“You might want to encourage them to be a little quieter,” remarked the woman she finally noticed by his side. Over-perfumed and wearing a silk morning gown that had probably cost more than two years of Helen’s wages, she looked Helen up and down and clearly found her wanting in appearance as well.
“I shall take it under advisement,” Helen said coldly.
“Ah, you haven’t met before, have you?” Philip said with apparent pride. “Miss Helen Milsom, Phoebe. Helen, my wife, Mrs. Marshall.”
“How do you do?” Helen said quickly. “Please, excuse me.”
She tried to tell herself it wasn’t flight, that she had the duty of reporting at once to Lady Overton. But it felt like retreat. And through all her confusion, she wondered, What will he think of me? And she didn’t mean Philip. It seemed she was constantly providing Sir Marcus with ammunition against her.
*
Although spared the torture of tea with Lord Silford’s guests, Helen knew she would not be excused from dinner.
So, she supervised the younger children’s meal in the house’s somewhat musty schoolroom, and heard all the latest news, including the twins being stuck up a tree, which made George guffaw and declare he was sorry to have missed the spectacle.
“How did you get down in the end?” Helen asked. “Did Richard help?”
Horatio nodded. “And Sir Marcus and the captain.”
“Sir Marcus?” she repeated at once, surprised. She hesitated, knowing she shouldn’t ask. “Is he a friend of your family’s?”
“I think Mama and Papa knew him when we were abroad,” George said.
“Henrie said he was a friend,” Horatio added. “I don’t remember him. But I like him. He doesn’t make a fuss.”
Helen left it there, and shortly afterward, went to change into her one evening gown, the same one she had worn nearly every evening for the last four years—many times cleaned and mended. It was becoming fashionably gauze-like in texture, she thought ruefully; although faded from its original dark blue, it was now simply dull and liable to go into holes. In case of such accidents, she draped the new shawl her aunt had given her about her shoulders. It would also mitigate against draughts, for the house was huge, and the wind almost whistled through in places.
Then she brushed out her straight, brown hair and repinned it before gazing without pleasure at her reflection in the glass. What did Philip see now when he looked at her? A severe, aging spinster whose charges made too much noise. If she had ever possessed beauty, it had long since gone. The faint vision of Philip gazing at her in her youth with adoration, and then again this afternoon on the landing, as though she were a half-forgotten pet dog, faded altogether. It was Sir Marcus’s harsh face that took his place, teasing, mocking, urging her to fight back, to laugh.
She smiled a little crookedly, and rose to her feet. Her father’s old fob watch, which was all she had of him, told her it still lacked a quarter-hour until seven, which was, apparently, when everyone gathered in the great gallery before dinner. On impulse, she went to the window and opened it to let the night air cool her cheeks. It opened onto a narrow balcony from where she could see the moonlight reflected on the distant sea. The view distracted and soothed her, so she did not expect the faint rustling above her.
Her head jerked up to the balcony above and slightly to the left of hers. By the glow of lamplight from within the room, she beheld Sir Marcus Dain. Her stomach gave a funny, little lurch, which for some reason didn’t seem disagreeable.
“Another pleasant surprise,” he observed. “I hope I don’t disturb you?”
“Not in the slightest,” she replied, without strict regard to honesty. She would count to six and then go back inside. After all, it was chilly.
She got up to five before he said, “Are you quite well, ma’am?”
“Quite,” she replied, and then, conscious it might appear too curt, she added politely, “Are you?”
When he didn’t answer at once, she glanced up to see if he was still there. He was, looking thoughtful.
“You appear to be in some doubt,” she said.
“Oh, no, I am always well. I was merely wondering whether you would be offended if I said, All the better for conversing with you.”
“I am not so easily offended.” She frowned. “Am I? I have no right to be.”
To her surprise, he crouched down at the corner of his balcony to regard her more closely. “A modest Miss Milsom,” he observed, sounding more intrigued than mocking.
“A realistic Miss Milsom.”
“I hope nothing troubles you,” he said abruptly.
“Of course not.” A moment longer, she withstood his gaze, until she began to feel a crick in her neck from looking up. “Excuse me.”
“Of course.”
She retreated back inside and closed the window. Prickly as it may have been, it was the first encounter where they had not actively quarreled. The thought made her smile as she walked down to see her charges before dinner.
*
In accordance with her status, Helen was seated beside the earl’s ancient chaplain for dinner. It was rather more of a surprise to find a personable gentleman by the name of Mr. Webster on her other side. He was, apparently, a neighbor of Silford’s and turned out to be an agreeable and amusing companion. In fact, even the chaplain, who was deaf, possessed a twinkle in his eye and a hoard of amusing stories.
As a result, her eyes were not drawn too often to Philip Marshall who, fortunately, was seated well away from Helen. However, she could not prevent the odd, curious glance.
In ten years, he had grown a little plump, and she did wonder by the slight stiffness of his movements, if he was wearing stays. The thought made her want to giggle, which was something of a relief. For years, she had wondered what it would be like to meet him again, had even imagined that when they did, he would instantly regret his decision to marry another woman.
The sight of him did not move her, did not make her heart flutter. Remembering her younger self, to whom he had behaved so badly, was rather like pitying someone else’s misfortune. Her mind rather balked at imagining what their lives would have been like if they had spent it together.
He retained the air of flamboyance that had first drawn her as a young girl. Then, it had been his ambition to make a living by painting, an unstable career his family had disapproved of. He and Helen had intended to go to Paris—this had been during the short-lived Peace of Amiens—when they were married, and cared for nothing but love and art.
She wondered if he still painted, if he had even found a modicum of fame among those whose opinion he cared for.
And once or twice, her attention slipped to Sir Marcus Dain, seated between Lady Overton and a young girl she didn’t know. Helen had come late to the gallery where the guests had gathered, and they had not been introduced. But it concerned her to see the girl glancing up at Sir Marcus with considerably more fear than admiration. She could not imagine what he could have said to inspire that look, but the sardonic smile on his lips as he turned away from the frightened girl to speak to Lady Overton, riled her.
At last, leaving the gentlemen to their wine, the ladies followed Henrietta, now known as Lady Sydney Cromarty, to the drawing room. Helen, entering last, went to sit behind Lady Overton in case her employer needed anything during the evening. It was her place to be both invisible and useful for as long as she had to remain in the room. She hoped for an early dismissal, a quick chat with the children, and bed.