A Home for Helena (The Lady P Chronicles Book 2) (2 page)

“Here you are, ma’am. I’ll write the name of the artist on the receipt. You certainly got yourself a good bargain.”

“Yes, thank you, I believe I did. It’s quite an intriguing piece, isn’t it?”

“Nice piece for a dining or living area, or will be anyway, when it’s restored. A pleasant sight to look at in this day and age, with so many broken families.”

Helena nodded. "In retrospect, the old ways always seem better, don't they? Better even than they were, perhaps."

He shrugged. "You might be right about that. Still, in my day, young people knew they had to work for a living. Not so with the ones I've seen."

She picked up her package and headed for the entrance of the store. He followed, fastening a "Staff Wanted" sign to the window.

“Good luck with that,” she told him with a sympathetic shake of the head.

E
xcitement
over her unexpected find and her eagerness to rip the paper off and study it again in greater detail prompted her to cancel her planned visit to the London Transport Museum. Picking up a salad and coffee at a sandwich shop, she took a bus back to the Earskines’ home on Regent Street. Clasped to her chest, the package seemed to fuse with her inner self, making her insides jump and dance with anticipation. What
was
it about this painting? The feeling that she was meant to find it grew with each step toward the lush Georgian townhouse where she resided.

Her quarters—intended for a live-in maid—boasted a private entrance as well as her own bathroom and a lock on both doors to keep out wandering children and dogs, as well as predatory fathers. Of late, Richard Earskine had been eyeing her with a bit too much interest for her liking, and her attempts to discourage him seemed to have the opposite effect. She hoped he would get the message soon, because she was disinclined to search for another position until she had news from several museums about her applications for positions in her field.

By the time she fell asleep that night, she knew the painting well. The elaborately-carved marble fireplace against a backdrop of apple-green covered walls. Over the mantel, a painting of a two-story brick Georgian home with rows of paned windows surrounding a white paneled door beneath a small, carved overhang. The woman’s slate blue gown over an off-white, lace-trimmed underdress, the puffed sleeves and high waist embellished with bands of gold and ivory-colored lace. The man’s buff-colored trousers, ivory waistcoat over a snow-white shirt and neckcloth, and frock coat that melded seamlessly into the woman’s gown where their figures touched. The girl—perhaps five or so—in pink and white with a matching bow in her hair, hazel eyes sparkling with joy. Although he wasn't looking at her, the man’s arm fixed possessively around his wife's waist, the pride on his face, and their clasped hands—all attested to the fact that these people loved each other. She didn't have to see the woman’s face to imagine what sort of expression would be on it.

Was
that
what intrigued her about this portrait?

She'd studied plenty of family portraits for her history degree, and while there were many similar ones, none had captivated her to the degree that this one did. For some reason, she couldn't let go of the feeling that
she
was the woman in the stunning gown, her husband clutching her to him as though he would never let her go. And the little girl—there was a connection there as well. How she longed to be that child's mother, to be able to cuddle and love her and raise her to be a strong, confident woman. With a sense of security a succession of foster homes in her early days had been unable to give Helena herself.

Frankly, though, it was the man’s figure that intrigued her most. The dark hair cut above his ears, a few curls dangling over his left temple. The plump, sensual lips—set in a straight line rather than a smile, but still conveying a sense of well-being. The sort of lips women yearned to kiss, she thought longingly, recalling the slobbery, awkward kiss of the last man she’d dated, a PhD candidate she’d met at the British Library. How long ago had that been? Six months at least, she mused. Perhaps she needed to get out more, because she couldn’t manage to get this man—happily married and long-dead, for heavens’ sake—out of her head.

Mystery man’s eyes seemed to follow her from the nightstand on which she’d placed the portrait as she made her preparations for bed. When she finally pulled the blankets over her and turned out the light, she could feel his sharp eyes penetrating hers even when they were closed.

How ridiculous! It was just a painting, after all. The people in it were dead and buried—and considering the primitive medical practices of the time—death could have shattered their happy family sooner than later. Women died at childbirth, children often succumbed before adulthood, and men died in accidents or disease or even duels.

