Chapter Fifteen: Further Meetings

 A new sunny morning began over Chamberlain Estates. While awakening, Helena considered Basil's letter to her person. Feeling the skylight by her window, she began to rub her sleepy eyes while recalling the boy that she once knew from years before. For many months, even years, she had longed to hear from him and wondered if he would write to her. Now, her mind, while grateful to consider his invitation, wondered why now? Why, after all these years, did he suddenly decide to compose ink on a paper sheet with the intent of addressing her person? Why had he not written sooner? The question was puzzling. Nothing she presumed or guessed could make any sense of the situation. If he were here now, she could ask him, but to her knowledge, he was still in London. Emotional, yet also cautious, hearing from him made her suddenly reconsider why the breach of time? How can any friend let years pass without writing? Will people not reach out to those they care for? No profession of love, she felt, matters if love is not manifested in works. 

''It has been so long,'' she thought. ''I have not seen him since I was very young. Why now? Why did he not write before? I don't understand. Can others not explain their actions more clearly than leaving us to wonder about their mind's thoughts and heart's intent? Truly, I know that love can cause joy and happiness, but also, anguish and confusion. Basil has always been kind---I do not mean to judge him. I do not know his heart. Often, it is easier to assume than to trust when one cannot understand. I wish to think well of him---I hope to do so. Still, I have my doubts. I am human, after all. It is normal for us to all to question ourselves and those whom we esteem. I think most high of him, which is why his long absence has especially perplexed me. Where has he been? Oh, I have so many questions and few answers and now that he has written, I am left wondering even more than before as to these mysteries.''

Her thoughts paused when she saw a mouse escape across the floor. ''Melbourne,'' she muttered with a smile, even as the small creature brought satisfaction to her heart. 

Miss Somerset was born young and beautiful, but just as now, she looks to the pleasing sights in light to retain her heart's purity. She was gentle in her disposition, excitable in her conduct, and angelic in sight. 

Her thoughts returned to the young man. She considered her friendship to him and how long they had been parted from one another. They were just children before and no children, no matter how mature, can experience romance as two adults.  

The young woman lifted the letter from Basil to her face. Reading it again, she imagined the young boy at Stanford's house in London. She could not grasp his appearance, which was in her mind the same as the young boy that she once knew. To her, he was still twelve, even though she knew he was much older. 

Miss Somerset lifted from her bed. Facing her window, she saw her adolescent self conversing with Basil again---a scene ten years before now. The memory was alive in her mind. Her thoughts on the scene were countless. As tears rolled down from her eyes, she felt her childhood experiences with the young dark-headed boy flash before her youthful eyes. Her heart remained steadfast, as do all hearts that remember hope when hope can no longer be seen. 

Approaching her mirror in her Amaranth-shaded nightgown, she considered what she would wear that morning. Considering George's departure and Basil's entrance into her life, it was the least of her worries. 

Having dressed herself into her green gown, Helena crossed into the hallway outside her room while imagining a good breakfast waiting for her. Suddenly, though, she began to hear a conversation below, which she did not expect. Surprisingly to her, the dialogue was between Mrs. Weathers and her parents. 

''Helena is a lovely girl,'' Margaret spoke. ''It is truly unfortunate that her brother is now gone. I respect your children well, and everyone in Yorkshire knows of their closeness to one another. For your son, George, I am afraid that despite his bravery, Napolean and the French remain a true and stable threat to the welfare of our beloved England.'' 

Margaret's words were even more surprising to Helena than to the former's presence. How did Margaret know war so well? But as she considered the question, she assumed suck knowledge had been derived from General Weathers, the lady's late husband. 

Matthew faced one of the bookshelves while sighing over his son. ''Alas, you know our son too well,'' he lamented. ''Still, I am grateful that he is brave---even bravery puts him at the front. We have a great War that my son will face, and we must all pray for him. Though Napoleon is no Robespierre, he is a great foe nonetheless. We owe Edmund Burke much for preserving our country from the tyranny of that accursed French Revolution.'' 

Suddenly, all the weight of England seemed to fall upon Margaret's shoulders. Her eyes watered as wet crystals, which befell from her blue eyes. As she faced way, however, the Somerset parents conversed with one another over George---missing her sight. 

''We are fortunate that we did not live in France during those days,'' Matthew said to his wife. ''England is far better off now. Thankfully, none of us ever lived through those terrible events.'' 

Margaret signed in deep to the last sentence but then hid her reaction as her shaking right hand reached for her glass of tea. Both Somerset parents missed her inclination to avoid discussions of the French Revolution before Napolean's eventual rise to power. As her hand tightened on her glass, her heart felt wounded by narratives of dark events long before the present. She thought of a place very different than this---of a world far darker than the glades and greenwood of Yorkshire, England. 

Helena, though, had the strange intuition that Margaret was thinking of something before the current events. She understood now that behind Mrs. Weathers's admirable face was a brilliant mind hidden from the world. 

