by Lisa Kleypas
The most unnerving reaction came from Lady Berwick, who emerged from the parlor and stood at the threshold. As her gaze went from Helen to the child beside her, she comprehended the situation without exhibiting the slightest break in self-control. She seemed like a military general watching his troops retreating from a losing battle and calculating how to regroup his forces.
Predictably, in the horrid, silent tableau, Pandora was the first to speak. “This is like being in a play when no one remembers their lines.”
Helen sent her a quick smile.
Without a single word or flicker of expression, Lady Berwick turned and went back into the parlor.
The pencil lead taste was back in Helen’s mouth. She had no idea what the countess was going to say to her, but she knew it would be dreadful. She took Charity with her to the bottom of the stairs, while her sisters came down to meet them.
After one glance at the pair, who seemed to tower over her, Charity retreated behind Helen’s skirts.
“What can we do?” Cassandra asked.
Helen had never loved her sisters more than she did at that moment, for offering help before demanding explanations. “This is Charity,” she said quietly. “I fetched her today from an orphanage, and she needs to be cleaned and fed.”
“We’ll take care of that.” Pandora reached a hand down for the child. “Come with us, Charity, we’ll have lots of fun! I know games and songs and—”
“Pandora,” Helen interrupted, as the child shrank from the boisterous young woman. “Softly.” She lowered her voice as she continued. “You don’t know where she’s come from. Be gentle.” She glanced at Cassandra. “She’s afraid of baths. Do your best to clean her with damp cloths.”
Cassandra nodded, looking dubious.
Mrs. Abbott came to Helen’s side. “My lady, I’ll bring up trays of soup and bread for you and the little one.”
“Only for her. I’m not hungry.”
“You must,” the housekeeper insisted. “You look ready to faint.” Before Helen could reply, she turned and hurried toward the kitchen.
Helen glanced at the parlor. A chill of dread tightened the skin all over her body. She turned her attention to Charity. “Darling,” she murmured, “these are my sisters, Pandora and Cassandra. I want you to go with them, and let them take care of you while I talk to someone.”
The little girl was instantly alarmed. “Don’t leave me!”
“No, never. I’ll come to you in a few minutes. Please, Charity.” To her dismay, the child only clutched her more tightly, refusing to budge.
Cassandra was the one to solve the problem. Sinking down to her haunches, she smiled into Charity’s face. “Won’t you come with us?” she entreated softly. “We’re very nice. I’ll take you to a pretty room upstairs. There’s a cozy fire in the hearth, and a box that plays music. Six different melodies. Come let me show you.”
Cautiously the child emerged from the folds of Helen’s skirts and reached out to be carried.
After a disconcerted blink, Cassandra gathered her up and stood.
Pandora wore a resigned grin. “I’ve always said you were the nicer one.”
Helen waited until her sisters had reached the top of the stairs. She went to the parlor, thinking that no matter what Lady Berwick said, or how upset she was, it was nothing compared to what she had seen today. It haunted her, the knowledge of what some people were forced to suffer. She would never again be able to look at her privileged surroundings without some part of her brain contrasting them with the alleys and rookeries at Stepney.
Hesitating at the parlor threshold, she saw Lady Berwick on one of two chairs placed near the hearth. The countess’s face was stiff, as if it had been starched and set before the fire to dry. She didn’t even glance at Helen.
Helen went to the other chair and sat. “My lady, the child I brought with me—”
“I know who she is,” Lady Berwick snapped. “She has the look of her father. Will you take it upon yourself to collect all his bastards like so many stray cats?”
Helen stayed silent, looking into the fireplace, while Lady Berwick proceeded to lecture her in a tone that could have shaved the treads from a carriage wheel. Searing remarks were made about Helen’s character and upbringing, the Ravenels, the foolishness of women who thought they might somehow be exempt from the rules and judgments of society, and the many iniquities of Albion Vance and men in general.
