It was a small step, perhaps, but undeniably one in the right direction. The first tiny venture onto a new path which might, eventually, return Anthony to the bosom of his family and create some measure of understanding between them.
“Thank you, Redding,” she said as she turned toward the tea tray that had been laid out upon a table. “No need to dance attendance upon me; I can serve myself.”
As Redding took his leave of her once more, Charity poured herself a cup of tea and settled in to wait, wishing she had thought to bring a book to pass the time. Probably no one would notice if she popped off to the library in search of one—certainly not Anthony, at any rate—but she hadlittle more than a few moments to ponder the notion before there came the sound of footsteps in the distance, growing closer by the moment.
Too dainty, too delicate to belong to Anthony, and yet too obtrusive to belong to a maidservant, who would most likely have been instructed to move about more quietly lest they risk disturbing the residents of so grand a house.
Charity suppressed a sigh, set aside her nearly-untouched cup of tea, folded her hands in her lap, and waited for the inevitable arrival of whichever resident had decided to take her to task for daring to exist in too close a proximity. It was a matter of only seconds before a woman appeared in the doorway, garbed in—as Charity had expected—the unrelenting black of widow’s weeds.
Not the duchess. This woman was tall, pretty…and she had the distinct look of Hattie about the eyes. The same cupid’s bow lips. The same firm chin. The hair was all her own, however; a soft, moonlight blond that only served to make her already-pale complexion all the more ghostly.
For a moment, the woman stood still as a statue, unable to summon even one word—cross or otherwise—to her tongue. Her gaze dropped to Charity’s arm, where Charity had affixed the black armband Anthony had lent to her, and which she had taken to wearing when within the house, just in the event that little Hattie should take to spying once again.
“Lady Frederick, I presume,” Charity said.
The woman winced, her face visibly shuttering, her chin trembling with heartache at the address. “Helen, if you please,” she said softly. “Just—just Helen. It is still quite fresh, you know.”
Yes, she supposed she did. And how difficult a thing it must be to have one’s lost love cast into one’s face with every address. It would never matter to the bereaved woman how polite, how proper it was to be addressed with the title she was due as the wife of a duke’s younger son—it would only matter that every word, every sentence spoken to her came part and parcel with the slap of her deceased husband’s name. A twist of that dreadful knife, every time.
“Helen, then, if it pleases you.” Charity did not offer her own name. The chances were slim enough that the woman was not already aware of it and thinner still that she would welcome any sort of acquaintance with a woman so notorious. But with the way Helen’s gaze lingered upon the armband, Charity supposed it was possible that she had given the impression that she, too, was in mourning for a loved one lost. “I never knew your husband,” Charity said.
“No,” said Helen. “I know you did not.” The words were soft, but with a quiet conviction about them. The conviction of a woman who knew with absolute certainty that her husband would never have betrayed her, would never have strayed from the vows they had made to one another.
“I did, however,” Charity said, “have the pleasure of making your daughter’s acquaintance—briefly, in the library—some time ago. It upset her that I wore no symbol of mourning. I borrowed an armband from Captain Sharp to pacify her.”
“Hattie told me that she had met you,” Helen said. “I don’t believe she understands…who you are.”
What shewas, Charity supposed Helen meant to imply. Which was to say, the sort of woman that ought to be kept well away from children born to a noble household. “You needn’t worry,” she said. “I did not seek her out. Nor would I.”
“I wasn’t—that is to say—” Helen glanced over her shoulder as if to make certain that they were entirely alone. “Might I sit?” she asked, with a tiny nod toward the sofa.
“If you like. It is your house, after all. You must do as you please.”
Hurriedly, Helen slipped over the threshold, crossing the room to tuck herself into a spot on the sofa well away from view of the doors. Anybody who bothered to peek within would have to position themselves just perfectly to catch sight of her there.
“It isn’t my house,” Helen said, wringing her hands. “It isn’tourhouse. Our home, the one we—” Her voice tripped over itself, grief notched into every warbling note of it. “The one we shared with Freddie. But His Grace has been kind enough to give us a place within his home.” She took a trembling breath. “I did not come to censure you, Miss Nightingale. I came to thank you. For giving my daughter the security I failed to provide for her.”
How unexpected. Charity reached for her tea once again, inclining her head.
“Our circumstances have changed so abruptly,” Helen said. “My girls have lost both their father and their home. I meant to impress upon them the necessity of understanding our place, of giving His Grace the respect which is due to him, but all that I accomplished was to instill fear within them. And by the time I had realized it—” Helen let her gaze drop to her hands, a helpless shrug pulling at her shoulders.
Charity understood well enough. It had been too late. The damage had been done. Helen’s daughters were so young; they couldn’t beexpected to comprehend such complicated concepts.
Helen had, most likely, been more than a little afraid herself. To have her comfortable, happy life wrested from her hands by a cruel turn of fate; to have her livelihood, her stability suddenly dependent upon the whims of a man she knew not at all.
“It might help if you were to lead by example,” Charity said. “For instance, if you were to have done with the Your Graces. He prefers Captain Sharp. Or, for your daughters, Uncle Anthony. I think he would quite like to be a proper uncle to his nieces.”
“But he is the duke,” Helen said. “It is only right.”
“Yes. And he likes it no better than you, Lady Frederick,” Charity said pointedly. “I intend no disrespect, you understand. You and your children have lost a great deal. But you are not the only ones who have done so. Such things can be a terrible reminder, can they not?”
A quick flash of shame as Helen bent her head. “Yes,” she said. “How thoughtless of me. I suppose I have been—”
“Only grieving,” Charity supplied, before the woman could take yet more ruinous emotions upon her shoulders. “That is all. You have earned your grief honestly, Helen. But there will come a time where you may cast off your mourning attire, and I hope you will have it in you to find happiness again when that time comes. To show your girls that it is possible to grieve what has been lost, and still to find joy in life.”
“I can’t imagine it,” Helen said softly, her voice directed to her hands clasped within her lap. “All of our happiness was wrapped around Freddie.” A tentative shrug of her shoulders. “I suppose I cannot clothe myself in the colors of mourning forever, as Her Grace has so long done, but for now—for now it is cathartic. Freddie deserved to be mourned. We loved him so.”
And they loved him still. “It’s perfectly permissible to grieve,” Charity said. “But I hope you can find it in you to celebrate your husband’s life as well. It would be such a pity, Helen, for your daughters to know only sadness when they think upon their father.” Or worse—the anger that burned within her own chest when Charity thought of hers.