''George does not know what he's getting into,'' Mrs. Somerset added. ''Years ago, Matthew fought the Americans, but the French are a far different breed---and have been remarkably different since that strange dark year of their recent history: 1789. They are no longer the kingdom of those many French Crusaders from long ago. Whatever once defined their country by Chivalry and piety has been reduced to humanism and conceits.''

''In general, I feel afraid for my son,'' Mrs. Somerset added. ''It is not that I question George's bravery. If anything, he is too brave, as Helena has noted. Ever since he was young, he has aspired to be England's greatest soldier and the influence of Mr. Peter Devonsham's importance in the royal army has seemed to deceive his mind concerning Peter's true character. George loves his country as his own soul, and I know that he gives his all to battle for his country.'' 

The words of Mrs. Somerset were the same as her daughter's thoughts. Helena thought of her brother and imagined him somewhere on the European continent as a new battle awaited him.

''Yes, George is a brave young man,'' agreed Margaret. ''For that alone, he deserves all of our attention.''

''And our prayers,'' Matthew added. 

Mrs. Weathers consented to their wish. ''I will petition our Lord for His protection.''

Matthew turned to his wife as both felt grateful for Mrs. Weathers's friendship.

''You are unlike most of your sex,'' he stated. 

Margaret smiled. She didn't know how to take the description. 

''Let me expound,'' he continued. ''You are beautiful but are also a wonderful guardian of young women, as you have long been the godmother of my beloved Helena. Neither I nor my wife have ever found you to be flippant toward your possessions, as are some of the ladies in Yorkshire. I know your daughter, sweet Mrs. Devonsham, also takes much after you.'' 

''Thank you,'' she returned. ''I will remember your kind compliment. Ada is the sweetest sun that creation ever birthed.'' 

Mrs. Somerset stepped toward Margaret as the conversation seemed to take a different course. ''We have a serious concern to address,'' she began.

Margaret's faze reacted with surprise. Puzzled, she could not fathom what was to follow. 

''It's Peter Devonsham,'' the father spoke more strongly than before. ''There are some things of him which I believe you must know...''

Margaret listened as Helena's parents led her into the next room, where the three conversed without the intrusion of any butler or maid. Upstairs, the young woman could not here what they said. 

Astounded by their current privacy, Helena wondered what was taking place. What could be so important about discussing Mr. Devonsham? Had Peter written them? A thousand possibilities rushed through her brilliant mind. 

                                           

*      *      *

About an hour after her godmother left, Helena spent a good deal of time outside. Sitting by a grey willow, she also painted Basil as she had last seen him. On paper, the boy looked nearly identical to how he had once appeared. Smiling, she admired his healthy dark hair and striking green eyes. He was the only young man for whom she had ever had these feelings. 

Briefly, she rested her golden head on her rested arms. As her closed eyes faced the white sky, she was as much a joy to creation as the yellow-circled sun. Thinking back, she repeatedly saw herself as an adolescent again while conversing with the boy that she adored. Seeing his daughter in the distant field, Matthew was contemplating how he wished to begin a dialogue with her. Headed her way, he crossed the field's many blooming flowers before joining her side. 

She turned. He was smiling at her painting. 

''Who is the lucky boy that my daughter dreams of?'' he teased. 

''Oh, papa,'' Helena returned, as her face turned all red from a hastening blush. 

''Well?'' he asked again. 

She laughed. ''Someone from long ago.''

''Basil Lee?''

''Yes, of course. I hope my painting does him justice.''

''I have never seen anything that my daughter has done that was unworthy toward its recipient. Indeed, your work looks much like him. You do a splendid job at painting, my dear golden sun.''

''Father?'' she questioned, recalling Basil's phrase toward her. ''Long ago, Basil called me Heaven's last golden sun. Did you know this?''

''No,'' he smiled, recognizing Basil's early attraction to his daughter. ''But your mother and I called you this at birth. I told Mr. Lee that we had called you this. Perhaps he told his son?''

Helena looked down while missing the boy that she once knew. ''Yes, perhaps that is the case,'' she returned. 

''That young boy must have been fluent with love's language,'' the father chuckled. ''I did not know that boys at twelve could woo a girl so.''

''Nor did I, though Basil is unmatched by his sex. He was more courteous than any boy I've known---save George.'' 

''Indeed. It is a good day to paint. On this lovely Spring day, I can think of nothing else better to do.'' 

Matthew sat down beside his daughter. ''Mrs. Weathers was here this morning,'' he began. ''I thought that you would be interested in knowing that. She has always been a good friend of our family. Like us, Margaret is concerned about George's welfare. She knows that young men are, in many ways, boys with higher responsibility. I do not question my son's courage, only his perception of what war is.'' 

Helena inhaled. ''I have been thinking so much of him,'' she returned. ''This morning, I awoke while considering his person. I was soon surprised to see that Mrs. Weathers was here.''

