Marrying Winterborne (The Ravenels #2) - Lisa Kleypas Page 0,113

the top of the stairs. She went to the parlor, thinking that no matter what Lady Berwick said, or how upset she was, it was nothing compared to what she had seen today. It haunted her, the knowledge of what some people were forced to suffer. She would never again be able to look at her privileged surroundings without some part of her brain contrasting them with the alleys and rookeries at Stepney.

Hesitating at the parlor threshold, she saw Lady Berwick on one of two chairs placed near the hearth. The countess’s face was stiff, as if it had been starched and set before the fire to dry. She didn’t even glance at Helen.

Helen went to the other chair and sat. “My lady, the child I brought with me—”

“I know who she is,” Lady Berwick snapped. “She has the look of her father. Will you take it upon yourself to collect all his bastards like so many stray cats?”

Helen stayed silent, looking into the fireplace, while Lady Berwick proceeded to lecture her in a tone that could have shaved the treads from a carriage wheel. Searing remarks were made about Helen’s character and upbringing, the Ravenels, the foolishness of women who thought they might somehow be exempt from the rules and judgments of society, and the many iniquities of Albion Vance and men in general.

She finally looked at Helen, her nostrils flaring and her chin vibrating with outrage. “I would never have expected this of you. This scheming! This dishonesty! You’re bent on self-destruction. Can’t you see, you reckless girl, that I’m trying to keep you from throwing away a life in which you could do enormous good for other people? You could help thousands of orphans instead of just one. Do you think me hard-hearted? I laud your compassion for that poor creature—you wish to help her, and you shall—but not this way. She is a danger to you, Helen. The resemblance she bears to you is ruinous. No one will look at the two of you without coming to the most disastrous conclusion. It won’t matter that it’s not true. Gossip never has to be true, it only has to be interesting.”

Helen stared at the older woman, realizing that although her countenance was coldly furious, and every nuance of her posture was overbearing . . . her eyes gave her away. They were filled with honest concern, true kindness, and caring. And anguish.

Lady Berwick was not fighting with her, she was fighting for her.

This is why Kathleen loves her, Helen thought.

When at last the countess fell silent, Helen regarded her with gratitude and melancholy resolve. “You’re right. About all of it. I agree with your ladyship, and I understand what I’m about to lose. But the fact is . . . Charity has to belong to someone. She has to be loved by someone. Who will, if I don’t?” At Lady Berwick’s frozen silence, Helen found herself going to her chair and sinking down to rest her head on the countess’s knees. She felt the older woman stiffen. “You took Kathleen in,” Helen said, “when she was only a year older than Charity. You loved her when no one else wanted her. She told me you saved her life.”

“Not at the expense of my own.” The countess took a wavering breath, and then Helen felt the light pressure of a hand on her head. “Why won’t you listen to me?”

“I have to listen to my heart,” Helen said quietly.

That elicited a bitter scrape of laughter. “The downfall of every woman since Eve has begun with those exact words.” The hand slid from her head. Another uneven breath. “You will allow me some privacy now.”

“I’m so sorry to have upset you,” Helen whispered, and pressed a quick kiss to her cool, wrinkled fingers. Slowly she rose to her feet, and saw that the countess had averted her face sharply. A tear glittered high on the time-weathered plane of her cheek.

“Go,” Lady Berwick said curtly, and Helen slipped from the room.

AS HELEN ASCENDED the stairs, she became aware of an ache in her lower back, and a weariness that had sunk into her with backward barbs. She gripped the railing at intervals to pull herself upward. Her skirts felt as if they’d been lined with lead. With every churn of her tired legs against the fabric, unpleasant scents wafted up from the hems.

Near the top of the staircase, she heard a buoyant sprinkling of musical notes floating delicately through the