Chapter 34

CHAPTER 34

H arry and Arabella arrived outside the modest, worn-down house where Helen had been forced to reside for the past few years. As he gazed at the familiar sight, a wave of melancholy washed over him. Though the neighborhood was not as destitute as some of the places his uncle had consigned his cousin to over the years, it was wholly unworthy of her—a daughter of his beloved aunt deserved far better.

He should have stood up to his uncle, should have insisted that Helen reside at Ridlington Manor with him. What did it matter if his uncle tarnished his name by spreading the lie that Harry, at the tender age of eleven, was responsible for the accident that claimed his aunt’s life? He would still have been the Duke. His reputation may have suffered, but he would have been free from his uncle’s cruel grasp. Yet, the fear and control that had ensnared him for so long had kept him silent, unable to break free.

Arabella walked resolutely beside him, her presence steady and unwavering. She was convinced that Mrs. Hollingsworth knew the truth, or at least part of it that would assuage his guilt. But what if she didn’t?

Harry pushed that thought aside. There was nothing he could do now but speak to the woman. And while they were here, perhaps it was time to tell Helen the truth about their impending move to Scotland. She was already aware that he planned to move her, but not to where.

To his surprise, he felt Arabella’s hand slip into his, her fingers squeezing his gently. His heart leaped with hope. She flashed him a warm, genuine smile, and he recalled her words— I love you . She had told him she loved him, and she had meant it, even after he had revealed the truth about his aunt’s death.

Did he deserve such a woman? A woman who could see goodness in him, even when he could not see it in himself?

“All will be well,” she said in her soothing voice, and despite everything, he found himself believing her.

They walked side by side into the front yard and ascended the steps. Before he could change his mind, Arabella knocked on the door, and a moment later, Mrs. Hollingsworth answered it.

“Your Grace, I was not expecting you today,” she greeted, her expression puzzled, though joy laced her voice. “And you…” she added, turning to Arabella, “it is so lovely to see you again. Miss Helen will be delighted.”

They entered, and Harry looked around, seeing the space through Arabella’s eyes. It was small and smelled damp. The wallpaper, which had once been splendid, was peeling from the walls. Though the place was tidy, thanks to Mrs. Hollingsworth and the other servants, it was sparsely furnished and carried the unmistakable scent of poverty.

“George,” Mrs. Hollingsworth called to the manservant who hovered near the staircase.

The staff had always been informal, a quality Harry had appreciated.

Mrs. Hollingsworth turned to him. “Shall I bring Miss Helen down, Your Grace?”

“No, we shall see her presently,” Harry replied. “I wished to speak with you first, Mrs. Hollingsworth.”

“Is everything quite all right, Your Grace?” she asked, concern lacing her voice. “I hope I have not displeased you.”

“Not at all,” Harry assured her. “You have been wonderful. But there are matters I wish to inquire about—things I never had the courage to ask before, concerning the day my aunt died.”

Mrs. Hollingsworth’s mouth formed a small ‘O.’ “Faith, of course, Your Grace. The truth is, I have long hoped you would ask, but I did not wish to impose. Please, let us go into the drawing room.”

She gestured to the room on the right, which overlooked the street. As they entered, Harry noted Arabella’s hand brush against the worn fabric of the chair. It was threadbare, with patches where the cushion beneath showed through. He had wanted to replace it for years, but his uncle had insisted that it was sufficient—that Helen didn’t need anything better.

Harry swallowed hard as thoughts of his uncle raced in his head.

“Would you care for some tea?” Mrs. Hollingsworth asked.

Arabella shook her head, as did Harry.

“Very well,” Mrs. Hollingsworth said. “What is it you wish to know?”

Harry opened his mouth, but no words came out. What did he truly want to know? Did he really wish to revisit that dreadful day? Doubt crept in, and he faltered, uncertain of the purpose of their visit, until Arabella spoke up, her voice firm and clear.

“Mrs. Hollingsworth, when we were at the park, you mentioned that the coachman should not have been driving that day. What did you mean by that?”

The older woman looked at Arabella, then clasped her hands in her lap. “I meant that he was in no condition to drive. He was… unwell, Your Grace,” she replied, hesitating before looking directly at Harry. “Do you not recall what a heavy drinker he was?”

“A heavy drinker? No, I do not recall. My aunt never mentioned it.”

“Of course. Well, you were but a boy, and we servants are skilled at hiding such matters. But Franklin, the coachman, was indeed a heavy drinker—so much so that he nearly caused an accident just a few weeks prior.”

“He did?” Harry asked, rising from his seat in shock. He had no memory of this.

“Yes, Your Grace. When he was driving Sir Richard and Lady Templeton into town, he nearly drove the carriage into a ditch. Sir Richard was furious and threatened to dismiss him, but Lady Templeton intervened. She suggested that he be placed in the stables, where he could cause less harm. Sir Richard had made up his mind to dismiss him, but when Lady Templeton asked him, in front of the other servants at dinner, to keep Franklin on, he relented to save face. However, he assigned Franklin to her.”

Harry’s voice trembled with disbelief. “He assigned a man he knew to be a dangerous driver to my aunt?”

He had always known his uncle was cruel, but this level of malice was beyond comprehension. His poor aunt, put in harm’s way by the very man she loved.

“But why?”