But she didn’t really want to know how they had died. What she really wanted to know, she thought as sleep finally claimed her, was how they had lived. And that was impossible.

Wasn’t it?

“
M
r. Walker
, I am sorry to say that your daughter is simply ungovernable. She refuses to attend to my lessons. When I give her sums, she makes unflattering drawings of me instead. She ruined my frock by throwing ink on it."

James raised his eyebrows. “She threw ink at you?” He had never known Annabelle to be deliberately destructive.

Miss Frances Ledbetter flushed. “N-not exactly, sir. The bottle slipped out of her hands. But that merely illustrates my point, that she is headstrong and unwilling to take instruction.”

James clenched his jaw. “She’s
six years old!
She may be clumsy at times, but I fail to see how that has anything to do with being headstrong.” He walked over to his desk and pulled out a pencil from a drawer. “Perhaps she is too young for pen and ink. Have you considered that, Miss Ledbetter?”

The governess flinched. “My previous charges have all managed to master pen and ink by the age of six,” she said stiffly.

James waved his hand dismissively. “What has that to do with anything? You were employed to instruct
my daughter.
It seems to me the obvious solution would be to take away the pen and ink and provide her with a pencil until she proves she can manage the next step.”

“But my frock—" she began in a weakened voice.

“I shall replace it, of course.” James was of the opinion that such an unflattering gown should never have been fabricated in the first place. He pulled a bag from another drawer and tossed a coin from it on the desk. But Miss Ledbetter still stood there, looking at him uncertainly.

“Have you more to say, Miss Ledbetter?”

She took a deep breath. “Mr. Walker, I must be frank. I believe Annabelle is too attached to you.”

James glared at her. “I am her father. Her only remaining parent.”

“Y-yes, of course, but…”

“She barely remembers her mother, who died when she was very small.”

She pushed forward. “That is true, but Annabelle is so focused on you that she cannot bear to be apart from you. I had to cover the windows of the schoolroom because her attention was always straying from her lessons to the orchard or the fields, wherever you were working that day. Her conversation is focused on you, the entire day, and I’m convinced that many of her misdeeds are committed deliberately, to gain more of your attention. It is simply not healthy for a child to be so obsessive about a parent. The child needs to have friends her own age.”

“You have overstepped, Miss Ledbetter!”

In a carefully controlled tone, James enunciated, “Am I to believe that you have my daughter closeted in a dark room
the entire day
?” His dark eyes smoked.

She swallowed. “N-not the entire day. Just during lessons. There are candles, of course. She has a daily constitutional in the garden…”

“Did it never occur to you to consult
me
before taking such an action?” Good God! The child had been locked away in darkness for
hours
at a time?

Miss Ledbetter stepped backward. “You were away at the time and…”

James pounded his fist on the desk. “I returned
five days ago,
Miss Ledbetter.”

The woman’s chin trembled.

Hell’s bells, she’s going to cry.
He hated it when women cried. It was one of his late wife’s favorite mechanisms, used frequently whenever she wasn’t getting her own way. He’d tried to indulge her at first, but in the end, what she wanted was impossible. He blinked to turn his thoughts away from his wife and the guilt that always followed. He couldn’t change the past, after all. But his daughter… she was his responsibility
now
and he owed it to her and to her mother to give her the life she deserved.

Then and there he decided that Annabelle's life would not include Miss Ledbetter.

He pulled out a sheet of stationery and dipped a pen in the inkwell on his desk. “You shall have a character reference, and I will pay what is owed for the entire month, plus another in lieu of notice. I shall instruct my coachman to take you wherever you wish. You may have the rest of the day to pack your things and prepare to leave at first light. Have you any further questions, Miss Ledbetter?”

The woman lifted her chin, her lips a stiff line. “No, sir.”

“I shall not likely see you again, so we shall say our farewells now.” He stood and bowed slightly. “I wish you well in your future endeavors, Miss Ledbetter.”

She turned away and he added, “I shall send this”—indicating the letter—"and your wages up to you directly.”

She bowed her head stiffly in his direction and stormed out of the room, lips pursed.

