Loving Helen (7 page)

Never with someone like me.

My Dearest Grace,

In your absence I have become acquainted with a darling little girl …

Helen pulled her cloak tight to ward off the chill as she ran through the garden, searching for a place to hide. She really had to convince Beth that their days of playing outside ought to be over — for a few months, at least — and traded for cozy afternoons in the nursery. But each day was the same, with Beth longing to be outside. Cooped up as she was, with a nanny who understood nothing about evil kings and fairy princesses, Helen could not deny the little girl’s plaintive requests. In the month since Helen had started visiting each day, Beth had become very dear to her.

While Helen had come to love Beth, it seemed Mr. Preston had been busy falling more in love with Grace. Helen had not been to the wall again, but she recognized the signs well enough … Mr. Preston’s particularly cheerful disposition after returning from his afternoon walks, his hints and suggestions of what might be done to free Grace from her betrothal, and the little things about her that he mentioned here and there all indicated that the two of them had grown very close. Helen resigned herself to being nothing more than a friend of his daughter’s, or perhaps Beth’s aunt, if he married Grace.

Helen’s was a romance ended before it had begun, and she could feel only grateful that she had not revealed her true feelings to Mr. Preston.

Beth’s tiny voice rang out through the cold, announcing that she was beginning her search. Helen crouched behind a fountain and tucked her cloak around her so as to not be too obvious. She always allowed Beth to discover her, but a few minutes of searching made for a better game.

“Miss Helen! Miss Helen, where are you?” Giggling.

Helen smiled to herself. If need be, she’d call out a clue, but with the parameters they had set for hiding, it was not often necessary.

A noise behind her sent Helen jumping. She bumped against something, then whirled about to find Mr. Preston directly in front of her, holding a bunch of fresh-cut roses.

She brought a hand to her heart. “You startled me.”

“As did you me.” He smiled. “It is a rather cold afternoon for a walk, isn’t it?”

“I am playing with Beth,” Helen whispered, glancing over her shoulder. “Hiding.”

“Ah,” Mr. Preston said. “One of her favorite games of late. I’ll be quiet.”

Much to Helen’s consternation, he crouched beside her. The sweet scent of flowers filled her senses, along with the aroma of cut pine and freshly dug earth. He lifted his arm, wiping perspiration from his brow and inadvertently smudging dirt across his face.

The smudge, when added to his mischievous grin, took years from his face, making him appear almost boyish. Helen found herself wondering just how old Mr. Preston really was, and about the particulars of his situation — beyond owning a grand house and fine piece of property, and being extremely generous with both. He was not titled, but he did not appear to work for his bread. Curiosity overtook her nerves as she noted his dusty breeches and work worn shirt.

“What have you been doing?”

“Moving some of the roses inside for winter,” he whispered. “Two years ago, I had a small conservatory built behind the house. Before winter, I move a dozen or so of Elizabeth’s rosebushes inside. It allows us to continue growing them throughout the year, and to ensure that some always survive.”

Though Elizabeth is gone, he makes certain her roses live on.
“You do this yourself?” Helen asked, again touched by his devotion to his late wife.

“I manage the roses. The gardeners take care of the rest.”

“Miss Helen, where are you?” Beth’s call came again.

“I suppose you think me odd — doing a gardener’s work.” Mr. Preston offered a rueful smile. “It is just that —”

“— Caring for Elizabeth’s roses is something you can do to show your continued love for her and to keep her memory alive.” Helen smiled encouragingly. There was nothing odd about it.

“Yes.” His look turned searching. “You have an uncanny ability to understand people, Miss Helen.”

Not people. You.

“At times — like this,” Mr. Preston began, “I feel, perhaps, that I could tell you anything, even of my loneliness and heartache, and, with more than sympathy, you would understand. Why is that?”

Helen could not seem to pull her eyes from his. “Though our sorrows have been different, the results are much the same. Once experienced, loneliness is not easily forgotten.”

