Page 77 of The Matrimonial Advertisement

“Gin,” Mrs. Standish said when she arrived to take away the laundry. “If there’s any left after Mrs. Whitlock’s had her tipple.”

Helena shot the housekeeper a questioning glance. “Gin?”

Mrs. Standish draped Helena’s soiled petticoats over her arm. “A boiled mixture of gin, soft soap, and honey. I’ll brush it over the stains. After it’s soaked awhile, I’ll give the silk a good sponging.” She narrowed her eyes at the gray silk dress Helena was currently wearing. “Those stains will be more difficult.”

Helena looked down at her skirts. Among the wrinkles and horsehair, she saw what looked to be oil stains. “Can you get them out?”

“They’ll need pipe clay, my lady. Or French chalk.” Mrs. Standish waited for Helena to strip out of her bodice and skirts. “I’m not a lady’s maid, ma’am.”

“No, indeed.” Helena handed the housekeeper her dress. “Thank you, Mrs. Standish.”

There was little point in explaining why she presently had no lady’s maid of her own, and really no need to do so. Mrs. Standish was the sort of servant who’d think less of her for making excuses. She’d only softened toward Helena when she’d heard Boothroyd referring to her as “my lady.” She expected a certain amount of aristocratic disdain.

It was not Helena’s way. She’d never been particularly top lofty with servants. They mayn’t have been her friends or her family, but in the absence of her mother, the staff at the family seat in Hampshire had looked after her. The cook had spoiled her with chocolate and biscuits in the kitchens. And the housekeeper had fussed over her like an old mother hen.

She would never look down on Justin because of his parentage. The fact that his mother had been a scullery maid in Sir Oswald’s household troubled her, it was true, but not because she was concerned with matters of wealth, rank, and breeding. It troubled her because it troubled Justin. The circumstances of his birth were clearly a source of pain to him.

It had seemed inadvisable to offer him words of comfort. Justin wasn’t the sort of gentleman who would appreciate a lady’s pity. But as he’d told her about his mother, and about his childhood hopes and dreams, she’d ached with sympathy for him.

Their upbringings couldn’t have been more different. She hadn’t been an orphan, and she certainly hadn’t been poor, but she could understand loneliness. She’d felt enough of it in her life. And after Giles had left for India…

She’d spent far too much time being listless and brooding. It was no wonder people had been so willing to believe she’d inherited her mother’s melancholy.

Would they be equally as willing to believe she was well? If they saw her in London, attending the theatre or dancing at a ball, would it be enough to convince them?

Her mind conjured an image of waltzing with Justin in a gaslit ballroom. She in a sleeveless, low-necked dress trimmed in Honiton lace and he in an elegant black evening suit, whirling about the floor to the swelling sounds of a twenty-piece orchestra.

A romantic daydream, nothing more. But it caught at her heart.

She’d always been somewhat reserved with people. It wasn’t in her nature to giggle and flirt. Nevertheless, she’d once taken great pleasure in the entertainments of the season. She’d attended the theatre, played the pianoforte at recitals, and danced in crowded ballrooms. It had been expected of her. And she’d never minded it. She’d always been sure of herself and of her place in the world.

If only she could return to London with Justin and be as she once was. Confident and carefree. There were so many things she’d like to show him. So much she longed to experience with him at her side.

Why must it be a daydream? Why couldn’t such pleasures be real?

All it wanted was a little courage, Justin had said. Courage enough for her to face her uncle and Mr. Glyde. Courage enough to speak to the man at the newspaper. To risk her reputation.

Was a chance at happiness—at freedom—worth such an outrageous gamble?

She slipped on her one remaining dress and, after arranging her skirts over her crinoline and adjusting the plum velvet ribbon at her waist, she made her way downstairs. She found Justin in the library with Mr. Boothroyd, dictating a letter.

He’d changed from his riding clothes into black woolen trousers, a clean white linen shirt, and a black waistcoat. His frock coat was disposed over the back of a nearby chair. As if he’d removed it while working.

He didn’t hear her enter, but as she crossed the floor to the window, he turned his head and looked at her.

“Please don’t mind me.” She retrieved the copy of David Copperfield she’d been reading the previous day and settled herself in the window embrasure, her legs drawn up under her skirts.

After a long moment, Justin resumed dictating his letter. His voice was a deep, rich baritone. The lines of her book blurred in front of her as she listened. The substance of his words was unimportant. Something about a board of directors and a percentage of railway shares. But it didn’t matter what he said or to whom he was saying it. It was his tone which soothed her. The same tone in which he’d recited his marriage vows to her.

“Mr. Fothergill will require a duplicate of that,” he said to Mr. Boothroyd. “And see that Mr. St. John’s solicitor gets a copy.”

She gazed out the window. The rain had stopped for good, or so it seemed. How many days would it take for the cliff road to be passable?

And how many days before Mr. Glyde would once again make an appearance?

The familiar fear settled over her. She tried to suppress it. To drive it back with cold rationality. She was married now. Justin would never let anyone take her. He’d promised her that.

Even so, she couldn’t help but worry.