The Duke Didn't Want Love — He Wanted a Practical Wife. Then Her Carriage Arrived 40 Minutes Late
Chapter 8
Theme:
Font Size:
24px
"I dislike suspicion when it is merely suspicion," Avery said."As do I. But a missing answer does not become an answer because we prefer to be polite."He ordered the original receipts and wrote to Thomas Mercer, the family's York solicitor, to review the repairs. He accused no one yet; Helena valued his restraint.Vane stood nearby, silent while Avery finished his instruction. The steward had managed the estate correspondence for years; he collected the outgoing letters with his customary care, but the request for original receipts left him visibly slower to move. Avery, still inclined to regard him as indispensable, did not notice.On Saturday evening, Marian invited a few relations and neighbors to tea. The gathering was small, the candles plentiful, and for once, Helena did not dread entering a drawing room. Guests spoke of the approaching harvest and the peculiar damp of the season. Someone mentioned an old pianoforte in the corner, and Marian recalled that Helena had played for her after supper earlier in the week."Only a little," Helena protested."A little is more than we have heard in this room for years," Marian replied.Helena sat before the instrument and tested a chord. The keys were slightly uneven, but the sound was warm. She chose an old country air her father used to hum while marking school exercises; it was neither difficult nor impressive. The first measures were almost lost beneath the conversation; then the room settled, and she heard nothing but the music and the low hiss from the fire.When she finished, Avery stood by the mantel with his face turned away; he had moved there during the second verse. Marian looked at him with the worried tenderness of someone who understood more than she would say aloud."Have I chosen something disagreeable?" Helena asked after the others began talking again."No," he answered, too quickly. "My mother played it."Helena let the silence rest rather than attempting to fill it.He came to the pianoforte and looked down at the worn keys. "I had forgotten the sound," he said. "Not the melody—the particular sound in a room when someone played because she was happy, and not because anyone had asked her to perform.""Was your mother happy here?""Often, I think. She laughed at my father's serious expressions. He was less stern with her than with anyone else. I suppose I learned severity from the wrong half of the marriage."She could have told him that the severity was not all he had inherited. Instead, she picked up a sheet of music which had fallen open beside the stand and handed it to him. Their fingers met along the paper's edge; neither immediately withdrew."Grief cannot always be put in order," she said.He looked at her, and something about his expression made her wish she had chosen more comforting words.Then he replied, "Nor should it always be, I suppose.""Your memories do not demand that you solve them.""I am not accustomed to being allowed to feel something without being required to make use of it."