He was, it had to be said, not immediately a natural. The stems broke with alarming consistency, and a pile of casualties accumulated beside him at a rate that was frankly embarrassing. Meanwhile Helena produced two neat chains and fashioned them into a double crown for Lavinia’s head with the efficiency of long practice.
“Perhaps you were right,” he said. “And I will tell you, this is not relaxing in the least.”
“That is because you are not doing it correctly.” She shifted toward him, their arms pressing briefly together, and then did something he had not expected. She placed her hands over his and guided them, showing him the motion slowly. Her hands were soft and warm against his, and the touch of them sent something through him that was disproportionate to the situation, which was after all a woman teaching a man to string flowers together beside a lake on a Tuesday morning. He realized he had stopped breathing and took a sharp, quiet breath. She glanced at him.
He withdrew his hands gently. “Let me try now.”
He did, and to his genuine surprise, managed to string several daisies together before ruining one.
“There,” she said. “You see — your fingers are capable of delicate work after all.”
“I have an excellent teacher,” he said, with a smile. “And these fingers are indeed capable of a great many delicate things.”
“Indeed,” she replied, and a smirk passed between them, warm and quick and familiar.
He thought: perhaps they could find their way back after all. The playful ease that had always come so naturally between them was still there — it had not been lost, only misplaced somewhere along the journey here. The question now was whether he could find a way to tend that small flame without, in his usual fashion, accidentally putting it out.
CHAPTER 25
HELENA
Helena waved as Miss Marlena, the new governess, took Lavinia away for a walk in the gardens. They had been at Blackthorne now for a little over three weeks, and it was beginning to feel more like home. She had not exactly made friends in the village, but she had grown quite close to Mrs. Strom, and to a few of the maids besides.
Life at Blackthorne was considerably different from what she had expected, and she was beginning to enjoy it. Huxley’s estate had never felt like her own — she had always been a visitor there, and not a particularly welcome one. Here she could imagine, for the first time, that somewhere like this might truly belong to her.
She came back through the front door, the butler closing it quietly behind her, and stood for a moment in the hall.
Why couldn’t it have been different?The thought crept in before she could stop it, as it had been doing with increasing frequency since their arrival.Why couldn’t I have met Gideon first? Why couldn’t my father have introduced us, years ago, when wewere both younger? He might have been spared Cassandra, and I?—
She shook her head and made her way up to the library. These thoughts had been haunting her. She did not often speak to anyone about what life with Huxley had truly been — it was not something she liked to revisit. But now that she was married to Gideon, even if it was not a real marriage, she had been given a glimpse of what life might have been, had the cards fallen differently.
“Your Grace,” Mary said, appearing from down the hall.
Helena turned. “You do not need to call me that. Lady Helena is fine. Or simply Helena, as it used to be.”
“You know I cannot,” Mary said, though she was smiling. “Not with all these other servants about.” She fell into step alongside her. “I must tell you — I never knew what it could be like to live in a house with this many servants. There are at least twice as many here as there were at the Vale estate.”
“It must be considerably easier for you,” Helena said, genuinely glad to see Mary so well settled.
“Indeed it is. Though I confess I sometimes feel as though there is nothing left for me to do.”
“Then enjoy it. Or perhaps write a letter to your suitor.”
Mary’s cheeks turned an impressive shade of red. “There is no suitor, Your Grace. And even if there were, it would be most improper for an unmarried lady to write to a gentleman unsolicited.”
“And yet I have observed letters arriving rather regularly over the past fortnight.”
Mary looked at her feet. Then she nodded toward the library door. Helena followed her inside.
“It is true,” Mary said, when the door was closed. “Sir Franklin has written more than once. But it is not what you think. He is attempting to lure me away from you.”
“Lure you away from me?” Helena said. “I was not aware he was in need of a ladies’ maid.”
“He is not.” Mary suppressed a smile. “A housekeeper.”
“Oh,” Helena said. “And are you considering it?”
“No,” Mary said. “Though I will say — even if his letters speak of desiring a housekeeper, there is an undertone that makes it quite clear there is rather more to it than that.”
