by Susana Ellis
A Home for Helena
Book 2 of the Lady P Chronicles
Susana Ellis
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Thanks for reading!
About the Author
Also by Susana Ellis
Also By Susana Ellis
The Ultimate Escape
Copyright © 2016 by Susana Ellis
Cover design by Mari Christie
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior permission of the publisher, except for brief quotes in reviews.
ISBN-978-0-9908638-2-3
ISBN: 978-0-9908638-2-3
Created with Vellum
To Mom and Dad
I love you.
You did good. Never doubt it.
Heartfelt Gratitude
To my fabulous critique partners, Selene Grace Silver and Cora Lee
Boy did I get lucky to find you gals!
To my fellow Bluestocking Belles
Amy Rose Bennett, Mariana Gabrielle, Sherry Ewing, Jude Knight, Caroline Warfield, Nicole Zoltack
It's been a fantastic year getting to know and work with you all.
A toast to you all, and a wish for many more successful collaborations.
To Ellen Shrager, cheerleader extraordinaire
Your time will come. Sooner than you think.
1
Present-day London
She nearly missed the portrait the first time she visited the decaying antiquities shop tucked into a narrow lane in Covent Garden. After sorting through a dozen boxes of dusty old toys, vinyl records and old lamps, she had concluded that “Ye Olde Junk Shop” really did sell junk, and was about to leave when a deluge of rain caused her to delay her departure.
She carried an umbrella, of course. It rained in England. But she’d been there long enough to know that more often than not the black rain clouds soon dispersed, leaving the lighter clouds—and occasionally the sun—in their place. Not at all like the semi-tropical storms she was used to in her native Florida. No, in London when it rained, she’d learned to simply pop into a shop or coffee shop and wait until it stopped.
Shrugging, she turned around and strolled to the rear of the store, hoping to unearth a new-to-her treasure to add to her eclectic collection. Nobody really understood her peculiar passion for seemingly worthless antiques. No more than she did herself. The Gucci bags and designer jeans that her twenty-something peers drooled over held no interest for Helena. Instead, she haunted antique shops in search of odd relics that seemed to have a story to tell her. For example, brushing her fingers over a rusty old key, her mind might create a visual image of the object it unlocked—a door, perhaps, or an old trunk in an attic somewhere, filled with treasures from the past. Fleeting images of people too. A stern-looking man in a mustache and a turn-of-the century suit. A woman whose sparkling blue eyes belied the solemn expression on her face in a dove gray gown with a bib-front bodice and a hairstyle reminiscent of Miss Kitty’s upswept do from Gunsmoke. Children in pinafores and pantaloons romping with a big dog in a grassy clearing surrounded by towering trees. Scenes so real that it seemed as though she could step in and interact with them, if only for a moment.
It was a heady feeling. Addictive. Which went a long way toward explaining her compulsion to surround herself with odd relics that nobody else wanted. It didn't, however, explain her obsession with all things British and her master's degree in British History. Not for a girl born and raised in Florida. Her mother blamed it on the Jean Plaidy books that she'd devoured as a teenager. But Helena remembered having strange dreams with oddly-dressed people who spoke with peculiar accents long before she had learned to read. It was only later that she learned her dreams centered on late eighteenth century England and became utterly consumed with it, determined from a young age to understand how people lived in that time period.
Her eyes struggled to adjust to the obscurity, and for the first time she wondered why the store was so poorly lit, particularly so far back beyond the reach of the natural light. Come to think of it, where was the proprietor? Surely he or she would not have abandoned a shop—even a junk shop—in the middle of the day, not in London and particularly not in the crowded Covent Garden district.
Perhaps he was working in a back room? She tensed and halted, senses heightened. On one level she felt like fleeing, rainstorm and all, her instincts shouting potential danger. On another level, she felt impelled to continue, drawn by an unfamiliar feeling. Curiosity yes, but it was more than that. Something stronger, from her inner being. There was something here that she was meant to find. Something she’d yearned for all her life. A home? A place where she belonged?
Ridiculous, she told herself. One couldn’t find such a thing in any sort of shop. Nevertheless, spellbound, she made her way toward the dark inner depths of the shop, intent on discovering whatever it was that urged her forward. In her eagerness, she tripped over a box in her path and fell back against a shelf that immediately collapsed, sending its contents flying across the floor around her.
“Dear heavens! What’s happened?”
A light switched on and the proprietor—for surely it must be he—rushed out of a room on her left and bent down to check on her. An odd little man, she thought, pudgy, short and bald with a gray beard, wearing jeans and a T-shirt that said “Keep Calm and Drink Whisky.” Not your normal proprietor, she thought, but perhaps the perfect one for a store entitled "Ye Olde Junk Shop.”
“I’m afraid I tripped and knocked over your rack,” she said apologetically, noting with chagrin some broken ceramics on the floor as her eyes scanned the floor for a safe place to plant her hand.
The little man reached out to her. “Mind the sharps,” he warned. “Are you injured, ma’am?”
Helena accepted his assistance and rose from the floor, taking a deep breath as she regained her composure.
