Frail

by Susanna Ives

  ∞∞∞

  Theo studied Helena’s face. She did look more lovely than usual, but he couldn’t pinpoint exactly why. In truth, her face was a little swollen with gray casts around her eyes.

  The wind had reddened her lips and nose.

  “Won’t you come inside?” A soft, polite smile lifted Helena’s lips.

  Theo walked beside her, letting the reverend and Megan lead them into the house. Simple phrases of greetings like “You appear well this morning” and “Beautiful weather, isn’t it?” streamed through this head, but he couldn’t voice even one. Helena put his senses on edge. He found himself sneaking glances at her profile, the curve of her cheekbone, the jut of her chin, the black ruffle that fluttered under the neck. Again, he felt the unwanted stirring of his sex as he had the other evening.

  Emily beckoned her cousin to sit beside her in the parlor. She entwined her thin fingers through Helena’s. Theo didn’t care to see Helena embracing Megan or holding Emily’s hand; it would only make the women’s inevitable separation harder.

  The reverend drew up a wing chair near the sofa, his fleshy thighs spilling off the edges. “I desired to call to heartily welcome Miss Gillingham to our beloved village,” he boomed, his eyes dancing as he focused on Helena. “You must enjoy living with your cousin. Mrs. Pengwern is a remarkable lady.”

  An emotion Theo couldn’t read imbued Helena’s eyes. “She is,” Helena said, her voice flat and stiff, but she clutched her cousin tighter.

  The reverend leaned in. “I’m sorry about your father. I know you miss him.”

  For a moment she didn’t speak. Then she uttered a “yes” that was almost inaudible.

  “My condolences for your loss.” The reverend rested his hand on her arm. “I expect it must be difficult to mourn with these trying circumstances.”

  She pressed her lips together and nodded her head. Unshed tears shone in her eyes.

  “But remember him as your father and the love he possessed for you,” The reverend continued, still touching her. “Allow yourself to mourn for that love.”

  She brushed her tears away with her knuckle.

  Theo ground his molars, impotent before her pain. Then Emily did what he couldn’t—she kissed Helena’s cheek and enclosed her in an embrace. “And no matter what those English newspapers say,” Emily said, “he raised a fine daughter.”

  “That he did,” Reverend Jeffries agreed. “He did.”

  Helena bowed her head. Strands of hair fell over her forehead, concealing her eyes.

  Theo itched to stalk from the room. Helena didn’t belong here. Did everyone want to cause this poor woman more pain?

  Or maybe he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life having to look at the hurt he had inflicted.

  Helena pressed the back of her hand against her mouth and blinked several times, composing herself. “I’m sorry.”

  “No, no,” Reverend Jeffries said. “Losing your father and being removed from your home ought to upset you. No doubt you miss London.”

  Again, she could only nod.

  The reverend turned in his chair to face Megan, who sat on the floor near the grate. “I lived in London for a few years when I left Cambridge,” he said in a cheery voice, lifting the sad moment. “Did you know that, Miss Megan?”

  “No.”

  “I was a curate of a grand church in Lambeth, but I didn’t get on at all. Those were a dour bunch of parishioners. They accused me of being a Methodist because I was always singing and running about the pulpit when the spirit moved me. I was smaller then.” He chuckled and patted his belly. “After a year, they gave me a book of sermons and ordered me to read a different one every Sunday. But I couldn’t. I ended up having philosophical debates between myself and my prescribed sermons before the congregation.”

  “Oh, I can see that!” Emily exclaimed.

  “So the church thought it best I should go to the Church of Wales to save my savage brethren.”

  “So you were banished here,” Emily said.

  “Banished?” Reverend Jeffries echoed. “Oh, no. This is but a small stop before heaven itself. These mountains are God’s own cathedrals. John Wesley’s soul was calling me from the hilltops.”

  Theo’s eyes kept drifting to Helena as the reverend extolled the virtues of Wales. She watched Reverend Jeffries, but her pale eyes were unfocused, seeing something inside her own mind. What was she thinking? What did she know of her father’s crimes? Then as if she felt him studying her, she turned her head, meeting his gaze. An odd sensation rushed over him: both soothing and prickly at the same time.

