Marrying Winterborne
Page 46
Fortunately Cassandra was a softer, infinitely kinder version of their mother. And Pandora, for all her prankish high spirits, was the most sweet-natured girl imaginable. Thank God for the twins—they had always been the constant in her life, a source of love that had never faltered.
“Why don’t you start opening the boxes without me?” Helen suggested. “I’ll be down there quite soon. If anyone objects, tell them I’ve designated you as my official representative.”
Cassandra grinned with satisfaction. “If there are sweets, I’ll set some aside for you before Pandora eats them all.” She bolted from the room with unladylike vigor, screaming out as she hurried down the grand staircase, “Helen says to start without her!”
Helen smiled absently and sat for a moment, pondering the canvas trunk with its invisible weight of secrets and painful memories. Both Jane and Edmund had gone to their eternal rest, and yet it seemed they still had the power to hurt their children from the grave.
But she wouldn’t let them.
Decisively she closed the lid of the canvas trunk, silencing the whispers of the past. She picked up her mother’s unfinished letter, carried it to the hearth, and laid it over a cluster of glowing coals. The dusty paper contracted and writhed on the heat before erupting into white flame.
She watched until every last word had disintegrated into ash.
And she dusted her hands together briskly as she left the room.
Chapter 13
HELEN’S SPIRITS LIGHTENED AS she entered the cheerful bustle of the front receiving room. West and the twins sat on the carpeted floor, unpacking hampers and boxes, while Kathleen opened correspondence at the writing desk in the corner.
“I always thought I didn’t like courtship,” West said, sorting through a hamper from Winterborne’s. “But it turns out that I was merely on the wrong side of it. Courtship is one of those activities in which it’s better to receive than give.”
Weston Ravenel bore a close resemblance to his older brother, handsome and blue-eyed, with the same strapping build and air of disreputable charm. In the past few months, he had thrown himself into learning as much as possible about agriculture and dairying. The former rake was never happier than when he had spent a day in the company of tenants, working the land and coming home with muddy boots and breeches.
“Have you ever courted anyone, Cousin West?” Pandora asked.
“Only if I was certain the lady was too intelligent ever to accept me.” West stood in an easy movement as he saw Helen come into the room.
“You don’t wish to marry, then?” Helen asked lightly, taking a place on the unoccupied settee.
Smiling, West placed a flat blue satin box in her lap. “How could I ever be satisfied with only one sweet from the entire box?”
Helen lifted the lid, her eyes widening as she discovered a treasure trove of caramels, jelly creams, candied fruit, toffees and marshmallow drops, all wrapped in twists of waxed paper. Her wondering gaze traveled to the nearby mountain of accumulating delicacies . . . a smoked Wiltshire ham and collar bacon, a box of dry-cured salmon, pots of imported Danish butter, tinned sweetbreads, and a sack of fat glossed dates. There was a basket of hothouse fruits, wheels of Brie in papery white rinds, cunning little cheeses wrapped in netting, jars of rich fig paste, pickled quail eggs, bottles of jewel-colored fruit liqueur meant to be sipped from tiny glasses, and a gold-colored tin of cocoa essence.
“What can Mr. Winterborne be thinking?” she asked with a flustered laugh. “He’s sent enough food for an army.”
“Obviously he’s courting the entire family,” West told her. “I can’t speak for everyone else, but I for one feel thoroughly wooed.”
Kathleen’s wistful voice came from the corner. “I could eat that entire ham by myself.” In the past few days, she had begun to experience insatiable cravings one moment and incipient nausea the next.
West grinned. Rising to his feet, he brought a pressed-glass jar of almonds to her. “Will these do?”
Kathleen pried the lid open and ate one of the almonds. As she crunched it between her teeth, the sound could be heard across the room. Evidently finding them to her liking, she devoured several in rapid succession.
West looked both amused and mildly perturbed. “Not so fast, darling, you’ll choke.” He went to the sideboard to pour some water for her.
“I’m starving,” Kathleen protested. “And these almonds are exactly what I’ve been craving, I just didn’t know it until now. Did Mr. Winterborne send only one jar?”
“I’m sure he’ll send more if I ask,” Helen volunteered.
“Would he? Because—” Kathleen fell abruptly silent, her attention fixed on the letter in her hand.
Helen felt a creeping sensation along her spine, warning that something terrible had happened. She saw Kathleen’s narrow shoulders hunch forward, as if she were trying to protect herself from something. Blindly Kathleen fumbled to set the jar on the desk, but placed it too close to the edge. The container crashed to the floor. Fortunately it landed on a bit of carpet, preventing the glass from shattering. Kathleen didn’t even seem to notice, her attention fixed on the letter.
Helen hurried to her, reaching her just before West did. “What’s wrong, dear?”
Kathleen’s complexion had turned chalky, her breath shallow and fitful. “My father,” she whispered. “I could only read the first part. I can’t think.” Helplessly she handed the letter to Helen.
