“No, wait, Helen, I meant only I would rather talk about us, about you.”
“I am employed as governess,” she pointed out. “Not to chatter with my employer’s guests.”
“The children will not miss you for ten minutes.”
She realized he was following her across the room and turned to face him. “What is it you wish to say?” she asked discouragingly.
“That I think of you a great deal. That over the years…and particularly over the last week or two, I have often regretted the decision we made ten years ago.”
She stared at him. “What decision?”
“To marry Phoebe.”
“I don’t believe I had any say in that. For what it’s worth, you did the right thing, and I for one, do not regret it.”
He blinked, then smiled, reaching for her hand. “Don’t say that, Helen.”
She stepped back out of his reach. “It would be more proper for you to address me as Miss Milsom.”
“You would not speak so coldly if you only knew my unhappiness,” he mourned.
“Your wife is the proper person to hear your confidences. Good afternoon, Mr. Marshall.”
She hastened from the room, every hair on her neck standing up in fear that he would follow and try to stop her. But through the open door, she was relieved to see Lord Overton stride toward the stairs, nodding to her as he went. She was safe.
It was bizarre, she thought ruefully, hurrying up to her own chamber. In those months of misery that had followed the breaking of her engagement, she would have derived so much satisfaction from his admission of regret, the acknowledgment of his mistake in choosing the wealthy Phoebe over her penniless self. Now she found it all distasteful. That he would dare now to court her in this way, in her place of employment—an employment he had necessitated ten years ago—under the same roof as his wife.
The man was an imbecile. Which said little for the taste of her nineteen-year-old self.
*
After tea, Helen was given a note from Mrs. Robinov, accepting her offer to help nurse Carla and stating she had written to Lady Overton to this effect. Accordingly, she packed her small bag and hugged the children, who threatened to ride over to visit her at the Hart if she didn’t return the day after tomorrow.
The journey, undertaken in darkness, reminded her of the earlier trip, when she had been driven alone to the Hart by Old John. On this occasion, although almost as tired of travel as she had been then, the coach was better sprung and considerably more comfortable.
The innkeeper immediately took her bag from her at the door and led her across the hall. Mrs. Robinov rushed downstairs to welcome her, taking both her hands. “Thank you for this! I do not think I can stay awake for another night. What a terrible day it has been!”
The wariness Helen had always felt toward this woman vanished into instant sympathy, for there was no doubting her genuine distress. “I am glad to help, if I can.”
“Come up. This will be your bedchamber. It was Marcus’s, but he has moved his things in with Kenneth.” She waited for Helen to deposit her bag, then led her across the hall and pushed open the door which Helen already knew led to Carla’s bedchamber.
In the large bed, Carla Robinov looked very tiny and very ill. She breathed with obvious difficulty, her chest rattling painfully. Her whole body shivered, yet her skin was burning hot to the touch. Clearly, she was much sicker than Helen had imagined, and for the first few moments, anxiety prevented her from recognizing the man who stood over the bed, bathing the patient’s hands and face. Sir Marcus.
He stood back as Helen touched Carla’s forehead.
“What has the doctor advised?” she asked.
“To make her as cool as we can and hope the fever breaks,” Mrs. Robinov replied. “He gave us this evil-smelling tonic which we’ve been trying to pour into her mouth along with water. Some of it goes down. But she doesn’t seem to know us. She’s delirious.”
Helen nodded. “Then I shall sit with her while you have dinner. You will be no use to her,” she added, “if you stop eating and grow weak.”
“But you have not eaten either,” Mrs. Robinov objected.
“I am not very hungry, but a little supper on a tray will be welcome. And perhaps some coffee.” She removed her cloak and was vaguely surprised when Sir Marcus took it from her.
As Mrs. Robinov bustled out, Sir Marcus followed more slowly.
“Thank you for this,” he said quietly.
“What was the doctor’s opinion?” They both knew what she was really asking.
“Between you and me, he did not look hopeful,” Sir Marcus murmured. “But I remain so. If we can only bring her temperature down.” He hesitated. “If you need anything, call on Kenneth or me, not her mother. She needs to sleep.”
“I see that.”
“I’ll look in later,” he said abruptly and left the room.
*
It was a difficult night. Left to her own devices, Helen bathed not only the girl’s hands and face but her whole body in an attempt to cool her. Carla shuddered and moaned, but for a short time afterward, she did seem more comfortable. However, her breathing remained wheezy and shallow, and her cough rattled her whole body. Every two hours, Helen dribbled the doctor’s mixture into Carla’s mouth, though its only effect seemed to be to make her grimace and spit.
She seemed to dream a lot, both waking and sleeping, none of it pleasant. Helen suspected she was reliving experiences from the war in Russia, her father’s death and their subsequent escape. She would tell people off, thrash on the pillow, her legs twitching as though she were running. It was all rather distressing for Helen, so she could only imagine how Carla felt.
Before dawn, Mrs. Robinov returned. “How is she?”
“Much the same, I think. Certainly, no worse. I found bathing her whole body seemed to make her a little more comfortable, if only for a little while. I’ve just given her another dose of the medicine.”
“Bless you, Miss Milsom. Go and sleep now.”
Helen did not argue, merely took the candle, stumbled across the passage to the chamber, and fell into bed with most of her clothes on. She didn’t know if Lily had changed the sheets, but her last conscious thought as she fell asleep was that something smelled of Sir Marcus.
And she didn’t mind that. She didn’t mind at all.
*
For Sir Marcus, the only light in the darkness of Carla’s illness was that it had brought Helen Milsom under the same roof as him once more. It was strange, but her mere presence seemed to bring him hope and calm in the face of Dorothea’s terror for her daughter’s life and bewilderment over the accusations thrown at her son.
He was aware he had no right to the comfort she brought him, for he doubted it was reciprocated. How could it be? The growing closeness between them had been shattered by Dorothea’s arrival and the duty imposed by old promises. And then by her announcement of their engagement. Of course, she had said it in an effort to keep Kenneth out of prison, with no idea of the pain it might cause Helen. Or him.
And now, quite uncharacteristically, he was wracked by both guilt and indecision. His duty to Ilya Robinov’s family predated any kind of understanding or longing between himself and Helen. Explaining everything to her would surely just add to her pain. And he could not doubt that pain. He had seen it in her eyes, in her stiffness with him since leaving Steynings. She had been betrayed before. His explanation might salve her pride, but make things harder for her in the long term.