As I passed the family wing, I collided with Helen Romilly. She fell to the floor, landing hard upon her bustle.
“My dear Mrs. Romilly, please accept my apologies,” I began as I bent to assist her.
She looked up at me, her eyes vague. “Am I on the floor?”
I smelt the heavy spirits on her breath and sighed. “I am afraid so. We were neither of us looking where we were going. Allow me to help you.”
It took two tries, but she managed to get her feet under her just as Mrs. Trengrouse appeared, chatelaine jingling. “Mrs. Romilly,” she said in a steady voice. “Are you unwell?”
“I think,” Helen said slowly, “that I am.”
“What are you doing out of your room, then?” Mrs. Trengrouse inquired, putting a steadying arm to the lady’s waist.
“I was looking for my cat,” she pronounced. She stared at me a long moment. “This young woman was helping me.”
“Veronica Speedwell,” I reminded her.
“Yes, of course. I ought to have remembered because Mertensia mentioned how curious a name it is. You are called after plants, aren’t you?” she asked, weaving a little.
I put an arm around her other side, helping Mrs. Trengrouse to keep her on her feet. “I am indeed,” I said as we began walking her slowly towards her room. “No doubt you’ve seen speedwell. It’s a prettyish little plant with purple flowers. Most unassuming.”
I kept up the patter of plant talk as we maneuvered her into her room and onto her bed.
“There, now,” Mrs. Trengrouse said soothingly. “You have a nice rest.”
Helen Romilly thrust herself onto her elbows, giving me a long, level look. “You have done very well for yourself,” she said with a slow wink. “A viscount! And a wealthy one! So many fellows with titles these days haven’t tuppence to rub together. But you have done very well,” she repeated, her head nodding like an overblown peony upon the stem. She roused, weaving a little as she leant near to me, her tone confiding. “Heed my advice, my dear. Get him to the altar at once. A woman cannot survive in this world without the help of a man.” She narrowed her eyes at me, blinking hard. “You’re a very handsome girl, beautiful, in fact. But it will not last, and you are getting older by the day, my dear. Older by the day.”
With that she collapsed back onto the bed, and Mrs. Trengrouse tucked in the coverlet around her as she tossed fretfully, raising her hands in front of her face.
“My poor Caspian,” she muttered as she stared dully at her hands. “What will become of him?”
Mrs. Trengrouse made consoling noises but Helen would not be settled.
Helen struggled to sit up in the bed. “Hecate,” she began.
“I will send Daisy to find the cat,” the housekeeper promised her.
She seemed satisfied at this and collapsed against the pillows, snoring gently before Mrs. Trengrouse even finished tucking in the coverlet around her. She flicked a knowing glance towards the washstand and collected a small bottle there.
“Hair wash?” I asked, reading the label as we left the room.
“Gin,” she corrected. She slipped the bottle into her pocket. “She has always liked a bit of a soother, she has. Bless her. She loved Mr. Lucian. It was a terrible blow when he died.”
“He sounds an interesting fellow,” I suggested.
She beamed. “Oh, what larks he got up to! Always merry as a grig, playing a tune or painting a picture. He went to London to make his fortune, did our Mr. Lucian. We thought he might become a famous actor like that Mr. Irving, but he never did get the right parts. And the pictures he painted were never quite good enough. The story of his life, I fear,” she said with a rueful smile. “Never quite good enough. The disappointments were difficult and they took their toll. Well,” she finished with a brisk gesture, “I must get on and set Daisy to finding that cat. Thank you for your trouble just now, miss. I know you will not speak of it.”
She gave me a hopeful look, and I hastened to reassure her that I would not share with anyone that I had seen Helen Romilly sprawled upon the floor. “Certainly not. A lady’s private peccadilloes are her own business.”
“Bless you, miss,” Mrs. Trengrouse said as she bustled away.
I had very nearly reached the closed door of the library when I heard raised voices, one young and clearly upset, the other more sober and restrained but brooking no interruptions.
“But you must!” the younger cried. It took little imagination to conclude the speaker was Caspian.
His uncle responded flatly. “Must? I must do nothing. I cannot believe you would approach me in this fashion. I will not fund such an endeavor. You must look to yourself for the money.”
“But I have not the means,” came the anguished response. There was a pause and when he spoke again, it was in a pleading tone of such despair, a stone might have been moved to pity. “I am begging, Uncle Malcolm. For Mama’s sake.”
“I am not persuaded,” Malcolm Romilly replied with a coldness I would not have thought him capable of.
“Then you can go straight to hell,” Caspian told
