The Duke Didn't Want Love — He Wanted a Practical Wife. Then Her Carriage Arrived 40 Minutes Late
Chapter 15
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He wrote to Marian asking whether he might call the following day. The letter contained no demand that Helena see him, and no claim that the documents should settle everything: he had once believed difficult situations could be mastered by finding the right answer; he was beginning to understand that some wounds required a different kind of courage.On Thursday, the 9th of October, Helena heard Avery's carriage arrive before she saw him. The familiar rhythm of the wheels on Lady Marian's gravel path made her hand close around the edge of her book: she had spent a week instructing herself not to listen for that sound; her heart had ignored every instruction.Marian entered first. "My nephew has asked to speak with you. I told him that the decision is yours."Helena laid down the book. "I will see him."The drawing room door remained open. Marian settled in the adjoining morning room, where the murmur of household work came and went.Avery stood beside the unlit fireplace. He bowed, and for a moment looked as awkward as he had on the day their coach first met his displeasure. "Thank you for receiving me.""You asked to speak.""I owe you an apology." He did not approach; that small restraint allowed her to remain where she was. "I listened to the man who had served my family for years," he began, "and treated your word as though it must be weighed against his before it deserved belief. I knew what had happened at your former employment. I knew you had trusted me with that history, and I made you defend yourself again."Helena's throat tightened. She had imagined a hundred versions of this meeting, most ending in an explanation that made her seem unreasonable for being hurt; he offered none."The papers are false," he continued. "There was no October delivery; Mr. Mercer has confirmed it. Mr. Vane has been removed from the records and relieved of his duties while the rest is examined.""I am glad the accounts are being made right.""That is not why I came." He breathed slowly. "You asked me why I did not believe you. I could not answer because the truth was disgraceful: I trusted familiarity more than honesty. I let an old fear decide whose voice counted. I broke the promise I made to you."She looked at him for a long time. "I wanted so much to belong somewhere," she said. "I began to think Briarcombe might become such a place. I could endure a stranger doubting me—I had done it before. But I did not know how to bear it from you.""I understand.""I do not think you can, entirely.""No," he said. "Perhaps I cannot. I ought not to pretend otherwise."The correction, offered without resentment, nearly undid her. She remembered the man who had stayed beside an elderly groom, and the man who had stood listening to music rather than hiding from grief; both men were present in the one before her—so was the man who had failed her when courage was required."What will you do," she asked, "the next time someone has reason to complain of you? When I am not there to tell you what to hear?"