“It does look pretty.” Harrison’s rasping voice and hacking cough filled the room as he came through the doors to stand behind her. “Leave her be, Miranda. Miss Helen’s a rare beauty, and there’s no reason to hide it by keeping her in black and tucking away her curls.”
“Thank you, Harrison,” Helen murmured. From the corner of her eye, she saw Miranda marching toward them.
“When you become a lady’s maid, you’ll be allowed an opinion on the subject,” Miranda said, wagging a finger at him. “Until then, I’ll thank you to keep your nose where it belongs — outside and pointed toward the backside of a horse.”
“It doesn’t take a maid to appreciate beauty.” Harrison cleared his throat and sounded a bit better. “There’s no time for her to change, anyhow. Ladies —” He bowed gallantly. “Your carriage awaits.”
Miranda scoffed. “What nonsense is this? We don’t need a carriage. We can see Mr. Preston’s house from here. It’s but a short walk.”
“Over a dewy lawn,” Harrison said. “It could ruin her fine gown.”
“Well, we don’t need to leave now. We’re not expected for another hour,” Miranda argued.
“Breakfast won’t be served until then, but that does not mean Miss Helen cannot enjoy visiting before.” He winked at Helen.
She worked to contain a smile — a task easily accomplished when Miranda turned a severe gaze upon her.
“You two are up to something,” she accused. “I wouldn’t have believed it of you, Miss Helen. Your sister, easily, but never of you.”
Helen’s smile broke free. “Why, thank you.” She felt giddy with confidence. For once she had exerted her will, and Miranda thought she’d acted like Grace — the highest compliment Helen could think of, and it boded well for the adventure ahead. After all, Grace had captured the attention of several men without even trying.
I need secure only one.
Helen had learned from weeks of silent observation that the
one
, Mr. Samuel Preston, strolled in his garden at precisely nine o’clock every morning. He always walked alone and always appeared somewhat solemn. This morning, Helen intended to join him and attempt to distract him from his melancholy.
Mr. Preston had invited her to breakfast, but she hoped to make much more of the morning than that. Her skirts swished about her ankles as she followed Harrison outside to the borrowed phaeton. He held out his hand and helped her up. Miranda came running behind them, carrying a wrap.
“You’ll catch your death of cold with this nonsense. And Grace barely well herself. I’ll not have another foolish girl to care for.” Ignoring Harrison’s hand, Miranda hoisted herself onto the seat and settled beside Helen. “Let’s get this on you,” she said, laying Helen’s wrap across her shoulders.
“Oh, Miranda,” Helen said. “You needn’t worry so much. The sun is out. It’s a lovely day.”
“Hmpf.” Miranda sat straight. “I wish your brother was here to see what you’re about.”
“Well, he isn’t,” Helen said a little too pertly. Christopher had stayed only one night at Mr. Preston’s estate, just long enough to see that he was a gentleman and that she was safely settled, before returning to London to attempt to work out the matter of their inheritance.
Miranda’s gaze grew calculating as she appraised Helen. “A girl who wants nothing to do with men suddenly does an about face and goes out of her way to dress up for one —”
“A page you might consider taking from her book,” Harrison said, climbing up on the other side of Helen, so she was sandwiched cozily between them.
“And why should I want to do that?” Miranda asked, looking positively affronted by such a suggestion.
“So that the man who favors you —” Helen looked sideways at Harrison — “might take more notice of you and take more
care with his words
.” She shifted in her seat, giving Harrison a not-so-subtle nudge.
“First there would have to be a man who I would
wish
to notice me.” Miranda’s words were tart, but Helen thought she saw a faint blush stealing across the older woman’s cheeks.
Helen sighed inwardly, wishing Grace were here, so they could discuss — as they had previously — what might be done for their servants to be more amiable to each other. Grace had often said it was as plain as the nose on her face that Miranda and Harrison cared for one another. What Helen could not understand was why they did not simply admit their feelings and enjoy friendship, at least.
She could not begin to understand it, but then, she also didn’t know the first thing about relationships between a man and a woman, her only example being a vague knowledge of her parents’ ill-fated marriage.
So much I have missed by not having a mother.
Grace had done her best as a substitute, but at times — like now, when Helen was about to attempt to gain a man’s interest — it would have been a fine thing to have access to some motherly advice.
Harrison slowed the horses and brought the phaeton to a stop well before they reached the front entrance to Mr. Preston’s mansion. He jumped out and held his hand up to her.
“Thank you,” Helen said, smiling at him as he helped her down.
“What are you doing?” Miranda demanded. “I thought you were worried about spoiling your gown outside.”
“I will help you wash it if it becomes stained,” Helen promised.
It isn’t as if I am unfamiliar with such work.
She’d survived her first twelve years by helping Grace launder other people’s clothing. Miranda wouldn’t allow such a thing now. Even with their changed circumstances, she was most adamant that their lifestyle, inasmuch as was possible, remain as it had been while living at Grandfather’s. Helen pulled Harrison aside, waiting a moment for him to cease his wheezing. “Take Miranda for a nice, long ride. And say something kind to her.”
“If that is your wish, Miss Helen.” He bowed before climbing back into the carriage.
“It is,” she said, trying not to laugh when he winked at her again. “Goodbye. Have a lovely time.” She waved them off, watching until the carriage had gone down the curved lane and out of sight. Then, much more slowly than she usually walked, Helen made her way toward the entrance of the garden on the side of the house.
Many mornings from her upstairs bedroom of his guest house, she had watched Mr. Preston as he strolled in his garden. He was always alone, and he always walked bent slightly forward with his hands clasped behind his back, as if considering a great many things. Helen hoped he would not mind her company and that he might even enjoy it enough to invite her to walk with him again.
Since their first introduction at her arrival, she’d found herself thinking of Mr. Preston frequently. He’d proven to be kind and soft-spoken. He was pleasant to look upon and not more than nine or ten years her senior, she guessed.
And he has money enough to save us.
It was a terribly selfish thought, but she could not seem to keep herself from thinking it.
If I
must
marry, why can it not be to a man who is gentle as well as generous?
In her heart she cared more about his demeanor than whatever wealth Mr. Preston was in possession of, but her dire circumstances dictated that she also consider his fortune.
A dismal reality, with no help for it. Such was the lot of females: to do their best to marry well. Now that she was a grown woman of eighteen, the time had come for her to join the hunt. She had set her cap for Mr. Preston and must go about securing his interest.
Helen had never expected to find herself in pursuit of any man, yet she could not deny a certain thrill — and a definite terror — to the process. At night she thought of Mr. Preston, oft as she sat at her window, looking out at the lights glowing from his house, wondering which room was his and what he was doing. New feelings stirred within her, emotions she had never expected to experience for any man, and she found them both frightening and exhilarating. As her older brother Christopher had remarked at dinner that first night here, she was growing up.
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.