Page 69 of The Matrimonial Advertisement

Justin looked down at her, his gray eyes solemn as the grave. “No more secrets.”

The rain stopped sometime during the night. By morning, the dark clouds had drifted away and the sun was shining in a clear blue sky. Helena woke early, alone in the great Elizabethan bed. She was cold and hungry—and quite unwilling to wait on the grudging service of Mrs. Standish.

After washing and dressing, she made her way down to the kitchens to see about something to eat. Mrs. Whitlock was there, fluttering about the stove in a grease-stained apron. Mrs. Standish stood near the sink, filling a teakettle with water from the tap. The smell of frying bacon wafted through the room.

“My lady!” Mrs. Standish swiftly disposed of the teakettle. “What are you doing in here? And at this hour?”

Mrs. Whitlock wiped her hands on her apron. “She’ll be wantin’ her breakfast.”

“And I’ll be bringing her a tray at nine of the clock, won’t I?” Mrs. Standish retorted. “Though it’s a maidservant’s job, if I do say so.”

“Are you hungry, ma’am?” Mrs. Whitlock asked. “Shall I fix ye a plate of eggs and bacon?”

“Her ladyship prefers porridge,” Mrs. Standish said.

Mrs. Whitlock turned back to the stove. “We’ve that too, and plenty of it.” She stirred the contents of a steaming pot with a wooden spoon. “Won’t be a minute, my lady.”

Helena seated herself at the long wooden table. “Have the gentlemen already eaten?”

“Not as yet, ma’am,” Mrs. Whitlock said. “Mr. Boothroyd and Neville should be down any moment.”

“And Mr. Thornhill?”

“Up at dawn, he was, and dressed to go riding.”

Mrs. Standish removed the tea canister from the cupboard. “Meanwhile, that wretched Mr. Danvers is still abed and still the worse for drink. He’ll never improve, lest he eats something. And so I told him, the vile creature.”

“He needs a wife to look after him,” Mrs. Whitlock said.

“A wife?” Mrs. Standish scoffed. “Who would have him?”

Mrs. Whitlock looked over her shoulder at Helena. “He were a good man once, was Bill Danvers. Drove the mail coach, he did. No man could handle a team of horses so well.” She scooped a ladleful of porridge into a bowl and handed it to Mrs. Standish. “He lost his wife and two little sons to fever in ’55. Lost his job soon after. Hasn’t been the same since.”

Mrs. Standish set the bowl of porridge down in front of Helena along with a folded napkin, a spoon, and fresh butter and sugar. A pot of hot tea followed, accompanied by a chipped porcelain teacup and saucer. “We’ve all suffered hardship. It’s no excuse to fall into vice.”

Helena listened to the two women bickering as she ate her porridge and drank her tea. The servants at Greyfriar’s Abbey were so unlike the servants at her uncle’s townhouse in Grosvenor Square as to be almost a different species. They talked, argued, and gossiped with impunity, and seemed to have no fear of being turned off without a reference. It was little wonder the house was in such a state.

In other circumstances, a new wife would set about restoring some semblance of order. Helena was certainly up to the task. She’d had the charge of her father’s household from the age of fifteen and, when Giles had ascended to the title, he’d happily let her continue in the role. If Giles were still alive, she’d likely be in Grosvenor Square now, conducting weekly meetings with the housekeeper and cook and toiling over the household accounts.

If Giles were still alive.

The hand holding her spoon froze midway to her mouth.

Good gracious, had she truly thought such a thing? Of course Giles was alive!

She slowly lowered her spoon and rose from the table, leaving her porridge half-finished.

“No appetite, my lady?” Mrs. Whitlock asked.

“Not as much as I thought I had,” Helena said. Indeed, a leaden weight seemed to have settled in the pit of her stomach. She felt vaguely ill.

“Up too early, that’s the trouble,” Mrs. Standish grumbled. “Ladies aren’t meant to rise before ten.”

“And how many ladies have you waited on?” Mrs. Whitlock replied tartly. “Not many, I’ll wager.”

Helena retreated from the kitchen to the sound of their continued arguing.

She fetched her bonnet, shawl, and gloves from her room and made her way back downstairs. The entry hall was empty, the sun shining in through the stone-framed windows, casting dust motes in dancing beams of light.