Chapter 9
F
rom a distance, the village looked exactly as she remembered it. The houses, the storefronts, the chapel, all as sedate and tidy as she'd pictured in her mind. It wasn't until they entered the main thoroughfare that she saw all the small indications of age and decline.
“Is that the Farington house? What happened to them?” The fine white exterior so vivid in her memory was now stained with spattered mud, overgrown with weeds that had taken root in cracks along the base of the house. A few of the windowpanes had been knocked out.
“After their eldest son died in India, they moved to Manchester.”
“Jack is dead?” He had been just a boy when she'd left, probably no older than Tommy. He'd grown up and joined the military and was already gone. A chill ran through her, and she said a brief, silent prayer for her own Bartholomew's safety. She shook her head in disbelief and barely managed to catch the rest of Daniel's explanation.
“. . . so the Faringtons followed their remaining sons to Manchester in hopes of starting fresh.”
Starting fresh. The way he said it sounded hollow, false, almost as if he were trying to soften the news. They passed more houses and shops that appeared abandoned and neglected. The fields beyond the village, in contrast, looked as though time stood still. Aside from some new structures and fences, the familiar hills and dales brought her surprisingly great solace. Lazily grazing sheep dotted the landscape, and a warm breeze gusted through the tall grass in the distance, making it undulate in waves. Keen, sweet nostalgia swept through her in a rush at the picturesque sight. How often had she stood, watching herds graze, watching the land breathe? How often had she run through those fields as a child? The warmth of memory drained abruptly. The Lanfield and Thorton properties were to have become one, just as their families had intended her and Gordy to be. She had to find a way to make amends.
Mr. Lanfield slowed the cart as it turned off the main road and followed a track that lodged her heart in her throat. She focused on the path behind them, fearing what changes time had wrought in this place she once called home. As the cart pulled to a stop, the luggage shifted in the back.
Vanessa had already hopped down from the cart. “Auntie, surely you don't mean to unpack here in the lane. This looks like such a charming old place. I cannot wait to go exploring.”
“Just you wait, my girl. It shall be a whole new world for you. We're not in London anymore.” As she turned to her niece abruptly, a zing of panic caught her by surprise. She couldn't bring herself to look at the house now that they were stopped before it. From a distance, it had been exactly the home she remembered. She swallowed a sudden bitterness in her mouth. Of course her home wouldn't be the same. But what changes had time wrought? “It is too soon to talk of exploring when we've only just arrived. Your great-grandmother may need a great deal of care. We must first see what we can do to ease the burdens of the household. Once we know what's what, then we'll start making plans.”
That was the suitably responsible course of action. It just happened to align quite nicely with the leaden ball of dread coalescing in her belly. Feeling suddenly heated and suffocating, she undid her bonnet and took a deep, fortifying breath. Then she looked up.
Blinking quickly against the telltale stinging of her eyes, she climbed down from the cart and stood before the great house. Her mind raced to take in everything at once: the sturdy brick, the hedges that her father would never have allowed to grow so random and riotous, the broken fencing around the barn. Her eyelids stung as all these concrete reminders spoke of one truth: her father was well and truly gone. Mother too. Long ago, she'd resigned herself to never seeing them again, and she'd mourned their deaths when the news came to her. But the Thorton house's state of decay and neglect made the loss real. Without her parents here to care for it, all they had worked to build and nurture was crumbling.
“Do you wish me to bring your things in for you?” Daniel asked. It was a kindness she wouldn't have expected at the beginning of their trip. Staring at the house with a lump in her throat, she appreciated the gesture more than she could say.
“No, Mr. Lanfield. You've been more than kind to allow us to travel with you. We can manage this last little distance,” she replied, attempting to smile.
He didn't press. Instead, he looked at her strangely and nodded. Perhaps he understood. She needed to take this step without assistance. Once she and Vanessa bade him farewell, she suggested her niece wait at the bottom of the stairs with their things while she went up to the door and knocked firmly.
