Loving Helen Read Online Free

curious expression on his face as he studied her. “Is it your sister’s?”
    Helen shook her head, more confused than ever at the turns their conversation was taking. But he did not hurt me . Her heart began to slow as the distance between them grew again. “Grace has a similar gown. Grandfather had them made for us.” She prattled on, attempting to hide her nervousness. “He knew I would not be wearing mine to any balls, so he had it designed in a more medieval style, like the gowns the heroines wore in the stories we read together.”
    “It does have a hint of Camelot about it,” Mr. Preston said, a smile curving his mouth. “It looks quite lovely on you, and I recall that your sister looked very pretty, too, the night she wore hers to my ball.”
    “Grace is very beautiful,” Helen agreed, not knowing what else to say.
    “Why is it that your dress will never be worn to a ball?” Mr. Preston asked. “Do you not dance?”
    Helen shook her head. “I do not care for dancing.”
    I do not care to be near so many people, so many men .
    “Only strolls in the garden,” he mused, glancing down at her perfectly normal feet.
    She did not offer further explanation, and they started off again.
    “I was about to confess my madness a moment ago,” he said.
    Does that make him madder yet, that he has reminded me? He needn’t have told her. She had forgotten already. But then, it seemed she could hardly recall her own name in his presence.“As you caught me,” he said, “I feel I must offer an explanation.”
    “You don’t have to,” she hurried to assure him. I really don’t want to know.
    “It is all right. I feel that for some reason, I can tell you. I trust you will not go running about the neighborhood sharing my secret.”
    “Not at all,” Helen said, feeling her eyes widen. What awful thing was he about to confess? She glanced about for a side path once more.
    “Every morning I walk in the garden and speak to my wife, Elizabeth.” His lips pressed together, and he paused, as if waiting for a reaction of shock or disapproval.
    “But isn’t she — dead?” Helen whispered, then wished she could take it back.
    “Deceased sounds so much better,” Grace had said when people came to offer their condolences after Grandfather’s funeral.
    “She is.” Mr. Preston gave a tight-lipped smile. “She died in childbirth over three years ago. What I meant is that I imagine I speak with her. I share with her my problems and concerns. I tell her the amusing things Beth has said or done. It is only a pretend conversation — annoyingly, Elizabeth does not respond — but I find that it does me a great deal of good — most days.”
    “Oh.” Helen looked at the ground, fighting a swell of emotion. Relief, sweet and refreshing — he is not mad — was followed almost instantly by the realization that her plan to catch Mr. Preston’s interest had ended before it began. His wife had been gone for three years, and still he spoke to her in the garden every day. It was the most tragically romantic thing Helen had ever heard.
    “I’m sorry. I did not mean to upset you. Are you quite all right?” he asked, concern in his voice.
    She nodded her head and forced herself to look up, not wanting him to misunderstand. “You are not insane at all.”
    So why did she feel so sad? Helen swallowed painfully as his face blurred from the moisture building in her eyes. “I think that your talking to your wife is the most beautiful thing I have ever heard. I am so sorry to have interrupted.” She turned and fled the way she had come, wiping at her eyes as she went back along the path, past the bush that had caught her dress, and onto another path.
    Mr. Preston’s situation was beautiful and tragic. Beautiful because of his continuing devotion. Tragic because he was still in love with his wife.

Forty-five minutes later, Samuel sat down to breakfast alone, though the table was set for two. He supposed he’d frightened his