Loving Helen (8 page)

Harrison stood by the landau.

“My man has the day off,” Mr. Preston explained. “Harrison kindly agreed to drive us.” He gave the roses to Helen, then handed Beth into the carriage. Helen followed, seating herself opposite Beth.

Mr. Preston climbed in, and they were off, down the drive to the road that led to the church. Beth chatted animatedly the entire way, monopolizing Mr. Preston’s attention, for which Helen felt immensely grateful. Their quarters were entirely too close for her comfort, and she wondered what had possessed her to agree to this journey, no matter how short.

She looked out the window as they traveled, the barren landscape seeming to reflect the emptiness in her heart. Most of the trees had lost their leaves, and the fields lay fallow, brown until spring, when tender plants would rise from their rows once more. The world felt empty, and she did too, the people most dear to her close but unreachable.

Harrison stopped the carriage in front of the churchyard and climbed down to help them out. As Helen descended, he gave her a tender look and her hand a squeeze. She still held the bouquet of flowers, and since Mr. Preston carried Beth, Helen assumed he wished her to continue holding them.

“Elizabeth’s grave is at the top of the hill,” he said, nodding toward the back of the churchyard, which rose steeply.

Silently Helen followed. Halfway up the slope, he pointed out Elizabeth’s father’s grave. Helen looked at the date and saw that he’d died almost two years earlier. Grace had written that Lord Sutherland believed it was from the heartbreak of losing his daughter.

So much sadness for one family.

Grace had also written of Nicholas Sutherland’s sorrow and bitterness over both his sister’s and father’s deaths. If anyone could help him overcome his grief, Helen knew it would be Grace.

But how does Mr. Preston figure into that situation?
Helen pushed the question from her mind. It was not her concern.

They left the churchyard but continued to climb. Her breathing became labored as she trudged behind Mr. Preston, and she took care not to step on her skirts. When at last they reached the top of the hill and Elizabeth’s grave, Helen took a moment to catch her breath. Then she turned a slow circle, taking in the spectacular view. A patchwork of fields spread out in every direction, dotted by buildings Helen knew to be grand estates, but which from here appeared to be no more than tiny cottages. From here, too, the landscape below appeared brown, but Helen imagined that in spring, summer, and early autumn —even beneath winter snow — it was breathtaking. Above the farmland, the sky seemed to go on forever, its blue deepening to purple at the horizon. She turned to Mr. Preston and found him watching her.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he said.

She nodded. “Beautiful does not seem to do it justice.”

“We had to get special permission to bury Elizabeth up here,” Mr. Preston said as he set Beth on the ground. “Elizabeth loved to climb hills. She loved that she could see out in all directions, to possibilities and places beyond her world.” He bent to brush fallen leaves from the gravestone.

“She sounds like an extraordinary person,” Helen said.

“She was.” Mr. Preston stepped back from the grave and addressed Beth. “Would you like to put the flowers on her grave today?”

Beth held her hands out, and Helen surrendered the roses. “Be careful of the thorns.”

Beth took the flowers, pulled one from the bunch, and handed it back to Helen. “For you.”

“Oh no.” Helen shook her head. “These are your mother’s.”

“It’s not for you to keep,” Beth said, exasperation in her voice. “You give it to her and say something. One for you too, Papa.” She thrust a flower at him. “I’m first.”

She turned. “I miss you, Mama.” She placed a flower at the base of the stone. “I wish you were here to play with me.” Another flower. “I know you would let me ride your horse and tell Papa that it’s all right.” Two flowers more, and Beth looked over at her father, her lips puckered, a glint of hope in her eyes.

He mouthed an exaggerated no and shook his head, but Helen caught the hint of a smile turning up the corners of his mouth. She wondered if she’d see Beth sitting atop a horse tomorrow. The little girl did seem to have a way of getting much of what she wanted from her father.

“I wish you were here to tuck me in at night,” Beth continued. “And Papa too. He doesn’t like to sleep alone either.”

Helen kept her gaze down but could not get the image of Mr. Preston, in his room at night — and lonely — from her mind.

Two more flowers lay beside the others. “I love you, Mama.” Beth’s last rose fell from her fingers, and she stood, rather solemnly, compared to her usual boisterous self.

Unsure whether to go next or what she might say, Helen did not move. After a moment, Mr. Preston stepped forward. “We miss you, Elizabeth.” He pressed his lips to the rose and then placed it reverently on top of the others.

Helen felt her eyes clouding with tears for a woman she’d never met and the family left behind.

Crouching beside Elizabeth’s grave, Helen spoke softly. “You have a beautiful daughter. Everyone says she is just like you. It is my great privilege to know her.” Helen placed the rose on the ground beside the others and stood.

Mr. Preston’s gaze, warm and filled with gratitude, lingered on hers as she blinked rapidly, attempting to hide her tears.

“You are very sensitive. That is why you understand people so well.” His voice was quiet. “You perceive others’ feelings and empathize with them in such a way that it touches your own soul — a rare and admirable talent.”

“It is not so much a talent.” She brushed hastily at her cheeks but did not take her eyes from his. “I simply prefer to linger in the background, observing people and imagining what causes them to act as they do. Your actions are motivated by pure love and devotion to your family.”
Much like Grace
. Helen forced thoughts of her sister aside. “That is to be admired.”

“And what motivates you, Miss Helen?” Mr. Preston stepped closer. She did not move, did not back away; she didn’t want to. Instead she found herself imagining what it would be like to feel his arms around her. Just once …

Beth tugged on his hand. “I’m cold.”

Looking somewhat startled, as if he had just remembered she was there, Mr. Preston glanced down at his daughter, then bent to pick her up. Once more the connection Helen had felt with him was broken. She turned away, and, wordlessly, they started down the hill, leaves crunching beneath their feet while Helen fought the tide of confusing emotions rising in her breast.

