Page 29

As it was a Saturday, Parliament was not in session, but Helena found herself alone once again.

Lowen had dashed off on some errand, leaving his sister, Thomasin, visibly disappointed as she slunk back into her room.

Helena had overheard her pleading with Lowen to take her to the Royal Academy, but he had brushed her off, promising he would take her another day once a “pressing matter” was resolved

Helena herself sat in her own room, caught between boredom and exhaustion as she hunched over her writing desk.

She had just penned another letter to Elias—another to add to the growing pile of unsent drafts.

But the more she wrote, the more she felt it was no longer truly a letter.

What began as a correspondence to a man she could no longer speak to had turned into pages of private thoughts.

Her complaints spilled onto the page—the frustration with Lowen’s coldness, his failure to dance with her at the last ball, his neglect of Thomasin after the girl had so eagerly wished to see the art gallery.

She could not send them—she knew that—but she wrote nonetheless, as a way to alleviate her frustrations.

Her small writing desk faced the window, and beyond, the world was bathed in sunlight—cloudless, warm, the kind of day that begged for a walk. To remain indoors felt like a waste of it. She could not tolerate the confinement any longer.

Stepping out of her room, Helena paused in the quiet of the hallway. The silence stretched endlessly—until light laughter drifted from Lady Thomasin’s room. Curiosity guided her to the door.

She knocked gently, and the laughter stopped. “Enter,” came the reply from the other side.

Stepping inside Thomasin’s room—equally as large as her own—Helena took in the sight of a wide, round table cluttered with sketches and books, papers scattered carelessly, some marked with hastily scribbled drawings, others arranged neatly as though Thomasin had been working on something important.

Seated there were Thomasin and the governess she had brought from Penhollow.

The sudden hush in the room made the air feel thin, and as Helena crossed the threshold, the air shifted once more. Thomasin and her governess stood quickly, their chairs screeching as they slid back. "Your Grace," they intoned in unison, dipping into curtsies.

Helena raised a hand, dismissing the formality with a small smile. “Please, there’s no need for that on my account.”

The girl and her governess appeared momentarily befuddled as Helena approached the table, as though they had never seen her before. “May I join you?” Helena asked softly.

“Oh—yes, of course, Your Grace.” Thomasin hurriedly gathered the scattered papers on the table, passing them to her governess with a quick, uncertain glance at Helena. “Will you ring for tea, Miss Wodehouse?”

Helena seated herself beside Thomasin, and after a moment’s quiet discomfort, the tea arrived, offering both of them something to do with their hands.

In a shiny silver bowl lay a familiar treat Helena hadn’t eaten since her days at Hargreaves House—candied rose petals.

Delighted, she plopped a few on her plate.

“Is this your first time in London, Lady Thomasin?” Helena asked, trying to fill the awkward gap between them.

“Yes, Your Grace. Lowe—His Grace, did not want me here until he married.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

Thomasin hesitated, her fingers twisting the spoon in her tea. “He worried he wouldn’t have time for me during the season,” she admitted quietly. “And he didn’t want me to be in London without the proper female guidance.”

“I see. It’s good that he is so cautious of you.”

“Yes, but I would prefer that he not be so busy. Though what do I know of Parliament?” Thomasin shrugged, sipping her tea before adding yet another heaping spoonful of sugar.

Her governess, Miss Wodehouse, raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Thomasin, entirely unbothered, ignored her.

“It demands so much of him. People demand much of him.”

Helena sensed the comment was partly aimed at her.

As a young girl, Thomasin wasn’t included in many of the evening gatherings that Helena and Lowen attended, and Helena could understand how it might appear that Lowen spent more time with her than with his sister.

But there was more to it than that—much more.

The distance Lowen kept from her wasn’t merely physical.

“He is ambitious,” Helena replied carefully, wary of saying anything that might offend.

Somehow, that felt like the entirely wrong thing to say, as Thomasin blew out a breath and slouched deeper into her seat. “Well, it’s boring. He used to be more fun—he used to do whatever I wanted. But now he’s busier, and now he’s wed…and soon, I’ll have my come out.”

“Aren’t you excited for your debut?”

“No,” Thomasin answered flatly. “Not particularly.”

Helena smiled sympathetically. “Why not? It’s not so bad.”

