She did not need much imagination to envision how much Lady Constance DeVries would enjoy that humiliation. Indeed, she could readily believe that the dowager duchess might refuse to permit her widowed daughter to chaperone Helena, no matter what appeal Nicholas made to his friend, simply to facilitate Helena’s inevitable downfall.
The truth was that the chit was impossible. Lady Dalhousie had dismissed three perfectly decent footmen in the past year, simply for the crime of being too handsome for their own respective good. She had endured eight months of dark glances from her butler, Pettigrew, who had begun to loudly lament the prospects of finding good help with Helena in residence.
The girl simply could not resist temptation, particularly the allure of a handsome man. It was undoubtedly the influence of her mother, a shadow in her blood that compelled her to wild behavior and the flaunting of every possible rule of society. Lady Dalhousie was beginning to wonder whether her niece kept a list to ensure that she did not miss a single one.
The day before, she had caught Helena smiling at someone else’s footman, the lad having been charged to hold the reins of a fine pair of bays. The horses were unimpressed by the young man, but Helena had been fluttering her lashes in a most forward way. Then there had been the clerk at the haberdashery who had carried their parcels to the carriage, never mind the reckless young man racing his horse who had reined the steed in so hard at Helena’s wave that Lady Dalhousie had feared injury to rider or beast of burden.
The girl would be the end of her. If Lady Dalhousie could have summoned a suitable man with the snap of her fingers and seen her niece wed that very afternoon, she would have done it. As it was, Helena’s forthright manner had frightened two potential suitors—or more likely, their mothers—in a mere fortnight. The season yawned ahead of Lady Dalhousie like an endless abyss, or a valley of torment that no decent gentlewoman might survive.
She welcomed her nephew’s suggestion of a chaperone, and liked even more that the candidate of his choice was a parson’s widow, a slightly older woman and the daughter of Lady Haynesdale.
Could Helena’s fall from grace, if it occurred, be somehow blamed upon Mrs. North? Lady Dalhousie was not so noble that she found the possibility objectionable. She would not be above rubbing salt in the wound of Lady Haynesdale’s wounded pride either, in such circumstance.
As a result, she was prepared to accept Mrs. North as her niece’s chaperone, regardless of that woman’s appearance or attitude.
And yet, she was pleasantly surprised. Mrs. North was an attractive young woman, surely in her late twenties. She dressed modestly as well, her blue and cream dress being neither in the latest mode or sadly out of date. Her dark blonde hair was neatly arranged, her hat was ornamented with the right number of flowers for her station—neither too mean nor too ostentatious—yet she wore a pair of remarkably fine kid gloves, which surely cost more than a parson’s widow could afford.
Perhaps they had been a gift from her family.
Mrs. North’s posture was excellent, her manner polite without being overly familiar, and her eyes bright. Her smile was present but not encouraging and her manner was attentive. In fact, she might have been ideal.
Helena despised her on sight, which was also an excellent recommendation. Helena despised anyone inclined to refuse her, which was why she adored only Nicholas.
To Lady Dalhousie’s surprise, Nicholas also joined them for tea. He never appeared at tea and his presence prompted his aunt’s suspicions.
Why had he suggested Mrs. North?
“How sad that your mother could not join us today,” she said when the tea was poured. Pettigrew offered a plate of delicate sandwiches to Mrs. North, carefully arranged on the plate to appear more abundant in number than they were.
“She was disappointed to decline,” Mrs. North said smoothly, keeping her gaze on the sandwich she had chosen. “But the planning of her garden is a passion this time of year. I’m afraid she cannot be readily parted from her books.”
“I did not realize she took a keen interest in gardening.”
“Of course! The roses at Haynesdale are my mother’s pride.”
Lady Dalhousie silently wagered that they were not as fine as the roses at Hexham Court, tended for centuries by her husband’s aristocratic family. “How lovely that she has such an interest to divert her.”
“My aunt is also fond of gardening,” Nicholas contributed.
“Indeed?” Mrs. North sipped her tea. “I’m afraid that I have little luck with roses myself.”
“You have a garden?” Helena asked.
“I did. At the parsonage in Cumbria where my husband was pastor. I enjoyed it, though it is the responsibility of another now.”
Helena looked confused.
Mrs. North smiled a little. “The parsonage is part of the living, which has been granted to another candidate. Perhaps the new occupants will make more of the rose cuttings my mother gave to me.”
“What cuttings did she give you, if I may ask?” Lady Dalhousie said, trying to keep her cup from clattering in her saucer. To give roses to a parsonage was one matter, knowing the living would pass inevitably to a stranger, but to surrender them to someone who did not tend them well was nigh sufficient to make her faint.
“I’m afraid I am not very knowledgeable about roses,” Mrs. North said. “There was a very pretty pink one. Quatre Saisons, I believe my mother called it. At least, it is pretty at Haynesdale.”
“A damask,” Lady Dalhousie said with authority. “Possibly known since the 5th century BC, and often considered the twice-flowering rose of Paestum mentioned by Virgil.”
“My mother says it was known in the 10th century BC, cultivated on the island of Samos for the ceremonies of the cult of Aphrodite.” Mrs. North took an acceptably small bite of her sandwich.
“‘The rose each ravished sense beguiles’,” Nicholas said softly and Mrs. North blinked, obviously recognizing the source.
