“I disagree.” Mr. Marcellus frowned. “You have a natural beauty that radiates from the inside out. It’s a beauty that lights up the darkest of nights. Appearances will fade with the passage of time, but kindness, compassion, and a wit as sharp as yours will long remain.”
Her heart made a few happy roars, but she quickly cautioned herself. Mr. Chapman had also offered her similar compliments.
“I’ve had my fill of dancing for the evening. What do you say to a stroll in the garden?” Mr. Marcellus glanced around before meeting her gaze again. “The hall is filled with too many prying eyes and ears.”
“I would like nothing better.” The calmness that poured out with her voice surprised her.
He extended his hand to her, his eyes never leaving hers. Her pulse began to race. They walked in silence as he led her out of the hall and down the staircase. Helen marveled at how Mr. Marcellus retained his manners and took care to acknowledge each person they passed.
I am a bundle of nerves, but Mr. Marcellus acts as if he is immune to the whisperings.How does one ever grow used to such a thing?
Arriving at the garden, a cold breeze cooled her overly warm body. Helen smiled as she breathed in the sweet smell of the white roses. Overhead, the moon appeared from behind a curtain of dark clouds, its silver rays filtering through the tree branches. Water trickled from a small fountain.
“Gardens are quiet, and one of the few places that I find I can hear myself think,” Mr. Marcellus said.
“I agree. There are many times at Winterbrook that I’ve sought the solace of the gardens.” She breathed in the scent of the nearby roses. “Tell me, does your home have a garden?”
They sat on a bench beneath an arbor coated in red, pink, and white flowers.
“The formal gardens at my country estate, Springwood Hall, are tended by my large staff of gardeners. My grandfather was an avid horticulturalist and devoted much of his later life to creating hybrid breeds of flowers. Roses were his specialty. While other gardens grow and die with the seasons, Springwood is blessed with blooming plants year-round.”
Mr. Marcellus seemed to be lost in his thoughts. His eyes glazed over. “My true love, however, is Springwood’s wildflower gardens. I’ve always thought nature is at its best when it’s left untouched and untamed. I enjoy the mystery of seeing what and where plants will bloom.”
Helen pictured an open field with thousands of orange, pink, blue, and yellow flowers opening their petals to the first rays of morning light. With a thin layer of fog wafting over the plants, she and Mr. Marcellus would ride their horses through the brush, releasing thousands of butterflies into the air.
“Where exactly is Springwood Hall? You mentioned in our first meeting you were from the north.”
“Yorkshire, not far from the Dales. On a clear day, the view of the rolling hills and mighty rivers is endless.”
Mr. Marcellus recounted his experiences exploring the region and why he thought the Dales of Yorkshire were much more enjoyable than the Peak District of Derbyshire. Helen felt as if she’d been transported to Yorkshire from the way he vividly described the landscape to her.
“And what of your library, sir?”
“As I recounted to your father a few days ago, it is still very much a work in progress. My late father had grand ambitions for the estate and the library, but unfortunately, with his untimely demise, his vision never materialized.” His voice grew quiet.
Helen inclined her gaze to his, waiting to see a flash of pain, or some other sign of anguish. However, Mr. Marcellus remained unreadable, his emotions tucked neatly away.
“It is never easy to lose a parent. My own excellent mother passed from this world when I was but a child. I have few memories of her, but those that I do have, I cherish.”
“I am sorry.” Mr. Marcellus’s eyes flickered with remorse. “I lost both of my parents and my sister in a terrible carriage accident when I was two and twenty.”
Helen’s heart broke.
To lose all whom he loved at once. She don’t know how he was able to go on. Papa was her world. She couldn’t imagine him being there one minute, and the next gone.
They sat in silence for several moments.
Staring into the flicker of the flames dancing through the window, Mr. Marcellus ever so slightly nodded his head.
“I have not spoken of them in more than six years.” He stood and paced. “In many ways, it is as if they are still here with us. Our London townhouse remains as it was the night of the accident. I could never muster the courage to pack it up. My sister’s ballgown still rests upon her bed, waiting for her to dress. My mother’s earrings are atop the jewel case on her dressing table.”
His breath hitched. “They were returning from a day out, shopping on Bond Street when it happened?.?.?.” His body shuddered.
That made Mr. Marcellus eight and twenty. How old was his sister? Was she of a similar age to Helen? Papa urged her to wait until she was eight and ten to make her debut. Six years. It was not so very long ago. London must hold many painful reminders for Mr. Marcellus.
A sudden, horrible thought struck her. Helen laced her fingers through his. “Have you been alone this entire time?”
“Yes. I have no other family.”