Chapter 29

CHAPTER 29

A rabella was still making up her mind when the door opened and the white-haired woman she had seen the night before stepped out. She gasped and turned around, grabbing her sister’s arm. “We must get back inside the carriage, Emma!”

“Do not be such a scaredy-cat. You wanted to confront her? Here is your chance. Walk over there, grab her by the shoulders, shake her, and tell her, I am the Duchess of Sheffield, and I will not have you ? — ”

Emma paused, and her mouth fell open.

“What is it?” Arabella asked, confused by the sudden change in her sister’s mood.

“Bella,” Emma whispered, “that can’t be her, can it?”

Arabella looked over her shoulder and then slowly turned around. Her mouth also dropped open, for coming out of the house behind the old woman was a middle-aged man carrying a young woman in his arms. She had blonde hair and wore a pale blue dress that was almost white. There was something almost angelic about her, but what was most surprising was not just that the man was carrying her, for that in itself would have been quite shocking, but the fact that standing in front of the old woman was a wheelchair.

Their great-uncle had used one because of gout, but it was a rare sight.

Arabella stared as the young woman was placed into the wheelchair, the man disappeared, and then the older woman pushed her down the sidewalk.

“That can’t be Helen, can it?” Emma muttered, her voice quivering.

Arabella shook her head. “I think not. Perhaps her sister?”

“Perhaps,” Emma said, biting her lip.

The two sisters fell silent and watched as the young woman and her companion made their way toward the park.

“What do you want to do? Follow them or knock on the door?”

“I am not certain. Do you think that perhaps this woman is Helen’s sister, and her condition is the reason why Harry could not marry her?”

Arabella shrugged. Their society was often focused on beauty and perfection to a fault. People who were not considered beautiful—women whose skin was not the right shade, men who were not tall and regal-looking—were often overlooked, even though those who did not fit the beauty standard were often wittier and more refined. But she had never heard of a marriage falling through because of a relative’s physical condition.

“Harry does not care too much about what Society thinks of him. This cannot be the reason,” she mused.

“Let us go knock on the door,” Emma said firmly. Let us ask if Helen is here. You must speak to her—sister or no sister.”

Arabella nodded. This entire situation was becoming more and more confusing. She had to get to the bottom of it, and now. She linked arms with her sister, and together they walked across the street, up the sidewalk, and then through the front gate, which had been left open.

It wasn’t until they were standing in front of the front door that she noted something she had missed earlier. The doorway was wider than standard, no doubt to allow for a wheelchair to be rolled in and out with ease.

The knocker was brass, worn with age, and she saw that paint had chipped away from the front door. She felt a flutter in her chest, but not the sort she felt when Harry kissed her—no, it was the flutter she felt when she had gotten up too quickly, or when she was dreading one of her father’s lectures.

Seeing her struggle, Emma resolutely grabbed the door handle and slammed it against the door. A moment later, the same man who had carried the young woman out in his arms appeared.

“May I help you?” he asked, looking from one to the other.

“Yes,” Arabella said, her voice sounding far away. “We are looking for Miss Helen.”

She had defaulted to the title ‘Miss’ because she had to assume that no person would live in a home like this without servants.

“Miss Helen is out. If you leave your cards, I can tell her you came by.”

The man looked at them, but there was something suspicious in the way he eyed them up and down, examining them from top to bottom as if he were trying to figure out who they were without asking.

“We can wait,” Emma said. “We will be perfectly happy to wait in the drawing room. But what we have to discuss with her cannot wait.”

The man tilted his head to the side. Arabella studied him. He was middle-aged, as she had thought, with brown hair that had a few white streaks in it. The sunlight gave his hair a reddish glow. He had a mustache and wore brown trousers that were tight around the knees.

One could tell that he used his trousers to wipe his hands earlier because there were wet patches in the shape of a hand. Her father often looked like this when he had been drinking and used his clothing to wipe his hands, although, unlike her father, the man didn’t smell of liquor.

“When is she expected back?” Emma asked.

“I cannot say. As I said, leave your cards, and I will see that she gets them. She may respond, she may not. May I ask, what are your names?”

Arabella and Emma looked at one another. They had not made a plan as to what to say if they were asked for their names.

Arabella decided it was best to be honest.

“Arabella Ridlington.” She said her new name for the first time. “The Duchess of Sheffield.”

At once, the man’s green eyes widened. His lips parted, revealing a glimpse of yellowing teeth.

“And I am Lady Emma Hayward,” Emma declared, her shoulders pulled back and her head held high.

“The Duchess of Sheffield and her sister,” the man muttered.

Arabella could see that he was taken aback. The name meant something to him. Of course, it did. Her husband had been spending hours here with his mistress.

“If you could let Miss Helen know that I know everything and would like to talk to her.”

“I was not telling Canterbury tales. She is not here. She just went out with her attendant. They have gone to the park. Had I known that you were coming, we would have made arrangements, but it is their habit to go to the park at this hour. You see, there are not too many people in the park yet to stare and ask questions. It is more comfortable for her.”

Arabella’s mind raced. “More comfortable for her?”

What was this man talking about?

“The young woman in the wheelchair… Miss Helen?” Emma said beside her.

