Then there was Lord Carlston. Ostensibly he served the same masters, but he was showing himself to be more … unilateral in his actions. Helen nodded at the word; she had read its meaning of singular action in one of her uncle’s journals. Moreover, it was quite possible that his lordship’s actions were coming from a place of … instability. She would not concede it was madness. Not yet. Even so, why did she feel more inclined to offer him her loyalty above all the other claims upon it?
She pressed the back of her hand to her flushed cheek. She had a fair idea of the reason and it was not to her credit. Still, that was not the only reason she felt so guilty. Lord Carlston had finally trusted her enough to tell her the truth about Lady Elise and the extent of the darkness within him, and she was repaying that trust with monumental betrayal.
She arched back her head, stretching out the tense muscles in her neck. Betrayal versus treason: it was a wretched, sickening choice, and she had somehow landed in the middle of the two — on the one hand, lying to Lord Carlston; and on the other, not quite following Pike’s orders. Even so, the slippery path that she and Mr Hammond were treading was the only way forward. At least, the only way she could see that would not end in their execution or Lord Carlston’s assassination.
Helen sighed. And now she must do something else wretched: break Darby’s heart. It was her duty to explain the Dark Days Club’s ban on love. The thought of it made her feel sick with fury — not just on Darby’s behalf, but on her own. It felt as if they had been tricked, which of course was patently untrue. They had both been given the regulations and both taken the oath of their own free will. Nevertheless, the prospect of never having a husband or family was insupportable. Surely she could make a case for their exception.
That, however, would have to wait. Far more urgent was her bond with Darby. She must hasten the preparations for the Reclaimer/Terrene ritual. Only then could she count herself and Darby safe from the doubts of Pike and Lord Sidmouth, and the disgusting ambitions of Lowry.
All too soon Helen heard her maid enter the dressing room from the hallway door, click her tongue in exasperation and murmur under her breath, ‘No fire! Where is that girl?’
Helen closed her eyes, hearing some early morning congestion in Darby’s breath, and the rustle of her gown. She concentrated more closely. It was a stiff brush of new cotton against the carpet, which could only be the hem of her maid’s navy round-gown, made from a dress length last week.
Lord Carlston had told her to practise building a mind-picture of the world through sound and smell and taste in preparation for when she must fight a Deceiver’s invisible energy whips. She had seen him use only those three senses to intercept and sever the deadly whips from a Deceiver’s back, and it had been a marvel to watch. Now that she was trying to do it herself, she understood just how hard it was to put those sensory pieces together into a whole without any reliance upon sight.
She followed the sounds in the dressing room — the weight of Darby’s tread upon the carpet, the swish of her gown, the direction of her soft breath — and built a sense of size and mass in motion. She smelled the air, working her way through old hearth smoke and powder to find the newer scent of soap on warm skin. Slowly in her mind the smell resolved into the rounded planes of Darby’s arms, throat and face as she opened a drawer.
Now taste. Helen licked her lips. Nothing. She stuck out her tongue. No, not a thing. What on earth did Lord Carlston mean by taste?
She opened her eyes, the simulacrum slipping away. It was time to face the real woman and break her heart.
‘Darby,’ she called.
Her maid appeared at the doorway, in the navy gown. Helen allowed herself a moment of congratulation.
‘My lady, I did not know you were awake.’ She took in Helen’s wrapped figure. ‘Are you chilled? Sally should have set the fires by now. If you get back into bed, I shall bring you a warming pan and tell her to do your room first.’
‘No, I am perfectly comfortable, thank you.’ She waved Darby into the room. ‘There is something we must discuss.’
Obediently, her maid approached.
‘So …’ Helen cleared her throat. ‘I cannot help but notice … I mean, it is rather obvious … that you and Mr Quinn have become quite close.’
Darby regarded her steadily. ‘Yes, my lady.’
‘May I inquire how close?’
Darby drew back her shoulders. ‘Mr Quinn has spoken of love, my lady, and I return his regard.’
Quinn had spoken of love — it was tantamount to a promise of marriage. It was worse than she had imagined. Helen pressed her lips together, wishing she did not have to say the next. This, however, was her duty as a Reclaimer.
‘Darby, are you aware that the oath we took does not allow such an attachment?’
Darby’s gaze did not waver. ‘Of course, my lady.’
‘Oh …’ Helen floundered. ‘You know?’
‘Mr Quinn made sure I was well aware of the meaning of the oath before I swore to it.’
‘I see.’ Helen nodded. More than Lord Carlston had done. ‘Very comprehensive of him.’
‘Yes, my lady.’ Darby smiled, and it was heart-achingly tender. ‘He is a very good man.’
‘Quite.’ Helen rubbed her forehead. ‘So, although you know you cannot be together, you have still declared your love for one another?’
‘The oath does not change the fact of our love, my lady. But we both know we cannot wed or truly be together, not if we wish to do our duty.’
‘And you still wish to do that duty?’ Helen asked quickly. ‘With me?’
‘Yes, of course, my lady. Nothing has changed there.’
Although she knew it must pain Darby, Helen could not help feeling relieved.
‘In the end,’ Darby continued, ‘my situation with Mr Quinn is not so different from any other servant’s. Except our duty lies not with just one mistress or master, but with all mankind.’
‘But what are you going to do with your love for one another?’ Helen asked. ‘How will you exist knowing that he is there, but you cannot be with him?’
‘That, I do not know.’ Darby bit her lip. ‘I would ask you the same question, my lady.’
Helen stared at her maid. ‘Whatever for?’
‘Lord Carlston,’ Darby said bluntly. ‘Forgive me, but you are in the same situation, are you not?’
Helen opened her mouth to deny the statement, then shut it again. Darby was right. Well, not exactly right, but close enough to the truth.
‘You love him,’ Darby pressed. ‘I have seen it as plain as you have seen my regard for Mr Quinn. What will you do with your love, my lady?’
Helen shifted on the chair. How had this come to be about herself and Lord Carlston?
‘I have resolved to ignore my feelings for his lordship,’ she said. ‘He has made it clear that attachments are not possible for Reclaimers or Terrenes.’
Darby regarded her with a slight frown. Scepticism. ‘Do you think that will work?’
‘It must. He did offer me an alternative.’ She leaned forward and lowered her voice, glad to finally unburden herself of the disquieting advice. ‘You will be shocked, as I was. His lordship said that I was no longer living a woman’s life and suggested I seek to “assuage my needs” as the male Reclaimers do.’
Darby’s eyes widened. ‘Did he really?’
‘He did.’