Grandmother showed up that evening and found Helena in her rooms, picking at her dinner in a dissolute manner, distracted and unhappy in the extreme. Even the single small strawberry upon her plate failed to rouse her, even though they were rare treats doled out sparingly by her aunt who did not allow her much in the way of sweet things, saying they were not good for her.

“I hear you made quite the impression today,” Iris Barlowe said, settling her weight carefully in the chair opposite the tiny table drawn near the fire.

“I am told I make quite the impression wherever I go,” Helena replied, poking at a bit of potato and trying to decide if it was worth eating. Sadly, Bridget’s new assistant was not entirely skilled, so that this particular piece of potato had the special charm of being blackened on one side, and raw on the other.

Her grandmother laughed. “The same cannot be said of all of us. Sometimes it is a blessing to leave an impression, however unfavorable you might think it is initially. Most of us go through life leaving very little impression upon it at all.”

Helena looked up in surprise. “Surely you don’t mean yourself!” she exclaimed, surprised by the vehemence of her grandmother’s words.

“No, but I do mean your mother. Oh, Anne! She was a beautiful thing, with the widest most generous smile! But she went through life perhaps a little too easily, without much effort. We praised her overmuch I’m afraid, for the smallest of accomplishments, but she so rarely put herself out to try new things that we thought to encourage her this way.”

“Unlike Phoebe,” Helena said with a hint of a smile. “She leaves an impression wherever she goes.”

Grandmother laughed though her eyes seemed troubled by it. “Your aunt is a fine woman, but she does have a flair for the dramatic, does she not? Oh, not that she ever does anything improper. But she does rather like being the center of attention.”

Helena smiled for it was true. Aunt Phoebe was a mainstay of the literary society and often hosted meetings at their home. Not that Helena ever attended. She touched the sores upon her arm and frowned a little, wishing that the creams and unguents would work, that someday she could actually join in and not just sit and listen from the shadows of the next room.

I have read every single book they have discussed. And I feel there are things I could contribute to the discussion. Perhaps I should be trying harder, as Aunt Phoebe says, to try things that might well heal this terrible affliction.

And then maybe she could be part of that sparkling society as well. Not that she had any illusions about her chances, not at this stage when she was so nearly two-and-twenty. But her aunt had found a niche in her spinsterhood, a place that involved a society of books and art, and fine friends, and the occasional tea, especially since Helena had grown to no longer need her for either nursemaid or companion.

Helena pushed away the rest of her dinner, not really hungry now that she had company. “Grandmother, was it difficult to send Aunt Phoebe here to take care of me? I imagine you must have been lonely with Grandfather gone.”

“You know this story…” Iris said softly, a sad look coming into her grey eyes.

“Only that after I was born and Mama died, that Papa hired several nursemaids to tend to me but that I cried so, that they all left.”

“Oh, my sweet girl, I fail to think a baby’s tears would have such a profound effect upon such things. Babies cry, ’tis part of nature. Perhaps you fussed some, more so when the rash first started appearing on your hands and face.”

Helena leaned back in her chair, enjoying the way the firelight cast strange shadows on Grandmother’s face. “You lived nearby then, did you not? I do not remember that part of the story well.”

“We were here often by then. I never saw a child so taken with another as Phoebe was when she saw you. It seemed she was never content unless she was helping in your care somehow. She bathed and dressed you as though you were one of her dolls. And was so pleased when she could feed you. It seemed she always wanted to visit and there was little enough at home to engage either of us by that point.”

Her grandmother sighed. “It seemed such a harmless thing at the time. Your father had very little luck when it came to hiring staff. I understand he still has difficulty in keeping people for long with the exception of that man who tends to him, and his wife.”

Helena nodded, smiling. “Antony and Bridget have been here as long as I can remember.”

“They are good people. But they were not equal to managing the house and a child, so when Phoebe asked to stay as your nursemaid when that other one left…what was her name…Millicent? No. Margaret. When Margaret left, it seemed providential. I had friends who wished me to tour the continent with them, and Phoebe was fifteen, old enough to be a help, and she seemed to not want me around. I think your father appreciated it.” Grandmother paused, frowning.

“What?” Helena sat up. “You have thought of something.”

Her grandmother shook her head. “No, ’tis nothing. I just now wondered how that couple thought to ask me to travel with them. But I suppose that someone must have said something to someone. You know how news travels the ton.”

She didn’t. She’d never experienced the ton, or anything even vaguely resembling society, other than one disastrous attempt at coming out several years ago. Helena shuddered at the memory.

“Be that as it may, it was good for the both of us. I discovered a love for travel and a new purpose for my life, and your aunt discovered a place here, though I wonder sometimes at whether I should have pushed her more to make a marriage…though we never had the means for much of a dowry, and those interested all seemed too…low for her tastes.”

This was new. Helena had not heard this particular tidbit before. “Did someone offer for her hand then?” she asked, breathless for this scrap of information.

Grandmother brushed the question off easily. “I hardly think such a thing is important now. She is happy, that is all that matters. Now you, on the other hand. Your own happiness is somewhat more concerning.”

Helena grimaced. “I find contentment where I may.”

“The last I heard, it was at the feet of a stranger,” her grandmother said, leaning in with a wicked grin. “Do tell me all the details.”

“I think you have quite enough as it is!” Helena shot back but couldn’t help but smile a little. “I fail to see how you have found out so easily. The sir in question was the Duke of Durham, and he was here to visit father.”

And myself. I think. Maybe. I do not know. I wish I knew.

“There is much you’re not saying,” Iris said softly.

Helena got up and went to the dressing table. The mirror there was wavy and the image faint. Her father had wished to replace it many times, but she preferred it this way, unable to see herself clearly. She looked at the ghostly image now, seeing even in the shadows where the missing patches of skin upon her cheeks and chin had left her face raw.

“It is worse underneath the clothing,” she said finally. “The affliction continually grows worse, regardless of what the doctor gives me. I am in pain from these sores all the time. And I itch. How I itch! How can I possibly sit still when I am in such agonies of torture?”

Iris came to stand behind her, embracing her granddaughter from behind, sharing the space in the mirror with her. “I do not know why you must bear this cross. I would give anything that you did not. Your mother, she had a similar rash sometimes in the summer, but it always faded with the winter, and she seemed to outgrow it as she got older.”

“I have not outgrown it,” Helena said sadly. “I look at myself, and I see how much of a beast I am.” The girl in the mirror looked sad too, her eyes too big in her face, lower lip trembling, eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Regardless, I dream of having what my mother did. I want a husband, my own family. I dream…oh, how I dream…but I am CURSED.”

The word exploded from her lips, hanging in the air between them. Helena pulled away from her grandmother. She could not bear to be touched and could no longer stand to see the pathetic creature in the mirror.

“You are not cursed,” Iris said, reaching a hand to her again. “You were never cursed.”

“Tell that to my mother,” Helena whispered brokenly. “For I am the one who killed her.”