He didn’t mean to talk about it. Helena might not want anyone else to know, but the words came out of him of their own volition. “She’s unable to bear children, and she believes that if we marry, I will eventually resent her for it.”
August let out a little gasp of surprise even though she tried to stifle it. Eventually, she said, “And is she correct in her belief?”
He looked at her so sharply, she flinched. “No! How could I resent her for something she cannot control or change?”
“Then you’re prepared to accept that you won’t father children if you marry her?”
It was his turn to flinch. “Dammit, August.” She was always pointed and honest, getting to the meat of any issue facing them.
He stood and walked to the window, his gaze locked on that damned tree that had overseen the worst heartbreak of his entire life. That was the crux of it. That was what kept him here, paralyzed with pain and rage. His instinct had been and still was to fight for Helena. She had quickly come to mean more to him than anyone he had ever met.
But what if there was a kernel of truth in her words? Not that he could ever resent her, but the part about wanting children.
He had always seen himself having children. He had always known that one day the reins of Crenshaw Iron would go to his child. And he had reveled in that. Found security and purpose in those dreams of the future. Hell, Helena had even come to feature in some of his wilder imaginings as the mother of that child.
What if he couldn’t make that longing go away so easily?
He wanted to rip the thought out by its roots and tear it apart. He despised himself that he couldn’t because a thread of truth kept it intact.
Even as he acknowledged that, he also accepted that it didn’t matter. He wanted Helena more than anything else.
“Excuse me,” he said as he made his way from the room, his need to see her and reassure her overcoming everything.
He almost went directly to her room but changed his mind. Instead, he went to his room, locked the door, and took the small oil lamp from the bedside table. With renewed purpose, he let himself into the cramped passageway and went to her room. Pausing at the door, he listened for any sounds coming from within. It would not do to walk in while a maid was helping her undress. He wouldn’t mind, but the poor maid might be scandalized. Hearing nothing, he pushed open the door.
A low fire burned in the hearth, and a single sconce inside the door was lit, but the room was empty. Her bed was turned down waiting for her, but she was nowhere to be found. Cursing softly, he debated waiting but determined it would be best to return to his room to do so, lest a servant get too suspicious.
He waited an hour, thinking that perhaps she had managed to return to the drawing room despite her tears and finished the evening with the others. But when he checked, her room was still vacant. He returned twice more throughout the night, and even took a few tours of the house, but short of knocking on every bedroom door, he didn’t know how to find her. The poor maid he’d come across on one of his outings had seemed frightened by his query.
Dawn came and went as he waited in her room. Finally, he had no choice but to accept that he wouldn’t get to talk to her alone again before he left.
The morning was cold and gray with the promise of snow to come. Max dressed in sharp, efficient movements, eschewing the efforts of Farthington’s man, who gave him a look of disapproval as he delivered a steaming jug of water.
“We should have shaved you before you dressed, sir.” The man took a place inside Max’s bedroom door like a sentry awaiting his orders.
“I’m capable of dressing myself, Howard.”
“Yes, you are, sir.” However, he made no move to leave.
Rolling his eyes, Max leaned forward to better see the mirror and tilted his head back. The razor trembled in his hand, and he grunted as he nicked his neck.
“Allow me, sir.” Howard reached forward, divesting him of the razor. The man continued to make quick work of tidying the line of Max’s beard.
Max hadn’t slept at all. He was tired and cranky, near despair with the knowledge that he was losing Helena and there was nothing he could do about it because he had to return to New York and face the labor strike that was almost certainly waiting for him.
“Are you almost ready?” Papa said from the door.
Howard adeptly stepped back as Max turned his head. “Yes. Have you been down to breakfast?”
Papa frowned at the unexpected question. “Eggs and kippers. Did they not bring you a tray?”
“Was Helena there?” he asked, ignoring the question.
“No, I don’t believe she was. Why?” Then his frown deepened. “Have you quarreled?”
“I wanted to see her before I left.” Finished with the shave, he quickly thanked Howard, who gave a cursory bow and left. Then Max picked up the washcloth and held it to the nick to stanch the trickle of blood.
“I’m sure she’ll come out with the others. They’re prepared to see you off with the pomp befitting a son of the house.”
“I’d like a moment alone with her.” The blood flow seemed to have stopped, so he tossed the cloth aside and took his coat from the hook where Howard had left it and shrugged it on. His trunks had already been taken out of the room when his breakfast tray had arrived. It still sat untouched on the table.
Papa took his watch out of his pocket. The gold chain caught the light. “There’s not much time for that. Your train leaves in a half hour. It will take nearly that long to get to the station.”
“Dammit.” He couldn’t stop the increasing feeling of urgency that had made itself known throughout the morning. “Then I can take another one.”
“Perhaps, but you’ll risk missing your ship. You have to get to New York. You’ve already delayed enough as it is. With the threat of a strike hanging over us, it might already be too late. I only agreed to this little sojourn because I cannot overstate how important it is to have Farthington on our side. This marriage must happen, so if you quarreled—”
“We are fine, Papa.” He yelled without meaning to, but he was tired of this charade. “Helena is to be my wife, and nothing will stop that.” If only he could make the woman herself believe that.
Papa nodded with satisfaction. “Good to hear. You have done well, my boy.” He patted him on the back. “Your mother is waiting to say goodbye.”
Giving himself one last glance in the mirror, he followed Papa down the corridor outside and down the stairs. His sisters were waiting at the bottom with hugs and well-wishes. August’s eyes asked the question she wouldn’t put voice to: Had he made things right with Helena? He couldn’t answer, so he gave a quick shake of his head and spent the next few minutes saying goodbye to Evan and Christian. His mother came downstairs when he was finished, taking up several more precious minutes of his time. It’s not that he didn’t want to properly say goodbye to her, but that he needed to see Helena. He needed to let her know that he wouldn’t give up on them.