Page 2 of The Scandalous Deal of the Scarred Lady
She sat next to the window, aware of the driving snow and the way the wind rattled the panes. Her hands flew over the strings, eliciting the symphony in concert with the violence outside. She ignored the ache of fingers as she reached up, to the highest notes, trying to find the pattern of falling snow, the soft tinkle of it raining against the glass.
But the music did not satisfy. She could not capture what she thought it might have been. There was no music for the way the blizzard raged. She sighed and shifted so that her forehead lay against the glass, her skin instantly growing cold as she stared out into the driving snow.
Why am I so unsettled tonight?
The wind blew so cold and fierce against the window, that Helena could see her breath on the thin layer of ice that formed on the inside pane. She winced at the squeak her forefinger made while she drew figures on the frost. One was a giant of a man, standing beside a woman — perhaps her? — since this was her fantasy. She gave the man a hat and debated the bonnet for the woman. How she hated the floppy things she usually wore and longed for something small and neat.
But you can never wear such things, not if you do not wish for the world to stare.
Using her thumbnail to scratch at the ice crystals, she tried to fix the hat, but it wasn’t looking right. But then art had never been her strong suit, much as Papa had paid for tutors to try and ease her fumbling attempts at landscapes. Besides, her thumbnail was too thick. She needed something thinner for the fine detail.
She thought a moment and unfastened the brooch from her dress. The five rubies that made up the heart of the flower glinted dully in the dim light from the window. She brushed her finger over the fine tracery of stem and leaf and wondered for a moment at her mother who had left her such a fine thing.
And laughed a little to think she would use such a thing for an artist’s brush.
Helena grasped the rose in her hand, using the point of the pin on the back to draw in the more intricate details of the hat upon the head of her frost woman. With such a fine instrument, she was able to add a feather with a certain realism that pleased her, though it was hard going to only affect the ice upon the window and not to leave marks upon the glass underneath.
Helena sat back finally, laying the brooch on the table next to her and stared at her efforts. She realized that in her idle etching, she’d been trying to recreate the dream she’d had, however imperfectly. The man…he’d been blond. Handsome. She closed her eyes, idly scratching at a spot on her wrist and tried to see him in her mind’s eye.
He had been tall and blond, with broad shoulders and an easy smile with a familiarity to him that she’d been unable to place in the light of day. “Where have I see you before?” she asked the silent figure on the glass and hid a laugh at the absurdity of the question.
In her dream, it had been his smile she had loved most. He’d regarded at her with a quiet intensity with eyes so blue they might have been pieces of the sky itself. Well, not today when it was storming. But in summer, maybe, when the sun seemed to shine forever.
It had been a silly dream. She sat up, eyes open, staring at the scratched figures on the glass already starting to fade and disappear, much as they had last night, when in her dreams she had only begun to dance.
Angry at herself for getting caught up in silly fantasies, Helena used the edge of her sleeve to wipe away the figures, embarrassed now by her foolishness. Only a child drew upon the glass in a blizzard and at two and twenty, she was long past infancy.
Outside, just on the other side of the glass the storm still waged war with the world. She bent, fascinated by the way the trees bent in the wind, by the snow falling sideways across the window obscuring all from view.
Nearly all.
She leaned closer to the glass to see. Outside in the storm, down by the gate a figure hunched over, staggering against the wind. A man like the one she had seen last night? No…this was no dream. The cloak whipped out, away from the figure revealing it to be a woman, her face strained, as she fought to stay upright against the wind.
Helena’s house stood at the edge of town. Why did this woman not have a carriage? It was impossible to make out through the wavy glass. There were so few residences along this road. Had she missed her way? If she needed to return to the city proper, the walk would be far. Any distance in this storm would be brutal. No one could manage such a thing on foot, at least not in this weather!
Helena rose and looked toward the door. She had not heard any visitors, so she had surely not come to Thornhill. Unless perhaps she was a relative of a servant? Yes, that was more logical. Well, if that were the case, would it not be cruel to send this poor creature out into the snow? Would it not be better to give her shelter until morning? Surely it would be better by then.
But what if it is a stranger? Would you give shelter to someone who perhaps has no business here at all?
Did it matter? Would not a truly compassionate person invite the poor wanderer in, even if she were nothing more than a stranger?
Suddenly unsure, Helena went to the window again, but by now the storm had increased to where she was unsure whether anyone was out there at all, or if she had dreamed the whole thing.
Dreams! Her dream had held danger. Was she being foolish now while spending time dithering over this strange figure? What if the woman became so disoriented in the storm that she fell and perhaps even died? Such things happened, did they not?
It was too dreadful to contemplate. Helena reached for her gloves discarded upon the table next to the harp and flew from the room even as she tugged them into place. It was Antony she found first, her father’s manservant, a kindly man who had always been more than a servant, but also a friend to her. So excited was she that she scarce noticed that she grabbed his sleeve with her bare hand, as she drew him to the window.
“Please tell me I am not seeing things amiss,” she begged, half out of breath from her mad flight down the hall. “But is there, or is there not a poor creature huddling at the gate in this storm?”
Antony, being much taller than her, bent to look through the pane indicated. When he straightened, he was frowning heavily. “Indeed, there is, though I mislike what it might mean. A thief perhaps, thinking the house empty with your father gone.”
Helena stared at him, absolutely aghast. “Antony! Do you mean to say you feel no compulsion of any kind to bid the poor woman come in out of the wind?”
It was Antony’s turn to stare at her in a way that was at best disapproving. Already, before she could even plead for even the remotest chance at understanding, he was shaking his head ‘no’ in her general direction.
It was times like this when Helena most felt the difference between them in age, for Antony had been with her father since before she had been born. His hair was graying now, his eyebrows gone bushy, though they drew together now in a most alarming way. But his gaze was still clear even if he looked down at her through a pair of spectacles that constantly slid down his rather hawk-like nose.
She met that gaze now, arms crossed, one hand still holding the glove that she still hadn’t replaced upon her hand. It spoiled the effect somewhat, especially with her skin so mottled and sore. “Antony, are you my friend or not?” she asked, her voice strident and sure.