She nearly burst into tears when Mrs. Weathers opened the door, her hands gnarled from years of domestic labor and gray hair escaping her cap. Oh, the dear sweet woman and her husband had served Gran for as long as she could recall. The scent of yeast and flour that wafted from the old woman shot Helena back to when she was a girl running around the kitchen, trying to sneak a bit of bread or cake for her sister or for the neighbor children. She suspected now that Mrs. Weathers had let her get away with it, at least some of the time. Judging by Mrs. Weathers's shocked expression, Helena's letter responding to Gran had never arrived.
“Saints preserve us, it's you,” the housekeeper said breathlessly.
She bobbed her head, feeling as if she were fourteen again. “It is a pleasure to see you, Mrs. Weathers. I hope you have been well.” When the woman nodded, she turned to Vanessa and continued, “Please allow me to introduce my niece, Vanessa. She's one of Elizabeth's girls.”
Mrs. Weathers shifted her focus, and her expression immediately cleared. Elizabeth had always been her favorite. “Why, of course! The very image! Miss Vanessa, I'm happy to see you. Hard to believe your ma could have a daughter who's now almost grown herself. Come in, lasses! It's good you've come.”
After brushing crumbs off a faded, threadbare apron, the housekeeper moved closer, as if to embrace her, but then pulled back with a frown. The woman's obvious pleasure at her arrival dissipated like vapor. They'd both been caught up in the moment. Crossing this threshold for the first time in a score of years, she'd felt at home again. But she'd forgotten Mr. Lanfield's warnings. “Your grandmother is in quite a state,” Mrs. Weathers added, brusquely. “I'll take you to her straight away. The rest can wait.”
She nodded and gestured to Vanessa, who stepped into the breach with her usual aplomb. Bright and cheerful, Ness chattered away as Mrs. Weathers led them upstairs to the room that had once belonged to her parents. As they came up to the closed door, she realized that she was holding her breath. Her whole body was tense, bracing as if her parents stood beyond that door, waiting to confront her for her abandonment. But they weren't. They couldn't be. With that realization came another. Oh, how sharply her heart longed for even their censure, if it meant she could see them again.
The housekeeper rubbed her hands on her apron and reached for the doorknob, then said, “You should be prepared. She might not be very alert today.”
“Much has changed, it's true, Mrs. Weathers. But I can only hope that she recognizes me at least a little.”
“Don't get your hopes up. 'Tisn't you. I knew you right away. Some days are particularly bad for her. You cannot tell her state just by looking at her, though. And her breathing doesn't sound so good today.”
Another slip of time jolted her as the room assaulted her senses. The curtains were the same, the afternoon light making them glow. This room was so familiar, echoing with laughter and warmth. And yet it wasn't, not anymore. The bedding was faded, and dust had accumulated in the crevices of the wardrobe and the shadowy corner beyond it. Even the smallest dust mote wouldn't have dared defy Ma. Then the smell hit her. The scent of a sickroom, dank and tainted.
But it was the sight of the tiny, motionless woman tucked in the bed that made her heart seize. Gran had always been thin, but now she appeared gaunt and lifeless. She was never one to sit for a moment; to see the dear woman languishing pricked Helena's heart with a thousand arrows. Gran's hair had already been gray, but now it was patchy and fragile. Her grandmother looked so small under the covers, and it took every ounce of strength she had to keep from bursting into tears yet again.
“Grand-dame,” Mrs. Weathers whispered in her ear, “you've some bonny visitors. One of your lost lasses has come home.”
Gran coughed thickly as she opened her eyes. She struggled to raise herself to a seated position while Mrs. Weathers adjusted the pillows behind her. Helena tried to assist, but the housekeeper waved her away with a cursory, “I've got her.” She stepped back to stay out of the way, and when her eyes met her grandmother's, she could see the dear woman's eyes glistening. A single tear slipped as Gran said, “My Lena girl.” Awe and disbelief shone on her face. If Helena let slip a tear or two as well, it was no wonder. To see this precious woman who'd been such a great and vibrant light in her youth was something she'd never thought would happen again.
“How are you, Gran?” she asked, when she could find her voice. She approached the bed hesitantly.
