“You are not cursed,” Iris said, reaching a hand to her again. “You were never cursed.”
“Tell that to my mother,” Helena whispered brokenly. “For I am the one who killed her.”
Chapter 9
James wasn’t going to do it. It was Andrew Marwood, the Earl of Cumberland who convinced him otherwise.
He hadn’t intended to go to London at all. It was an abominable time of year to travel, and the expense would be considerable. In the end, Lucy bullied him into going, reminding him that so long as he was still a member of his club, he could stay there nights at no cost to himself.
Phillip pointed out that the horses would need to eat regardless of where they were upon the road while doing so. Hay in London or hay in Hull made little difference to them, and was it not better to use them than not? The argument was overly simplified, as there would be stable fees in London that he would not have while at home, but James was smart enough to know when to admit defeat.
It was at his club that he found the Earl.
The Earl of Cumberland was not all that much older than he was, but they’d known each other for some time since they had taken lessons together as boys. So, when they crossed paths, it seemed natural to accept an invitation to dine, as it gave him a chance to forget the weight of titles and respectability for an hour or so, and allow him to remember who he was before he had been so titled. It was over dinner that he brought up his problem.
“If you would ever finish laughing, we could perhaps discuss this matter like the educated individuals that we are,” James muttered into his wine, irritated that thus far there had been more time spent in the laughing part of the conversation than in the conversation part and thinking that perhaps they had gotten too casual in their friendship.
“I would laugh less if the situation were not so ridiculous. A girl bargaining for a courtship through a trifle? Were I a novelist, I could not tell half so good of a story as all that.” Andrew said, pouring them both some more wine.
They were dining in the Earl’s townhouse, where James was invited to spend the night. At the time that he’d received the invitation he had thought only of how much more comfortable it would be than the draughty club, but he could see that he had been mistaken if he had thought that the Earl would not exact payment of another sort.
“It did not exactly happen in that way,” James said uneasily, thinking that the girl did not come out so well in the story the way this was told. “If you could but see her, you would understand.”
“Why? Is she not beautiful and accomplished like every other lady of the ton?” Andrew asked, raising his glass in a toast to all such ladies.
James thought a moment, remembering her laughter, her eyes, that magnificent hair. “She is indeed beautiful but afflicted in such a way where leaving her home is decidedly difficult. She is a lady of certain…limitations.”
Andrew considered this. “Then it should be no hardship in visiting with her. Is her father a man with whom you can do business?”
“I think so. In fact, I have some papers here. I would value your opinion on them.” James found the packet within his coat and handed them over, glad now for the tacit permission to do just this. Andrew was a man who had made his fortune in shipping, much as the Duke of York had. If anyone would understand this matter, he would, despite his lower station.
The fire beside him crackled in warm comfort as the Earl read through the packet, making interested noises at certain points. Finally, when he looked up, his expression was somber. “This is a serious offer,” he said. “I would say it is well thought out and well-planned. With the proper execution, you stand to get yourself out of the situation you are in now.”
“You do not think it is…charity?” James said the last word with a great deal of hesitation.
Andrew folded the packet of papers and handed them back. “I think you both stand to receive something from this arrangement. He is looking for someone to oversee not only the construction of the ships but the execution of the plan. With your experience, I would suspect you are the wiser for it and less likely to make the same mistakes you did before.”
“Mistakes! When my partner was the one who—”
“It was you who chose that partner, was it not?” Andrew said somewhat harshly. “Before you lay the blame at someone else’s door, it would be wise to check your own stoop to see what has been laid at yours. You made a mistake, and unless you are ready to own up to it, you will not be ready to move forward. The Duke of York might be doing you a favor, sure, but is it also not true that you are doing him one as well?”
“I am not marrying his daughter!” James exclaimed with such vehemence that the dog lying at Andrew’s feet woke and looked up at him.
Andrew reached down to fondle the ears of the animal who sighed and lay back down to sleep. “No one said that you had to. You only need to give her a chance. An open mind perhaps, on both your parts. You say she is not able to get out, so I am assuming she has some infirmity? No, don’t answer that, for I see it in your eyes. If that be the case, then you are doing her a kindness in the same way her father is.”
“How is that not pity?” James muttered, staring morosely into his wine.
“Think of it as a favor. You do her one because you are the good man I know you to be. Give her this experience, that she might have the warm feeling of being courted. Lord knows, such is a fleeting experience; the warmth fades faster than the bloom of youth.” Andrew touched his own cheek and the greying beard there.
“And in return, her father does a favor for me. A trade,” James said thoughtfully.
