory, and thought ceased.

  “Helena, we must go.”

  She lifted her head. Megan stood beside her, the sun peaking over the brim of her bonnet.

  ∞∞∞

  “I’ve been betrayed,” Emily whispered and leaned her head against the carriage squab.

  “They are upset at me, not you,” Helena said. She peered out the windows at the oak limbs, twisted and wild, rustling in the wind. Pale, fresh leaves budded from their branches, but she wouldn’t be here to see the trees in their full summer brilliance. “I must leave.”

  “You said you would not!” Megan cried.

  Emily sat up. “What is this? What do you mean, you must leave?”

  Mr. Mallory spoke before Helena could answer. “I’ve written to my parents that Miss Gillingham cares to join them at their estate in Kent.”

  “May we not discuss this at present?” Helena whispered, tearing at her destroyed cuff again.

  “What do you mean?” Emily’s gaze sharpened on Mr. Mallory. “You have done this without consulting me.”

  “We didn’t want to upset you,” he said.

  “I’m tired of being treating as a child!” Emily hit the seat with her small fist. “For God’s sake, I’ve lost a son and husband. I’m stronger than any of you know.”

  Theo rubbed his forehead. “I’m sorry.”

  “You shall send another letter to your parents recanting your words, for Helena is not leaving.” Emily’s face was all tight, angry lines.

  “She’s not accepted here, nor will she ever be.” Mr. Mallory’s voice rose to match Emily’s. Helena’s belly clenched.

  “She’s accepted by me and Megan.”

  “You’re not being reasonable, Emily,” he said. “You can’t protect her. She will be safe in Kent. There are legions of servants there, all her needs will be properly addressed.”

  “She doesn’t deserve the coldness of your family’s grand estate,” Emily retorted.

  “My stepmother’s nature is hardly cold. Helena will make her a fine companion. They will rub along nicely.”

  “She doesn’t require a companion,” Emily cried, her anger cresting. “Helena needs a mother!”

  “What would you have me do?” Helena burst forth. “You won’t find peace while I am here. Nor can I, in good conscience, stay knowing that my presence will cause such pain. I can’t…” Her throat tightened, choking her words. Mr. Mallory tried to clutch her hand, but she yanked it away. “I don’t see how circumstances will change,” she said, when she could trust her voice again. “I can’t erase the person I was… I am. I must go, but I promise, I’ll never forget you. You are my family… well, more family than I’ve ever known. I wish so much that every night could be like last night when we laughed and read together. I wish so much… but it can’t be. Not after all that’s happened.”

  The carriage lapsed into silence except for the low whistle of the wind beating the windows and the rattle of the rigging.

  “Let’s have breakfast at Castell Bach,” Mr. Mallory said.

  “I would prefer to take my daughters home,” Emily answered. “I’m not at all pleased with you.”

  ∞∞∞

  Theo stepped down from the carriage outside Emily’s home and turned to help Helena. She murmured her thanks and didn’t wait for her cousins, but opened the gate and walked to the front door Betry held open. Theo watched the sway of her skirt, the way she clasped her hands over her chest. She greeted the housemaid with a few words and then disappeared inside.

  Theo offered his arm to Megan, but she cast him a dark glare, jumped down without assistance, and sprinted around the house to the fields beyond.

  “Helena will not leave,” Emily said, as she took Theo’s hand.

  “She’s not your daughter. And she’s a grown woman. You can’t keep her.”

  “You know nothing,” she said, stepping onto the lane.

  “What are you attempting, Emily? You will make yourself and Helena suffer more out of your stubborn refusal to see reason. Let her go.”

  “That’s right, when we meet adversity we should run away,” Emily shot back. “Find little castles in Wales to hide in. Pretend we are Welsh.”

  All the frustration Theo had struggled to keep tamped down erupted. “I’m trying to help! Why are you treating me so poorly?”

  “You’re not helping!” she shot back. “You are like them. You judged her without really knowing her. What have you against her? What has she done to you to garner such unbending spite?”

  “No, this has nothing to do with my feelings,” he hissed. “I care only for Miss Gillingham!” He tossed up his arms in frustration. “For her!”

  Emily’s mouth opened to speak and then stopped. Her lips formed an “O.” “Theo, you’re falling in love with her.” She reached and touched his cheek. “Don’t be afraid.”

  He stepped back, letting her hand fall away. “No, you are quite wrong.” His voice was unsteady and low. “I do not love Helena. Nor will I ever.”

  They held each other’s glares, a silent battle of wills. He refused to be worked on and kept his eyes blank, jaw set.

  At length, Emily spoke. “Good day, Mr. Mallory.” She stomped toward her home, shutting the door behind her without giving him another glance.

