Helena contemplated jumping from the moving vehicle but disregarded the idea because such recklessness might have rightfully been interpreted as hysterical. Since avoidance wasn’t a tactic she could use right now, she decided to face the dragon head-on, as it were. “Is there something you wish to say, Mama?”
Her father shifted on the seat across from them, drawing their attention in the silence. Shadows played over his face, making him appear rigid and forbidding, which wasn’t that much different from how he appeared in full daylight. Only this time she could read his expression even less. Mama quietly gripped her hand in encouragement.
“Is it to be Maxwell Crenshaw, then?” he asked in that forthright way he had.
With every fiber of her being she wanted to say no to avoid what was coming, but she knew that she had been doing that her whole life. Giving a little bit to save trouble had caused her to lose tiny pieces of herself along the way, pieces that she hadn’t missed at first, until they had chipped away at her core. She had only begun to gather them up over the last several years. It would be too risky to drop even one. It might make them all come tumbling down.
“Yes,” she said. The one word had a silent echo that beat through her in a thumping bass.
Papa sighed. “And what of Verick? I sent a letter, asking him to Claremont Hall for our Christmas gathering.”
“I shall look forward to seeing him.”
Lord Verick had been one of Arthur’s closest friends. He had been one of the only ones who had continued to visit with him throughout his sickness from cancer and right up to his final days. For that, she loved him dearly, but she had never seriously contemplated Papa’s suggestion, nor had she realized that he’d been earnest about a marriage between them when he’d mentioned him as a possible suitor.
“You will not consider him?”
“No, Papa, we would not suit.”
“But Maxwell Crenshaw suits you?”
He did. He suited her very much. Not for marriage, obviously, but in the other ways a man could suit a woman. She was glad for the low light as a blush stained her cheeks. She’d been doing that a lot lately.
“He suits me very well,” she managed as her mouth went dry.
“All right.”
That was it? “All right?” she asked.
“It’s your life, Helena. You’re a widow, a woman grown. Your mistakes are yours to make now.” He tilted his head down to stare at her over the top of his eyeglasses, a sure sign that he was being thoughtful with his words.
This did not sound like the father she knew. That man walked around certain that he knew what was best for everyone around him, even a stranger on the street. But then, he hadn’t actually agreed with her, had he? He was simply content to watch this all bubble over like a kettle that had been set to boil too long. Then he could proudly boast that he’d been right.
Because she wasn’t at all certain of him, she said, “You won’t do anything, will you?”
“Do anything? What would you have me do?” With raised brows, he looked at her as if she’d sprouted a horn.
“I only mean that you won’t make trouble. You won’t tell your friends horrible things about the London Home for Young Women?”
“Helena! What do you take me for? My own daughter believes I plot to thwart her.”
“Farthington, dramatics are tiresome. You would plot against God himself if he set a task against you,” her mother said, giving her hand another squeeze.
He huffed. “Nevertheless, I bear no ill will for that place beyond the fact that my daughter associates with those beneath her. You have done as I asked. You found a man who seems intent on supporting you, and despite what I may think of the Crenshaw elders, Maxwell Crenshaw seems to be an upstanding man.” He inclined his head and added, “Do what you will.”
“Thank you, Papa, I appreciate that and am glad to hear it. I have found a building, and it would be a shame if it were snatched out from under me before I even had a chance to bid.”
He huffed again, this time looking out the window, indicating he was finished with the conversation.
“Bid?” Mama asked. “Are there others interested?”
“I believe so, but I have arranged a meeting with the owner,” Helena explained as the carriage rolled to a stop in front of her house. “I hope to plead my case before him.”
“And this owner knows what you intend for this building?”
“Yes, the basic idea, at any rate.”
Mama raised a skeptical brow. “Good luck, darling.”
The door opened, and her parents’ groom helped her out.
“See her to the door,” Papa instructed him. To Helena, he said, “You really must see your home properly staffed. Huxley is well past his retirement.”
“Good evening, Papa. Mama,” she replied, hurrying to her door.
“Helena,” Mama called out. “We’ll speak more about the gentleman soon.” Then for good measure, she added, “Tomorrow!”
Helena waved, already dreading that conversation. But then Huxley opened the door for her, and once inside her own home, thoughts of what had happened with Maxwell came flooding back to her. With them came the feeling of his hands on her, and his tongue in her mouth. She was smiling as she sailed up the stairs, already wondering when she’d find a way to kiss him again.
Chapter 12
In the tragedies and triumphs of human experience, each mortal stands alone.
Elizabeth Cady Stanton
The next evening, Max found himself at Montague Club, the club owned by Christian and his half brother, Jacob Thorne. Evan had owned voting shares but had given up most of them after inheriting his mining interests in Montana. Unlike White’s and Brooks’s, which catered to an exclusive class of aristocrats, Montague was the home to the second sons, bastards, and cousins of those nobles along with a few of the distinguished merchant class. Anyone was welcome, even women, as long as they could pay the expensive membership fee and abide by the rules. Being of that class himself, Max had found it only natural to eschew White’s in favor of Montague. Not to mention the fact that he wanted to support his brothers-in-law, particularly after the rocky beginnings of their entrance into the Crenshaw family.
The club was also known for its world-class bare-knuckle brawls, and Max intended to watch a few while in London. Apparently, that meant learning the basics of the sport, since here he stood as a boy pulled a length of cotton batting tight around Max’s hand. It nearly cut off his circulation as he weaved it through Max’s fingers and made another circle of his knuckles, encasing almost his entire hand with the white cloth.