“Ah, these days I am thus and so. Naught to say about my health,” Gran replied faintly. Awake, she looked slightly less frail and shrunken, but her skin was still pale. And, of course, Helena couldn't forget what Gran had written in her letter.
“We received your note. You wrote to say you were at death's door, and Lizzie and I should hurry home, ananthers we should miss you. Your words, Gran. Matters were urgent, aye?”
Gran frowned and shook her head at the floor, her confusion evident. Helena couldn't keep her distance any longer. So many years had passed. She knelt by the bed and covered her grandmother's hand with her own, trying not to notice how the skin hung off her delicate bones. “Was it you who wrote to us?”
She saw the tears welling in her grandmother's eyes, even as her own vision began to blur again. A delicate hand touched her cheek.
“Honestly, I don't recall, my sweet Lena. I must've, for here you are.” Gran's wan voice stretched as she struggled for breath. “You always were such a bonny lass. Is this your daughter, then?” she said, peering at Vanessa.
“No, Gran, this is Elizabeth's eldest daughter, Vanessa. She's here in her mother's stead.”
“Lizzie couldn't get here herself?” Gran's face fell, but a spark flared in her eye. “What's that girl about? Your parents raised you girls better than that. Family comes first.”
“But, Mrs. Thorton,” Vanessa interrupted, moving to the edge of the bed, “my mother is home with my young sisters and cousins. She would be here if she could, I assure you, but she sent me because it was the only way.”
Gran stared at her for a few long, tense moments. “You look like your mother, child, pretty and docile. But I sense you have a wild streak in you. Lena, you need to keep a close watch on this one.”
Vanessa blushed deep red, the color Helena recognized as a warning sign. The poor girl was deeply embarrassed and on the verge of lashing out.
“Don't mind her,” she whispered in her niece's ear. “Let's get our things unpacked and then see about making ourselves useful.” To Gran, she said in a normal tone, “We'll let you rest now, Gran. We'll see you closer to suppertime.”
“You go on, but I would like Miss Vanessa's company for a bit longer.”
Even after all these years, she could hear the command in Gran's unsteady voice. And even now, she could not dare think of disobeying. She nodded but pulled Vanessa aside to say, “Don't let her upset you. It's been a long time, and she seems a bit confused. Be kind. I'll come get you in a quarter hour.”
“She can't be that confused if she's already found my wild streak.” To her credit, Vanessa didn't pout or flounce. In fact, she added, with a wide smile, “Mother said much the same thing to me when she convinced me to come with you. I'm sure we'll get along famously.”
Not for the first time, Helena was impressed by her niece's newfound aplomb. She gave the girl a pat on the cheek and went to find Mrs. Weathers.
In the room that had once belonged to Helena and her sister, the housekeeper clucked apologies for the condition of the bedrooms and moved to uncover the furniture. Helena wondered if Mrs. Weathers had already decided they weren't worth the hospitality. Her slow motions were not those of the brisk, hardy woman Helena knew from childhood. Then she caught the old woman grimacing as she stretched up to pull the covering off the wardrobe.
For shame, Helena. Whether or not she resents you, you cannot let her do all this for you.
“My niece and I shall see to the rooms, ma'am. There's no need to trouble yourself on our account. We mean to help, not to be an added burden to anyone.”
The housekeeper's relief was undeniable as she straightened her spine and rubbed the back of her neck.
“It's been quite some time since these rooms have been used. I'm not as young as I once was, Miss Helena.”
“None of us are, Mrs. Weathers. Please don't let me keep you from your other duties.” She added, quietly, “It's Mrs. Martin. I haven't been Miss Helena for a long while.”
The housekeeper made a noncommittal noise and then met her gaze. “How long do you plan to stay, Mrs. Martin?”
“I don't yet know. I wish to speak with Gran's physician about her illness.” As she helped uncover the furniture, she continued, “And about the possibility of relocating her to London, where Elizabeth and I can both see to her care.” Only when the other woman gasped did Helena realize what she'd said. She should have been more circumspect, waited until she saw the situation more fully. But the strain of travel had loosened her tongue.