Andrew shook his head. “Should we play out the other version of this story? I think it was in the book La Belle et la Bête that a girl was forced to play forfeit to a monster for the crime her father committed in stealing a rose from the monster’s garden. One could argue that this story could have gone much, much worse.”
“You quote ancient French novels at me when it is not only my life but my reputation on the line? Still, you have a point. This story could, in fact, have played out very differently. How hard can it be to court a lady?” James picked up his wine glass and drank.
“Say…Do you mean to say you have never courted a lady before?” Andrew’s eyes were wide. “Surely you jest, Your Grace!”
James brushed off his concern and the mocking use of his title. “I have attended balls and danced with many a maiden,” he said and smiled. “How hard can it be?”
“A ballroom does not equate to visiting a lady within her home. There are rules for such things!” Andrew threw up his hands. “I fear we have little time to educate you properly. A book perhaps…there must be a book.” He rose and went to the shelves that lined the room, plucking first one volume and then another, creating a growing stack upon the table where they had eaten.
James picked up one such volume and studied the title. “Don Quixote?” He glanced at the one underneath. “Romeo and Juliet? Even I know these are not stories that end well in the world of romance. What are you giving me?”
“Poetry. Imagination. Courtship!” Andrew said, throwing another book on the stack, this one a collection of poems by Keats, another by Shelley.
“How much time do you think I will have for reading if I am busy in arranging for ships and cargo, and in my spare time, courting a lady who only wishes to be courted for the sake of having been courted?” James complained good-naturedly.
“How about you court your lady and find out how much time you have for the rest,” Andrew said with a chuckle.
‘Your lady.’ The phrase stuck in his head. Was it such a bad thought, this impossible Duke’s daughter who was so delightfully imperfect? He recalled her descent down the staircase, as though walking was for mere mortals. Angels danced or tried to. Maybe she had fallen because she was not yet used to life without wings here on earth.
He stared at the poetry books a long moment and shoved them both back toward Andrew. “I think I have enough poetry t
o get me into trouble all on my own,” he said and regarded the rest somewhat critically. “On the other hand, it never hurts to revisit the Masters,” he said, retrieving the poetry books and tucking them quietly back into the stack.
Chapter 10
She’d never thought he’d actually show up.
When Helena’s father had informed her that she needed to dress for dinner, she suspected that something quite out of the ordinary had happened. For years now, she never ate with the family at all. Of course, having a skin condition such as hers was enough to make anyone lose their appetite. She had decided long ago that it would be cruel to put anyone through such an ordeal.
Now it was she who was taxed with the task of appearing at table.
“Perhaps if we add a fichu of lace?” Aunt Phoebe asked, holding up one dress critically. “With the long gloves and shawl, it might perhaps work.”
“There is still my face,” Helena said wearily, staring at her reflection in the mirror.
“Who did your father say he was inviting?” Phoebe asked, reaching into the wardrobe to withdraw yet another dress to eye it dubiously before returning it to the depths from which it came.
“I do not know. He has not consulted me on his plans,” Helena said, though she’d guessed it. How could she not have guessed it when the same carriage was in the drive that had been there the week before? How Phoebe had not noticed before now was beyond her.
“It seems at the very least he should have consulted me. It is I who run this household after all.” Phoebe withdrew the last dress from the closet, one a sickly yellow that Helena had always heartily disliked.
But Phoebe was nodding with a definite air of satisfaction, pulling out a green shawl to go with it though to Helena’s eye the one the color of autumn leaves would have gone much better. She opened her mouth to suggest just that and stopped. What did she know about fashion? She never went anywhere at all, while Phoebe quite simply did.
“Besides, it seems nonsense to include you. I daresay he’s including that old banker and his wife again. They always were partial to you.” Phoebe’s tone quite clearly gave her opinion of them for liking her. “All right, I have set out your things. Now be sure to have the new maid dress your hair. I gave her strict instructions.”
“I wish that Betty had stayed,” Helena sighed. “I rather liked her.”
“Well, the same could not be said of her, I suppose. But then not everyone is prepared for the unique challenges of the position.” Phoebe bent and hugged her swiftly. “Try not to worry about it. Change and make yourself pretty for the night. It will be nice for you to get out into society even if it is that fat old banker. I know you long for conversation.”
I do, but I have never told you that.
Helena’s eyes narrowed. Not for the first time she felt a vague stirring of unease.
It is because he is here. I shall see him tonight.
She did not know how to be courted. Surely there was more to it than sitting through dinner with a stranger. She had no idea.
The moment Phoebe left, Helena fled down the back stairs to the kitchen, looking for the only person who could actually help.
* * *
Bridget was up to her elbows in pastry dough when Helena arrived.
