Mrs. Nixon, busily arranging her domain, looked up with interest at the pair of them as she brought out a pail of water to be emptied. She was older even than Becky, a woman so slender as to be sinewy, but serious of manner and sufficiently diligent to please even Aunt Fanny. Within hours of her arrival, she had sorted the rest of the house, and had embarked upon a mission to scrub the kitchen spotless.
Her husband was her veritable opposite, a plump man somewhat shorter than his wife, inclined to silence as his wife was garrulous. Truly, Mrs. Nixon never seemed to fall silent, and Helena already recognized that her aunt would be relying upon the new housekeeper for tidings of all and sundry. The husband moved more slowly than his wife but with no less persistence: he had already trimmed the shrubbery at the front of the house and tamed it into respectable order.
“Begging your pardon, but has the lady declined a suitor?” the housekeeper asked now, eyes bright, and Helena braced herself for another chiding.
Aunt Fanny turned importantly to her new servant. “No less than the viscount himself.”
“Lord Addersley?’ Nixon’s eyes rounded as Aunt Fanny nodded. “Well, I never.” Helena was prepared for the worst, but Nixon nodded wisely.
“For the foolish reason that he does not dance,” Aunt Fanny added, her tone acid.
“Well, there is folly in such a reason, to be sure, but there is sense in it as well,” Nixon ceded, dumping out her water. She filled with clean water. “There arestories, after all, mum.” Her tone was ominous, as sure an invitation to Aunt’s curiosity as to Helena’s own.
“Stories?” Helena echoed. She could not imagine that there were any dark tales about the viscount, save perhaps that once he had remained awake until as late as ten in the evening,reviewing his accounts. Doubtless that could only occur when he was chasing down an errant shilling, or waiting for the hot brick for his bed to be sufficiently warm.
“I remember when he lost his betrothed,” Nixon said, securely capturing Helena’s attention.
“He had a betrothed?” Aunt asked.
Helena strove to hide her interest. She would like little more than to learn the full tale of the viscount’s lost beloved.
“Oh, aye, yes, some ten years ago, it was. They say he was broken-hearted over her death. Did he not abandon his wild ways immediately and become a sober son to his father once more?” Nixon shook her head sadly. “It is better, in my view, to refuse a suit from a man whose heart has been claimed by another than to be his second choice of wife.”
“I should not like a man to compromise by wedding me,” Helena said with heat.
“And there is wisdom in that,” Mrs. Nixon said. “They say he has never smiled since that sorry night of her death.”
“I have seen him smile,” Helena offered, only to earn a skeptical glance from the other woman.
“Have you now, miss? Perhaps his lordship recovers from the loss by increments. I wager he has yet to laugh again, though he was never inclined to merriment by my understanding.”
Helena dropped her gaze, thinking of that dimple.
“But what happened to his betrothed?” Aunt Fanny asked. “I would not indulge in gossip about one’s neighbors, but it would be better that we have some inkling of past events, the better to not inadvertently cause offense to his lordship.”
Mrs. Nixon nodded wisely in agreement with that. “I have no taste for rumor-mongering myself, mum, but this is the truth as told to me by the daughter of the former housekeeper of Addersley Manor, who had it from the butler of Addersley House in London herself.”
Helena was intrigued beyond all.
“I should so appreciate your confidence,” Aunt Fanny said.
“The marriage was arranged by the old viscount, it was said, and Miss Havilland was considered the perfect candidate by all. She was a lovely young lady, so merry and a delight to all she met. A beauty, too, with her golden curls. So light on her feet she was that she did not seem to be of this earth but an angel set down amongst us.” Mrs. Nixon shook her head. “Truly, I have never seen a young lady so pretty, and her father an earl besides.”
Helena felt a dark pang of something rather like envy, but strove to dismiss it as unsuitable. Miss Havilland, after all, was dead.
“But she must have died so young,” Aunt Fanny said and Helena was glad for once to be in her aunt’s company. She could simply listen without seeming inquisitive.
“Not even eighteen years of age, mum.”
“Was she not of a robust constitution?”
“Oh, she was, mum, as healthy as ever a lady might be.”
Aunt Fanny and Helena exchanged glances of confusion. Before either could ask, Mrs. Nixon leaned closer, clearly bursting to confess the truth.
“She wasshot, mum.”
“Shot?!” Helena and Aunt Fanny echoed as one.
