“…said to wait until after the Season,” one murmured, the words muffled but unmistakable. “His Grace was quite specific. Nothing to be advanced without his review.”
She did not hear the rest. The world narrowed to a point of cold clarity. William had inserted himself into her affairs not as lover or confidant, but as warden. Why?
Helena froze, every muscle in her back braced for flight. Then, with the composure of one who has been insulted, she drew herself upright and strode for the street, head high, the proposal still clutched in her hand.
Outside, the sky had darkened, promising rain. She walked, not to her carriage, but past it, into the crowd of the city. Her mind worked at the problem with the fury of a mad woman.
It was not the refusal that stung, or even the insult to her competence. It was the assumption that her desire for independence must be managed, folded into a logic of oversight.
As she walked, her anger bloomed in concentric rings, each one colder than the last. She would go to Powis House. She would not write. She would have the satisfaction of facing him as he explained himself.
Instead, she resolved to do precisely what she pleased and let him learn of it in the morning papers.
The rain began, as predicted, but she did not alter her pace.
William’s study exuded the scent of lemon oil and a hint of tobacco. The usual correspondence had arrived, but one envelope marked urgent bore Pembroke's name. William opened it carefully, unfolding the sheet to discover not a crisis but the satisfaction of a plan unfolding as intended.
Your Grace,
Lady Fairfax appeared today in person and requested funds. Per our previous conversation, I am informing you and shall await your decision. I have enclosed her proposal for you. She received the delay with what I hope was composure. Rest assured, I will keep her situation under control and will inform you of any deviation from the desired course.
Yours, etc.,
Pembroke
He read the letter twice, then placed it in the center of the blotter, aligning its edges with the grain of the wood. A sense of triumph coursed through him—not the crude pleasure of victory, but the satisfaction of averting catastrophe. Helena, brilliant as she was, had no idea what was at stake. She wielded words and glances skillfully, yet the world of speculation was fraught with risks. The proposal, well-meaning but naïve, would have squandered needed funds.
He imagined how the conversation might have unfolded had he not intervened. A polite refusal from the Trust, public embarrassment for her project, and the inevitable spread of rumors. By acting quietly, he had spared her the pain of spectacle and preserved, at least in theory, their ability to be together. To have a future together. She would never thank him. Of course not, but perhaps one day she might see it as an act of care rather than control.
He took a sip of black coffee and glanced out at the garden. The newly pruned trees held their branches awkwardly, but the green was returning, stubborn and vivid. A metaphor lingered there, if he chose to see it.
A sharp knock sounded at the door.
“Come.”
The butler entered and announced, “Lady Fairfax, Your Grace.”
William stood. “Show her in.”
Helena entered as she always did, with confidence. She paused just inside the threshold, regarding him with coolness.
“Lady Fairfax,” he said, inclining his head slightly. “To what do I owe?—”
She raised a hand, cutting off his preamble. “Spare me the etiquette, William. I am here for an answer.”
He gestured to the chair across from his desk. She ignored it, remaining upright, a pillar of resolve.
He considered feigning ignorance, but she would not permit it. “I presume Pembroke reported our conversation.”
Her lips thinned. “He reported many things. Most were your invention rather than his.”
He weighed this, then nodded. “If you mean to shame me, Helena, be more precise. I have never denied a talent for invention.”
She moved closer, her hands resting on the back of the chair without lowering herself. “You have no right to manage my affairs now. Not when you have never bothered to before. The annuity is mine by law, and the proposal,” she lifted her chin, “was mine by conscience.”
He admired her posture, the blend of anger and dignity. “It was not the school I objected to, only the means. There are operators, Helena, who prey upon the charitable instincts of well-meaning women. If you had seen what I have seen?—”
She cut him off, her voice steady but cold. “I asked for a lover, not a husband.”