“I’d rather be doing something else.” Thomasin shifted uncomfortably, dropping her chin as she spoke softly, almost bashfully. “I want to... I want to be a painter. An artist.”

“I know it’s improper,” she added quickly, her voice wary, as if anticipating censure from Helena. “But it’s all I want to do.”

“How lovely,” Helena smiled warmly at her. She had met plenty of girls who had no interest in marriage. It was rare, but not unheard of. It was lucky that Thomasin came from a ducal family of considerable wealth—otherwise, her desires might not have been so easily indulged.

“May I see some of your artwork? That is—if you wish to show me?”

Thomasin flashed a cheeky grin. “You may have already seen my work, My paintings hang in the breakfast room and the dining room.”

Helena raised her brows, impressed. “I was admiring those paintings the other day. What a talent you are, my lady.”

A fierce blush crept up Thomasin’s face at the compliment. “Thank you,” she replied, now shy once more. “You may call me Thomasin.”

Helena felt her own face flush at the sudden change in the girl’s demeanor, and she smiled again. “Then you may call me Helena.”

There was a brief pause as Thomasin and Helena refreshed their teacups, before the girl spoke again, this time with mild irritation. "Lowen said he would have time for me and take me to the Royal Academy today, but now I must wait until next Saturday."

Helena nodded in understanding. “It happens. As my brother got older, he spent less and less time with my sister and me, but I know he doesn’t love us any less.”

Thomasin gave a small, exasperated sigh, her fingers drumming lightly on her teacup. "I just wanted him to take me somewhere. And your brother should visit you sometime, too.”

Helena hesitated, before offering, “We can go, if you like?” There was an odd, inexplicable worry in her chest—strangely afraid to be rejected by a child. “Just you, me, and Miss Wodehouse. Would you like that?”

Thomasin’s eyes widened, the grey orbs as large as moons, and the sudden enthusiasm was like a breath of fresh air. “Yes! Yes! I would! Today?” She nearly jumped out of her chair.

Helena nodded, smiling with relief. “Yes, today.” Thomasin’s infectious enthusiasm filled the room, and for the first time since arriving at Carrivick House, Helena felt as though she had done something right.

The trio set off, deciding to walk, unwilling to waste such lovely weather. Thomasin wasn’t overly chatty—a trait she shared with her brother—but she was quick to observe anything that caught her interest and to pass a witty remark.

The gallery, for its part, was impressive, and Thomasin could hardly contain her excitement.

She practically bounced from painting to painting, pressing her face close to the canvases as she drank in every brushstroke.

Helena and Miss Wodehouse followed at a more measured pace, stopping to exchange pleasantries with a few of the other patrons in attendance.

Afterward, they treated themselves to Gunter’s, settling in for a moment of indulgence. They enjoyed their desserts and watched the bustle of the street outside, observing the mix of elegant fashion and hurried footfalls.

As they sat, Lady Osgood and her husband passed by. Whether they meant to snub Helena, she couldn’t say, but both of them were so busy holding their noses high in the air that it seemed doubtful they had noticed anything at all—least of all the ground beneath their feet.

Lowen was tucked away in his study when the three of them returned home, but Thomasin barged into his sanctuary to happily chat about her day—something Helena didn’t think she would ever be comfortable doing.

So, she retreated to her private salon, welcoming the few visitors who came.

Mrs. van Dorn, it seemed, had not returned, even after Lowen had insisted that Helena write her an apology. But Helena found herself quite unbothered by the absence. In fact, she was rather pleased.

Dinner was livelier than usual. Thomasin, still eager to recount her day, spoke animatedly about the gallery, and to his credit, Lowen listened with remarkable patience, asking questions and offering his opinions on the art.

Helena couldn't quite shake the pang of envy she felt at the attentiveness he bestowed upon his sister, though she quickly pushed the feeling aside.

“We heard word of a traveling menagerie in town,” Thomasin said between bites of potatoes. “Helena said she’d take me.”

Lowen’s brows rose slightly, and he glanced at Helena, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Did she now? And is there room for one more to join?”

Helena flushed, caught off guard by his question. “Y—yes, of course.”

“Good,” he replied, his eyes never leaving Helena. “I would be happy to offer escort.”

“I would like that,” she said. Her heart gave an odd little skip. It shouldn’t have surprised her that her husband wanted to spend time with her—yet it did. She told herself it was only for Thomasin’s sake.