The countess had always possessed a finely
balanced constitution, but since Thomas' death it seemed the smallest
provocation could agitate her sensibilities.
".
. . keeping up with the vinegar ablutions I suggested ? If not, I would fear
the return of those dreaded freckles, my dear. Gracious me, I can almost
imagine those pesky spots growing right there on the very tip of your nose! You
mustn't allow that to happen, really you mustn't. Why, what would Harteford say
..."
Since
her husband did not notice anything about her, the presence of a mere freckle
was unlikely to disturb his equilibrium. But she could not tell her mother
that. Not when Mama was already showing the telltale signs of aggravated
nerves, from the accelerating speech to the nervous head movements. She
resembled a curious sparrow, craning her neck this way and that.
With
growing worry, Helena realized she had to do something before Mama succumbed to
an attack. The sequence always followed the same pattern—an excess of
excitement culminating in collapse and weeks in bed. As a young girl, she'd
dreaded visiting her mother when the shades were drawn and the air burned with
camphor. Seeing her mother pale and wane in the curtained bed had filled her
with nameless panic. It had taken years for her to realize that her mother
would not expire from what the physician termed a disorder of the nerves.
Still,
the countess' condition had worsened in the years since Thomas' passing. The
episodes came more frequently and often lasted for weeks. Once an attack took
place, nothing seemed to help but bed rest and a minimum of stimulation. Mama
led a reclusive life as it was, drifting from room to room on the country
estate. But even amidst the rural solitude, Helena knew her mother had started
adding laudanum to the milk at bedtime.
Helena
felt a stab of guilt. Though she corresponded daily with her mother, she had
been too caught up in her new life to return to Hampshire for a visit. How amiss
she had been in her daughterly duties. And her wifely ones as well.
Dash
it all, could she do nothing right these days?
"I
shall be happy to lend you some of my whitening powder. I have it specifically
concocted by the Apothecary on Piccadilly and always make a point of refreshing
my supplies on my visits to London," her mother said with a trilling
laugh. "Oh, look, Helena at the clever satin appliqués on Lady Marlough's
gown. They are like leaves cascading to her hem! Are they not delicious?"
"Yes,
Mama," Helena murmured. "Perhaps we should ..."
"I
do so love London during the Season! And this is my most favorite event
of all. I do hope dear, dear Caroline will give a performance. I
declare, she outshines all the professional musicians Cecily hires for this
occasion!"
Helena
rather thought that was the point of the whole evening: to highlight her cousin
Caroline's superiority. Immediately, she chastised herself for the petty
thought. It was small of her to harbor childhood resentments. For reasons not
entirely clear, she and Caroline had never quite rubbed it off together. Likely
it had something to do with the fact that whenever Caroline was present Helena
felt like a court jester entertaining the queen.
At
any rate, Helena reminded herself, she had larger concerns to contend with—like
the hurricane of air being generated by the countess' fan.
Helena
placed a hand on her mother's arm. The frail muscles vibrated beneath her
touch. "Mama, shall we take a stroll? Aunt Cecily has a lovely garden out
in the back."
"A
wonderful idea!" The countess sprang up, her slight frame emanating an
agitated energy. "I shall lead the way. It has been too long since I have
circulated among the beau monde , so many people to see, la!"
"Mama,"
Helena protested.
But
it was too late. Her mother had taken flight into the throng. Helena had no
choice but to follow as her mother darted out of the drawing room. The countess
headed through the open doors into the music room, where rows of
balanced constitution, but since Thomas' death it seemed the smallest
provocation could agitate her sensibilities.
".
. . keeping up with the vinegar ablutions I suggested ? If not, I would fear
the return of those dreaded freckles, my dear. Gracious me, I can almost
imagine those pesky spots growing right there on the very tip of your nose! You
mustn't allow that to happen, really you mustn't. Why, what would Harteford say
..."
Since
her husband did not notice anything about her, the presence of a mere freckle
was unlikely to disturb his equilibrium. But she could not tell her mother
that. Not when Mama was already showing the telltale signs of aggravated
nerves, from the accelerating speech to the nervous head movements. She
resembled a curious sparrow, craning her neck this way and that.
With
growing worry, Helena realized she had to do something before Mama succumbed to
an attack. The sequence always followed the same pattern—an excess of
excitement culminating in collapse and weeks in bed. As a young girl, she'd
dreaded visiting her mother when the shades were drawn and the air burned with
camphor. Seeing her mother pale and wane in the curtained bed had filled her
with nameless panic. It had taken years for her to realize that her mother
would not expire from what the physician termed a disorder of the nerves.
Still,
the countess' condition had worsened in the years since Thomas' passing. The
episodes came more frequently and often lasted for weeks. Once an attack took
place, nothing seemed to help but bed rest and a minimum of stimulation. Mama
led a reclusive life as it was, drifting from room to room on the country
estate. But even amidst the rural solitude, Helena knew her mother had started
adding laudanum to the milk at bedtime.
Helena
felt a stab of guilt. Though she corresponded daily with her mother, she had
been too caught up in her new life to return to Hampshire for a visit. How amiss
she had been in her daughterly duties. And her wifely ones as well.
Dash
it all, could she do nothing right these days?
"I
shall be happy to lend you some of my whitening powder. I have it specifically
concocted by the Apothecary on Piccadilly and always make a point of refreshing
my supplies on my visits to London," her mother said with a trilling
laugh. "Oh, look, Helena at the clever satin appliqués on Lady Marlough's
gown. They are like leaves cascading to her hem! Are they not delicious?"
"Yes,
Mama," Helena murmured. "Perhaps we should ..."
"I
do so love London during the Season! And this is my most favorite event
of all. I do hope dear, dear Caroline will give a performance. I
declare, she outshines all the professional musicians Cecily hires for this
occasion!"
Helena
rather thought that was the point of the whole evening: to highlight her cousin
Caroline's superiority. Immediately, she chastised herself for the petty
thought. It was small of her to harbor childhood resentments. For reasons not
entirely clear, she and Caroline had never quite rubbed it off together. Likely
it had something to do with the fact that whenever Caroline was present Helena
felt like a court jester entertaining the queen.
At
any rate, Helena reminded herself, she had larger concerns to contend with—like
the hurricane of air being generated by the countess' fan.
Helena
placed a hand on her mother's arm. The frail muscles vibrated beneath her
touch. "Mama, shall we take a stroll? Aunt Cecily has a lovely garden out
in the back."
"A
wonderful idea!" The countess sprang up, her slight frame emanating an
agitated energy. "I shall lead the way. It has been too long since I have
circulated among the beau monde , so many people to see, la!"
"Mama,"
Helena protested.
But
it was too late. Her mother had taken flight into the throng. Helena had no
choice but to follow as her mother darted out of the drawing room. The countess
headed through the open doors into the music room, where rows of
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