The Dark Days Club by Alison Goodman
“Yes.”
“Well, that is easily explained,” he said smiling. “I wish to marry and start a family with a worthy woman of my rank. Yet, for the last three Seasons, the young ladies whom I have met all seem to mistake loudness for vivacity, interrogation for intelligence, and obstinacy for strength. Or they are so compliant that they can barely voice an opinion. Lady Helen, you do not fall into those traps. Your vivacity is natural and born from quickness, your intelligence honed through curiosity, and your strength is built from reason. I believe we could deal well together. We share a love of art, of riding, of literature, and I can imagine that our tastes will coincide in other matters as well. You also have a great deal of spirit, a most attractive quality.”
She had never heard herself rhapsodized with such warmth. She returned his smile and saw something else flash across his face. She had seen it in Lord Carlston’s eyes too: the desire for her flesh as well as her spirit. For a moment she was left breathless. It would not be a cold marriage, then. “My uncle would not agree with you about my spirit,” she said.
He leaned across and took her hand. “Admittedly, it has recently led you into some unfortunate episodes, but with some gentle guidance, I think you would readily direct it toward more worthy pursuits. Would you not?”
Helen stared at her hand sweetly trapped in his grasp, the touch of his skin hot upon her own. He admired her quickness, her intelligence, her reason. Yet, in just a few days, all of these admirable qualities could be gone or damaged when she unleashed her mother’s Colligat. He was asking the Helen-of-now to be his wife, but what if he did not admire the Helen-who-was-to-be? She could not, in all decency, accept his offer under such fraudulent circumstances. Yet if she did not, her uncle’s fury would shake the earth and she would be at his mercy.
All she had to do was say one word.
“Do you think people can change?” she asked. “I mean, essentially change, at our very core.”
He gave a perplexed smile. This was obviously not how he had imagined the course of his proposal. “Well, I think that, at our core, we have natures that stay the same.”
“What if my nature were to change—if I were not so quick or intelligent or had such spirit?”
“Then I suppose you would not be you.” He stared at her for a long moment, a searching expression upon his face, and then gave a light laugh. “But that is not likely to happen, is it? Come, this is not a time for philosophy. You have not yet given me your answer.”
Helen pulled her hand free. What she was about to say was a risk, but it was for his own sake. “If you do hold me in such esteem, Duke, will you grant me an indulgence?”
“An indulgence?”
“Will you allow me to delay my acceptance until after my ball?”
“You accept?” A bright fire burned in his face for a moment.
“I will accept—after my ball,” she said, feeling a small ache as she saw the flame of his joy gutter into confusion. “I ask that you visit me on the morning after, and sit with me and talk for a while. Then, if you so desire, you can ask me again, and I will accept.”
He stared down at his steepled hands for a moment, clearly trying to comprehend her strange request. “Is it that you do not wish to be engaged for your presentation ball?” He looked up. “I assure you, if we were to be engaged now, I would not interfere in any of your enjoyments.”
“No, it is not that.” She shook her head, counting herself a fool for denying such an easy explanation. But she did not want him to think she was frivolous.
He licked his lips. “Is there . . .” He paused, then straightened. “Do you have another attachment? Lord Carlston?” He almost spat the name.
“No!” Helen leaned forward, her hands raised to block his line of questioning. “It is not that.”
“What is it then?”
She groped for a reason—any reason—that would stop the look of pained outrage building in his eyes. “The day of my ball is the anniversary of the day when Andrew and I were told of our parents’ deaths,” she said. “You will think me sentimental, but I would not want this time of memorial to be swept away by happier news. Nor for my joy to be forever linked to my sadness. If we could wait until after the ball . . .”
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I understand.” He nodded with the abrupt quickness of a man convincing himself. “A most worthy sentiment.” He drew a breath and released it. “Yes, I can wait four days.” He gave a small smile, obviously trying for lightness. “But only if you promise me the first two dances at your ball. And the supper set? It will be remarked upon, I know, but that does not matter, does it? We will be announcing the following day.”
Helen allowed him to take her hand between his own again, the gentle warmth of his enclosing hold bringing a sting of tears to her eyes.
THE DUKE LEFT the room soon after. With her Reclaimer hearing strained to its very edges, Helen followed the subsequent events in the foyer downstairs. She heard the Duke’s short description of the interview, the muted response from her aunt and brother, and the departure of His Grace. She heard her uncle emerge from his library, her aunt’s careful explanation, and then no Reclaimer hearing was required for Uncle’s comments about her monstrous nature. At some point, Andrew coaxed him into the library again, too far for even Helen to make out the words within the screaming rant. Finally silence fell.
She gripped the edge of the sofa seat and braced herself, watching the closed door. If it comes to it, I will use my strength. Break Uncle’s arm if he raises his hand.
It was Andrew who entered. He stood for a moment, fury and disappointment writ large upon his face. He closed the door.
“You are lucky I am here to stop Uncle,” he finally said. Helen bowed her head. “What game are you playing?”