She finally looked at Helen, her nostrils flaring and her chin vibrating with outrage. “I would never have expected this of you. This scheming! This dishonesty! You’re bent on self-destruction. Can’t you see, you reckless girl, that I’m trying to keep you from throwing away a life in which you could do enormous good for other people? You could help thousands of orphans instead of just one. Do you think me hard-hearted? I laud your compassion for that poor creature—you wish to help her, and you shall—but not this way. She is a danger to you, Helen. The resemblance she bears to you is ruinous. No one will look at the two of you without coming to the most disastrous conclusion. It won’t matter that it’s not true. Gossip never has to be true, it only has to be interesting.”
Helen stared at the older woman, realizing that although her countenance was coldly furious, and every nuance of her posture was overbearing . . . her eyes gave her away. They were filled with honest concern, true kindness, and caring. And anguish.
Lady Berwick was not fighting with her, she was fighting for her.
This is why Kathleen loves her, Helen thought.
When at last the countess fell silent, Helen regarded her with gratitude and melancholy resolve. “You’re right. About all of it. I agree with your ladyship, and I understand what I’m about to lose. But the fact is . . . Charity has to belong to someone. She has to be loved by someone. Who will, if I don’t?” At Lady Berwick’s frozen silence, Helen found herself going to her chair and sinking down to rest her head on the countess’s knees. She felt the older woman stiffen. “You took Kathleen in,” Helen said, “when she was only a year older than Charity. You loved her when no one else wanted her. She told me you saved her life.”
“Not at the expense of my own.” The countess took a wavering breath, and then Helen felt the light pressure of a hand on her head. “Why won’t you listen to me?”
“I have to listen to my heart,” Helen said quietly.
That elicited a bitter scrape of laughter. “The downfall of every woman since Eve has begun with those exact words.” The hand slid from her head. Another uneven breath. “You will allow me some privacy now.”
“I’m so sorry to have upset you,” Helen whispered, and pressed a quick kiss to her cool, wrinkled fingers. Slowly she rose to her feet, and saw that the countess had averted her face sharply. A tear glittered high on the time-weathered plane of her cheek.
“Go,” Lady Berwick said curtly, and Helen slipped from the room.
AS HELEN ASCENDED the stairs, she became aware of an ache in her lower back, and a weariness that had sunk into her with backward barbs. She gripped the railing at intervals to pull herself upward. Her skirts felt as if they’d been lined with lead. With every churn of her tired legs against the fabric, unpleasant scents wafted up from the hems.
Near the top of the staircase, she heard a buoyant sprinkling of musical notes floating delicately through the air. The familiar sounds came from a rosewood music box that Rhys had once given her. It was so large that it occupied its own special table, with a special drawer containing needled brass cylinders. Following the music, Helen went to the family parlor and looked inside.
Noticing her presence, Pandora came to the door with a finger held to her lips. Her blue eyes were alive with amusement.
Together they stood at the threshold, and watched as Cassandra swayed and turned graceful circles in time to the music. Charity was next to her, dressed in a white chemise with pinned-up straps, the garment ridiculously large for her. Although she faced away from Helen, it was clear that she was excited from the
way she bounced on her bare feet. She was so delicate, her bones protruding, that it seemed as if she might float away like dandelion fluff. But she looked much cleaner, and her hair was damp and combed so that most of it lay against her head.
Trying to imitate Cassandra, the child moved in awkward little hops and turned in wobbly circles, like a baby fairy. She kept glancing up at Cassandra, seeking reassurance, as if she were adapting to the idea of playing with an adult.
The sight restored Helen’s spirits like nothing else could have.
Pandora took her arm and drew her from the room. “Come with me, Helen—there’s a supper tray in your room. You can eat while they play. And I beg you, have a bath. I don’t know what that smell is, but it was on Charity too, and it’s like every bad thing I’ve ever smelled all mixed together.”
“How did the washing go?”