I cannot care for him. He still loves his wife. He may love Grace.

All good reasons, but she could not seem to help herself.

The walk downhill went much more quickly than the walk up had. They reached the carriage, and Harrison helped her in. Helen settled opposite Mr. Preston and Beth once more.

On the ride home, Beth snuggled into her father’s lap. The sunset lit the sky, its orange glow masking the gloom Helen had seen on the ride there.

“We never got to finish hide-and-seek,” Beth said sleepily, her head resting on her father’s arm.

“Tomorrow,” he promised.

“Miss Helen is a good friend,” Beth said. “We must keep her.”

“I quite agree,” Mr. Preston said, his gaze flickering to Helen. “I quite agree.”

Helen sat near the fire of the guesthouse, head bent over a handkerchief on which she was embroidering Christopher’s initials. It wasn’t much of a Christmas gift, but given that the matter of their inheritance had not yet been resolved and their funds were extremely limited, it was the best she could do. The past few days, the last of November, she and Miranda had stayed busy in the evenings, cutting up old clothes that still had wear in them and making them over into new items for Christmas. Helen had pretended not to notice when Miranda embroidered a similar handkerchief with Harrison’s initials.

A knock sounded at the door, and both women looked at each other.

“Who could that be at this hour?” Miranda said. Setting aside her work, she stood and left the room. Helen followed, lingering in the doorway. A flood of possibilities entered her mind, making her stomach tighten. Had something happened to Grace? Had Christopher returned from London?

“Good evening, ladies.” Mr. Preston stood in the doorway, brushing the first snowfall from his cap and coat. “May I come in?”

“Of course.” Miranda stepped aside, and he entered.

“Is everything all right?” Helen asked. “Is it Beth?”

The little girl was forever getting herself into scrapes. Just last week, she’d tried to climb the bookcase in the nursery, and it had nearly toppled over on her. After that, Mr. Preston had seen that all the furniture was secured to the walls.

“Beth is quite all right, at home safely in her bed. To my knowledge, your sister is well too,” he added, as if guessing Helen’s next question.

Miranda closed the door behind him. “Won’t you come in and sit by the fire?”

Helen knew it was she who should have made the offer, and she hurriedly added, “Yes, please,” while moving back to her chair near the fire.

Mr. Preston followed, seating himself on the settee across from them. “I’ve come to ask if I may impose upon you both the use of a section of your sitting room.”

“It is
your
sitting room, Mr. Preston,” Helen said. “We have been imposing on you these many weeks.”

“On the contrary. You have been such a good influence upon Beth that I am in your debt.”

“Thank you.” Helen looked down, grateful for his praise but not quite sure what to do with it.

“I am making her a dollhouse for Christmas,” Mr. Preston continued. “But I fear she will find it, curious as she is. It seems there isn’t a room in the house safe from her explorations.”

Helen glanced Miranda’s direction and caught censure in her eyes. Being everything prim and proper, Miranda disproved of riotous little girls. She’d had enough difficulty training the two older ones entrusted into her guidance and care several years ago.

“You would like to build it here?” Helen asked, redirecting her attention to Mr. Preston. Since their visit to his wife’s grave two weeks earlier, she’d felt more comfortable around him. He’d shared a portion of himself with her that day, trusting her even beyond what he’d shown with his admission in the garden that ill-fated morning. Her romantic notions might be dashed, but, like his daughter, Mr. Preston had become a friend, one of the few men she’d ever known whom
she
could trust.

“The outside of the dollhouse is already constructed, but the inside details are taking longer — and require warm fingers.” He held up his gloved hands. “If I might be permitted to finish the dollhouse here, it would be safely hidden until Christmas Day, and my hands wouldn’t be frostbitten as I complete the work.”

“Bring it as soon as you can,” Helen said, eager to see his creation. “I can send Harrison to help you tomorrow, if you would like.”

A sheepish look stole across his face. “Actually, it is just outside.”

“Then let us see it.” She clapped her hands and stood. “Do you require help?”

“No. It is a little awkward, is all. I can manage if you will but hold the door for me.”

“I’ll find a cloth to cover the table,” Miranda said as Helen followed Mr. Preston from the room, then held the door after he stepped outside.

He returned a moment later, arms stretched wide as he carried the large, rectangular dollhouse. Turning sideways, he maneuvered it through the doorway. Helen closed the door behind him and followed him into the sitting room, where he placed the dollhouse on the table.

“I’ve just realized you’ll have nowhere to eat,” he said. “You will have to take your meals at the house — all of you.”

“That is very kind, but we’ll be all right,” Helen said. He was easier to talk to now, but not
that
easy. The thought of conversing with him for even one meal a day made her anxious. It was simple enough to hide the attraction she felt toward him when they seldom had interaction.
But if we were to dine together every day …

“I insist,” he said. “It is the least I can do.”

“It is not necessary —” The rest of Helen’s sentence died on her lips beneath Miranda’s pointed look of disapproval and strange gestures, which Mr. Preston, from his place in the room, could not view. “We — would be most grateful?” Helen said with reluctance. Miranda’s brief smile and nod told Helen she had answered correctly.
Oh dear. I shall see him every day until Christmas —
every
day!

“Good. It’s settled, then. A dollhouse at your table in exchange for dinner at mine.” Mr. Preston stepped aside, and Helen peered into the miniature house, telling herself that she must remain calm. They would merely be taking meals together. Mr. Preston would see it as nothing more, and neither should she. If only her rapidly beating heart would agree. She studied the house closely, in a desperate attempt to return her mind to safer areas of thought.

The house he’d built had two floors with three rooms each and a sloped attic on top. The rooms were bare, but the staircase was done, and she could see where he was finishing the rail.