''She came by at dawn. None of us expected it. Recently, as she explained, she had been in Oxford with several of her close relatives. She has known Peter's interest in you and declines to see him as loving toward her daughter, Ada.'' 

Surprised again, Helena lifted from the grass. She ignored the brown-paint stains. ''How does she know this?'' she asked. 

''It seems that Peter's scandals are following him. She said that her daughter has found him openly flirting with other women. As time has went on, he has become even more bold and arrogant about his intentions. His pursuits have greatly hurt Mrs. Devonsham.'' 

Helena pitied Ada's feelings. She had long been a close friend to her. ''She is the sweetest friend that I have ever known,'' she replied. ''I detect Peter's lust as much as she does. Still, how has her mother learned of Peter's deflection to me?'' 

Matthew's expression turned more serious. ''I told her this morning. I knew that she needed to know, and I was not interested in telling her ladyship over the letter. Besides, I do not want Peter to visit us anymore. Not only is the young man arrogant and a bad influence on my son. But I want my daughter to be surrounded by good prospects. It is a father's responsibility to protect his daughter, after all. When a young woman sees only men who are beneath honor, it may be tempting for her to drop her standards. Certainly, sometimes young women will fall for even a sinister man if they are around him enough. The last time that Peter was here, I realized that he was trouble for us. Recently, I wrote him, forbidding him from my home. He is no longer to be welcomed among us.'' 

The entire explanation was surprising to the young woman. Still, she was grateful for her father's courage in protecting her from Peter's presence.''

''As to George,'' he continued, ''he is in war now. I cannot protect him as I do my daughter.''

''Thank you, father,'' she replied. ''I do not wish to be near Mr. Devonsham. Anyone who can wound Ada is no friend of mine. Furthermore, one who covets someone else is beyond the worthiness of our trust. We are often told that murder and lust destroy souls, yet I know well, as also you do, that coveting is often at the root of many great sins.'' 

He smiled, recognizing his daughter's wisdom. ''The path to wisdom is discerning friend from foe and listening to those who have always cared for your soul.'' 

''Yes. Father, there is something that I would like to share with you now.'' 

''Oh? What is that?'' 

''Last night, I received a letter addressed to all of us. It is from Basil Lee. He has requested to meet us at the Stanford's home in North London, where another ball is to be held.''

''Basil,'' he replied, reflecting on the young boy. ''So this is why my golden sun paints him now?'' 

She smiled. 

''Yes, of course, we will meet him. It has been many years since we saw him, I wonder what he looks like now.''

Matthew sensed her excitement for this forthcoming occasion. 

''Ten years,'' she added. ''It has been ten years since I last saw him. Father, I was only ten.''

They laughed. ''Come, come, it will be a delightful time for all of us. We shall travel to London and meet the Stanfords and Basil again. Yes, the more that I think on the matter, the more that I think our journey will be worthwhile.'' 

''Helena sighed with relief. ''I was hoping you would take Mother and me.'' 

''Of course. Helena, my dear, for many years now, we have lived on our rural estate in Shrewsbury, but finding new acquaintances in London will be beneficial to all of us. Your mother and I have been recently discussing the importance of all of us visiting London. With George gone now, the scenes of our theatre room may be more depressing to all of us. A change of scenery, though, can help remove the dampness from all of our hearts. Don't you think?''

''Yes. I am grateful for Shrewsbury but feel it now lacking with my brother gone. As long as we are here, I think that I will still be thinking about him.''

She refrained from speaking. Her father recognized her discount demeanor. 

''I miss George too. I pray the war ends soon and my son returns home.''

''Yes, papa. That would be nice. It's just that our war with France has already lasted over a decade. I cannot imagine how often George may have to return home only to return back to the battlefield.'' 

''Let us not think of that. It is already terrible that this war has lasted so long. One man's quest for power has destroyed the lives of thousands of soldiers---and many people. The French leaders teach their people that they are citizens of the state, as if the state is wiser than its people, though we English know well that even the state is prone to corruption. The crown that rules the best is the same crown that considers the most. No leader is deserving of respect if he cannot listen to wisdom, as is the case for Emperor Napolean, England's worst foe.'' 

''Father, Mrs. Weathers is a very wise lady. Of all the people in Chesterfield, she has always intrigued me the most. Of course, she is my godmother, but I find her person beyond compare.''

''Indeed. She has always been gracious and honest with us. I admire how much she cares for her in-laws outside Yorkshire. She just recently visited her sister and nieces in Oxford.''

''Any nieces with her as an aunt must be very blessed.'' 

''Certainly.''

There was a brief silence. The wild winds of the southeast rushed over the flowers and grass of the field. Watching the nature before her, Helena's mind felt rested. 

Abruptly, the two lifted from their feet and began considering their expedition to London. Inwardly, Matthew wondered, nonetheless, if his daughter would still be attracted to Basil as she had been as a young girl. It had been ten years since the Somersets and Lees had met, after all, and in ten years, are people not prone to change?