Chapter 26
If I had a flower for every time I thought of you . . . I could walk through my garden forever.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
TWO WEEKS LATER
MANHATTAN
Crenshaw House looked as if someone had taken a French chateau and placed it squarely in the midst of Fifth Avenue. Its steeply pitched roof was tiled in blue slate and featured a series of dormer windows and matching towers on each end of the house, making it appear even taller than its five floors. Its limestone and painted stucco facade made the creamy white stand out even more against the sea of brownstones around it. Helena was quite taken aback at the sight of such extravagance. She had known the Crenshaws were wealthy, but she had only known them in London. Here they lived like veritable royalty.
The doorbell was answered almost immediately by a butler who stared down his nose at her in obvious curiosity.
“How may I help you?” he asked.
“I am here to call on Mr. Maxwell Crenshaw.”
Apparently deciding that she and her maid appeared refined enough to invite in off the street, he stepped back and let them pass. The inside of the house was even more extravagant than the outside. Past the marble tiled entryway, the floor sank a few steps into an actual jungle with all sorts of leafy green plants, most of them she couldn’t even name. A skylight soared four stories above them, shedding light through an intricate arrangement of leaded glass in soft colors like powder blue, rose, and amber.
The grand staircase on the far side of the display was completely made of marble and split halfway up to curve both left and right to the first floor. A near life-size family portrait of the five-member family held a prominent space on the wall at the split, directly opposite the front door. It must have been painted a few years back. Violet was obviously younger, and Max did not have the beard she loved so much. But she was taken aback by how handsome he was even without it. He had a strong jawline and a hint of that serious scowl she loved so much, and his eyes seemed to find her across the distance.
The butler cleared his throat in an obvious bid to garner her attention. “I am afraid the family is not at home.”
She nodded, ashamed to have forgotten her manners. “Yes, I know. I am Lady Helena March.” His eyes widened the tiniest bit in recognition. “I have arrived from London only this morning.” She had taken long enough to get rooms at the Fifth Avenue Hotel secured for herself and her maid before hurrying over. “I came directly to see Maxwell, only it occurs to me that he is probably at Crenshaw Iron.”
“Yes, he spends most days there, but I’m afraid he does not reside here . . . your ladyship,” he added belatedly.
This wasn’t entirely a surprise to her. She hadn’t considered that he might have moved out of his parents’ home, but it seemed likely that he’d want to have his own space.
“Would you mind writing down his address so that I may convey it to my driver?” She pulled out one of her calling cards and offered it to him. She had hired a carriage for the day at her hotel.
He stared at her before hesitantly taking it from her. “I am happy to send someone to fetch him. I am certain that he—”
“No, please. I have a carriage waiting, and I would prefer to surprise him. He doesn’t know we docked this morning.” He didn’t know she was coming at all, actually. She had left notes for both Violet and August but had begged them not to tell him. She wanted to see his reaction for herself when he saw her. It would tell her everything she needed to know in a way that his letters and telegrams could not. If he showed one inkling of doubt, then she would leave on the next ship bound for England.
Thankfully, the man smiled, his bearing easing to be involved in the tiny bit of subterfuge. “Very well, your ladyship. Your secret is safe with me, and please accept my congratulations on your betrothal. The entire staff here wishes you well.”
Helena swallowed. Even though she had accepted similar felicitations over the past several months, it never got easier. “Thank you.”
He nodded and hurried away, returning not a moment later with the address written on the back of her card. “Mr. Maxwell will be happy to see you.”
Thanking him again, she hurried back out to the carriage, her stomach roiling with nerves as she told the driver to take them back to the hotel.
“Will we not be going to Mr. Crenshaw’s home, my lady?” her maid asked.
“Not yet, Owen. He won’t be home for some time, so there’s no use in waiting there.”
The young woman nodded and let her gaze take in Central Park as they traveled along Fifth Avenue. Even though Helena had suspected Max would not be home, her heart beat as if she had narrowly missed a collision. Now that she was here, she was almost certain this was a mistake. There was a difference between not knowing and merely suspecting, and she was certain she would prefer to exist in the realm of the latter.
Three hours later when the sun was setting, Helena ventured out from her hotel room to finally face Max. She arrived at his home off a pretty little square known as Gramercy Park at approximately seven in the evening. It was a neat and tidy neighborhood full of tasteful brownstones with a beautiful park in the middle. It suited him far better than the chateau on Fifth Avenue. After the driver helped her down, she asked him to wait for her. He agreed, and she stood to watch him pull the carriage off to a little side street. Only when he turned the corner did she gather the nerve to ascend the steps to the modest four-floor brownstone. She had left her maid back at the hotel, so she would have to face her fate alone.
It took a moment before a middle-aged man answered the doorbell. He was dressed well, but he had the look of someone who had hurriedly donned his coat. A white linen napkin was clasped in his hand, giving her the impression that she had pulled him away from his dinner.
“My apologies for interrupting. I was hoping to speak to Mr. Maxwell Crenshaw.”
He stared at her as if he’d never seen a woman before, his mouth partially open in what could only be shock. She had taken pains with her clothing, selecting her most elegant frock in deep blue because it matched her eyes and her ring. The gown was just short of formal evening attire but could have passed for an elegant dinner gown.
“I am Lady Helena March,” she added.
The man blinked and seemed to come to his senses. “Apologies, Lady Helena, I wasn’t expecting you.”
“No, I suspect not. I had hoped to surprise Maxwell.”
“Oh . . . oh well, then . . . Would you like to come in? It’s Thursday, and he has dinner out on Thursday, but you are welcome to wait for him.”
The interior of the brownstone was decidedly masculine in dark woods and blue tones, but the furniture was light colored and the lines clean and uncluttered. It made her think of him and his many contradictions: firm but soft when he needed to be, severe but yielding.