Page 20 of The Scandalous Deal of the Scarred Lady
“Please do. Since Helena is unwell, I would very much like to steal our young Duke for a business discussion if he’s of a mind to attend. I will need you to act as companion to Mrs. Prescott while I steal her husband away for an hour. I think Mr. Prescott might be better able to answer some of the questions he might have regarding a certain set of papers I gave young Campbell here recently.” The Duke of York turned to address James directly on these last comments.
Not sure what had just happened, James agreed quickly to the change in plans, noting that Lady Barrington’s plate and place setting had already been removed, quite as if she had never been at the table at all.
It was a somewhat unsettling realization.
He stood with the others, as good manners dictated when Miss Barlowe got up to leave, but he noted as well that no one seemed to have anything further to say to her. Miss Barlowe, he suspected, was one of those individuals caught between two worlds. The poor relation who acted as servant and member of the household both. It seemed she fit rather uneasily in both positions.
As far as companions went for the lovely Lady Barrington though, Miss Barlowe seemed rather dour, though she fought hard to fight it under the gracious manners that the ton dictated. He wondered who he ought to pity more — Miss Barlowe for her position within the family, or Lady Barrington who seemed to have no true companion other than her spinster aunt.
It was no wonder she had bargained so hard for a mock courtship.
Chapter 13
Helena had never been so humiliated in her life.
I should have recognized my own limitations. I know that fatigue will make the rash worse, and I stayed anyway, knowing full well that the redness upon my cheeks would grow more unbecoming the longer I stayed.
An examination in the mirror showed this to be true. Her cheeks were unduly red, the blemishes standing out in stark relief down the column of her neck. She tore the fichu away to study the collarbone and tugged at the dress until her shoulder was exposed.
Everywhere! It was simply everywhere! If Aunt Phoebe had not signaled her with a touch to her own cheek and then given her a perfect excuse for leaving the table, she would have made an absolute fool of herself.
She tore at the gloves, feeling the bumps along finger and palm raised into a frenzy that demanded satisfaction that could only come of scratching.Why? Why did this have to happen here…now? When she had met him, finally met not only a titled young man, but one who challenged her and made her laugh?
Helena had no willpower for this. She scrabbled among the bottles and vials upon the top of her dressing table, looking for something, anything that would bring relief. But what did any of them do other than make her skin in turns oily or scaly, and in some cases, she was sure, even adding to the redness and irritation?
Every physician, every last one of them had proven useless. With a wild sob, she swept her arm over the surface of the table, sending medicines and unguents tumbling to the floor, falling harmlessly upon the thick rug, though more than one stopper flew from a bottle, raising sick medicinal scents tinted with rose, or sometimes the faintest hint of strawberry. Scents she loved and used to try and hide the other.
Oh God, if thou ever were to help such as me, I beg you to do it now, lest I lose him…
But prayers were imperfect things. Even worship had too long been denied her. She went few places, contenting herself with pious devotion as was proper in a small chapel downstairs, though truth be told, she had given up on the idea of a benevolent God with a mind to healing infirmity such as her own.
Though ’tis most unfair. He healed worse in the Bible.
No, there was no spiritual solution to her problem. And doctors had little to offer. If she could cut the offending flesh from her body, she would, praying that it would grow back different somehow, as something not afflicted.
In fact, so driven mad was she at this moment, that she dropped on her knees on the floor, finding among the fallen items, a bottle that had broken, a shard of glass. It felt slippery in her hand, the remnants of whatever it held still clinging stubbornly to the decanter. The scent of roses assailed her nostrils, always roses that plagued her. Roses to bring a dream to reality. Another to take it away.
She opened her other hand, staring at the growing rash, fancying that she could see it creeping across the flesh and up to the fingers. It trailed in a long line down her wrist, there, where it itched so, she placed the glass, scraping it carefully against the skin in an ecstasy of delight as the horrible insane urge to scratch began to ease.
“My lady!”
The shout startled her, the glass no longer acting as scraper but as something more brutal, slipping, biting into her skin. For a moment she stared at the blood welling just beneath her fingers. What had she done?
A scream, a wild cry from the door, and the hurrying of feet caused her to look up. The maid…Tess…eyes wild, mouth open in a loud keening cry as she threw herself upon her Lady, propriety be damned. She could be punished for this, and still, she came, fighting Helena’s fingers for the ownership of the glass, clasping at Helena’s bloody wrist. Screaming and screaming and screaming, though Helena tried to tell her it had all been a mistake.
Helena dropped the glass and tried to push the girl away. She needed to see the damage for herself. The blood welled up underneath the maid’s fingers, and for a moment Helena felt faint.
“What have you done, child?” Aunt Phoebe stood in the doorway, stern and disapproving, lips pursed and face pale as she reached behind her, shutting the door so quietly that she might have been coming in to say goodnight. In moments she was across the room, dragging the servant girl away from her niece, a sharp slap bringing the child to her senses.
Tess reeled back, silenced, a bloodied hand against her cheek where a bright handprint rose up in sharp relief.
“It was an accident. The glass broke…” Helena started, noticing for the first time just how much blood she was losing; the glass had gone in deep.
“She lies,” Tess said fiercely, savagely. “She had it against her wrist when I came in. I called to her and she cut. My Da…he did the same. He died.” The girl’s face was set pale but defiant.
“Hush. Have a care what you say! As though a fine lady would do as a laborer did.”
Tess’s chin came up. “He was no laborer, Miss, he was a lord, though not an important one, especially once his business failed.”
