Page 74 of The Duke's Promise to Her Child
“Your Grace.” It was Mrs. Storm’s voice. “I beg your pardon. There is a note arrived from the village.”
Helena crossed to the door and opened it. Mrs. Storm stood in the corridor with a folded piece of paper and an expression of mild uncertainty, as though she was not entirely sure whether this was a good moment or a very bad one.
“It is from Mrs. Baker,” she said.
Helena took it and unfolded it.
Your Grace — I write with the very happiest of news. Your apple pie has carried the day by a considerable margin. The vote was not even close. I shall be calling it Duchess Helena’s Apple Pie henceforth, if Your Grace does not object. The Duke’s rhubarb came in last, I am afraid to say, though I thought it best you hear it from me directly rather than from the village at large.
Helena read it twice. Then she laughed — a short, wet, entirely undignified laugh — and pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, because she was also, apparently, crying again.
Mrs. Storm looked at her with the a blank expression, which she appreciated.
“Please write back to Mrs. Baker,” Helena said, when she had composed herself, “and tell her it is perfectly all right. I am very glad.” She folded the note and held onto it. “And would you send Mary up to me, please?”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
She waited. She looked at the note in her hand, and then at the window, and then at the note again. Outside, the grounds of Blackthorne stretched away in the afternoon light — the oak trees along the lane, the glimmer of the lake just visible at the far edge of the grounds, the kitchen garden with its neat rows of late summer plants. It was a beautiful estate. She had thought so from the moment she arrived. She had thought, in her more unguarded moments, that it could be home.
She crossed to the wardrobe and pulled out her portmanteau. She set it on the bed and opened it.
By the time Mary appeared in the doorway, she had already folded three dresses into it.
“Your Grace—” Mary stopped. She looked at the portmanteau. She looked at Helena. “What are you doing?”
“I am returning to London,” Helena said. “I need you to write to Clara tonight. Tell her we are coming and ask if we may staywith her. If she cannot accommodate us, we will take rooms at Grillion’s.”
Mary did not move from the doorway.
“I said I need you to write to Clara,” Helena repeated.
“I heard you.” Mary’s voice was very careful. “Your Grace. Helena. Please think about what you are doing.”
“I have thought about it.”
“You have thought about it for approximately twenty minutes in the immediate aftermath of a quarrel.”
“There will be no argument, Mary.” She took another dress from the wardrobe and folded it with more precision than was strictly necessary. “I have made my decision. We are going. I need you to start packing Lavinia’s things and to write to Clara. That is all.”
“That is all,” Mary repeated, quietly, as though the words tasted strange. She came into the room and sat down on the chair by the window without being invited to, which under any other circumstances Helena might have remarked upon. “And His Grace? What does he get? You simply vanish?”
“He gets what he asked for. A cold coexistence. Distance.” Helena set the dress in the portmanteau. “I am giving him exactly what he said he wanted.”
“Did you not say that he told you he would give it to you if you wanted it? And you told him you did?”
She looked away, aware that her mind had turned the conversation on its head already. “Perhaps. But I meant what I said.” She stopped. Pressed her hands flat on the folded fabric and stared at them. “I have made a mess of this, Mary. I have made a complete and thorough mess of it and I do not know how to unmake it. Every time I try I make it worse.” She took a slow breath. “The kindest thing I can do for him is remove myself from the situation. He deserves better than what I am able to give him.”
Mary looked at her for a long moment. Then she looked out of the window.
“Lavinia,” she said.
“Lavinia comes with me. She is my daughter.”
“I meant have you considered what this does to her? She has been happy here. Happier than I have ever seen her. She follows him around the gardens. She says his name a dozen times a day.” A pause. “She loves him and he adores her.”
Helena said nothing.
“And you love him,” Mary said. “I know you do. And you know you do. And you are running away because you are frightened, and I think you know that too.”