“Not well, Helen,” Pandora said darkly. “She is geologically dirty. It scrapes off in layers. We could have used chisels. She wouldn’t let us wash her hair properly, but we found if we gave her a little cloth to hold over her eyes, she would tip her head back enough to let us pour a teacup of water over it. Twice, and that was all she would allow. Children can be so strong-willed.”
“Can they?” Helen asked dryly.
“She ate an entire bowl of soup and some bread with butter. We had no problem cleaning her teeth—she likes the taste of tooth powder. Her gums are red and puffy, but her teeth are like little pearls. None of them are rotting or have cavities, as far as I can tell. I cut her fingernails and toenails, but the dirt goes below the quick on some of them, and I couldn’t reach it. She’s wearing one of my chemises for a nightgown—I pinned up the straps. Mrs. Abbott is washing her clothes. She wanted to burn all of them, but I told her not to because we have nothing else for Charity to wear.”
“We’ll buy clothes for her tomorrow,” Helen said absently.
“Helen, may I ask you something?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Who is she, where did she come from, why is she here, and what are you going to do with her?”
Helen groaned and sighed. “There’s so much to explain.”
“You can start while you’re having soup.”
“No, I want to wait for Cassandra. There’s too much for me to tell it twice.”
After Helen had eaten, bathed, and changed into a nightgown and robe, she sat in her bed with Charity snuggled beside her. They watched as the twins enacted the story of the three bears. Cassandra played the part of Goldilocks, naturally, while Pandora played all of the bears. Fascinated by the story and the twins’ antics, Charity watched with huge eyes as the biggest bear chased Goldilocks from the room.
By the time the drama had concluded, the little girl was breathing fast with excitement. “Again, again,” she cried.
“I’ll tell it this time,” Helen said. While the twins lounged on the bed, taking up every available inch of space, she drew the story out as long as possible. She kept her voice lulling and gentle, watching as Charity’s eyes became heavy-lidded.
“. . . and then Goldilocks lay on the bed of the little, small, wee bear . . . and it was a nice, soft, clean bed, with linen sheets and a blanket made from the wool of a fluffy white sheep. Goldilocks rested her head on a pillow stuffed with down, and thought it was just like floating on a cloud. She knew that she was going to have lovely dreams while she slept in that warm little bed, and in the morning there would be nice things to eat and a cup of chocolate for her tummy . . .” Helen stopped when she saw the long lashes flutter down, and the child’s mouth slackened.
“Your version is far too long-winded, Helen,” Pandora said. “How is anyone supposed to stay awake when you drone on and on like that?”
Helen exchanged a grin with her. Carefully she inched away from the sleeping child and pulled the covers up to her shoulders. “She doesn’t laugh,” she whispered, looking down at the small, solemn face.
“She’ll learn.” Cassandra came to stand at the bedside. Reaching down, she followed the shape of one miniature dark brow with a soft fingertip . . . and she glanced at Helen, looking troubled.
“Let’s go to my room,” Pandora said. “I have a feeling this next bedtime story is going to be really interesting.”
HELEN BEGAN WITH the discovery of the half-finished letter behind her mother’s notebooks, and ended with the visit to the orphanage. Any conventional young ladies of high moral standards, upon hearing such a narration, would have been shocked and distraught. Her sisters, however, had been raised outside of society for too long to view it with proper fear and reverence, or to give a fig for its approval. Helen was vastly comforted by the fact that although they were surprised and concerned for her, they took the situation in stride.
“You’re still our sister,” Pandora said. “It doesn’t matter to me whether you were sired by our old terrible father, or your new terrible father.”
“I didn’t need the extra one,” Helen said glumly.
“Helen,” Cassandra asked, “are you certain that Mr. Winterborne won’t want to marry you when he finds out?”
“No, and I wouldn’t want that for him. He’s worked hard all his life to rise above his circumstances. He loves beautiful, fine things, and he deserves a wife who will elevate him, not lower him.”
“You could never lower him,” Pandora said in outrage.
