marry a pauper when you might have married well.’
‘I thought we might come to that. It was exceedingly bad of me, was it not, to marry a man I loved when I might have married a man old enough to be my grandfather.’
‘Scoville was dead within two years of proposing to you. It would scarce have been hardship to be a sick man’s wife—a very rich sick man’s wife—for such a short time. Had you given the decrepit old fool the heir he wanted, your future at nineteen years old would have been fine indeed.’
‘I beg to differ. And I have no regrets that I married Harry. He was a gentleman who did not need money to recommend him. And I am not ashamed to demand again and again that you release to us what our father wanted us to have. If you resent me coming constantly to badger you for money, you have only yourself to blame.’ Helen glowered at her brother from beneath eyebrows as lush and black as sable. ‘If we are a burden on you, it is you who has made it so by withholding what is rightfully ours.’
George flushed beneath his sulk and snapped his head away from a pair of flaring golden eyes. Imperiously he said, ‘If you continue to recommend that our sister encourage Philip Goode, Charlotte will go the same way as did you. Sentiment is all very well, but it doesn’t pay the bills. The man has nothing to offer her.’
‘He has the most important things to offer her: his love and devotion. Apart from which he is pleasant, polite and totally charming.’
‘What a shame such a paragon cannot afford a wife,’ Iris murmured with a cattish smile. The bonnet with which she had been fiddling was tossed aside in irritation. Bluntly she informed her husband and sister-in-law that she was going out shopping.
George stared morosely at the closed door before sighing with such unconscious sadness that a little of Helen’s anger evaporated. It was ironic that George could, in all seriousness, criticise her for having wed unwisely when his own marriage was a mockery. At least she had been happy for the short time she and Harry had been man and wife.
Helen studied her brother in profile. He was a handsome man, his hair a similar shade of auburn to their sister Charlotte’s. Although in his mid-thirties, George’s complexion was unlined, yet his youthful demeanour was spoiled by a constant miserable droop to his mouth.
And little wonder he was miserable, for he had married a woman who seemed to relish making him look ridiculous. Yet Helen felt more exasperated than sympathetic. Despite Iris’s callous infidelities, George seemed to be in his wife’s thrall, for the baggage had no trouble twisting him about her finger.
But her brother was correct in one respect, Helen realised wryly. Sentimental memories were indeed an indulgence when one was struggling to persuade the butcher to extend credit so one might dine on offal. Harry had been kind and charming, but he had died leaving her with little more than her wedding ring and his outstanding army pay.
‘Marlowe’s been dead for seven years.’ George shattered Helen’s wistfulness with that harsh truth. ‘You’ve had plentiful time for mourning. Now it is time to be sensible.’ The toothpick was again between his teeth. Suddenly he pointed it at her. ‘Iris is right: you are passably pretty. Dark looks were the rage last season, you know. I recall when you were eighteen and made your come-out, you received more than one offer that year.’
‘My, what a fine memory you have, George!’ Helen drily exclaimed. ‘That was eight years ago and most of my suitors now have found wives. Besides, if you honour Papa’s wishes and the trust he had in you, there will be no need for me to chase a proposal. I am not going to release you from your duty to us. Release our money and have done with it.’
George flushed and flung the silver tool down on a table. ‘I have some unforeseen expenses at present and … and, besides, I am not legally obliged …’
‘Ah, we have done that bit, George.’ She sighed before saying reasonably, ‘I would understand your parsimony if I thought you were honestly in trouble, but I know your wife fritters the money we need for essentials on new Paris fashions.’ Helen’s eyes slid meaningfully to the abandoned bonnet.
George lurched out of his chair. ‘That’s enough!’ he roared. He strode two paces back and forth. ‘You know nothing of my life or my finances and I will not have you speak so of Iris.’
‘What would you have me say, then, George?’ Helen asked quietly. ‘That it is not her new clothes you cannot afford, but her fondness for the gaming tables? Or perhaps her new landau has taken Charlotte’s dowry?’
George swung about to stare grimly at his sister. His face now held the expression of a man resentful of unpalatable truths. ‘I think you ought go before I say or do something I should not.’
Helen recognised her brother’s torment and walked, head high to the door. ‘You can dismiss me now if you want. But if our cash is not forthcoming in the next few days, I shall be back. We have no more credit at the merchants and have little stocks left of food or fuel. It is early spring and still quite cold.’
‘If you are both determined to be leeches on me, then you and Charlotte can make a few blasted economies!’
Helen managed a smile tinged with bitterness. She glanced down at her waif-like body whilst recalling how plump had looked her sister-in-law’s figure. Iris’s arms and bosom had fair threatened to burst from the fine silk of her stylish gown. In fact, Helen thought acidly, if the woman did not curb her appetite she would be on the way to becoming fat.
‘Charlotte and I have long since cut marchpane from our diets …’ Helen noticed George’s lips angrily writhe at the reference to his wife’s liking for sweetmeats. ‘And mutton has become a once-a-week luxury,’ she truthfully added. ‘What economies would you have us make, George? Already we make do and mend. Shall we boil up potato broth for every meal and live in the cold and dark?’
‘A smaller property would cost less to heat and light. If you want to dine well, then it is sensible to move somewhere else.’ George’s reasoning was accompanied by an impatient whirl of a hand. ‘The two of you seem more concerned with pretending you can afford to live in a fine neighbourhood than attending to your comfort.’
‘That’s not true!’ Helen cried, outraged. ‘Westlea House is our home. You know it holds dear memories of our parents. How can you be so cruel as to imply we care to keep up appearances?’
George seemed about to speak, but abruptly closed his jaw and showed Helen his back. He was not hiding his face, ashamed of his outburst. Nor was he uncomfortable knowing how frugally they lived, Helen realised. He was simply trying to shield his expression whilst summoning up another excuse for why she and Charlotte ought go without.
Helen felt the fight drain out of her. She felt tired and hungry and keen to go home. George was still musing on a way to withhold their allowance when Helen quietly quit the room.
‘Is he to give us our money?’
Helen hesitated in the act of removing her hat and coat as her younger sister came into view. Wearily she shook her head.
Charlotte Kingston bit at her lower lip. ‘He won’t give us anything?’
It was whispered in a tiny trembling voice that immediately put the bellows to Helen’s smouldering anger. Casting her outer garments on to a hall chair, she gave her sister a smile although her teeth were grinding. ‘I think … hope he is considering how much he can afford,’ she eventually said in a controlled voice. ‘I have no doubt that he is embarrassed for funds: Iris was dressed from head to toe in new clothes. They looked French and expensive.’
‘But it is our money!’ Charlotte shrieked, pushing away from her sister’s comforting embrace and stamping a small foot down. It made a hollow noise on the bare oak boards in the hallway of Westlea House. ‘I cannot have new gloves, yet she has new gowns! How dare she dress in Paris finery at our expense!’
‘She dares because our brother lets her,’ Helen succinctly answered.
‘George would never sell our home so he might settle