  He stalked to his carriage, tore off his hat, and threw it against the wall. Enough of protecting Emily if that was how she treated him. He would tell Helena the truth even if it meant exposing himself. He saw her silhouette pass her window on the upper floor, rifling the curtains. But he couldn’t tell her today. She had been through too much trauma, and he was too full of anger and remorse to trust himself.

  He thought back to the image of her, standing so solemn in the churchyard, kindly greeting the handful of villagers who dared to speak to her. He rubbed his eyes. Yes, Emily was right. He might be falling in love, and it only heightened the urgency of getting Helena safely away from him.

  ∞∞∞

  At home, Theo found th
e dining room table covered in a white tablecloth. Five china plates and a platter of turbot resting in gravy glinted in the chandelier light. Efa entered from the kitchen, holding a Dutch ceramic teapot. She stopped short when she saw Theo.

  “Are the ladies not coming?” she asked, confusion on her features.

  “Mrs. Pengwern feels poorly.”

  “Oh.” Efa set the pot down on the sideboard, alongside a bowl of buttery buns covered with a linen. She tilted her head and brushed her hands down her checkered apron. “Did matters at the church not go well?”

  “As well as to be expected. Miss Gillingham was shunned by over half the village, despite Reverend Jeffries’ efforts.” Theo picked up the pot and poured himself a cup of tea.

  “Shall I have the food sent up to Mrs. Pengwern’s?” He knew Efa enough to know that it wasn’t a question. “Betry has been quite ill with that infant,” she said.

  “If you think it is best.”

  She gave a curt nod, her mind made up, and left for the kitchen.

  Theo wasn’t hungry. He strode to his library, removed his coat, necktie, and collar, and tossed them on the sofa. He lit a lamp, adjusting the flame until it was bright enough to read by. He unbuttoned his waistcoat and fished his key loop from the pocket to unlock his desk. He pulled out the bottom drawer. On top of a black leather portfolio rested Wilson’s folded letter. He picked it up, tapped its edge on the desk. He wouldn’t respond to Wilson’s request until Helena had been safely bundled away. He replaced the missive and took out the portfolio. Inside were all the personal letters, newspaper clippings, and financial statements against Gillingham he had gathered over the last two years. He scooted his chair near the grate and one-by-one started to go through his collection, looking for any mention of Helena.

  Aside from articles mentioning where she had been and what she had worn, he found a caricature in The Mirror of Helena on her father’s arm. The artist had drawn her with a crown and an expansive bosom that threatened to pop from the bounds of her gown. A large diamond rested in the valley of her breasts. Behind her smiling father, a few recognizable London bachelors goggled with comically bulging eyes. The linings of their pockets were pulled out. The caption below read Princess Helena.

  “That’s not you,” he whispered.

  He studied the picture a second more and then replaced it in his portfolio. He returned the documents to his desk. He was reaching for his brandy decanter when motion outside the window drew his eye. He turned his head, expecting to see Gordon or one of the boys crossing the front garden. Instead, he recognized Helena’s mourning gown. She was walking toward his house; the wind rifled her skirts and blew back her cloak. She held the brim of her bonnet, keeping it low over her face.

  He snatched up his coat and hurried out, shoving his arms through the sleeves as he took the stairs. Efa was already in the hall to answer the door. He waved her off. “It’s Miss Gillingham.”

  He opened the door. Helena raised her head. Redness rimmed her pale eyes. She curtsied and murmured a quiet greeting.

  “Won’t you come in?” he asked. “It appears as though you require a cup of hot tea or coffee.”

  She shook her head. “Would it be an imposition if I strolled in your labyrinth?”

  “Of course, it isn’t. You need never ask, Helena.”

  Her head gave a little jerk. It took him a second to realize she was surprised at his use of her given name. “I will take you there.”

  “No thank you.”

  “It would be my honor.”

  She bit down on her bottom lip. He could tell that she wanted to be alone, but she whispered, “Thank you.”

  He held out his arm. She clasped it with her bare hand.

  “You have forgotten your gloves,” he said, closing his larger fingers over hers.

  She gazed at where their bodies touched, as if realizing for the first time her mistake. “I’m… I’m a little distracted.”

  “Shall I fetch you a pair? I don’t want you to be cold.”

  “It is well,” she said. “I would… I would like to walk in the labyrinth.”

  He kept her hand in his as they strolled across the lawn and through the arch in the old wing.

  Inside, his emotions were raging. “At the church, you said I won. I want you to know—”

  “Tell me about your father’s estate,” she said. “Tell me again that the gardens are as lovely as they are here.”

  “The gardens there are much finer than my sad attempts. Everything I learned came from my father’s head gardener, John Chapman.”

  “I love the stories about your childhood in Kent.” She graced him with a smile. “Tell me one now. Hurry.”

