Helen hadn’t removed the ring yet, however. She glanced down at her left hand, watching the massive rose-cut diamond catch the light from the parlor windows. She truly hated the large, vulgar thing. It was top-heavy and it constantly slid from side to side, making simple tasks difficult. One might as well tie a doorknob to one’s finger.
Oh, for a piano, she thought, longing to pound on the keys and make noise. Beethoven, or Vivaldi.
Her betrothal was over, with no one having asked what she wanted.
Not even Winterborne.
Everything would go back to the way it was. Now there would be nothing to intimidate or challenge her. No dark-eyed suitor who wanted things she didn’t know how to give. But she didn’t feel the relief she was supposed to feel. The tight, trapped feeling in her chest was worse than ever.
The more she thought about the last time she’d seen Winterborne… his impatience, the demanding kisses, his bitter words… the more she thought that they should have talked about what had happened.
She would have at least liked to try.
But it had probably all worked out for the best. She and Winterborne hadn’t been able to find their footing together. He unnerved her, and she was certain that she bored him, and she didn’t see how she could have ever found a place for herself in his world.
It was only… she had liked the sound of his voice, and the way he had looked at her. And that sense he’d given her of being on the brink of discovering something new and frightening and wonderful and dangerous… she would miss that. She worried that his pride had been hurt. It was possible that he might feel lost and alone, just as she did.
As she fretted and paced around the room, Helen’s gaze happened to stray across an object on the table near the parlor window. Her eyes widened as she realized it was the potted Blue Vanda she had given him. The orchid he hadn’t wanted but had taken anyway. He had sent it back.
Helen hurried to the orchid, wondering what condition it was in.
Weak sunlight slanted across the table, flecked with glimmering, floating dust motes, some of them swirling around the light blue petals. Confusion spread through her as she saw the inflorescence of glowing blooms. The broad ovoid leaves were clean and glossy, and the roots anchored among the crushed clay pottery shards had been carefully trimmed and kept damp.
The Blue Vanda hadn’t sickened in Winterborne’s care… it had thrived.
Helen leaned over the orchid, touching the beautiful arc of its stem with a single fingertip. Shaking her head in wonder, she felt a tickle at the edge of her chin, and didn’t realize it was a tear until she saw it drop onto one of the Vanda’s leaves.
“Oh, Mr. Winterborne,” she whispered, and reached up to wipe at her wet cheeks. “Rhys. There’s been a mistake.”