James forced himself to scribble out a half-hearted reference, which he folded in half and laid on the desk. Running his hands through his hair, he rested his elbows on the desk and closed his eyes. The problem of Miss Ledbetter was easily resolved. Bloody hell, he’d dismissed half a dozen governesses before her, and this one had only lasted a few months. The problem of Annabelle was much more complex, and it was a baffling one.

He could always marry and hand the matter over to his wife. But as ever, the very thought of marriage made him uncomfortable. Replaying the tragedy of his first marriage only caused more pain. He couldn’t go back and change anything that happened and he wasn’t sure he could have. He and Anne should never have married… and yet, the first year or two had been happy enough. How could he have known that she would grow to resent him for keeping her in the country? He’d told her from the beginning that it would be slow going at first to make the rundown estate he’d inherited a profitable enterprise. But he hadn’t realized—although there
had
been signs, he recalled—that she’d been counting on his distant family connections to elevate their social standing. At twenty-three, he’d been young and in love, and had naïvely expected that his eighteen-year-old bride would support his dreams. Little did he suspect that she had a few of her own.

A tap at the door interrupted his reverie. Mrs. Fenwick swept through the door without waiting to be admitted.

“Your luncheon is waiting on the sideboard, Mr. Walker.”

He shook his head as if to clear away the cobwebs. “Yes, of course, Mrs. Fenwick. I shall be there directly.”

She regarded him intently. “Am I to understand that Miss Ledbetter has been dismissed?”

“Indeed, she has.”

“She has requested her meal in her room. Will Miss Annabelle have her meal with you, sir?”

He sighed deeply. “I suppose so.”

She lifted her eyes to his. “May I speak frankly, sir?”

James shrugged. When had she
not
spoken frankly to him?

Mrs. Fenwick had been with him well over a decade, after her husband had died in a farm accident, leaving her with a young daughter—now wed to the village apothecary—to support. Although only a decade or so older than he, the housekeeper been somewhat of a motherly figure for him since the deaths of his own parents.

“Miss Annabelle needs to be with other children her age. As it is, she has naught to do but cling obsessively to her father.”

James narrowed his eyes. “Mrs. Fenwick…”

“Your daughter needs a mother, sir. And other siblings to interact with to help her learn to conduct herself with others. You must remarry, Mr. Walker.”

“I seem to recall that you had only the one child,” he pointed out. “And you did not remarry, Mrs. Fenwick.”

The housekeeper straightened her back. “My daughter attended the village school and played with the local children. Miss Annabelle rarely sees any other children, except at church on Sunday and the occasional outing at the park in Abbey Wood. Begging your pardon, sir, but she needs to make friends.”

James pulled at his collar. Was he actually being called to task for neglecting his daughter’s social life? She was only six, damn it!

"Her father had no siblings." Although he had wished for them, he recalled.

Mrs. Fenwick folded her arms across her chest.

James felt a headache coming on. “Let her play with the tenants’ children, then. The Chandlers have a household of ‘em. What is it now, twelve?”

“Thirteen, with the baby born last month. Those children have no time to play. As soon as they can walk, they’re put to work helping their mother with the household tasks and later working alongside their father. No indeed, Miss Annabelle needs to be in the company of children of her own class. The gentry.”

James tapped his fingers on the desk. “Don’t the Havertons have a passel of children? Perhaps we should invite them for tea?”

Mrs. Fenwick shook her head. “Their youngest is in London for her come-out.” She grinned. “I’m sure her mother would welcome your suit should you decide to court her. Of course, you may not find it convenient to have your mother-in-law practically on your doorstep.”

James rolled his eyes. “I assure you, Mrs. Fenwick. I am
not
seeking a wife. Are there no other genteel families with young children? What about the vicar?”

“A son and daughter, both married. Which you would know if you attended church services with us.” The gleam in the housekeeper’s eyes belied the scolding in her words.

“Sir Henry and Lady Sarah have daughters near in age to Miss Annabelle. In fact, Lady Sarah sent over an invitation to a birthday party last month, but Miss Annabelle was taken ill with a cold and Miss Ledbetter had to decline on her behalf."

