Page 46

Just over three weeks had passed since Lowen returned to Penhollow, and doubt about Helena’s return had begun to take root. When he first learned she had fled London for Lancashire, he assumed it was a brief retreat—a chance to lick her wounds and mend her pride.

Now, sitting in the parlor while Thomasin read aloud Helena’s first letter, his irritation doubled.

First, at the letter itself—addressed solely to his sister with no mention of him—and second, at the fact that Helena was not here.

At first, he told himself she only needed a week.

Two, at most. Yet each day passed without a single line addressed to him.

His fingers tightened absently around the biscuit in his hand, crumbling it over the teacup in his other as he listened to his sister read aloud.

" ‘Occasionally, Lancashire offers little in the way of amusement, but recently, I had the pleasure of attending a ball held at the finest inn in the village. I do not believe I have danced so much since my first season!’ ” Thomasin read, stopping to take a sip of her tea.

“ ‘It is such a delight to remain occupied during the summer, especially here, where time seems to pass at a gentler pace.’ ”

Helena, it seemed, was making the most of her time at home, finding entertainment in dancing with other men. The thought made Lowen grit his teeth. He could wait her out. She would return. She was only acting this way to provoke him.

“Is something the matter?” his sister asked, snapping him to attention. It was only then that he became aware of the ache in his hand. He relaxed, inadvertently spilling the remainder of the crushed biscuit onto himself.

“Oh dear,” Thomasin remarked, eyeing the mess.

“Nothing’s the matter,” Lowen said, brushing the crumbs from himself. “Please, continue reading Helena’s letter.”

A skeptical hum escaped Thomasin’s lips. “There’s not much else,” she said. “Just mention of the new, young vicar and a dinner they hosted for him.”

Lowen set his teacup down carefully, trying not to break that as well. “How lovely.” He smiled through clenched teeth.

“Yes, I’m happy she’s enjoying herself.”

With great effort, he nodded in agreement.

Thomasin called for her lap desk to be brought in. A footman soon delivered the wooden box, filled with parchment, quill, and ink, handing it to her.

She extracted a blank piece of parchment. “What shall I write back? It’s been dreadfully dull here.”

“Do you really need to do this here?” Lowen asked.

“Yes and I’ll be sure to give her your regards,” she sniffed.

“There is no need for that,” he interjected. “I’ll write her myself,” he lied.

She leaned forward over the paper and began writing furiously, the soft scratch of the quill the only sound breaking the silence of the room. After a moment, she sat back in her seat and regarded the letter critically.

“Oh! I nearly forgot something,” she said sweetly. “ ‘Lowen misses you dreadfully and hopes you return soon.’ ”

"Do not write that,” he warned.

“Why ever not? It’s the truth.”

“Because I said so.”

Thomasin pouted. “Very well. I shall tell Helena how busy you’ve been of late. Very busy indeed, to avoid dwelling on other matters,” she added with great cheek.

Lowen stifled his irritation. He knew his sister was poking for a reaction, anything to hint at how empty it felt without Helena here, but he refused to give her the satisfaction.

In truth, he hardly noticed Helena’s absence.

He’d been keeping himself far too busy to think of her.

Just this morning, he’d been knee-deep in mud, helping repair a tenant’s fence.

The other day, he’d spent hours pruning hedges in the garden.

And only yesterday, he’d mended the hinge on the larder door, despite the butler’s insistence that it was perfectly fine.

It wasn’t—Lowen could hear the rusted creak every time someone opened the damned thing.

“You need not mention me at all,” he told Thomasin.

“You’re right,” she replied lightly. “I’m sure she doesn’t miss you either.”

Lowen stood abruptly, feeling as though something had burst in his forehead. “I think the stable need repairing.”

“I’m sure it does,” Thomasin sang out but he ignored her.

Perhaps the stable didn’t need immediate mending, but Lowen had noticed some chipped paint and a few missing shingles on the roof. Better to start now before the entire structure came crashing down.

Without bothering to change his clothes, he made his way to the stable, swiftly removing his coat and tossing it carelessly over a fence post.

“Why are you standing about?” he barked at the grooms loitering near the feed station. Startled, the men quickly lined up like soldiers. “Can’t you see the stable is falling into disrepair? We need paint! A mallet and pitch! Where is the ladder?”

Seemingly stunned by the sudden command, the grooms stared at Lowen for a moment before awkwardly shuffling off to gather the supplies he’d requested.

For the next several days, Lowen worked tirelessly from dawn until dusk, methodically improving the stable.

From roof to foundation, he unearthed fault after fault, fixing each one with meticulous care.When the stable stood sound as a fortress, he simply moved on to another task.

There was always something in need of tending, always some flaw demanding his attention—enough to occupy him until the season began.

At night, when he lay down exhausted, his mind still reached for her before sleep came. If Helena were here, she’d only hinder him, distracting him from what needed to be done.

It was better this way.

Better that she wasn’t here.

In a way, it reminded him of his childhood. His mother, always sickly, had kept to her chamber, haunting the room like a ghost, while his father never bothered knocking. He’d moved through life as if she weren’t there at all.

