HELEN’S SPIRITS LIGHTENED AS she entered the cheerful bustle of the front receiving room. West and the twins sat on the carpeted floor, unpacking hampers and boxes, while Kathleen opened correspondence at the writing desk in the corner.
“I always thought I didn’t like courtship,” West said, sorting through a hamper from Winterborne’s. “But it turns out that I was merely on the wrong side of it. Courtship is one of those activities in which it’s better to receive than give.”
Weston Ravenel bore a close resemblance to his older brother, handsome and blue-eyed, with the same strapping build and air of disreputable charm. In the past few months, he had thrown himself into learning as much as possible about agriculture and dairying. The former rake was never happier than when he had spent a day in the company of tenants, working the land and coming home with muddy boots and breeches.
“Have you ever courted anyone, Cousin West?” Pandora asked.
“Only if I was certain the lady was too intelligent ever to accept me.” West stood in an easy movement as he saw Helen come into the room.
“You don’t wish to marry, then?” Helen asked lightly, taking a place on the unoccupied settee.
Smiling, West placed a flat blue satin box in her lap. “How could I ever be satisfied with only one sweet from the entire box?”
Helen lifted the lid, her eyes widening as she discovered a treasure trove of caramels, jelly creams, candied fruit, toffees and marshmallow drops, all wrapped in twists of waxed paper. Her wondering gaze traveled to the nearby mountain of accumulating delicacies . . . a smoked Wiltshire ham and collar bacon, a box of dry-cured salmon, pots of imported Danish butter, tinned sweetbreads, and a sack of fat glossed dates. There was a basket of hothouse fruits, wheels of Brie in papery white rinds, cunning little cheeses wrapped in netting, jars of rich fig paste, pickled quail eggs, bottles of jewel-colored fruit liqueur meant to be sipped from tiny glasses, and a gold-colored tin of cocoa essence.
“What can Mr. Winterborne be thinking?” she asked with a flustered laugh. “He’s sent enough food for an army.”
“Obviously he’s courting the entire family,” West told her. “I can’t speak for everyone else, but I for one feel thoroughly wooed.”
Kathleen’s wistful voice came from the corner. “I could eat that entire ham by myself.” In the past few days, she had begun to experience insatiable cravings one moment and incipient nausea the next.
West grinned. Rising to his feet, he brought a pressed-glass jar of almonds to her. “Will these do?”
Kathleen pried the lid open and ate one of the almonds. As she crunched it between her teeth, the sound could be heard across the room. Evidently finding them to her liking, she devoured several in rapid succession.
West looked both amused and mildly perturbed. “Not so fast, darling, you’ll choke.” He went to the sideboard to pour some water for her.
“I’m starving,” Kathleen protested. “And these almonds are exactly what I’ve been craving, I just didn’t know it until now. Did Mr. Winterborne send only one jar?”
“I’m sure he’ll send more if I ask,” Helen volunteered.
“Would he? Because—” Kathleen fell abruptly silent, her attention fixed on the letter in her hand.
Helen felt a creeping sensation along her spine, warning that something terrible had happened. She saw Kathleen’s narrow shoulders hunch forward, as if she were trying to protect herself from something. Blindly Kathleen fumbled to set the jar on the desk, but placed it too close to the edge. The container crashed to the floor. Fortunately it landed on a bit of carpet, preventing the glass from shattering. Kathleen didn’t even seem to notice, her attention fixed on the letter.
Helen hurried to her, reaching her just before West did. “What’s wrong, dear?”
Kathleen’s complexion had turned chalky, her breath shallow and fitful. “My father,” she whispered. “I could only read the first part. I can’t think.” Helplessly she handed the letter to Helen.
The news couldn’t be good. Approximately a month earlier, Kathleen’s father, Lord Carbery had suffered an accident at his riding arena in Glengarriff, when his horse had reared and caused his head to hit the edge of a support beam. Although Carbery had survived the blow, his health had been poor ever since.