Arabella looked from her sister to the man and back again. Could it be? There was no way Harry was having an affair with this young woman. Arabella hadn’t had a good look at her, but Helen did not seem much older than twenty.

“Yes, that was Miss Helen,” the man confirmed, though the confusion in his voice was quite evident.

“Which park was that?” Arabella asked.

The man paused, and she heard his foot tapping on the floor as he considered his response.

Finally, he gave them brief directions to the park, which appeared to be no farther than a couple of minutes. Arabella thanked him, linked arms with her sister, and then the two of them descended the narrow staircase.

“That girl was not much older than us,” Emma noted. “I do not understand. And she was in a wheelchair. Why would Harry visit someone so young and in such an unfortunate condition?”

“Perhaps that is the reason why he couldn’t marry her. Remember, the man referred to her as Miss Helen, which means that her father is at most a viscount. Add to that the fact that she cannot walk and might be ill, she wouldn’t be a suitable match for a duke—hence, Harry couldn’t marry her. You know what Society is like,” Arabella reasoned.

But something nagged at the back of her head. Something wasn’t right here. She couldn’t figure out what it was.

The sisters just walked together until they reached the park, which paled in comparison to Hyde Park or the parks to which she was accustomed.

“There,” Emma said, pointing to a grassy patch where the older woman was sitting on a bench while Helen sat in her wheelchair right beside her. They were tossing some feed to the ducks, geese, and swans.

Arabella could see the young woman better now. “She is a child. This is no grown woman.”

Emma’s eyes were likewise fixed on the young woman—or rather, the girl. As they got closer and closer, it became clear that Helen was no woman at all. She was a girl, thirteen or fourteen perhaps. Her cheeks were still slightly chubby, and her body looked almost frail in the wheelchair.

As they got closer, Arabella could make out Helen’s jawbones, which stood sharply against her dark blonde hair, which had been pulled back into a low bun. She was pale—not fashionably pale, but sickly pale, as though she rarely ever saw the sunshine. The old woman beside her was knitting, her eyes on her lap, while she appeared engrossed in the animals in front of her.

No, this was not Harry’s lover. But who was she? And why did he care for her so much? No, he didn’t just care for her. He loved her. His uncle had mocked him for his affection toward her.

They were just a few steps behind the bench now, though neither the attendant nor Helen could see them, as they had their backs to them.

“I do not know what I should do now,” Arabella whispered. “It is clear that she is no rival. My suspicions were wrong. Perhaps I should speak to Harry again, it would be the right thing to do.”

“I know. But can you trust Harry to tell you the truth if you confront him?” Emma asked.

Arabella shook her head. She couldn’t trust him—that was precisely the problem. She had already asked him about his frequent visits to the city, and he had assured her it was all business. But clearly, it was not.

Why was he visiting this girl in the middle of the night? Why was he so secretive?

She suddenly felt badly about approaching Helen. It had seemed quite right when she had thought her someone older than herself, someone who had engaged in a clandestine romance with her husband. But this wasn’t the case. She couldn’t confront this young girl.

“Hello!” a sweet voice called, pulling her out of her reverie.

She looked up and saw that Helen had spotted them. The girl looked at them and waved her free hand. Ducks and geese had flocked around her and were sitting near her, anxiously awaiting their treats. Some of them quacked, drawing her attention.

Helen smiled. “Aren’t they gorgeous? Do you not just love birds? There’s a sparrow that comes to my window every morning and sings.”

Her attendant looked up and turned around, glancing over her shoulder at the two sisters. She smiled at them.

“Good morning, ladies. Would you like to join us? Take some of the feed—we have plenty,” she offered.

Arabella looked at Emma, who nudged her.

“I’m not here because of the birds,” she said. “I’m here to meet Helen.”

The caretaker’s visage grew dark, and her eyes narrowed as she stood up, putting herself between Arabella and Helen.

“I must ask you to leave us be.”

“No, I mean no harm. I am Arabella, Harry’s wife,” Arabella explained.

This seemed to disarm the woman somewhat, and Helen beamed at her.

“Mrs. Hollingsworth, there is no need to guard me from her. She is Arabella! Oh, Arabella, I am so pleased to meet you at last. I am so glad Harry finally let you come visit. I have begged him and begged him.”

Arabella was utterly bewildered. Helen’s words left her feeling more perplexed than before. The young girl seemed to know her well, speaking with an innocent affection that only deepened her confusion. She forced herself to focus, trying to piece together the puzzle before her.

“Yes, every time he comes to see me, he tells me about you—about all the things you’ve done and the plans you’re making. He even describes the gowns you wear and how you style your hair,” Helen continued, her voice filled with enthusiasm. She chuckled softly. “Of course, I ask him these things too. I love clothing, makeup, ribbons, and everything feminine, and I’ve always wished I could meet you so that we could discuss these things together. I’m so happy that you married him, and I’m overjoyed to finally meet you.”

Arabella stared at the girl, her heart pounding with a mix of confusion and apprehension. Who was Helen to Harry? And what was Harry to Helen?

Although she had now discovered the identity of the mysterious Helen, things now seemed more complicated than ever.