Page 14 of Falling For The Dowager

“You do,” she cut him off. He more than compared to Benedict. In fact, to her mind, Callum vastly succeeded him. Not that society would ever think a steward-cum-gardener was a match, but that simply proved how little the beau monde knew.

“No one will care who matters, not to us. We will have each other and⁠—”

“And children?” Her voice broke on the word, and she felt it at the back of her throat, that raw throb of pain. What had been denied her. What she had longed for. What still echoed in her stomach like a missing piece. She would not watch another person, not one she loved so dear, be inflicted so. “That is what men expect from marriage, is it not? Well, I have visited every eminent physician in London, and they will be delighted to tell you how it is all my fault that I will never carry a child.” She looked closely at Callum’s dear face, waiting to see his reaction, watching for that telltale sign of disappointment.

What shocked her was the sympathy.

“I am sorry, truly, how you had to endure that,” Callum said. He took her gloved hand. “I will hold your hand through this when you think of it. I cannot imagine the heartbreak. But together we can build something good and new.”

“No.” Again, it was raw in her mouth, and hastily, Helena tried her best to hide it, to trample down those feelings so they would escape from her. The years of resentment, the humiliation of waiting for news of her dead husband’s mistress’s delivery, proof certain of her barrenness. Tears prickled there, eager to run down her face, but how could she fairly cry on Callum’s chest when it was he who had just been rejected?

“I do not claim to understand.” His hand was on her back, soothing and solid. Giving her the grace she had never experienced before whilst all else seemed to shake and flex. It was he who was her base. “I have no expectations, aside from loving you. I wish to marry you for yourself alone.”

A large lump formed in her throat, preventing Helena from speaking. The practicalities rose up. Their two dividing worlds, never the twain shall meet. She had her small pension from her marriage, and the paltry sum her father had put aside for her. How could she bring Dickon to London, to meet her friends, her brother, her world? And what about her? How was she to greet and interact with his parents, and everything he held dear? Would her brother Walter cut her? With her husband’s estate so entangled, she would be entirely reliant on what Callum might earn… Would Walter throw him out of his post? Then they would be destitute.

“I see it all behind your eyes, my lady.” His hand touched her cheek lightly before cupping her face with his large hand. Completely reassuring. “All those fears and frets, worries and doubts, they dance over your face.”

“I have always been terrible at cards.”

“You were in the wrong world.” His fingers were stroking the strands of her hand, and it confused her. Excited her. “You belong to me. With me.”

“I don’t think I belong anywhere,” the admittance slipped out, giving voice to what Helena had always dreaded. With Callum, in this environment away from all that was familiar, she had the strength to say what had consumed her for too long. “I have never known where I fit, out of step, out of line, wrong—as a daughter, a sister, a lady, as countess, as a wife… as a mother.”

With his free hand, Dickon reached down and interlinked their fingers together, rooting them together more fully. Steadying her. His presence seemed to offer the whole world before her or at least make it less intimidating.

His mouth leant closer and pressed a quick kiss to her forehead. “We can stay as we are, but I would be proud for you to be my wife. For the world to know. But I can settle for what you’ll give me, so long as we have each other. It is all that matters to me.”

She could see it, in the keep or some new little cottage, but either way, it would need to be close to the forest, wrapped around the natural world so it could claim them too. So they could run wild amidst the dark trees, escape into the dips and craves of the woodlands. To make love under the wide stretch of the oak tree. To gather wildflowers. To walk back and talk until they fell asleep curled up close to one another. It seemed distant and far away despite the press of his body close to hers.

“Please.” Her voice was not entirely her own, and she was shaking her head. There was regret and fear, but she couldn’t allow herself more. “I cannot.”

He released her, and immediately, Helena hated it and wanted nothing more than to dash back into his arms. To seek that warmed security.

“My lady.” It was all formality, and Callum bowed. Unable to look at him, Helena turned on her heel and darted off, away from him. She needed the safety of her chamber. A good cup of tea. A little clarity. A reminder of what world she had come from, and how widower countesses did not marry servants. Think of the scandal. She could hear her mother-in-law saying that, and her own mother too. With a quick shake of her head, Helena brushed the tears off her face and ran on.

Her chamber was as she had left it this morning, cleaned and bright, luxurious and spacious. The one difference was the stack of letters on the dressing table. Tentatively, Helena rifled through them. One she recognised from her dear friend Mrs. Edwina Vincent. In fact, the number of correspondences struck her as deeply unusual. There was even one from her own mother-in-law. Odder still.

Helena sank into the seat and opened Walter’s letter. If she were to hear news from London, he was the source she wanted to know it from.

Dearest Hel –

I will make it quick as I am sure you will be inundated with all the news before long. Your damned Mrs. Vincent said she’d write.

But in short, the baby is not believed to be Benedict's. The doctors and your hideous Lady Sidney have seen Gertrude Lawe’s child, and the dates don’t line up with the size of him. He came early and well… I am certain one should not talk, let alone write of such things, but I wanted you to know he is not to be thought of as Benedict’s. There is a rumour he is, in fact, Sir Rupert Robertson’s. At least the ginger hair matches the child’s.

Whatever silliness the dowager intended, she has now withdrawn, and I will send a longer letter from our solicitor with your dowager portion. Mother means to write and will expect a reply. She made mention of wanting you home for Christmastide too, so it may well be an invitation.

Your loving brother, etc, etc…

Lowering the letter, Helena raised her eyes and stared at all her correspondence. It seemed as if her social humiliation, the barren countess title that she had worn for years, was now not about to be confirmed. That whilst she might be infertile, so too Benedict could have been inflicted. The scandal of her husband’s bastard was not about to shame her so hideously. She opened the rest of the letters, reading about how the scandal had broken over London. Of her mother-in-law’s reaction, of Edwina’s shock and request that Helena come “home” soon.

Unable to contain herself, Helena involuntarily collapsed down on the ground, hitting the carpet with enough force that it hurt. Dry sobs were emerging out of her throat, almost guttural, as if she’d been waiting for this experience in stasis, and now she was emerging. It wasn’t pretty, she realised, as she shook and shuddered on the ground. Great heavy tears rolling down her cheeks as her fingers gripped the carpet. The scorn of Benedict, the dismissal of the doctors, the questioning of her mother-in-law. All those memories rolled over her, stirring up feelings of anger and failure, grief and loss. She would not be blamed by the ton. That idea sat with her, vast and heavy within her stomach. It should matter; it had always mattered. And yet, she was starting to realise she didn’t much care what the ton thought, and perhaps she was crying more for the fact she had carried the weight of their expectations for most of her life.

Be the perfect lady.

Be the perfect wife.

Breed the new heir to an estate.