Frail by Susanna Ives

Author:Susanna Ives [Ives, Susanna]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-03-18T18:00:00+00:00

At home, Theo found the dining room table covered in a white tablecloth. Five china plates and a platter of turbot resting in gravy glinted in the chandelier light. Efa entered from the kitchen, holding a Dutch ceramic teapot. She stopped short when she saw Theo.

“Are the ladies not coming?” she asked, confusion on her features.

“Mrs. Pengwern feels poorly.”

“Oh.” Efa set the pot down on the sideboard, alongside a bowl of buttery buns covered with a linen. She tilted her head and brushed her hands down her checkered apron. “Did matters at the church not go well?”

“As well as to be expected. Miss Gillingham was shunned by over half the village, despite Reverend Jeffries’ efforts.” Theo picked up the pot and poured himself a cup of tea.

“Shall I have the food sent up to Mrs. Pengwern’s?” He knew Efa enough to know that it wasn’t a question. “Betry has been quite ill with that infant,” she said.

“If you think it is best.”

She gave a curt nod, her mind made up, and left for the kitchen.

Theo wasn’t hungry. He strode to his library, removed his coat, necktie, and collar, and tossed them on the sofa. He lit a lamp, adjusting the flame until it was bright enough to read by. He unbuttoned his waistcoat and fished his key loop from the pocket to unlock his desk. He pulled out the bottom drawer. On top of a black leather portfolio rested Wilson’s folded letter. He picked it up, tapped its edge on the desk. He wouldn’t respond to Wilson’s request until Helena had been safely bundled away. He replaced the missive and took out the portfolio. Inside were all the personal letters, newspaper clippings, and financial statements against Gillingham he had gathered over the last two years. He scooted his chair near the grate and one-by-one started to go through his collection, looking for any mention of Helena.

Aside from articles mentioning where she had been and what she had worn, he found a caricature in The Mirror of Helena on her father’s arm. The artist had drawn her with a crown and an expansive bosom that threatened to pop from the bounds of her gown. A large diamond rested in the valley of her breasts. Behind her smiling father, a few recognizable London bachelors goggled with comically bulging eyes. The linings of their pockets were pulled out. The caption below read Princess Helena.

“That’s not you,” he whispered.

He studied the picture a second more and then replaced it in his portfolio. He returned the documents to his desk. He was reaching for his brandy decanter when motion outside the window drew his eye. He turned his head, expecting to see Gordon or one of the boys crossing the front garden. Instead, he recognized Helena’s mourning gown. She was walking toward his house; the wind rifled her skirts and blew back her cloak. She held the brim of her bonnet, keeping it low over her face.

He snatched up his coat and hurried out, shoving his arms through the sleeves as he took the stairs.

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