“Neither have you,” he said.
It was true. The couple appeared virtually the same as the last time Helena had seen them. The only difference was Mr. Crenshaw had obviously made a complete recovery, having replaced the weight he had lost due to his illness. They both seemed to be in good health.
Evan and August had been standing near the window that looked out over the garden, but they approached now. August gave them a soft smile, but strain was visible around her mouth. She and Helena had stayed up late the night before ruminating over how the morning might go. Evan kept a hand on her lower back in silent support.
“Now that you’re all here, I have something I’d like to say before we head over to the chapel,” Mr. Crenshaw said. “Millie and I would like to thank you for including us in this special day.”
Evan had moved to stand behind August, his hands on her shoulders and his expression somber. “You’ve always been welcome here,” he said.
Mr. Crenshaw gave a nod of acknowledgment. “That may be true, but I think we can all agree things have been strained, to say the least. We bear responsibility for that. Our travels over the past year have made me reevaluate things.” His wife walked over and took his hand. He squeezed it gratefully, and one corner of his mouth quirked upward. “Millie helped me see that I’ve been too narrow-minded these past several years. My drive to expand Crenshaw Iron . . . to see you girls settled . . . well, it made me lose focus on what matters. Family is more important than business. We raised you three with that principle and then forgot ourselves.”
“Papa—” August began, but he held up his hand to stop her.
“No, it’s important that I say this. I don’t always agree with your decisions—in fact, I think it’s clear that we have different philosophies about many things—but I should have listened to you. I raised each of you to know your own minds and to voice your opinions, and then I charged ahead with what I wanted.
“I know I don’t deserve it, but I’d like a chance to get to know my grandchildren. To play some part in their lives before . . .” His lip quivered and he noticeably swallowed.
“Oh, Griswold . . .” Millie wrapped her arms around him and then looked at each of her children in turn. “He had another attack when we were in Lucerne last summer.” August and Violet gasped, and Max stiffened at Helena’s side, prompting her to take his hand again and tuck herself against him. “I didn’t tell you because there was no point in worrying you. It wasn’t as severe as the first one in London, but it helped us reconsider how we’d like to live the next few years. He has agreed that it’s best to put his remaining stock in trust for the grandchildren and leave the business.”
“But what will you do?” Violet asked her father.
“Before returning to London, we spent the winter along the Mediterranean. We thought we might buy a home in Monte Carlo and split our time between there and London,” he answered.
“Have you truly recovered, Papa?” August was the first to move forward, reaching out to cover her father’s hand.
He nodded and gave her fingers a squeeze. “I have a few years left as long as I get plenty of rest.” Drawing himself up to his full height, he cleared his throat in a rare show of nerves and said, “The point is that I would like another chance, if you would grant me one. Another chance to be part of your lives.”
“Oh, Papa.” August hugged him, and Violet followed suit.
Max extended his hand, and his father grasped it. “I believe we can muddle through as long as we avoid the subject of Crenshaw Iron.” Not only had Max pulled their company out of India, but he’d also created an employee relief fund that paid death and injury pensions among other benefits, which his father had seen as a step too far in conceding to worker demands.
Mr. Crenshaw smiled. “Perhaps we can.”
Helena wasn’t gullible enough to think there wouldn’t be bumps in the road, but the relief that came over Max’s face convinced her that this was the correct path forward. She didn’t know if the parents could ever make things right again, but at least there could be a resolution to the fracture within the family. Admittedly, it was made easier for her by the fact that the older couple would be staying in Europe, while she and Max would return to New York where they had moved into Crenshaw House on Fifth Avenue. It had seemed wasteful to allow the home to stay empty. Now they used it to host the many fundraisers they held every year for the newly created Crenshaw Foundation.
Conversation continued for a few minutes, and then Evan’s mother, Margaret, his sisters, and Camille joined them. Helena hurried over to greet them both, staying behind to spend a moment alone with Camille to discuss the London Home for Young Women. The widow had had a tough go of things after the death of her husband and the suspicion rumors had cast her way. To her credit, she hadn’t appeared to let the rumors bother her and had held her head high since she’d been out of mourning. Not only did she attend social functions despite the whispers, but she also volunteered with the home, an endeavor Hereford most definitely would have forbidden. The home itself was thriving, and Helena had managed to open homes in Brooklyn and Queens based on the model.
“I’m so glad to see you,” Helena said. “I hope you’ll be able to join me for tea next week. I’d like to talk to you more regarding the vegetable garden idea you wrote me about. I think it could be a great addition to the school.” Helena still sat on the board, though her role was more advisory.
“Of course. I’m excited to talk more with you.” Camille’s voice was light, but she glanced behind her at the closed door of the drawing room as she spoke, visibly distracted. “I . . . um . . .” She turned to face Helena again. “I’d love to speak with you. I thought a garden would give the children—”
“Camille.” Violet hurried over to join them. “How are you?”
“Did I see Jacob Thorne out there?” Camille whispered, taking Violet’s hands in what appeared to be apprehension.
Violet’s brow rose in question. “Probably.”
“He was invited?” Though she still whispered, Camille’s voice sharpened in agitation.
“Of course he was. You know he and Evan are very close.” Concern turning to amused inquiry, Violet asked, “Why? Don’t you like him? I thought you were a member of Montague Club.”
“No, it’s not that.” But Camille couldn’t seem to stop herself from glancing toward the door again.
“Then what is it?” Violet leaned in.
Seeming to realize she had said too much, Camille released Violet’s hands and straightened, pushing a strand of a hair from her brow. “Nothing, I was simply surprised. Excuse me, I must go say hello to August.”