And so I must act like it. No more hiding. To get Mr. Preston’s attention, she must look pretty and smile and be pleasant, as Grace had witnessed other young ladies doing to gain the attentions of their potential husbands. How difficult could it be?
Crossing the drive, Helen walked beneath the neatly trimmed arbor, still abundant with blooms late in the season. She thought Mr. Preston’s gardeners must be very good, as she had never seen such lovely flowers with such enormous blooms, bright color, or sweet fragrance.
In addition to the yellow roses lining the drive, the garden boasted plants and flowers in what seemed to be every hue of orange, red, and gold. Helen had viewed them from her window, but standing among them, she realized that the labyrinth she’d spied from above would be more difficult to navigate than she’d anticipated. Multiple paths spread in various directions, tall hedges lining many of them. She paused before starting down any as she tried to recall where she had most often viewed Mr. Preston.
After a moment’s contemplation, she remembered that he usually ended up in one of the two courtyards with a fountain. Helen set off on the path she hoped would lead her to the nearest one. As she walked, she rehearsed in her mind what she would say upon meeting him.
Good morning, Mr. Preston. Pleasant day for a walk, isn’t it?
He would agree, compliment her on how fine she looked, and invite her to stroll with him. She would inquire after Grace, as he saw her when he delivered their letters, and Mr. Preston would then inquire as to how she and Christopher were faring. They would stroll and visit politely — about what, Helen wasn’t quite certain, but she supposed an appropriate topic would manifest itself at the right time.
At breakfast she would employ all of the manners instilled in her while living with Grandfather, and Mr. Preston would find her so charming that by noon their courtship would be well underway.
Helen clasped her hands in front of her, pleased with the imagined scenario and feeling certain that the events would transpire in just such a way — if only she could locate Mr. Preston.
She reached the first courtyard and found it empty. The fountain spouted no water, and the bench sat vacant. No footprints marred the dew upon the moss growing between the stones. It seemed unlikely that Mr. Preston had visited here this morning.
Resolute in her cause, Helen gathered her skirts and marched on, toward the back of the house along a path she hoped would link the west garden to the east. She passed the gazebo, which was centered in the middle of the vast back lawn, and found it deserted as well. The path forked, the right heading in the direction Mr. Preston walked most afternoons when he went to exchange letters with Grace. Helen chose the other path, following the flagstones around the eastern corner of the mansion. She’d taken but a few steps when voices — or rather, one voice, Mr. Preston’s — reached her.
“More and more I feel I cannot continue as I have been. I am at a loss to know what to do with Beth. She needs a mother, and I …” His voice trailed off, and Helen waited expectantly for a response from whomever he was speaking to.
None came. But Helen imagined that she heard a wearied, despondent sigh.
“It is a wretched thing for me to bring up today, of all days,” Mr. Preston continued. “But I cannot seem to help myself. I beg your forgiveness, though I have already asked it far more than I deserve.”
His earnest plea received no response. Helen crept closer, feeling a vague sense of annoyance and desperation on his behalf. Who would not forgive him? Would not even deign to respond?
The second courtyard came into view, and Mr. Preston with it, hunched forward on the bench, head in his hands.
He is upset. This unsettled her. She had expected his mood to be contemplative but not so sad or serious as he appeared now. She had also — foolishly, she worried — imagined that he would be pleased by her unexpected arrival. Never before had she witnessed Mr. Preston display any emotion aside from joviality. The change left her uncertain how to proceed.
Everyone has problems, her grandfather had once told her. Do not ever consider yours to be greater than those of others around you. Be compassionate — a lesson I wish I had learned much earlier in life.
Helen felt compassion stir within her now, though she felt at a complete loss as to what to do about it. Biting her bottom lip, she alternately hid behind the hedge and peeked around it as she pondered what course of action to take. She did not wish to abandon her plan — it had taken courage to come this far — but to continue seemed beyond self-serving. Mr. Preston obviously had something pressing on his mind, and she should show him respect enough to postpone her attempts to gain his attention.
Having decided this, she felt relief. She let out a breath she had not realized she’d been holding, and her hands unclenched. Parting the bushes, she peeked into the courtyard one last time before returning down the same path she’d come. Aside from Mr. Preston, the square was empty, so whomever it was he’d been speaking to must have left already, by the opposite path.
Odd, Helen thought, that he’d been with anyone at all. She’d watched him for nearly three weeks, and never once had she seen anyone accompany him on his morning ramblings.
It was a mystery she would have to consider later. For now, she wished only to leave before she could be seen. Moving quietly, she began her retreat but had taken no more than five steps when Mr. Preston spoke again.
“Miss Thatcher?”
Helen stopped, pinned in place by his voice. She turned slowly and found him still hunched on the bench, now with his head turned sideways toward her. He’d caught her during the few seconds the path crossed his view.
“Hello.” She did not attempt a smile. Somehow, as she noted his solemn look, smiling did not seem appropriate.
“Have you been here long?” he asked. “Did you hear —”
“Not long,” she rushed to assure him. “I heard you speak briefly but did not hear your companion at all. My apologies. I did not mean to eavesdrop.”
