The conversation drifted through bland remarks about the weather and health, punctuated by standard complaints about the state of the roads. Helena offered cake, which Mrs. Winthrop initially declined, then accepted after a moment's reflection. They sipped and nibbled, moving in the rhythm of practiced sociability.
Only when the clock on the mantel chimed the half-hour did Mrs. Winthrop’s demeanor shift. She set down her cup with care, leaning forward, her elbows just grazing the edge of the table.
“My dear Lady Fairfax,” she said, her voice low, “I hope you will forgive me for broaching a subject of some delicacy.”
Helena nodded, her smile unwavering. “You cannot offend me, Mrs. Winthrop. Please continue.”
The widow hesitated, loyalty and discretion warring within her, before pressing on. “I have heard, from sources I trust, that a certain individual, well-meaning I’m sure, has taken an interest in managing your estate.”
Helena’s fingers tightened slightly around her cup. “I was under the impression that my estate did not require management.”
Mrs. Winthrop flushed but pressed forward. “It’s just that, in my experience, gentlemen can be overzealous in their duties. Some believe women are happier when relieved of burdens like ledgers and receipts.”
Helena set her cup down, the motion deliberate and quiet. “I assure you, Mrs. Winthrop, that I am fully capable of managing my ledgers and receipts. If anyone believes otherwise, they will be quickly corrected.”
“Oh, I knew you would say so!” The widow fanned herself with her handkerchief. “You have always been so very composed.”
Helena offered a small, sharp smile. “It is my chief flaw.”
Mrs. Winthrop rushed her next words, as if regretting the entire conversation. “I didn’t mean to imply you were lacking. Only that, in certain circles, there is talk. You must know how much I value your confidence, Helena.”
“I do,” Helena replied, sincerity in her tone.
A silence fell, both women considering the pattern in the carpet, weighing the next exchange.
Helena lifted the tray and offered more cake.
Mrs. Winthrop declined with a regretful pat of her belly.
They shifted to safer topics including the perennial disappointment of the flower show, the upcoming garden party at Harrington House, expected to be just as dull as its predecessors. Mrs. Winthrop visibly relaxed, grateful for the return to familiar subjects.
When the clock struck four, the visit concluded with a palpable sense of duty fulfilled. Mrs. Winthrop rose, smoothing her skirts with quick gestures, and took both of Helena’s hands in hers. “Promise me you will call if you ever wish for company. I am not so busy as all that.”
Helena promised. The moment lingered a bit too long, then the widow was gone, leaving a faint trace of lavender and good intentions in her wake.
Helena did not sit. She crossed to the window and stared out at the garden, neither as wild nor as beautiful as the one at Powis House, but entirely hers. The sunlight dimmed, obscured by an approaching squall, and shadows on the grass flickered uneasily.
Her hand drifted to the writing desk, where account books stood stacked like soldiers awaiting inspection. The spines were neatly labeled, edges squared, each volume a testament to years of careful management. She ran her finger along the top ledger, feeling the resistance of paper and glue.
She was well aware her husband had named William to oversee her jointure, but said scoundrel had never seen fit to interfere before. Leastwise, not to her knowledge.
Helena did not yet believe the rumor. But she understood how quickly whispers could transform into reality. She recalled, with nostalgia, the days when men handled her finances, their only qualifications being gender and a knack for creative accounting. The memory tightened her lips.
She considered opening the top ledger for a line-by-line audit but dismissed it as unnecessary dramatics. There was no crisis. Her affairs were in order. She would not be swayed by the speculations of others, however well-meaning.
Yet, as she stood at the window, the first droplets of rain traced erratic paths down the glass, and a small tremor of doubt lodged beneath her ribs, persistent like a muscle ache. She knew it would remain until she proved it unfounded.
Straightening, she squared her shoulders and resumed her place at the window. Outside, the world gradually shifted from sun to rain, from certainty to something less clear. Helena watched, waited, and did not blink.
She would pay a call on her solicitor. She’d planned to do so soon to discuss her charitable endeavor and now the visit could also serve to enlighten her as to wether or not William was involving himself in her affairs.
Yes, she would visit at once. Helena strode from the room.
Chapter 9
The office of Pembroke & Sons, Factors and Agents, had once been the drawing room of a grand townhouse but was now a cave of arithmetic. Damp-foxed ledgers towered in precarious columns, threatening to avalanche with every gust. The air was thick with the chalky tang of cuttlebone and the smell of cheap tallow. Light filtered through the windows in small increments, catching on motes of dust that lingered, reluctant to touch anything within. The fire, if it could be called that, consisted of a handful of coals huddled against extinction. At the center of the dim room stood a vast, pitted desk, its surface marred by ink blots and the remnants of countless calculations.
Helena stood precisely four feet from the desk’s edge, maintaining distance as if to escape the weight of its paperwork. She wore her blue day dress, reserved for business mornings, and had forbidden herself any ornament save for the pearl at her throat. Even her gloves were of thin cotton, a precaution against fidgeting. The proposal, written in her own hand with margins squared with a ruler, rested atop her reticule like a flag.
