Helen nodded silently. She followed her father into one of her favorite rooms of their house. She’d spent countless happy hours of her childhood beside the fire, learning to play chess and to read Latin and Greek.
The red velvet curtains were drawn. Rays from the morning sun illuminated the three towering bookshelves bursting to the brim with rare and first-edition books. Mozart, a marmalade-orange cat, was curled up tight on the woven rug in front of the fire, his striped tail shading his eyes from the light.
Papa poured himself a finger of brandy from the crystal decanter on the far side of his cherry desk, which took up the middle of the room. Helen settled herself in the red velvet chair across from the desk.
She watched as her father downed the brandy in one gulp. He gestured to his only child. “No thank you, Papa.”
“Just as well,” he muttered, gazing longingly out the bay window. Birds chirped cheerfully. “I wish your excellent mother were still alive. She would have the right words of encouragement on hand to soothe your disappointment.”
He reached into his pocket and retrieved his watch fob. His large fingers brushed the rim of the miniature portrait he kept of his late wife. “Your mother was gifted in the art of conversation. A natural hostess. Not a recluse like myself. I have done poorly by her.”
The sunlight illuminated the sprinkles of silver atop his head. He appeared so much older.
This will not do, Helen thought.
“Papa.” She pushed her sadness aside. “It isn’t possible to tell what Mama may or may not have done. Mama has been gone for fifteen years.” She stood and placed a hand on her father’s shoulder. He relaxed under her touch.
“Even when Mama was alive, I was always weary of company. There is no other father in all of England who has done as much for their daughter as you have.”
Helen’s governess may have taught her to paint, play the pianoforte, speak French, and to dance, but Papa was the one who helped her when she fell off a horse learning to ride. He was right beside her teaching her how to swim in the event she ever fell into the river. He had always ensured she was looked after and, more importantly, ensured that she was loved.
She studied the portrait of the honey, brown-haired woman with blue eyes hanging in the place of honor behind her father’s desk. When Helen gazed into a looking glass, her mother’s reflection stared back at her as a mirrored image. The only difference was their eyes. Helen’s were amber.
The woman who had birthed her was a stranger. Helen wished she could say she recalled her mother’s voice, or her laughing, musical nature, but all she had were the cherished stories from her father.
The late Mrs. Davenport had been the eldest child of the Earl of Greenly. In spite of her family’s objections, her mother had chosen to marry her father for love. Even all these years later, Papa still mourned her passing. The entirety of his wardrobe consisted of black clothing.
Her father patted her hand. “It is nice of you to say so, but I am well aware of how selfish I have been by keeping you here and to myself most of the year at Winterbrook. ’Tis time we were away to London.”
Helen shook her head. “No, Papa. I enjoy our time together.” Her stomach muscles clenched. “You and I both know another Season in London is not an option. I’ve seen the estate ledgers. We cannot afford it.”
“That is where you, my dear, are mistaken.” He cleared his throat. “I’ve managed to scrape together just enough funds to give you another Season. Just before Mr. Chapman arrived, a letter came through from your Uncle William and Aunt Sarah. They’re expecting us at the end of the month.”
Her pulse raced. This was all too good to be true. Could it indeed be possible? Another Season and chance to find a husband?
“But Papa, the estate did not take in any income this year.”
“Winterbrook will always provide.” The corners of his mouth folded upwards. “I’ve sold off a portion of the east fields to our neighbors, the Holbrooks. Your ten-thousand-pound dowry is still intact.” Her father winked.
“I don’t understand.” Helen’s mouth opened and closed.
I was always told my dowry was five thousand pounds.
“A gift from your Uncle William.”
She nodded slowly. The wheels in her mind spun. Something was not adding up. “Papa?.?.?. if you received a letter from Uncle William this morning knowing full well we were to travel to London and of the added funds to my dowry, why was Mr. Chapman so insulted?”
Nonchalantly, he slid a folded piece of paper to her. Her hand brushed her father’s knuckles. “This is what Mr. Chapman was shown.”
She opened the crinkled piece paper and read the scribbled sum with pursed lips.
One thousand pounds. It was no wonder Mr. Chapman left in the manner that he did.
“I may have forgotten to add an additional zero to the sum. In my old age, I’m becoming a rather forgetful old man.” Papa sat behind his desk, his cheeks flushed a rosy red.
“In truth, I never approved of Mr. Chapman. He lacked your wit and intelligence. When he began to question whether or not you were to inherit the estate, I had my suspicions, and so I decided to test Mr. Chapman. I would never accept a man who would seek to marrymydaughter solely for material gain.”
“I no longer harbor any grand illusions, Papa.” Helen sank into the chair across from him. “If I shall be lucky enough in life to find a husband who may provide me with a comfortable home, a roof over my head, and a child, I shall be content.”