He sighed, then straightened on the bench, tilting his head back as if searching the sky. After a few seconds looking heavenward, he lowered his head, braced his hands on his knees, and stood.
“I’m sorry to have disturbed you,” Helen said, glancing over her shoulder at the path behind her. “I’ll go now.”
“Don’t — please.” He crossed the courtyard and came to stand before her. “You needn’t leave on my account.”
“I should not have come.” Helen could not meet his gaze, shamed that she’d ever had the idea to disrupt him on his morning walk.
“Nonsense,” he said, a hint of his usual good humor in his tone. “The gardens are meant to be enjoyed, especially by my guests. You are free to walk here whenever it pleases you.”
It is you I wished to walk with. Helen kept her gaze averted, feeling her face warm with the thought.
Mr. Preston glanced about as if expecting to see Miranda accompanying her.
Perhaps he will think me as scandalous as Grace, walking without a chaperone.
“I came early,” Helen said.
His brow furrowed.
“For breakfast,” she clarified.
“Of course.” He broke out in a smile. “Goodness. Is it that time already? He withdrew a watch from his vest and looked at it. “But no.” His gaze was questioning as he met hers.
“I came early,” Helen said once more, wishing very much she had not.
“You are hungry,” he assumed, stepping forward and offering his arm. “We’ll go right in and get you something.”
“I am not,” Helen protested. “Hungry, that is. I only came to walk — with you.” There. She’d said it. And what an eloquent speech it had been. She closed her eyes briefly, wishing the earth would open up and swallow her.
When she dared peek at Mr. Preston again, she thought he looked rather perplexed, and perhaps even a bit put out.
This was a terrible idea.
“Well then —” He still offered his arm. “Of course you may j
oin me. That was very — thoughtful — of you.”
“I have seen you alone in the mornings,” Helen blurted, then wished she had not, as his gaze strayed in the direction of the guesthouse. “You are always alone, and I thought you might enjoy company.”
Or, perhaps being alone is to your liking, she realized too late. Or perhaps you are not usually alone at all, as you were not today. “But if you would rather be by yourself—” She stepped back, preparing to flee.
“Not at all.” He shook his head a little too vigorously to be entirely believable. “Stay. And allow me to explain.”
Explain what? Why you prefer to be alone? Why you are sad? Who you were talking to? Helen did not ask what he meant; neither did she agree to stay. But instead of leaving, she moved to stand along the far edge of the path. He did not offer his arm again, for which she felt grateful. She’d only wished to walk and talk with him, not touch him.
“I must confess that you startled me,” he said as they began to move awkwardly along the path, she trying to stay a step ahead so they did not accidentally touch, while looking back at him as they walked.
“I do walk alone every morning.”
“But not today. You were talking to someone.”
He grimaced. “You are as direct as your sister.” It did not sound like a compliment.
“I am sorry. I should not have said that. I should not have intruded your privacy.” She glanced about, looking for a break in the hedge where she might make her escape.
“My privacy, or my insanity?” he said, almost more to himself than to her.
Helen looked back at him, astonished to find him smiling, albeit rather sadly.
“You have discovered my secret,” he said. “And I must beg you to keep it.”
She nodded, fearful of what he was about to say. She had believed him to be so nice, so kind — she should have known he was too good to be true. All men, excepting Grandfather, Christopher, and Harrison, had some fatal flaw about them. If insanity was Mr. Preston’s, should she fear him?
Should I run?
He caught up with her so that they stood quite close. Helen’s pulse quickened. She took a step backward, then another, and her heel slipped from the path. She fell back into the hedge but quickly righted herself, though not before thorns caught in the lace of her dress.
“Don’t move,” Mr. Preston ordered.
She froze, too paralyzed with fear to do anything else. He reached over her shoulder and brushed her curls aside. Moving even closer, so close she felt his breath upon her ear, he worked, carefully freeing her gown from the bush.
“There. No harm done, I believe. That is a very pretty gown.” He stepped back, a curious expression on his face as he studied her. “Is it your sister’s?”
Helen shook her head, more confused than ever at the turns their conversation was taking. But he did not hurt me. Her heart began to slow as the distance between them grew again. “Grace has a similar gown. Grandfather had them made for us.” She prattled on, attempting to hide her nervousness. “He knew I would not be wearing mine to any balls, so he had it designed in a more medieval style, like the gowns the heroines wore in the stories we read together.”
“It does have a hint of Camelot about it,” Mr. Preston said, a smile curving his mouth. “It looks quite lovely on you, and I recall that your sister looked very pretty, too, the night she wore hers to my ball.”
“Grace is very beautiful,” Helen agreed, not knowing what else to say.
“Why is it that your dress will never be worn to a ball?” Mr. Preston asked. “Do you not dance?”
Helen shook her head. “I do not care for dancing.”
I do not care to be near so many people, so many men.
“Only strolls in the garden,” he mused, glancing down at her perfectly normal feet.
She did not offer further explanation, and they started off again.
“I was about to confess my madness a moment ago,” he said.