His brow quirked. “Who said that?”

“I just did,” Helen said, returning his perplexed look with one of her own. What did he mean by such a question?

“Oh.”

For some reason he sounded almost disappointed.

“My apologies,” Mr. Preston continued. “I thought you were quoting literature, as your sister often does.”

Helen swallowed the lump in her throat. “Grace is very well read.” The reminder of his relationship with Grace, along with Beth’s sudden appearance in the courtyard, pulled Helen’s attention back to the game. A good thing.

She ducked lower to avoid being seen quite yet, and Mr. Preston did the same, then scooted closer. His shoulder brushed hers, and it was all Helen could do to keep both her balance and her wits. When he placed his hand upon her arm she jumped and nearly gave up their hiding place. He beckoned for her to follow.

She hesitated, uncertain, but he motioned again. Leaving the fountain, she followed him away from the courtyard, toward the back of the house. Once around the corner, she turned back to watch for Beth.

“Miss Helen?” Beth stood near the fountain and turned a slow circle. “Come out, Miss Helen.” She sounded less certain this time.

Mr. Preston cleared his throat as he stepped into view. “The king has stolen your princess.” He spoke in a gravelly voice. “You will have to come rescue her.” He grabbed Helen’s mittened hand and pulled her along. Too startled to protest, she stumbled along after him.

“I’ll save you!” Beth cried as Mr. Preston pulled Helen onto the open field behind the house. He continued running, and Helen did her best to keep up until they stopped suddenly at the base of a large ash tree. Mr. Preston pulled her behind it. Helen stood beside him, breathless from her run and his nearness.

“Hold these.” He thrust the roses into her hands.

Beth wasn’t far behind. “Let Miss Helen go, you evil king!”

Mr. Preston did, popping out from behind the tree and grabbing Beth so that she let out a shriek that was part laughter, part terror.

“I’ve made a surprise for you,” he said, setting her on the ground. Reaching to a limb above him, he pulled a rope looped there, releasing a fine, wood-plank swing. “What do you think?”

Instead of answering, Beth struggled to climb onto the seat. He picked her up and made sure she was settled. “Ready?”

She nodded, and he pulled the swing back, then let it go. Beth’s laughter filled the yard, and Mr. Preston stood aside, a satisfied smile on his lips.

This explains the smell of fresh-cut wood — a swing for Beth.
Helen buried her face in the roses.
Flowers for his wife.
What kind deeds and gifts would Mr. Preston bestow upon Grace if he married her? Something thoughtful, certainly.

Helen lingered behind the tree, out of sight of both father and daughter, and, she was certain, quite forgotten by both. She considered placing the roses on the ground and sneaking away but could not bring herself to stop watching the two. This was how fathers ought to care for their daughters. Her father had never made her anything or given her any sort of gift. He’d never said he loved her, had never so much as hugged her. The only physical contact she could ever recall had been punishments. She touched her cheek, remembering clearly the sting of his slap.

Mr. Preston stopped the swing and lifted Beth in his arms as she called out, “Miss Helen’s turn now.”

“All right,” Mr. Preston said. “If she wants one,” he added, upon seeing Helen’s mouth open uncertainly.

He thinks I will not.
Desperate to prove him wrong — to prove that she could be both good company and adventurous like Grace, Helen lifted her chin and stepped forward.

“I would very much like a turn. And what good manners, Beth, for thinking of others and offering to share your new swing.”

Beth beamed at the praise. Helen laid the roses carefully on the ground as Mr. Preston set Beth near the base of the tree.

“Stay right there,” he said. “Out of the way of the swing.”

Beth nodded as she pressed her back up against the trunk. “Go high, Miss Helen. It tickles your tummy.”

Helen held onto the ropes and sat on the wood board. “I have never done this before. Is there a trick to it?”