  Reverend Jeffries stopped mid-sentence and changed his subject. “I say, did Betry make some of those lovely scones? I can smell them in the air.”

  Helena sprung from her seat. “I shall fetch them.” She fled the room as if the devil were chasing her.

  “She’s a very sad lady,” Reverend Jeffries told Emily in a low voice. “One can see the trauma in her face. What hell she must have known these last few weeks.”

  “She will recover,” Emily assured him. “I shall take proper care of her.”

  “I know you will,” the reverend agreed. “I know you will.”

  “She’s not a stray animal you’re taking in,” Theo said, unable to hold his tongue any longer. “She’s a human being and probably possesses some grave nervous problems after what has happened.”

  “I don’t think she has known much love,” Emily said.

  “Certainly not from all the men buzzing around her in London or the ladies aping her manners,” Theo dryly quipped.

  “And where were they when her father killed himself?” Emily demanded, her features pinched in anger. “No, those people gave her empty adoration, not love. You know me to be right.”

  Theo glanced down to where he circled his hat in his hands and chose his words carefully. “I worry you will become too attached to her. She’s not a child. She can’t replace Eustace.”

  “You watch yourself, sir!” Emily hissed and then suddenly fell quiet. Theo followed her gaze to the doorway where Helena stood just outside the threshold, holding a platter of scones.

  Her jaw was tight, her nostrils flared. Theo knew she had heard his words. A charged silence crackled in the air.

  The reverend rose. “Here they are!” His voice was too forced, too cheerful, only adding to the awkwardness. “Let me put them on the table.”

  Theo fought his rising shame. But she needed to hear the truth.

  The reverend bit into a scone. “Betry makes the best scones in the county.” He then proceeded to entertain the ladies for the next hour, his lively conversation ranging from theology, husbandry, and literary criticism to home domestics. By the end, he had cajoled Helena into smiling again.

  Finally, after consuming five or so scones, Reverend Jeffries rose and brushed the numerous crumbs off his coat. “Well, I must hurry home for luncheon. I do hope I might see you in church this Sunday, Miss Gillingham. I shall be thundering and singing.”

  “I—I would like that,” Helena stammered. Theo knew she would rather be drawn and quartered than to go near the village again.

  “Very good then.” The reverend turned to Theo. “You will accompany me back?”

  “Of course,” Theo said, having been given little choice in the matter.

  “I’m visiting your garden this afternoon,” Megan reminded Theo as the men were replacing their hats by the front door.

  “I’ll work you to the very bone then,” Theo teased. “Hoeing and planting. You’ll be worn out.”

  Megan laughed, not taking Theo seriously. His focus shifted to Helena, who waited by the stairs. “Good afternoon, then, Miss Gillingham.”

  She nodded, pressing her lips into a weak smile.

  The wind blew the men’s collars back as they descended the hill.

  “Emily and Megan seem terribly attached to Miss Gillingham,” the reverend said, the strain of the walk wheezing in this voice. “I don’t think she can be eas
ily persuaded to leave.”

  “You saw her crying after the villagers were finished with her. It’s not going to get any easier for her here. In London, investigations into her father’s wrongdoings continue. More and more of his crimes shall be unearthed; hundreds of people will be required to pay the full of his liabilities. She can’t hide in Emily’s house forever. My father’s home is essentially a medieval fortress. It even features a moat. She would be protected there.”

  “I would allow Miss Gillingham more time.”

  “That will only cause further injury to Mrs. Pengwern, her daughter, and Miss Gillingham. I think she should be removed immediately to prevent any further pain.”

  “Do you?” The reverend squinted as he peered ahead. The breeze shook the brim of his hat. “I shall ponder your words.”

  Ten

  After leaving the reverend, Theo forced himself into his front garden to work. He had to get his mind off Helena. He knelt beside the rows of boxwoods, lifting clumps of soil containing the root balls and stems of young asters from the wheelbarrow Gordon had left by the hedge. He leaned down and spaced the flowers on top of the dirt about six inches from each other. The air was humid from the rain, and the beds were slurries of mud and compost that stuck to his boots and the cuffs of his pants. Sweat dripped from his hairline, and his shirt molded to his back. Branwen was curled on the ground, nipping at an itch on her hindquarters.