“I am not playing a game. I swear.” How she wished she could explain it to him.
“Then why did you not accept him now?” He strode across the room and stood over her, one hand kneading the other. “Selburn says you want to wait until after the ball. Whatever for? I do not believe this nonsense about our parents, and I don’t think he does either.”
There was nothing she could say.
“What if he changes his mind?” Andrew demanded. “I would not be surprised—why should a man of his rank and importance tolerate such treatment? What do you think Uncle will do then?”
She shook her head, although she had a fair idea.
“He is talking about madness,” Andrew said.
Helen lifted her head, the word striking cold into her heart. “I am not mad!”
Her brother paced across the carpet. “There are some who say our mother was mad, Helen, and all I can see at present is my sister showing the same kind of strange, irrational behavior that I remember in Mamma’s nature. And it is all that Uncle is willing to see.” He stopped walking for a moment, as if what had come to mind was far too terrible to voice. “I am frightened for you, sprite.”
“Mother was not mad!” Helen said vehemently. “She was brave and strong.”
“Mother is not at issue here,” Andrew said. “It is your own behavior. You used to be so eager to do what is right, but now you seem to be constantly seeking ways to step outside propriety.”
Helen hunched her shoulders at the unfair accusation. What was right and wrong was no longer so easy to determine. “It is just a delay,” she said.
“It is a delay now, but what if this goes awry and Selburn backs away?” Andrew asked. “I cannot gainsay Uncle’s rulings upon you. He is your legal guardian until you are twenty-five, not I. If you have some kind of notion that I can make him give you access to your fortune, and then see you set up in my house or your own, you are wrong.” He drew in a breath. “You are at his disposal, Helen, and we both know what he is like.”
Helen closed her eyes, but all she could see was an image of herself locked in a madwoman’
“He said yesterday that he would give thanks that I would be another man’s problem,” she whispered. “He might want you to take over my care.”
“That was yesterday. Now I think he would prefer to punish you,” Andrew said. “Why don’t you just write to the Duke? Accept. I will take it to him myself. Please, Helen.”
For just an instant she felt herself sway. It would be easy to put pen to paper and seal her future. No, she could not accept the Duke’s proposal as the woman she was now, and then marry him after she had been reduced to something else. It would not be fair. He must have the opportunity to withdraw his regard.
“The Duke will offer again after the ball, as he said he would,” she said, looking away from the fading hope in her brother’s face. “He is an honorable man.”
Just as she was an honorable woman.
HELEN’S FAILURE TO see reason resulted in her being confined to her room, with Philip stationed at her door and Darby her only company. She slept for some of the day—a restless dozing brought about by the high emotion of the morning—and woke in the gloom of the early evening, the room cold and bereft.
“Darby?”
No answer.
The shutters had not yet been closed for the night, and the last of the sunset cast an orange glow upon the low clouds. A silk shawl had been laid across her as she slept, and Helen pulled it around her shoulders as she rose stiffly from the bed. The weight of the miniature dropped on its drawstring and bumped against her thigh. Safe. Rubbing a crick from her neck, she crossed to the window for the last moments of daylight and a glimpse of the wider world beyond her room.
She leaned her hands on the windowsill and looked down into the street. A man and woman hurried across the road in front of a gig pulled by a sweet-stepping black horse, and a professional-looking gentleman strode purposefully along the pavement opposite. As she followed his progress, Helen’s sharp eyes caught a shadow moving from a gap between two houses. A man stepped out onto the pavement. Dun-colored greatcoat and black beaver, his face turned upward. Even from such a distance and in the poor light, Helen recognized the strong angles and classic contours. Lord Carlston. Although she could not see the detail of his dark eyes, she knew his gaze was fixed upon her own.
Her breath locked into her heartbeat.
What was he doing standing out there?
She heard the hallway door of the dressing room open and close, the clink of the porcelain pitcher against the side of the washbasin, and the rush of water being poured. Darby. Yet Helen could not take her eyes from his lordship’s face.
You have far more courage than you think you do.
Footsteps across the carpet heralded her maid’s approach.
“You are awake, my lady.” At the corner of her eye, Helen saw Darby’s sturdy figure lean into the space beside her and look out of the window at the street below. “Ah.”
“You knew he was there?”
“It was Mr. Quinn this morning. I think they are guarding us, in turn, from the Deceivers.”
“And from Mr. Benchley,” Helen said. Her skin seemed to tighten at the thought of the mad Reclaimer out there—somewhere—waiting.
Darby’s silence beside her was full of alarm. “From what you have told me, he is a desperate man,” she finally said. “If you will allow it, my lady, from this night onward I will sleep here on the chaise. Two sets of ears and eyes are better than one.”
“Yes, a good idea,” Helen said. “Thank you.”
His lordship still stared upward. She bunched her hands on the sill, quelling the impulse to run downstairs and into the street. To stand before him, smell the clean strength of him, watch his mouth curl into that irritating half smile, and explain that she was not a coward. That a woman’s duty was to her family. That her mother had wanted her to have a normal life.