James leaned his head back against the chair. “Then why in the devil haven’t we invited the Newsome chits over for tea or some such thing? Do I have to do everything myself?”

This time Mrs. Fenwick’s irritation was real. “
We
didn’t feel it was
our
place, Mr. Walker. Managing social engagements is the province of the mistress of the house, and lacking said mistress, the responsibility falls on the master. You, in fact.”

James felt like tearing his hair out. Surely someone could have made a suggestion to him! Although… he recalled that Miss Ledbetter had just done so and was sacked for her efforts. Not for that, precisely, but he
did
have a reputation for sacking governesses. Perhaps he could have been more approachable.

Mrs. Fenwick softened her tone. “If Miss Annabelle isn’t to have a mother, James, her father is going to have to do the job of both parents. She may be a child still, but she needs to be among females of her own class. How is she to learn to be young lady of fashion, isolated here as she is?”

“Her mother’s aunts would probably take her.” But even as he voiced the words, he winced inwardly to think of sending his daughter away to the very relations whose benevolence he’d adamantly refused for his wife. More guilt.

“She needs her father as well, James. But perhaps that is best, if you are determined not to remarry.”

Placing her hands on her hips, she reminded him that his meal was awaiting him.

James rubbed his temple. “I shall think on this further, Mrs. Fenwick.”

She turned to leave and he rose to follow her to the dining room, where Annabelle was waiting, her hazel eyes sparkling with excitement.

“Did you really dismiss Miss Ledbetter, Papa? She was so angry when I spilled ink on her dress, but it was so hideous.” Peeking at her father’s solemn expression, she quickly added, “It was an accident, Papa! I vow I didn’t do it on purpose.”

James led her to a seat at the right side of the enormous table and took his own seat at the head.

A footman ladled the soup and returned the tureen to the sideboard.

“You should be more careful, Annabelle,” chided her father as he buttered his roll. “I expect governesses don’t have as many frocks as you have.”

“Why must they be so dreary, then? That frock was the exact color of horse dung, Papa. I feel like holding my nose when I see it coming.”

“Annabelle!”

Annabelle pouted. “But Papa, I was only—”

“Annabelle, eat your soup and leave me in peace!”

A few tears formed in her eyes, and James felt remorse. He hadn’t meant to sound so cross.

“Look, my dear, I’m sorry for snapping at you. I know I should not expect proper adult behavior from an infant.”

That
got her attention. Annabelle’s eyes flashed. “I’m
not
an infant, Papa.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Are you not? Then why do you not attend to your lessons? Why do you make naughty drawings of your governess that you know will distress her? These are the actions of a child, Annabelle. An unruly one. I would have had a whipping for such a stunt when I was a boy.”

Annabelle’s chin quivered. “I’m sorry, Papa. But I do not wish to do sums and letters and needlework. Why can’t I just go with you when you make your rounds? Pierre needs the exercise, and so do I!”

James pressed his lips together. “Young ladies are not estate managers. It is your duty to learn ladylike occupations, Annabelle.” Remarking her scowl, he added, “The ability to do sums is crucial for both sexes. Have you not seen me working on the estate books for hours at a time? And your husband will certainly expect you to be able to do the household accounts, you know.”

“I shan’t have a husband, then!” Her voice rose in pitch and she folded her hands across her chest.

James hid a smile as he finished his soup. “The next course, Philbin.”

As the footman served them slices of cold beef and cheese, James turned to his sulking daughter.

“It’s a spinster you wish to be, then, Daughter? What will you do with your time? I suppose governessing is out of the question since a good education is required for that occupation.”

Annabelle wrinkled her nose. “I don’t see why I can’t stay here and be a farmer like you. And breed horses,” she added.

Such a contrast to her mother, who only ever wanted the life of a London socialite.

He cleared his throat. “Are you sure you won’t wish to go to London someday and have a come-out like the other young ladies?”

Annabelle looked daggers at him for a moment and then her eyes lit up. “I’ve never been to London. Will you take me, Papa? I’d love to go to Astley’s Circus. My nursemaid told me all about it. Her brother went there last year. He said they have a pig that tells time!”