  As hard as he tried to focus on his work, his thoughts kept drifting to Helena.

  Why did she have to look at him with those pale, pained eyes? He had done the right thing turning in her father, but today at Emily’s house, he felt like he was the criminal.

  “Aye, she’s a rare beauty.” Gordon squatted down and removed a twig from the soil. “You’re feeling something for her, aren’t you?”

  Theo didn’t answer except to say “Dammit.” He set the flower’s root ball in and scattered the dirt around the stem.

  Gordon peered up at the sky. “Don’t fall in love with her out of guilt. Or feel you have any obligation to her. You get her someplace safe and away from you. That is what you owe her.”

  Theo wiped the hot sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. “What the hell have I done?”

  Efa appeared at the edge of the garden. Her lips were tight with anger, her enormous brown eyes flashing. “The vat slipped in the dairy again.”

  “Eh, I fixed it yesterday,” Gordon said.

  “Well, it doesn’t work now!” She stomped off toward the outbuildings.

  “You better see to that,” Theo nodded toward her. “It’s miserable for all of us when Efa is vexed at you.”

  “Son of Mary, she’s not one to relax and let be what be.” He hurried to catch up with his wife.

  Theo picked up a bottle of ale that was set on the fountain and sipped. He would push his burgeoning desire for Helena down deep, far below the surface to where he kept all his old war memories. They no longer bothered him anymore, except to wake him, shaking and sweating, at three in the morning.

  Branwen tilted her head, pricked her ears, and then shot across the lawn. Theo didn’t have to look up to know Megan had arrived.

  She had climbed the bottom rungs of his gate. “We’ve come to help,” she called.

  Megan reached down, opened the latch and let herself in. Helena slipped in behind her cousin, her bonnet low, concealing her face.

  “Damn,” he muttered, had another swig of ale, and jogged across the lawn. Despite years of Theo’s attempts to discipline Branwen, the dog placed her front paws on Megan’s chest and tried to lick her chin.

  Megan scratched the dog’s ears. “What shall we do?”

  “Plant the asters,” he replied. “But I don’t think Miss Gillingham would care to get her gown dirty.”

  Helena lifted her head. Her eyes were shiny and wet from the wind. A strange kind of heat broke over him.

  “I would like very much to help,” she said.

  “Have you ever gardened before?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “It’s easy,” Megan said. “Come.” She skipped off to the boxwoods with Branwen at her heels.

  ∞∞∞

  Helena lifted her hem and hurried to catch up with her cousin before she could speak further with Mr. Mallory. He made her feel self-conscious. His words she had overheard that morning still echoed. She’s not a stray animal you’re taking in…I worry you will get too attached to her.

  She hadn’t wanted to come, but then Emily had asked if she and Megan would go into the village for sewing notions. It was Megan’s idea that Helena should stay at Mr. Mallory’s while she ran the errand. Helena agreed because as much as Mr. Mallory’s words pained her, he was the lesser of two evils.

  Her cousin knelt down and picked up a trowel. “What you do is dig a hole, maybe two inches deep, that’s a good distance from the other flowers so they all have enough water. Am I correct?” The girl gazed up at Mr. Mallory, who stood beside her, his arms crossed, an ironical smile twisting his lips.

  “Why are you asking me?” he quipped. “I thought you knew everything.”

  Megan rolled her eyes. “You place the flower in the hole and then cover the roots nicely.” She demonstrated. “See, that’s not difficult at all.” She offered Helena her trowel.

  Helena dug a two-inch hole as Megan instructed her, gingerly set a tiny stem in the earth, and scattered dirt over the roots. “It’s so frail.” She touched its delicate shoot. “I don’t see how it can grow into a hearty flower.”

  “These grow all over Wales,” Mr. Mallory said. “They are suited to the soil here. Soon they will become so thick we’ll have to thin them so they don’t starve and choke each other.”

  Helena studied the tiny shoot and smiled. She pushed her trowel to make way for another flower. Megan retrieved a larger shovel from the wheelbarrow and worked beside Helena.