The news couldn’t be good. Approximately a month earlier, Kathleen’s father, Lord Carbery had suffered an accident at his riding arena in Glengarriff, when his horse had reared and caused his head to hit the edge of a support beam. Although Carbery had survived the blow, his health had been poor ever since.
“Why don’t you start opening the boxes without me?” Helen suggested. “I’ll be down there quite soon. If anyone objects, tell them I’ve designated you as my official representative.”
Cassandra grinned with satisfaction. “If there are sweets, I’ll set some aside for you before Pandora eats them all.” She bolted from the room with unladylike vigor, screaming out as she hurried down the grand staircase, “Helen says to start without her!”
Helen smiled absently and sat for a moment, pondering the canvas trunk with its invisible weight of secrets and painful memories. Both Jane and Edmund had gone to their eternal rest, and yet it seemed they still had the power to hurt their children from the grave.
But she wouldn’t let them.
Decisively she closed the lid of the canvas trunk, silencing the whispers of the past. She picked up her mother’s unfinished letter, carried it to the hearth, and laid it over a cluster of glowing coals. The dusty paper contracted and writhed on the heat before erupting into white flame.
She watched until every last word had disintegrated into ash.
And she dusted her hands together briskly as she left the room.
Chapter 13
HELEN’S SPIRITS LIGHTENED AS she entered the cheerful bustle of the front receiving room. West and the twins sat on the carpeted floor, unpacking hampers and boxes, while Kathleen opened correspondence at the writing desk in the corner.
“I always thought I didn’t like courtship,” West said, sorting through a hamper from Winterborne’s. “But it turns out that I was merely on the wrong side of it. Courtship is one of those activities in which it’s better to receive than give.”
Weston Ravenel bore a close resemblance to his older brother, handsome and blue-eyed, with the same strapping build and air of disreputable charm. In the past few months, he had thrown himself into learning as much as possible about agriculture and dairying. The former rake was never happier than when he had spent a day in the company of tenants, working the land and coming home with muddy boots and breeches.
“Have you ever courted anyone, Cousin West?” Pandora asked.
“Only if I was certain the lady was too intelligent ever to accept me.” West stood in an easy movement as he saw Helen come into the room.
“You don’t wish to marry, then?” Helen asked lightly, taking a place on the unoccupied settee.
Smiling, West placed a flat blue satin box in her lap. “How could I ever be satisfied with only one sweet from the entire box?”
Helen lifted the lid, her eyes widening as she discovered a treasure trove of caramels, jelly creams, candied fruit, toffees and marshmallow drops, all wrapped in twists of waxed paper. Her wondering gaze traveled to the nearby mountain of accumulating delicacies . . . a smoked Wiltshire ham and collar bacon, a box of dry-cured salmon, pots of imported Danish butter, tinned sweetbreads, and a sack of fat glossed dates. There was a basket of hothouse fruits, wheels of Brie in papery white rinds, cunning little cheeses wrapped in netting, jars of rich fig paste, pickled quail eggs, bottles of jewel-colored fruit liqueur meant to be sipped from tiny glasses, and a gold-colored tin of cocoa essence.
“What can Mr. Winterborne be thinking?” she asked with a flustered laugh. “He’s sent enough food for an army.”
“Obviously he’s courting the entire family,” West told her. “I can’t speak for everyone else, but I for one feel thoroughly wooed.”
Kathleen’s wistful voice came from the corner. “I could eat that entire ham by myself.” In the past few days, she had begun to experience insatiable cravings one moment and incipient nausea the next.
West grinned. Rising to his feet, he brought a pressed-glass jar of almonds to her. “Will these do?”
Kathleen pried the lid open and ate one of the almonds. As she crunched it between her teeth, the sound could be heard across the room. Evidently finding them to her liking, she devoured several in rapid succession.
West looked both amused and mildly perturbed. “Not so fast, darling, you’ll choke.” He went to the sideboard to pour some water for her.
“I’m starving,” Kathleen protested. “And these almonds are exactly what I’ve been craving, I just didn’t know it until now. Did Mr. Winterborne send only one jar?”
“I’m sure he’ll send more if I ask,” Helen volunteered.
“Would he? Because—” Kathleen fell abruptly silent, her attention fixed on the letter in her hand.
Helen felt a creeping sensation along her spine, warning that something terrible had happened. She saw Kathleen’s narrow shoulders hunch forward, as if she were trying to protect herself from something. Blindly Kathleen fumbled to set the jar on the desk, but placed it too close to the edge. The container crashed to the floor. Fortunately it landed on a bit of carpet, preventing the glass from shattering. Kathleen didn’t even seem to notice, her attention fixed on the letter.
Helen hurried to her, reaching her just before West did. “What’s wrong, dear?”
Kathleen’s complexion had turned chalky, her breath shallow and fitful. “My father,” she whispered. “I could only read the first part. I can’t think.” Helplessly she handed the letter to Helen.
The news couldn’t be good. Approximately a month earlier, Kathleen’s father, Lord Carbery had suffered an accident at his riding arena in Glengarriff, when his horse had reared and caused his head to hit the edge of a support beam. Although Carbery had survived the blow, his health had been poor ever since.
