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“He would hate those things. He’d be off wandering in a day.” Arthur admired a swath of scarlet poppies as they walked past. “I’ve learned recently that helping is not a simple matter. The impulse is easy. Discovering how to go about it is not.” As he’d found with the young men he’d gathered for dinner in town last spring, Arthur thought. How long ago that seemed, though it was just a few months.
“I don’t quite understand,” she said.
Arthur nodded. He wasn’t certain he did either. “I’ve worked out that help isn’t forcing your ideas or plans onto people. That’s a kind of oppression. Yet simply asking those you’d like to aid what they want may not be enough. Often they don’t really know. Or aren’t able to choose between alternatives.”
“Goodness, how philosophical you’ve become.”
He laughed. “And a dead bore. I beg your pardon.”
“Not at all. I’m quite interested. I can’t even count all the times I’ve been asked to help with some scheme or other that’s meant to ‘better the lot’ of those involved. But I’ve noticed that charitable projects are often just what you said—forcing a plan on people who resent the interference. Even when they appreciate the material assistance. How do you help?”
“By not rushing in with my own notions,” Arthur replied. “By observing and listening. By applying a longer experience of life than…some others.” His efforts had gone well so far, he thought, despite some mistakes.
“I like that.” Her lips curved in a small smile. “I believe I shall adopt your approach.”
“That’s too grand a word for it.”
“And you’re too modest.”
They strolled for a while in silence. Helena pointed out a special rose for him to admire. Then she said, “You didn’t come here to see me, did you?”
For once, Arthur was speechless. He’d been aware of her assumption and sidestepped the issue with considerable finesse until now.
“I thought when you arrived that you were looking for me. But you weren’t.”
She’d tipped her parasol so he couldn’t see her expression. “I was delighted to see you again after so many years,” he said.
“But not expecting to.”
“I had forgotten you married Chatton,” he admitted. They moved on a few steps before the parasol shifted, and he could see that she looked ruefully regretful. “I’m past the age for flirtation,” he added.
“Oh, Arthur.” She gazed at him like a woman amused by the boy he’d been when they first met. “Why are you here? And don’t try to fob me off with some story about fishing in Scotland.”
He wasn’t sure what to say. The confidences shared at that London dinner were sacrosanct, and it was difficult to explain without revealing them.
“One of your missions to help?”
Helena Ravelstoke hadn’t been this sharp, Arthur thought. Or he hadn’t noticed if she was, his attention being on other elements of her person.
“Never mind. I’ll figure it out. You aren’t the only one who can observe.” She sighed. “Ididlike the idea that you’d been languishing for me all these years.”
Arthur caught the twinkle in her blue eyes. Relief preceded amusement. “Perhaps we can be friends?” He hadn’t had any female friends when he first knew Helena. At that age, women had seemed too alien, and enflaming, for friendship. But over the years since he’d made a few.
She smiled. “Yes. Let’s do that.”
They walked on, talking of gardens and what had become of people they both remembered. Helena pointed out her beehives at the far end of the space. As they turned onto a new path, Arthur said, “Who was that young lady at church? The one who offered to kick your son in the face.”
“Ah. Fenella Fairclough.” She sighed.
“You don’t like her?” Arthur had been intrigued by the exchange he’d witnessed. There’d been a palpable spark between the two young people.
“Oh, I’m very fond of her. I’ve often wishedshewas my daughter-in-law. But it wouldn’t have worked. Though it couldn’t have been worse than—” She bit off the sentence and fell silent.
Arthur’s interest increased. “Shall we sit for a while?” He led her to a shaded bench set on a rise of ground, offering a panoramic view of the sea. “In answer to your earlier question, I recently noted a group of young men who had suffered unfortunate losses in their lives. I set myself the task of helping them, if I can. I have some experience of grief.”
“Grief.” She seemed to examine the word, and then his face. Whatever she found there appeared to satisfy her. “My husband was ten years older than I, you know.”
Arthur didn’t see what this had to do with the case. But he’d learned that it was best to let people tell stories in their own way.