Lowen could do the same.

Though occasionally, silence crept in like a shadow, wistful and unwelcome, and he thought of the evening he discovered the letters.

Doubt seeped through the crevices of his conscience, teasing and baiting him with the notion that he had done the wrong thing again.

But he would hear none of it, swiftly moving on to the next task to avoid any further thoughts of Helena.

For the past month, the weather had been in unusually good cheer, not a dusty cloud nor a hint of far-off rain in sight.

Helena took full advantage, spending her afternoons beneath one of the many cherry trees planted about the grounds of her home.

A flurry of white blossoms drifted from the branches, swirling around her like a summer snowstorm and gently landing on her blanket.

For the first time in weeks, she felt a semblance of peace, even with Thomasin’s letter resting in her hands.

She unfolded it carefully, quickly scanning for Lowen’s name, feeling a mixture of relief and disappointment that there was no mention of him.

Still, she was glad that Thomasin seemed in relatively good spirits, and in truth, so was she.

Of course, she longed for Lowen, but they were at an impasse, each of them entrenched in their wounds.

Both had played their part in this quarrel, and while Helena could imagine herself apologizing, she hesitated.

She wanted to offer a sincere apology, but it was hard to envision Lowen doing the same.

He likely believed he had done her no wrong.

Lowen deserved an apology after what she had written about him—she could admit that. But did he feel the same about the apology he owed her? Helena had thought she finally understood him better.

Perhaps she had been wrong.

She sighed into the wind, folding the letter and setting it aside.

Only time would tell if they could mend the rift between them.

For now, though, there was plenty to distract her.

Since news of her arrival—and her new title—had spread through the village, invitations poured in.

Neighbors ranging from a short walk away to hours-long carriage rides sought her company.

Helena had no complaints. The busyness kept her mind occupied, and now and then, she found herself laughing and smiling. The ache in her heart hadn’t disappeared, but it dulled when she was surrounded by her family and friends.

There was much to do, and little time to dwell on certain emotions.

Surely, Lowen felt the same?

He must not be thinking of her at all.

Before she lost herself to her musings, a masculine voice called out to her, “Your Grace!”

Helena smiled as she looked up, recognizing the voice. “Reverend Alden,” she stood to greet him.

“Your brother mentioned you might be enjoying the grounds this afternoon. I hope I’m not interrupting,” he replied with a grin.

Young and handsome, Reverend Alden was the new vicar in the village, and his arrival had caused quite a stir, particularly among the women.

“Isaac should’ve escorted you; I hope you were not wandering long.”

Alden waved her concern away, congenial as always.

“He offered, but I could not bring myself to accept, as he was in the middle of a chess match with your father. And forgive me, but from what your brother once told me, it seems your father has a habit of moving the pieces around when he isn’t looking. ”

“It’s true, he does,” she admitted, sheepishly. A shameless lot, her father and brother were. “Nonetheless, it is inexcusable that he left you to find your own way.”

“It’s really no trouble, Your Grace,” Alden reassured her. “I merely wanted to share some happy news—and extend an invitation—too exciting to wait for the post.”

She tilted her head, curiosity piqued. “Happy news?”

“My wife is due to arrive in a fortnight,” he explained, his tone bright with anticipation. “And once she’s settled, we’d be delighted to have you and your family—and, of course, His Grace—for tea.”

“That would be lovely,” she said, suppressing her wince at the mention of Lowen. “Where is your wife traveling from?”

“From Derbyshire, Your Grace. She was visiting relations. When is His Grace arriving? Surely, he cannot bear to stay separated from his wife for so long.”

“I…cannot say,” Helena had been cleverly brushing off any inquiries of Lowen for the past month. “He is quite busy at the present. Matters of the estate, you understand.”

Reverend Alden nodded sympathetically. “I was so eager to meet His Grace. You see, he is the principal benefactor of the school where my sister teaches in London. Without his generous support, the school would be sorely lacking in proper supplies. I have long wished to extend my gratitude to him in person.”

Helena masked her surprise, arranging her features into polite acknowledgment.

She had nearly forgotten of her husband’s charitable endeavors.

Of course, she should know—Isaac had mentioned it long ago.

But at a time like this, when thoughts of Lowen mingled with frustration and hurt, it was difficult to recall the good in him.

Her heart and lungs tightened in her chest, the memory of better days poisoned with her present doubts. “That sounds very much like him,” she said. “His Grace has always had a generous spirit.”

“Truly an exemplary man,” Alden praised.

Helena forced herself to smile, though it felt fragile. “I’m sure His Grace will appreciate your kind words when the time comes.” Not that it ever will, she knew.

The Reverend returned her smile warmly, oblivious to the turmoil bubbling beneath her composed exterior.

As he spoke of his wife’s anticipated arrival, Helena nodded along, her responses polite but detached. Her thoughts drifted despite herself, circling back to Lowen—his absence, his faults, and now, the reminder of his virtues.

The sun was still out, but somehow the day had darkened.

Perhaps it was time to write him, she thought, just as the Reverend excused himself with a cheerful farewell.

Or perhaps not .