So she was not surprised when the butler at Helen’s house dropped his respectable demeanor and said, when she told him her name, “Never Helen’s sister?”
But she was shocked enough to drop the last of the chestnuts on Helen’s nice clean floor when she saw Helen.
Chalk it up to another thing she should’ve known, she thought. Helen’s hints about Alistair finding a solution, Edward mentioning that he’d seen her sister …
Helen was beautiful.
Fey beautiful.
Chapter 17
PRETTY LADIES
Helen was having yet another party.
Jane sat curled on a couch in the front parlor, turning over the morning in her mind as servants whisked past, dusting and setting up flower vases and carrying beaten carpets in and out. The emerald horsehair couch was slick, and her feet kept sliding off.
The mask had not fully sealed at the edges, and it itched. It was not obvious unless you looked closely—with her fingers Jane felt the ridge running from her hairline around her jaw and back—but the itching, plus the knowledge of whose face it was, made her want to hook her nails under her chin and tear it away.
Which did not seem like the best idea.
There had been tons of houseguests at Helen’s wedding; today there was only one, and it was that Gertrude person who had told Jane to study art. She came in and out with Helen, who didn’t seem to want to be alone with Jane—or, even, alone.
At last when they came in again, Jane swung her feet to the floor and commanded them: “Sit.” She poured lukewarm tea from the service at her side and passed a cup to Helen.
“Ooh, aren’t we high and mighty,” said Gertrude, mimicking a city servant’s accent.
Jane was interested to realize she didn’t particularly care what Gertrude thought. That was a bit of a sea change, wasn’t it, how she had talked to the Miss Davenports, told Blanche Ingel what to do, made decisions.… She turned the full effect of her beautiful face on Gertrude and saw the other woman redden.
She could get used to this.
“Helen,” Jane said gently. “I have to talk to you about the … art … you received from Edward.”
“No art,” butted in Gertrude. “She went on holiday is all, don’t you see how relaxed she looks?”
Helen did not look relaxed to Jane’s informed eye; she looked peaked and jittery, a thin and frightened version of herself. She sneaked glances at Jane’s different, fey-enhanced face, in between looking sharply around the room as if someone were going to jump out from behind the curtains.
“I know the truth,” Jane said to Gertrude. “I’m sure you’ve been an asset at all Helen’s balls and parties, but you don’t need to cover up with me.”
“What parties?” said Gertrude in genuine confusion. “This is the first in a fortnight, and aren’t we excited? That’ll show them who was idiots to shun you.”
Jane looked at Helen, confused. No parties? But the letters had been of nothing else.
Helen dropped her head. “I need to talk to my sister,” she said to Gertrude. “I will come find you, after.”
“Oh,” said Gertrude. “Well, I—oh.”She rustled from the room while Helen plucked at her skirts, folded them into tiny bunches, dropped them again.
“No parties,” said Jane. “You’ve had a much harder time fitting in than you let on.”
“It was fine at first,” said Helen, still looking at the voile of her skirts. “But they closed off against me. You weren’t here, Jane. I did hardly anything, but this girl Annabella took a dislike to me. She had wanted Alistair, you see—even with his drink and horses and cards and all that. She started slyly putting me down at every turn, and her friends had to choose her over me—and she has a great many friends.” Her hand touched her jaw in a now-familiar gesture, that moment of touching where you and the mask met. “I needed something to trump her. Your Edward was so kind.”
With effort, Jane let that comment fall away like water against an oiled coat, did not let it touch her. “The masks are a problem,” she said.
“You have one. Hardly fair to accuse me of—oh, I don’t know, whatever you were going to accuse me of. Vanity? Self-indulgence? You try being the younger sister to someone who always has the moral high ground.”
Jane burst out: “But you were there for Mother! Don’t you know how I’ve regretted that?” Charlie and her mother, the two old guilts twined together.
Helen looked sideways at Jane, fingers opening and closing on her skirts. “Jane,” she said, pleading. “You don’t know how it was.…”
There was a sudden softness to the mask—was this a way back into understanding, after all? Jane groped for words.