“Did you speak to Mr. Quinn?” she asked.
“No.” Darby drew back. “What is there to say?”
The sadness in her voice pulled Helen’s gaze away from the window. “You liked him, didn’t you?” she said. “I am sorry.”
“I am sorry too, my lady,” Darby said.
Helen turned back to the window. The pavement was empty. His lordship had already stepped back into the shadows.
Twenty-Seven
Sunday, 24 May 1812
THE FOLLOWING TWO days were full of preparations for the ball.
On Sunday morning, on the way to church, Aunt had pointed out to Uncle—with her customary relentlessness—that she required Helen’s assistance for the final arrangements, and he must allow his niece out of her room for more than just meals and Sunday service. Why, they had not even decided upon the ball’s finishing dance, not to mention what was to be done in the event that the Prince Regent made an appearance, or whether they should delay supper another half hour, as Lady Drayton had last month. The later suppertime had seemed to work quite well, although that ball did go past four in the morning, which was probably an hour too long really, don’t you think, Pennworth?
Helen was allowed out of her room.
Although he had conceded that privilege, Uncle would not budge on the question of visitors, and so on Sunday afternoon Helen watched from the drawing room window as Millicent, Lady Margaret and her brother, and other well-wishers were turned away for the sake of her “delicate health.”
Aunt had not been exaggerating about the amount of preparation still required. Although Helen’s heart was heavy, she did find some relief by focusing upon candle and mirror placement for maximum light, the number of maids in the women’s retiring room, and whether to serve a fashionable ice just before the final set—perhaps the new parmesan cheese flavor—or would punch à la romaine be more exciting? After all, such domestic arrangements and decisions would be the main responsibility in her life as the Duchess of Selburn.
Before that could happen, however, another set of preparations had to be finalized.
Late Monday evening, before Darby took her post on the chaise longue, Helen picked up the silver candle holder by her bed and went to her secretaire. Aunt had positioned Mr. Brummell’s posy in pride of place upon the top, and Helen now shifted it to one side, noting that the edges of the blue irises had begun to curl into death. She slid the candle holder next to it, along with a small fruit knife that she had kept from her dinner. The desk was unlocked in the space of a heartbeat, the hatch pulled open.
The flickering candlelight caught the gold lettering on the spine of The Magus and brought a gleam to the glass front of her father’s miniature. She pulled the book from the shelf and fanned the pages, the momentum stopping at Lord Carlston’s letter. She touched the singed edges of the parchment, fighting an overwhelming impulse to read his words again. William’s words.
No, that was not why she was here.
Another fan of the pages brought her to her mother’s letter. Smoothing out the thick paper, she scanned the elegant writing and, once again, read her mother’s instructions for the use of the Colligat.
She had already collected most of the objects for the ritual and hidden them in the desk, at the back of the top shelf. The vial of sanctified water from the church font had been the most difficult to obtain. She gave a grim smile, remembering the strange look she had received from the verger. Next to the vial stood the small silver bowl that usually housed her washing sponge—soon to be used for burning the hair and mixing the solution—and a chased silver tinderbox containing all the makings of a flame. She picked up the little fruit knife, its blade thin enough to prise open the glass back of the miniature, and set it in place on the shelf. Now she had everything ready for tomorrow evening. For the last stroke of midnight.
Her eyes slid down the last page, to the paragraph after the instructions.
There is one other warning I must g
What would it be like to lose intelligence or curiosity, or even her wit? Fear rose into her throat. Maybe she would not even realize she had lost them, but just live in a smaller, duller world. Or maybe she would know, forever mourning who she had been. Uncle would, no doubt, welcome a duller Helen, but what about Aunt and Andrew and Millicent? It would be unbearable to lose their respect or see their regard turn into mere toleration. And, of course, there was the Duke. At least she could give him the chance to reconsider his offer.
Still carefully ignoring the other letter, she refolded her mother’s missive and slid it into The Magus, quickly returning the book to its place on the shelf. She shut the hatch and firmly turned the key, as if locking away something wild and savage.
THE NEXT MORNING—the day of the ball—the house was already in an uproar when Helen descended the stairs for breakfast. She peered into the drawing room as she passed. The double doors had been opened into the saloon beyond, transforming the two large spaces into one huge ballroom. The furniture had already been removed, and two of the footmen were rolling up the rugs, exposing the handsome parquetry that would become the dance floor. The other saloon had been transformed into the supper room, a troop of servants hauling up baskets of cutlery and porcelain from the butler’s pantry.
Her aunt was already at work at the breakfast table, perusing a list as she sipped her tea.
“Good morning, my dear,” she said, raising her eyes to cast a keenly assessing glance over Helen. “Did you sleep well?”
“Well enough, thank you,” Helen lied. She had not slept at all. Her mind had conjured grim image after image of madness and idiocy, and the Duke’s good-natured face turning away from her, only to become Lord Carlston’s stern countenance.