West gave the water glass to Kathleen, pressing both her small hands around it as if she were a child. “Drink this, sweetheart,” he said quietly. His concerned gaze met Helen’s. “I’ll fetch Devon. He should be close by. He’s meeting with the timberman about felling the oak on the east side.”
“There’s no need to interrupt him,” Kathleen said, her voice strained but calm. “This can wait until he’s finished. I’m perfectly fine.” Unsteadily she lifted the glass to her lips and drained at least half of it in painful gulps.
Looking over her head at West, Helen told him soundlessly “Go,” and he left with a short nod.
Helen returned her attention to the letter. “He passed away two days ago,” she murmured, scanning the written lines. “The farm manager writes that Lord Carbery was troubled by headaches and seizures since the accident. He went to bed early one night and died in his sleep.” She settled a gentle hand on Kathleen’s shoulder, feeling the fine tremors of tightly leashed emotion. “I’m so sorry, dear.”
“He was a stranger,” Kathleen said quietly. “He sent me away to be raised by someone else. I don’t know what I should feel for him.”
“I understand.”
Kathleen’s cold fingers came to cover hers. “I know you do,” she said with a faint, bleak smile.
They stayed like that for a quiet moment. Pandora and Cassandra approached hesitantly.
“Is there something we can do, Kathleen?” Pandora asked, kneeling by her chair.
Glancing into the girl’s earnest face, Kathleen shook her head and reached out to draw her close. Cassandra knelt on the other side and embraced them both.
“There’s no need to worry,” Kathleen said. “I’ll be all right. How could I not be, when I have the dearest sisters in the world?” Closing her eyes, she leaned her head against Pandora’s. “We’ve been through a great deal together in a short time, haven’t we?”
“Does this mean another year of mourning?” Pandora asked.
“Not for you,” Kathleen reassured her, “only for me.” She sighed. “Huge with child, and lumbering about dressed in black—I’ll look like one of those hopper-barges loaded with refuse and sent out to sea.”
“You’re too small to be a barge,” Cassandra said.
“You’ll be a tugboat,” Pandora added.
Kathleen let out a dry chuckle and kissed them both. Some of the color had returned to her cheeks. She stood from the chair and straightened her skirts with a few deft tugs. “There’s much to do,” she said. “The funeral will be in Ireland.” She gave Helen a stricken glance. “I haven’t been there since I was a child.”
“You don’t have to make decisions right now,” Helen said. “Perhaps you should go upstairs and lie down.”
“I can’t, there are things I must—” Kathleen stopped as Devon entered the room.
His intent gaze swept over her, coming to rest on her bleached white face. “What is it, love?” he asked gently.
“My father’s gone.” She tried very hard to sound prosaic. “It’s not a surprise, of course. We knew that he was in ill health.”
“Yes.” Devon came forward and took her rigid form against his, wrapping her in his arms.
“I’m perfectly calm,” she said against his shoulder.
“Yes.” Devon kissed her temple. His face was taut with concern, the blue eyes hazed with tenderness.
“I’m not going to cry.” Her tone was matter-of-fact. “He certainly wouldn’t have wanted my tears.”
Devon smoothed her hair, his hand covering half her small head. “Give them to me, then,” he said softly.
Kathleen hid her face in his shirtfront, her slight form seeming to wilt. In a few seconds, a low, broken keening sound began to emerge without stopping. Her husband laid his cheek on her head and cradled her closer against the solid reassurance of his body.
Realizing that they were all de trop in what had become a deeply private moment, Helen gestured for the twins to leave the room with her.
After closing the door, Helen suggested, “Let’s go to the library and send for tea.”
“I wish we’d brought the sweets with us,” Pandora fretted.
“Helen, what’s going to happen?” Cassandra asked as they walked through the entrance hall. “Will Kathleen really go to Ireland for the funeral?”
“I think she should, if possible,” Helen said reflectively. “It’s important to say good-bye.”
“But her father won’t know,” Pandora pointed out.
“Not for his sake,” Helen murmured, linking an arm with her younger sister’s and patting her hand affectionately. “For hers.”