A Lady's Fate

Chapter Twenty

Helena passed the following week in a dreamlike state. Although she had loved Joseph for several years, never before had she experienced the wondrous sensation of knowing that her love was requited; never before had she been able to freely express her feelings aloud. To have her greatest secret in the open at last was the greatest relief, and it was all Helena could do to refrain from voicing her love for Joseph to every person she spoke with.

But Helena could not profess her boundless joy too freely when in Mary's company – it would be rather unfair to speak at length about how happily in love she was, whilst Mary's own affection for Sir Edmund could never come to fruition. Not only that, but there was also the cloud of little George's continuing illness perpetually shadowing the house.

It had now been a week since the infant had first contacted the coup, and he was still clinging desperately to life. From Mary's increasingly sombre reports of the doctor's daily visits, however, the situation did not look to be favourable, and the entire house waited in fear of the dreadful news they knew may come at any moment.

Such was the sombre scene at Grosvenor Square, until one particular morning at the very beginning of March, when Helena found herself woken by a bright stream of sunlight filtering through a gap in her curtains. Rising eagerly, she crossed to the window and flung them open, to be met with the unmistakable first day of spring. After the bitterly cold winter which had gripped the country, Helena drank in the azure skies with delight, enjoying the warmth of the sun on her face.

Unfortunately, it seemed the changing of the seasons had passed everyone else by. Upon entering the breakfast room an hour later, Helena found it empty but for a rather forlorn-looking Mary, who was currently buttering a roll, lost in thought.

"Good morning!" Helena greeted her, causing Mary to start. She gazed up at Helena with glassy eyes, the deep purple shadows beneath them betraying her exhaustion. Her wild curls were a tangled mess framing her face, even more untamed than usual; it looked as if Mary had not had a moment to herself for an age.

"Oh, Mary," sighed Helena sorrowfully, sliding into the seat opposite her and grasping her wrist across the table. "Is there anything at all I am able to do?"

Mary swallowed determinedly, clearly on the verge of tears. This, from the strongest woman Helena had ever met, told her just how desperate the situation evidently was.

"I am at a loss, Helena," she whispered helplessly. "Day and night, I watch over that boy, mopping his brow to keep the fever at bay, urging Margaret to attempt to feed him although he refuses almost each and every time. The doctor has been a perfect saint; forever returning to us with a new remedy to try, although none appear to have had any perceivable positive effect thus far. Even he is now running out of suggestions. There is nought for us to do but hope and pray."

"We are all hoping and praying with you," Helena told her earnestly.

She hesitated, carefully considering her next words.

"How fares Margaret?" she asked eventually, curiosity getting the better of her.

Mary's reply was a painful grimace.

"I fear the melancholia has claimed her senses," she told Helena, in hushed tones. "At first, she was hysterical, then silent and sombre – but now, even worse, she appears to be convinced that George will make a full recovery. It is as if the truth is too painful to bear, and so her mind is preventing her from considering such a possibility."

"Oh, how dreadful," gasped Helena softly.

"No matter how many times I attempt to return her to her senses, she will not be dissuaded from her fantasy."