“His pride, Your Grace,” Mrs. Hollingsworth murmured. “She challenged him in front of the servants, and he could not allow that to go unpunished. You know how he is—his pride comes before everything, even family. This is why he despises his daughter and hides her away from the world.”

“So, the accident was not Harry’s fault?” Arabella interjected, her voice steady.

Mrs. Hollingsworth looked at her in surprise, then turned to Harry, her expression softening. “Your fault? Why would it be your fault?”

Harry moved to the window, looking out at the empty street, where the evening shadows lengthened.

“Harry was told that he caused the accident by blowing his trumpet near the horse, thus spooking it,” Arabella explained, and Harry was grateful beyond words that she had spoken for him.

“But of course not!” Mrs. Hollingsworth exclaimed. “Is that what your uncle told you? Oh, that wretched man. No, the fault lay with the coachman. He had been drinking that morning—I smelled it on him. I even warned Lady Templeton not to get in the carriage with him, but she felt trapped, caught between her husband’s wrath and her better judgment. She tried to leave Miss Helen behind.”

Harry turned around, his brow furrowed in confusion. “She did? But Helen was with her in the carriage.”

“Yes, she was. Lady Templeton intended to leave Miss Helen in my care, but when Sir Richard saw that the child was not accompanying her mother, he became enraged. He took Miss Helen from my arms and followed Lady Templeton to the carriage. When she explained that Miss Helen did not need to come, since she was only going to be fitted for a gown, Sir Richard insisted. He claimed he was expecting company and did not want the child to disturb him. It was a ridiculous excuse, of course—myself or one of the maids could have cared for her—but he was adamant.”

“Did he know the driver was inebriated?” Arabella asked, keeping the conversation grounded while Harry struggled to contain his rising anger.

“I informed him, but he brushed me aside. He placed Miss Helen in the carriage and told Lady Templeton that since she had insisted on retaining the coachman, she would have to live with the consequences. You know how his rage blinds him to reason.”

Mrs. Hollingsworth’s expression softened further. “You were there that day, Your Grace. I remember you on your little pony with your trumpet. You were so proud of your playing. I recall because I came out with Sir Richard, and Miss Helen was crying, but then she saw you and laughed. It defused the tension. I was grateful to you, but your uncle chased you away—do you not remember?”

Harry shook his head, bewildered. “No, my uncle told me I accompanied the carriage as it left. The coachman told me the same thing when I spoke to him.”

Mrs. Hollingsworth rubbed her hands over her cheeks in distress. “Goodness, no. Your uncle sent you away before the coachman even climbed into his seat. The horses were calm—there was nothing wrong with them. Your uncle told you it was your fault?”

“Yes,” Harry admitted. “After the accident, he told me I had caused it by spooking the horses, and that everything that happened to Helen thereafter was my fault and my burden to bear. And the coachman confirmed it.”

“No, no,” Mrs. Hollingsworth said emphatically. “That is a terrible lie, Your Grace. The accident occurred because the coachman lost control. When the carriage toppled over, it was due to his incompetence and intoxication. It was his doing, not yours, and certainly not Lady Templeton’s. The coachman was let go, but Sir Richard did not blame him entirely. Instead, he let the groom go, saying he had not trained the horses right. The coachman was moved to another house and died soon after.”

She paused. “I suspect Sir Richard did not want it to be known that he knew the coachman was drunk and thus made up this lie. And to cover himself, he blamed the groom.”

“I remember none of this,” Harry said quietly.

“You were a child and grieving. I hardly remember anything about the time when my mother died, and anyone could tell me anything about it and I might believe it,” Arabella pointed out.

Mrs. Hollingsworth glanced at Harry with sorrowful eyes. “I am so sorry you were made to believe such a thing. And I am even sorrier that Lady Templeton was subjected to such cruelty.”

Harry felt something inside him begin to unravel—years of self-recrimination, guilt, and despair loosened their grip. But just as swiftly, a deep rage took hold, blazing inside him like a firestorm.

“He blamed me,” he whispered, his fists clenched. “He blamed me for everything.”

Arabella rose, coming to his side. “But it was not your fault. Do you see now? It was never your fault.”

Harry nodded slowly, the realization sinking in. “I see,” he said quietly, the fire in him still burning fiercely.

Mrs. Hollingsworth looked at him with concern. “What will you do now, Your Grace?”

Harry straightened up, his resolve firm. “I shall move Helen to Scotland as planned, where she will be safe from him. And I shall ensure that my uncle can never hurt her, or anyone else, again. For the time being, however, until we can move her, I will have her stay at my home. Mrs. Hollingsworth, please prepare her trunks. You and Helen are coming with us, and whoever else wishes to join is welcome as well.”

Mrs. Hollingsworth looked at him with a mix of admiration and worry. “And what of Sir Richard?”

Harry’s voice was calm, but there was a coldness to it that sent a shiver through the old woman. “I will deal with him,” he stated with finality. “He is going to Edinburgh tomorrow for business—we will take that chance and play our cards, but we must make haste.”

Then, he turned to Arabella, and he saw the pride in her eyes as she stared at him. At that moment, he realized he could still become the man he’d always wished to be. There was no stopping him now. He would take care of Helen, stand up to his uncle, and do his very best to be the most loving husband to his beloved Arabella.