  “I wasn’t a very good student as a boy. Either I was running away from lessons, or being asked to leave the schoolroom for some various offense. I would get sent to Chapman who was always building something that was entirely more fun than conjugating verbs in Latin or figuring out the area of a circle. He would let me climb the frame of the orangery he was building. That’s how I broke my arm the first time. Then I was allowed to help dredge the low, wet land to create a bog garden. I was so filthy and stunk so badly, the housekeeper refused to let me in. I had to dunk myself in the lake and sneak back in naked with my clothes in a sack.”

  She laughed. The gentle sound did things to his heart. “And I always thought earls’ sons didn’t get their hands dirty, much less their entire bodies.”

  “Now, you’re sounding like my father,” he playfully scolded.

  “He is a good man, isn’t he? Everyone says his name with awed reverence. Lord Staswick said this… Lord Staswick said that.”

  “It’s a shame he was saddled with me as a son.”

  “He should be proud,” she said. “You’re a war hero, and I see how you take care of Emily and Megan. You’re the finest gentleman I know.” Her words flowed so easily, as if she didn’t need to give them a thought.

  How he had deceived her.

  “Chapman had a vision that I never will,” he said, refusing to acknowledge her compliment. “He looks at the land and sees the completed garden in his head. And he knows everything to make that image manifest. I have to muddle about. In the end, it’s not what I imagined at all, but a bunch of mistakes cobbled together.”

  She paused at the mouth of the labyrinth. “But they are such lovely mistakes. I wish my mistakes could be so beautiful.” He saw her throat contract with her swallow. He could feel her sadness on his skin, in his bones, in his heart.

  Her fingers grazed the tight bud of a young purple tulip. The slight bow of her head, the lashes over her pale eyes, the sunlight gleaming on the wisps of hair framing her face, caused him to blurt, “You are beautiful. More beautiful than any garden I could create.” Immediately, he felt idiotic.

  A pleat formed between her eyebrows. She knelt down before the tulip she had touched. “They must have newly bloomed,” she said, clearly ignoring his words. “I shall have to remember them. At night—and today at church—I walk along the path in my imagination. It keeps me from thinking of other things.” She studied the flower a second more and then abruptly rose, as if disturbed by an anxious thought.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, seizing her elbow, wheeling her back to him. “I’m sorry about the conflict at church, about your father, about…” The words were waiting to be said. He could tell her everything. He could watch her face fall as the terrible realization sunk in, the hurt filling her eyes. “Sorry,” he muttered.

  “I see the love between Emily and Megan and you. And your lovely garden. And I want to belong, but I simply cannot. You were right. If I stay here, I’ll harm Emily and Megan. I’ve known this truth but I didn’t want to admit it.” She brushed a strand of her hair from her cheek and anchored it behind her ear. “I appreciate your kind offer. I shall endeavor to be a good companion to your stepmother.” She spoke without looking at him.

  “I know you will. She will adore you.”

  “Please bring M
egan to visit me.” She raised her eyes to his. “Please come and tell me your stories and about pleasant evenings passed at my cousin Emily’s home and what grows in your gardens.”

  He leaned forward, intending to lightly kiss her cheek, a brotherly kiss, but then couldn’t take himself from her scent and the warmth of her body. He knew he shouldn’t slowly tilt her chin, but he did it anyway, letting his lips hover near hers. Her mouth was still parted, her tongue resting behind her teeth. Her eyes large and shiny, like water on glass, searching his. He caressed her cheek with his thumb as his lips grazed hers again—the barest brush. He lingered. Waiting. She leaned closer, beckoning him with her lips. He slid his tongue over the tops of her bottom teeth, a question. When she didn’t flinch or try to push him away, he gently delved further. Sliding his hand down her back and around her waist, he drew her snug against him, feeling her breasts flatten against his chest. What had been slow and unsure transitioned to frantic and desperate. His sex hardened to get inside of her, driven by an irrational urge to use his body to heal her.

  He heard a thud and Helena pulled away. Gordon stood just outside the woods, watching them, his arms crossed, an overturned wheelbarrow of black soil spilled before him.

  She searched Theo’s face, waiting to see what he would say.

  Dammit. Why couldn’t he control himself? He had knowingly taken advantage of her ignorance. He could have compromised her, forced her hand. The most frightening aspect was that he didn’t care. He wanted her. His primitive, base desire obliterated his reason, his compassion. What kind of devil had he become?

  Gordon turned and strolled into the woods, shaking his head.

  “I’m sorry,” Theo whispered to Helena. “I’m so sorry. Go home. Please. Go home.”

  She squeezed her eyelids closed, released a high, quiet sigh-like cry, and ran back to the house.

  Thirteen

  Theo tore down the path into the woods. “Gordon, Goddammit! Where are you?”