By most standards, Bridget was a plain sort of woman with dull brown hair, somewhat heavy of face, with thick arms that came from working heavy dough day in and day out. But it was her eyes that mesmerized, dark as the currants in her puddings but filled with so much life and mischief, that Helena had long since decided that this was her favorite person in the entire world.
Which made her the perfect choice to talk to when she had a problem.
What made her the best choice, was the fact that she’d been in love, in fact, she still was madly in love with her Antony and so, to Helena’s mind, she knew something of courtship.
Except she didn’t. She could only laugh when Helena asked her.
“There is no planning it, love,” she said, as she rolled out the dough, keeping a wary eye on the girl chopping vegetables to add into the soup. “Just let things happen as they do. If the thing ’tis right, then all will work in a way to make it so.”
“And if it is not right? Say, someone forced someone to take part in a dinner, for example, that has no interest at all in the woman he is seated next to?”
“My, but society folks put such complications on things. I would suppose that you would eat your meal regardless of whether or not you were interested in the man sitting next to you. I would guess that there would be less conversation perhaps with the one not interested.” She shrugged and pounded the dough with her fists, pressing it into submission.
“And if they are interested?” Helena asked, becoming more and more confounded in all of this.
“Then I suppose that there would be even less conversation,” Bridget said in a way that seemed at once wistful and tragic. “True lovers speak without words.”
Helena repeated the words wistfully. “Speak without words…” She felt less sure of herself than ever.
On her way out of the kitchen, she snagged a tiny strawberry and popped it into her mouth. The tart sweetness did nothing to alleviate the anxiety. On the other hand, the treat soothed her as she trudged back to her room to change, feeling perhaps a little breathless and itchier than ever by the time she got there.
’Tis only nerves. I wonder what will he be like? She asked herself. They had only exchanged a few words, him more than her, on the stairs. He had seen her at her absolute worst there but still seemed intent upon having dinner with her. Was that a good sign, or simply the power of the rubies within the pin that lured him to her table?
She decided that even if it were the latter, would it matter? She only had wanted the experience of being courted. It would be too much to ask to expect to be allowed to experience the emotions that went along with courtship, as well. She might never know what put that starry-eyed wistfulness in Bridget’s eyes, but she would know what it was to enjoy a conversation with a strange man and to be allowed to get to know him.
Five visits. She would make the most of them.
She tugged at her dress, too impatient to wait for the girl to help her. So far, this new maid wasn’t working out very well, not around when she was needed most. Still, this particular dress was easy enough, and she was able to tug it over her head without assistance.
Another look in the mirror proved that she had been right about the dress. To her eye it made her look sallow and strange as if she’d been ill. She smoothed the front of the dress and turned to study the effect as best she could in the small mirror over the dressing table, but it was hard to be sure.
Phoebe knows best. She’s out in society, such as it is here in Hull. I need to trust her.
Absently, Helena sat, still looking in the mirror and reached for the latest in an endless procession of creams and lotions she had to put on her blemishes. Except she misjudged the amount of the lotion upon her fingertips and large dollop landed in her lap, leaving a sizable greasy stain upon her skirts.
“No!” Helena sprang to her feet just as the maid came into the room and stared at her. Helena met the girl’s frightened gaze and looked down hopelessly at the stain that seemed to be bigger the more she looked at it. “What can we do?” she asked the girl, who stared in fascination at the sores along Helena’s arm and looked for all the world like she was about to bolt.
“You’ll have to change the dress,” the girl decided going to the wardrobe and opening the door wide. “Which would you like, my Lady?”
Helena was too panicked to spend time coddling a servant who could not make decisions. “I don’t know…”
The girl regarded her thoughtfully. “Begging your pardon, my Lady, but ’tis a miserable color on you with your hair like that. But if you were to take the green instead, I think you might be better pleased with the results.”
“Your name is Tess, is that not so? Tess, can you help me? We have at most an hour
before dinner, and I must prepare. If you have any sense for fashion or color and can make me…well…not so much the beastly thing that I am, then I will double your pay.”
The girl’s eyes grew wide. “Double? Do you mean it, My Lady?”
“I mean it with all my heart. Please.”
“Yes, My Lady!”
With considerably more enthusiasm, Tess threw herself into the wardrobe until she had found first one thing, and then another. She called the other maids into the venture, in search of matching ribbons for Helena’s hair. In no time at all it seemed, Helena was not only changed but re-created from the skin out.
“Why do you wear such coarse underthings?” Tess complained, with a shake of her head as she dug through the bureau. “I have seen far finer fabrics than this. Lady Phoebe has much nicer.”
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