Does that make him madder yet, that he has reminded me? He needn’t have told her. She had forgotten already. But then, it seemed she could hardly recall her own name in his presence.“As you caught me,” he said, “I feel I must offer an explanation.”
“You don’t have to,” she hurried to assure him. I really don’t want to know.
“It is all right. I feel that for some reason, I can tell you. I trust you will not go running about the neighborhood sharing my secret.”
“Not at all,” Helen said, feeling her eyes widen. What awful thing was he about to confess? She glanced about for a side path once more.
“Every morning I walk in the garden and speak to my wife, Elizabeth.” His lips pressed together, and he paused, as if waiting for a reaction of shock or disapproval.
“But isn’t she — dead?” Helen whispered, then wished she could take it back.
“Deceased sounds so much better,” Grace had said when people came to offer their condolences after Grandfather’s funeral.
“She is.” Mr. Preston gave a tight-lipped smile. “She died in childbirth over three years ago. What I meant is that I imagine I speak with her. I share with her my problems and concerns. I tell her the amusing things Beth has said or done. It is only a pretend conversation — annoyingly, Elizabeth does not respond — but I find that it does me a great deal of good — most days.”
“Oh.” Helen looked at the ground, fighting a swell of emotion. Relief, sweet and refreshing — he is not mad — was followed almost instantly by the realization that her plan to catch Mr. Preston’s interest had ended before it began. His wife had been gone for three years, and still he spoke to her in the garden every day. It was the most tragically romantic thing Helen had ever heard.
“I’m sorry. I did not mean to upset you. Are you quite all right?” he asked, concern in his voice.
She nodded her head and forced herself to look up, not wanting him to misunderstand. “You are not insane at all.”
So why did she feel so sad? Helen swallowed painfully as his face blurred from the moisture building in her eyes. “I think that your talking to your wife is the most beautiful thing I have ever heard. I am so sorry to have interrupted.” She turned and fled the way she had come, wiping at her eyes as she went back along the path, past the bush that had caught her dress, and onto another path.
Mr. Preston’s situation was beautiful and tragic. Beautiful because of his continuing devotion. Tragic because he was still in love with his wife.
Forty-five minutes later, Samuel sat down to breakfast alone, though the table was set for two. He supposed he’d frightened his guest off and told himself he must ask Grace, when they met later today, more about her sister. Perhaps he would learn something that would allow him to remedy the situation. Miss Thatcher was such a young, timid thing; he supposed he oughtn’t have told her about speaking to Elizabeth.
But Miss Thatcher had overheard him, so he’d had to tell her something. Why not the truth? He hadn’t intended to send her fleeing.
No doubt her sister would have reacted very differently. He guessed it would not have upset Grace in the least. Indeed, she might have jested with me about it, until I was able to laugh at myself. Grace had a way of making his worries feel lighter — possibly because her own were rather burdensome at present — and Samuel found he had begun to crave her company and to wish he had not been so quick to help along the situation that had ended with her betrothal to Nicholas Sutherland.
When he had first learned that Grace was to be offered up for marriage, he’d requested an audience with her excuse of a father. I should have been bolder, should have paid the man right then and there. But Samuel held Grace in higher esteem than that. He hadn’t wanted to purchase her affection, though he was quite willing to pay her father for the privilege of marrying her, had it come to that.
And it might have, he thought ruefully, were it not for a storm and a broken carriage that had landed Grace in the wrong bedchamber of the house just up the road.
> And now I am here alone, while Nicholas is blessed with her presence daily.
Grace looked nothing like Elizabeth, but Samuel felt she had a similar spirit. Setting out to purposely ruin her reputation so she and her younger sister might both avoid marriage had required gumption, the likes of which he had only witnessed in his wife. He still loved Elizabeth and felt a constant ache in his heart for her. But for the first time in over three years, he’d felt hope that he might yet have another chance at love, that the spirited lady currently betrothed to his former brother-in-law and current enemy might have been the one woman who could fill the void in his life and bring him happiness again.
We could have been happy together. We still might be, if all does not go well with Nicholas. Such a thought courted disaster, but Samuel could not stop himself from thinking it anyway.
“I’m sorry I’m late.” Miss Thatcher stood in the doorway, wringing her hands and looking generally miserable. He could tell she’d been crying, and he worried it had been because of their earlier encounter. He rose to greet her.
“Please don’t trouble yourself.” She hurried forward to the seat with the other place setting, seating herself before he could come around to pull out her chair.
“I’m glad you’ve joined me,” Samuel said. “I worried that I’d offended you.”
“No!” she exclaimed, a little too loudly. “Nothing of the sort.” She took her serviette and unfolded it.
Samuel glanced at the sideboard where the food was located and waited for Miss Thatcher to notice it. When, after an awkward, silent moment of her repeatedly smoothing and adjusting the cloth across her lap, it did not appear she would, he brought everything over to the table, placing it well within her reach. Only when he’d sat again and started eating did she begin to serve herself; but even then she still did not look at him.
He searched his mind for a safe topic of conversation. “I believe Grace continues to fare well at Sutherland Hall.”
Miss Thatcher looked up, hope alight in her expression. “Have you another letter?”
Loving Helen Page 2