  Dirt soiled the skirt around Helena’s knees and her gloves couldn’t be worn in public anymore, but she didn’t care. Touching the soil somehow relaxed her, and her mind could focus on her work and not drift off into her usual anxious thoughts. In her ear, she heard Megan and Mr. Mallory chatter, but she didn’t follow their conversation. It blended with the tweeting of the birds swooping between the trees. She was glad Megan held his attention so she didn’t have to talk to him. She lost herself in the rhythm of her work. Many minutes had passed before she heard Megan’s voice rise in annoyance.

  “Why aren’t you helping?” the girl demanded of Mr. Mallory, who now sat on the edge of the fountain, legs extended and crossed at the ankle.

  “I was hoping you would do all the work.” An indolent smile curled on his lips.

  Megan flipped some dirt at him.

  “Hey there!” He dusted off his clothes. “I only have two trowels.”

  “Well, you can have mine.” Megan came to her feet. “I must stop.”

  “You’ve hardly started,” he pointed out. “A fine helper you are! Go, brat. Leave me to do all the work, as usual.”

  The girl made a face. “Mother needs some yellow yarn and thread. You said we can’t tell about what happened in the village. So, Helena is staying here. That way, no one will say cruel things to her.”

  Helena noticed that the muscles around his jaw pulsed. “I see.”

  Megan and Branwen scampered down the drive and out the gate.

  He knelt beside her, taking up Megan’s discarded tool. “Why don’t you rest?”

  “But I’m enjoying myself.”

  “Then let me dig the holes and you can plant the flowers,” he suggested.

  “Very well.”

  She tried to concentrate on gardening as before. But without Megan to divert her, Helena was too aware of his earthy and sweet tobacco scent and the accidental brush of their elbows. The words he had uttered that morning in Emily’s parlor hung heavily in the air.

  “The beautiful Miss Helena Gillingham—the stunning debutante and fashion arbitrator—with dirt smudged on her f
ace and gown,” he said, after the conversation had lagged longer than was comfortable.

  She peeked at him from under her lashes. “Have I shattered your perception of me?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “In a good way.”

  They lapsed into that acute, flailing silence again.

  “This morning I may have said words that caused you distress.” He paused, gripping the handle of his shovel. “Please understand you’re a delightful lady. But I—”

  “I understand,” she said quickly, wanting to stop this line of conversation before it led further. She didn’t have the emotional stamina. “Let’s plant these flowers. When are they going to bloom?”

  “Mid-to-late summer.”

  “I wager they will be beautiful.”

  He gazed directly at her. His lids drooped and bluish crescents formed under his eyes that hadn’t been there the previous evening. Tiny hairs edged around his beard where he hadn’t shaved. “I think you will find my parents’ estate to be—”

  She held up her palm. “At this moment, I don’t care to think of anything but these tiny darling flowers. No future or past. No ‘what I should do’ or ‘what I should have done.’ Just planting harmless flowers.”

  He jerked his head at her rebuff. “I didn’t mean—”

  “Did you garden when you were a child?”

  He scooped out another hole. “I suppose. I was always following the head gardener about—a wise, patient gentleman, full of wonderful stories. As a child, gardening meant digging holes, getting filthy, and taking joy in exasperating my nurses and tutors. When I was sent off to school, I forgot about gardening and so it remained until I arrived here and saw the shambles of the old estate. I knew I had to restore it. That’s when I truly gardened. You can see I became a little carried away. Obsessed, some might say.”

  “Pray, but your obsession is glorious.”

  “What of you?” He tilted his head and probed her face with his eyes. “How did you pass your childhood?”

  “I think I told you; in London, I was very naughty.”

  “How?”

  “I was a bothersome little thing, dressing up in ridiculous costumes and putting on these dramatic one-person productions that I made the nurse and the housekeeper attend. I would throw a tantrum every time I was told to go to sleep—I was afraid of the dark, you see. The nurse would lock me in my room, but I screamed at the top of my lungs, ensuring that if I didn’t sleep, no one else could either. Very naughty. I’ll wager you were a good boy, albeit encrusted in dirt.”