“Helena, my dear.” He turned fully toward her and took her hands in his. “I am telling you this because I want what is best for you. If you persist in this home for women nonsense, then your reputation will suffer. If your reputation suffers, then you will be even less able to find funding and reputable people to support this charity. You may not want to hear this, but I am your father, and I do know a bit about a few things. Marriage will help you. If you choose the right partner, then your reputation can be upheld . . . somewhat.”
A lump of dread settled in the pit of her stomach. “You are saying that I cannot even control my own reputation? That it is dependent upon the man on my arm?” Yes, that was exactly what he meant. She simply needed to hear him say it rather than infer it.
“You know how the world works.” He gave her a pitying look.
So that she wouldn’t give in to the sudden, unreasonable despair that attempted to overcome her, she said, “And whom would you suggest, Papa? Shall I marry Maxwell, the last remaining Crenshaw, so that the American conquest is complete?” It was meant to be sarcastic, a teasing jab that would once again turn the increasingly serious conversation away from herself. However, something about the suggestion resonated with her. The memory of his brown eyes looking at her from across the carriage as a sobbing Violet sat between them. The way he could so effortlessly convey compassion, arrogance, and heat all in the same look.
“Vulgar wealth would not be my first choice, but the selection is yours to make. Although, I’ve dealt with the elder Crenshaw enough as we’ve developed the railroad contracts to know that you would not enjoy his influence as your father-in-law.”
Helena understood that the concept of noble blood was a construct of Society. She did not believe herself to be above anyone based on their name or station in life, but she was inclined to agree with his conclusion if not his reasoning. She admired Maxwell Crenshaw, but he was not for her. There were many reasons for this, among them that he was American and firmly rooted in his life in New York, and Papa was right about the elder Mr. Crenshaw.
The fact of the matter was that she would not marry anyone, no matter how well suited he was to her. Men who sought marriage, sought children. A family. It was the one thing that she could not give. Two and a half years of marriage and several very intrusive examinations by physicians had told her as much. While her parents might want her to marry, and she herself wasn’t completely against the idea in the depths of her heart, marriage was not in her future. If she had learned one thing in her years as a daughter of the aristocracy, it was that her main purpose in life was to bear children. Heirs made their world go round. She wasn’t about to set herself up for a lifetime of disappointing another husband. One had been enough.
“Then who would you suggest? Hereford is already taken.” She referred to the old duke who had married a young American heiress only last year to emphasize how distasteful this conversation was.
Papa sighed with impatience. “There are any number of men who would qualify. Lord Verick would be suitable. He was a good friend to Arthur, and I firmly believe the man should be someone of whom he would approve.”
So even dead men would have more control over her life than she did. The thought shamed her as soon as it crossed her mind. Arthur had been a good husband to her, despite how they had felt at the end. Squaring her shoulders, she said, “You are Lord Farthington, my father, and a formidable gentleman in Society. Your support would go far toward overcoming all of those obstacles.”
“I cannot do that, not when I worry so about you.”
“Fine. Then I will make the home a success without your help.”
“As you wish.” He inclined his head in mock encouragement. “You are your own woman now, as you say.”
She whirled and stormed out of the room, faintly aware of Mama and Lady Blaylock calling out their goodbyes as Helena accepted her cape from a footman before hurrying down the front steps to her waiting carriage.
She would figure this out on her own. Somehow.
* * *
• • •
The London offices of Crenshaw Iron Works were situated in a quaint brick and stucco building in Tyburnia, north of Hyde Park. The building had been purchased over the summer after August had married the Duke of Rothschild, and Papa had been assured of the family’s place both in Society and in British commerce. The fashionable district had been chosen because of its proximity to Mayfair where the family had a rented townhome; though Max had overheard his mother gushing to one of her new friends about looking for a permanent residence, so he suspected a move would be forthcoming as soon as Papa recovered.
It wasn’t the move that Max disapproved of so much as the reason for it. His parents had developed an apparently insatiable need for acceptance into a society that wasn’t theirs, simply to gain entrance into a Manhattan Society that did not want them. This had never set well with him. Even less so now that he had seen the damage to the family that such aspirations had wrought. Both of his sisters had been pushed into marriages they hadn’t wanted. While those relationships seemed to have worked out for them, their relationships with their parents had yet to recover. August was still as dutiful as ever when it came to family obligations, but there was a coldness between her and their parents that Max had never seen before. Violet seemed to have taken things worse. She only saw their parents socially and just managed to utter the barest of formalities to them.
Standing to stretch his legs, Max walked to the open door that separated August’s modestly sized office from Papa’s. Their father’s office was paneled in dark wood and brocade wallpaper in tones of gray and darker gray. A plush sofa with wingback chairs flanked the fireplace. Huge maps of London, England, Scotland, India, and the United States took up the wall behind the desk and the wall opposite the windows that looked out onto Connaught Square. Bookshelves and filing cabinets filled the area behind the desk, which itself was a marvel. Made of hand-carved mahogany and walnut, it was quite possibly the largest desk Max had ever seen. Papa’s office back in New York was half the size of this one, and the desk easily a mere third. There was a metaphor in the difference somewhere, but he was too damned tired to find it.
The office had been where he spent most of his time working this past week, but every moment at that desk had felt oppressive and troubling in a way that Max couldn’t put words to yet.
August walked into her office to find him rubbing his weary eyes with the heels of his hands. “Are you unwell?”
“I haven’t been sleeping.” He hadn’t managed to get a full night of sleep in the week he’d been in London.
“Oh, well, why don’t you go home early today? We can reschedule our meeting.” Setting the papers in her arms on her desk, she sat down and pulled out a leather-bound journal. “I’m certain I have free time later in the week.”
“No.” Max sighed and sat back down in the chair across from her. “Best to talk now.”