“Never?” Mr. Preston leaned around the front of the swing to look at her. He grinned. “You are in for a treat. Hang on tight, and if you feel I am pushing you too high, let me know.”

He grabbed the ropes on either side and stepped backwards, pulling the swing, and Helen with it. He let go, and she flew forward through the air, feet thrust out ahead of her, cold stinging her cheeks, and the breeze sending her hair flying. Like Beth had, Helen let out a squeal of delight. She couldn’t help herself. Beth was right; the sensation did tickle.

“Higher?” Mr. Preston shouted behind her.

“Yes, please,” Helen said, then felt his hands upon her shoulders, pushing her forward. Her stomach fluttered again, which she could not credit entirely to the new height the swing had attained.

Beth was on her feet, clapping and shouting instructions. “Put your feet out more. Lean your head back.”

Helen tried this and for a second found herself looking up into Mr. Preston’s smiling, dirt-smudged face as he pushed her once more.

She laughed, partly at how amusing he looked and partly because she was having so much fun — more than she could ever recall. When, after a few more times, he grabbed the ropes and slowed the swing, she felt keen disappointment.

She slid from the seat and stood, surprised to find that her legs were not shaky at all. “Beth, that is the most marvelous contraption. You are a very lucky little girl to have a father who builds you such toys.”

“It’s rather the wrong season for it,” Mr. Preston said ruefully. “Your nose and cheeks are red with cold, Miss Helen.”

“A small price to pay for such amusement,” she replied. “Besides, you’ve dirt smudged on your face. I’d say we are quite the pair.”

His head tilted to the side, and his look turned quizzical. Only then did Helen realize what she’d said. “I’m sorry. I did not mean to imply —”

“I know.” He reached out, briefly touching her hand and silencing her apology. “But if you would be so kind as to help me rid my face of dirt.” He stood still, chin jutted forward, waiting expectantly.

“You’ve some there — across the bridge of your nose,” Helen said, pointing. “And more across your brow.”

He wiped at both but only made the smudges worse. Beth giggled.

Mr. Preston turned pleading eyes to Helen. “Won’t you help me — please?”

Her hand trembled as she reached out, brushing her fingers across his brow. She had never touched a man’s face before, not even Christopher’s. She’d kissed Grandfather’s cheek on occasion, but that felt different than this. Mr. Preston’s eyes closed beneath her ministrations as her mittens gently wiped his nose and forehead. “There. All gone.” Her hand fell to her side as she stepped back. His eyes opened with that same inquiring look he’d given her a few moments ago.

“Thank you.” His voice was nearly as quiet as hers had been, and for a moment, they simply stood there, lost in each other’s gaze. Helen felt the ties of their friendship strengthening.

He trusts me. He had shown some trust on many occasions, from the first morning in his garden to allowing her so much time with his daughter. But this felt like something new, something extraordinary, to be cherished. Helen clutched the moment close to her heart to be remembered and dwelt on many times later.

“Papa?” Beth tugged on his hand. “Can we swing some more?”

He turned to look at his daughter, and Helen felt whatever magic had been enveloping them disappear.

“Not today,” Mr. Preston said. “I am going to the churchyard to take roses to your mother’s grave. Will you come with me?”

“May Miss Helen come too?” Beth asked.

Mr. Preston hesitated the barest second. “If she would like.” He glanced at Helen as he bent to collect the roses. “Come with us?”

It wasn’t her place, but Helen felt uncertain how to properly decline. The last time they had discussed his wife — that ill-fated morning in the garden — she’d been so blunt as to be rude.

Misinterpreting her silence, Mr. Preston excused her. “It’s all right. You don’t have to.”

“But I want her to,” Beth said. “I want to show her Mommy’s grave.”

“I — would like that,” Helen found herself saying. “Yes, I will come.”

Mr. Preston seemed as surprised by her answer as he had been by her enthusiasm for the swing, but not displeased. He nodded, and they set off toward the drive and waiting carriage.