Yes, he was feeling much better. “You are going to upset your children, are you?” Helena asked, more abruptly than she meant to. “Tell them they must adhere to your plans without any regard to their feelings? I’ve been acquainted with you for years, Ash. You used to be far more carefree—you laughed, you danced, you played with your children. Now you are out of temper if you don’t walk a rigidly straight line down the road or if Edwards is thirty seconds late with your coffee. I wager even your sickness fled according to your schedule.”
“For heaven’s sake, woman, I was ill. I had no control over it.”
“The heart of the matter, I believe,” Helena said, trying to look wise. “You are so very angry if you do not control every person and event around you. All must behave as you wish, when you wish them to.”
“You exaggerate,” Ash answered tightly.
“Do I? You were severely polite to your guests at the ball, tried to hide in the card room, and fled into the garden at your first chance. I imagine no one was dancing evenly enough for you. Or was it because you tripped over your feet during our dance? Embarrassed that the perfect duke was the slightest bit imperfect?”
“You know nothing at all.” Ash’s rumble filled the coach. “Damn and blast you, I know why you hurried to my home when you heard I was ill—so you could control me. I could scarcely fight you when I was flat on my back, too weak to move. You dosed me so we could race back to this absurd scheme of getting me married.”
“Good gracious, your bellowing might convince me to give up the matter. I feel sorry for your bride already.”
“Excellent, then we will hear no more about it.”
The carriage bumped out through the gate and turned down the lane to Millicent’s cottage.
“If it were up to me, I would drop the question,” Helena said. “But the idea is Lewis’s, with his sisters behind him. The choice is not mine to make.”
“That is rubbish—Lewis is a child.”
“He is your child. Have you thought it through, Ash? Why they want you to remarry? Given it deep and careful thought as you seem to do problems in the government? Or did you simply dismiss your son out of hand? Let us recall Lewis’s points, shall we? Several indicate that you lose your temper—throwing your shirts at Edwards, objecting when the children are too loud and not always punctual, and adhering to timetables too much. Lewis paints an excellent portrait of you.”
“Because he is young,” Ash growled. “He does not comprehend—” He broke off, his face reddening.
“Comprehend what?” Helena asked. “Please tell me. I truly wish to know.”
For a moment, Helena thought he wouldn’t answer. Then Ash began, his voice hard. “He does not understand that if I leave off being efficient and romp about laughing, as you believe I should, I would go mad. Why do you think I plan for every minute of every day? So there is no time to sink into melancholia and dark thoughts—I did it to keep myself alive and to continue. So I could take care of my daughters and son. For them.”
He snapped his mouth shut and dropped back to the seat.
“Ash.” Helena, stunned, gentled her voice. “I understand. Grief is painful, can consume you …”
“I know you lost your husband,” Ash said stiffly. “I had much sympathy for you.”
He had, Helena granted him that. Many people believed Helena had never grieved her husband—most of London whispered about her for coming out of mourning so quickly.
“Yes, so please believe that I understand what you felt,” she said. “I know my marriage was a mistake, but I had fallen thoroughly in love with my reprobate husband. His accident took away any chance for him to fall in love with me, to make our marriage one of equal minds, to see both of us happy. I mourned, indeed, and indeed, I put off mourning as soon as I could, because wallowing in my grief endangered me of becoming as mad as you feared you would be. Donning bright clothes and accepting invitations for balls and nights at the theatre is the equivalent of you deciding you must meticulously account for every minute of your days and nights. We are much the same, Ash, whether you believe it or not.”
She stopped, out of breath, realizing she’d said far too much.
Ash only gazed at her, his eyes a mystery. The carriage bumped and jounced over the rutted lane, the wheels loud in the sudden stillness.
“Be that as it may, madam,” Ash said in a low but fierce voice. “Me acting like a jackanapes is not a reasonable solution.” He snatched up his hat. “I conclude that you and I understand each other not at all.”
He banged his stick on the coach’s roof, and when the vehicle slowed, Ash flung open the door, leaping out before the carriage stopped. He slammed the door without looking at Helena and strode away through the tall grass.
Helena watched him through a blur of tears, as he walked purposefully—in a straight line—back toward his home.
Ash remained in a foul mood the rest of the day. He rode to his farms—bundled up well, as Aunt Florence, Edwards, and his children chided him to—following the routine he’d established for himself.
Helena’s words wouldn’t fade, however, and in fact haunted him at every step. The heart of the matter, I believe. You are so very angry if you do not control every person and event around you.
The devil of it was, she was not wrong. No wonder gentlemen were put off by Helena—she was not only clever, but shrewd, and knew exactly what was wrong with a fellow. No gentleman wanted to hear such things from the lady he wooed.
Of course Ash was not wrong either—he had taken up his timetables and rigidity to keep himself from the insanity of grief. He’d had to remain whole in order to look after his son and daughters.
But Helena understood that too. We are much the same, Ash, whether you believe it or not.
Damn the woman.
Ash spent his morning speaking to the steward about the harvest, looking over tenants’ cottages that still needed repairs, and making plans for those repairs to be done before winter set in.
Back to the house for the midday meal. Guy, who’d abruptly left for London after the ball, had returned, and he joined Ash, his always hearty appetite whetted further by his journey.
“Business to see to,” Guy told Ash as an explanation of why he’d gone, though Ash would not dream of asking for one. Guy’s affairs were his own. “Heard you were low. Glad to see you better.”
Ash slid away his empty plate and reached for his tea. Guy intercepted Ash’s cup and dropped a dollop of whisky into it from his flask.
“Enforced rest and home remedies,” Ash said as he sipped the doctored tea. “Aunt Florence, my valet, and Mrs. Courtland were my jailers.”
Guy’s brows shot upward. “Mrs. Courtland? Interesting. You look the better for their tending.”
“I am quite cured.” Indeed, Ash hadn’t felt this well in an age.
Ash firmly changed the subject, and they spoke of mutual acquaintance and Ash’s plans for his estate until they finished tea, and Ash headed for the garden. The children would be out any moment, ready for their afternoon’s respite.
“Is Mrs. Courtland about?” Guy asked as he followed Ash. “Or did she race back to London as soon as you were cured, to continue ferreting out a wife for you?”