Helen smiled sadly. “I’ll be connected with ugliness and scandal. When people see me with Charity, they’ll assume she’s my bastard child, and I must have had her out of wedlock, and they would whisper about how Mr. Winterborne’s wife is a strumpet. And they would pretend to be sorry for him, but they would take malicious delight in shaming him behind his back.”
“Whispers can’t hurt you,” Pandora said.
Cassandra gave her twin a chiding glance. “Whispers can gut and fillet you like a haddock.”
Pandora scowled but conceded the point.
“The fact is,” Helen continued, “I’ll ruin Winterborne’s image.”
“The man or the store?” Cassandra asked.
“Both. His store is about elegance and perfection, and I would be a chink in the armor. More than a chink: Charity and I would be a large, gaping hole in the armor.”
“When will you talk to him?”
“Tomorrow, I think.” Helen put a hand over her midriff as she felt a little stab at the thought of facing him. “Afterward I’ll take Charity to Eversby Priory, and we’ll stay there until Kathleen and Devon return from Ireland.”
“We’re coming with you,” Cassandra said.
“No, you’ll be better off in London. There’s more to do here, and Lady Berwick is good for you. She wants very much to make a success of you. I’ve disappointed her terribly, and she’ll need you to lift her spirits and keep her company.”
“Will you live with Charity at Eversby Priory?” Cassandra asked.
“No,” Helen said quietly. “It will be better for all of us if Charity and I live far away, where no one knows us. Among other things, it will lessen the chance that my disgrace might harm your marriage prospects.”
“Oh don’t concern yourself about that,” Cassandra said earnestly. “Pandora’s not going to marry at all. And I certainly wouldn’t want a man who would scorn me just because my sister was a strumpet.”
“I like that word,” Pandora mused. “Strumpet. It sounds like a saucy musical instrument.”
“It would liven up an orchestra,” Cassandra said. “Wouldn’t you like to hear the Vivaldi Double Strumpet Concerto in C?”
“No,” Helen said, smiling reluctantly at her sisters’ irreverence. “Stop it, both of you—I’m trying to be morose and tragic, and you’re making it difficult.”
“You’re not going to live far away.” Pandora put her arms around her. “You and Charity are going to live with me. I’ll start earning money soon, lots of it, and I’ll buy a big house for us.”
Helen reached out to hug her close. “I think you’ll be a great suc
cess,” she murmured, and smiled as she felt Cassandra’s arms go around the both of them.
“I’m going to live with you too,” Cassandra said.
“Of course,” Pandora said firmly. “Who needs a husband?”
Chapter 30
HELEN AWAKENED AS AGATHA, the lady’s maid who attended her and the twins, entered her bedroom with a breakfast tray.
“Good morning, my lady.”
“Good morning,” Helen said sleepily, stretching and turning on her side. She was briefly surprised to be confronted with the face of a sleeping child.
So it hadn’t been a dream.
Charity was so deep in slumber that the slight rattle of teacups on the approaching tray didn’t cause her to stir. Helen stared at her with a touch of wonder. Despite the child’s pitiful spareness, her cheeks were babyishly rounded. The lids covering her large eyes were paper-thin, with delicate blue veins, thinner than human hairs, etched on the surface. Her skin was poreless, translucent over her pulses. It frightened Helen to realize how vulnerable this small person was, a fragile construction of delicately joined bones, flesh, veins.
Sitting up carefully, Helen let Agatha settle the tray on her lap. There was a steaming cup of tea, and a silver pot of chocolate next to an empty cup.
“Did the little one sleep well, my lady?”
“Yes. I don’t think she stirred all night. Agatha . . . I didn’t ask for tea in bed this morning, did I?” She usually took her tea and breakfast downstairs in the morning room.
“No, my lady. The countess bade me to bring it to you, and chocolate for the girl.”
“How kind of her.” At first Helen thought it was a peace offering, after the uncomfortable scene last night.