“I don’t think so,” she said, dusting off her knee-length denim skirt. She might have skinned her elbow when it knocked into the rack, but the injury didn’t appear serious. “I’m sorry to have damaged your merchandise, sir. I-uh-didn’t see this box on the floor, you see.”
“It’s my own fault entirely,” he said with a shake of his head. “My stock boy deserted me this morning and I didn’t think to check whether he had finished with today’s deliveries.” His gaze spanned the room. “Nor did I notice the lights were shut off. An accident waiting to happen, as it were. My apologies, ma’am.”
“No problem. I should have been more careful.”
The old man smiled sheepishly. "I’m afraid my shop is rather untidy.” He sighed. “I just can’t seem to find the right employees. The younger generation doesn't seem to be too interested in antiques."
"Perhaps it's the name of the shop that turns them off," suggested Helena. "What about something like 'Vintage Treasures' or 'Friends in Tyme'?"
"'Ye Olde Junk Shop' was my late wife's invention." He shook his head. "Not particularly fond of antiquities, but she worked here for twenty-five years before she passed away." His gaze became unfocused as he seemed to be reflecting on the past.
"I'm so sorry."
"No need. It's been more than ten years now. I still feel her with me, at times." He gave her a crooked smile. "At the moment she's needling me about allowing the shop to fall into such neglect. While she was around, there wasn't a speck of dust anywhere."
He gave her a hopeful look. "I don't suppose you're looking for employment, are you?"
"Sorry, no. I just like to explore antique shops."
He shrugged. “Thought not, but it was worth a try. Is there anything in particular you’re looking for? Perhaps I can help you find something." He gestured toward the back of the shop. "New pieces came in yesterday afternoon that haven't been sorted yet. You're welcome to have a look if you like."
For the first time, Helena noticed the handful of boxes piled on the floor. Could there be something worth checking out there? A glance at the shop windows assured her that the rain was still pounding the pavement, so she nodded. "I'd like to, yes."
He switched on another light and made as if to lift one of the boxes, which appeared to be heavier than he expected.
"Oh dear, let me help you." She hastened to the other end of the box, and together they lifted it and set it down on a large wooden table.
He opened the box and grunted as he pulled out a marble bust. "That's the culprit. Should have been packed in a separate carton. I hope it didn't damage the rest of the merchandise." He pulled out two lamps and an old tabletop globe, all of which showed the worse for wear, but then, that was not uncommon for antiques.
Interrupted by the ringing of the telephone, he shrugged apologetically and hustled into another room, waving an arm toward the pile of boxes. "Feel free to rummage through them as much as you'd like."
Helena stepped up to the table and looked over the remaining items in the box. Nothing of particular interest to her. Bending to reach for one of the other boxes, she found herself drawn to a flat box at the bottom of the pile, and decided to delve into that one next.
Probably more of the same, she thought. But one never knew what treasures lurked in these old shops. And her instincts had guided her well in the past.
The closer she came to the box, the stronger her certainty that there was something significant within. Her heart beat with anticipation as she lifted it onto the table and tore open the taped flaps with her fingernails, ignoring the box opener the proprietor had used.
It was a painting. A family portrait, in poor condition. In addition to the badly chipped frame with a missing corner, nearly a quarter of it was so badly damaged that one of the subjects couldn't be made out.
A frisson of excitement went through her as her fingers first made contact with it. She felt intuitively that this was an important object. Something she was meant to find. Carefully removing it from the box, she scrutinized the canvas with a growing sense of anticipation.
As she had first ascertained, it was an intimate portrait of a family, a darkly handsome youngish gentleman whose coffee-colored eyes seemed to drill into hers, a woman in a blue and white dress whose damaged face was indistinguishable, and a beaming dark-haired young girl in pink between them. A happy family. She felt happy just looking at them. No, it was more than that. It felt like her insides were vibrating.
“Interested in the portrait, are you? Got that last week at an estate sale in Maidstone. Vendor was about to discard it, damaged in a fire back in ’12. He was glad to get five pounds for it. It’s a sound painting, except for the scorched area, which a clever restorer can repair, I expect.”
Helena couldn’t speak, suddenly overcome by sharp feelings of loneliness and loss, followed by rage and bitterness. She wanted to be the woman in the painting. She could see herself in that painting. Feel her husband’s pride and love as he hugged her waist with his left arm and gripped his daughter’s shoulder with his right. The little girl’s joy bubbled over into her consciousness, and suddenly her heart was overflowing with love for both of them. How she wished she could turn and kiss those tantalizing lips, wrap her arms around his neck, run her fingers through his dark curls! Reach down and draw her daughter up to join in the tender moment! Be a part of a family. Her family!
Heart racing, Helena closed her eyes and took a deep, calming breath. It was just a painting. She'd had reactions to historical items before, but nothing quite so intense. She forced herself to turn away from the man's magnetic gaze.
“Shame about the woman’s face,” continued the proprietor, breaking the spell. “No restorer can put it back the way it was.” He tilted his head to the side as he studied her. “Seems to me you could have your face painted on there if you’d a notion to.”
Still reeling from the sudden jolt back to reality, Helena’s head whipped around to stare at him. “My face? W-Why would I do that?”
He tilted his head and studied her thoughtfully. “Damned if I know,” he said finally with a shake of his head. “Something tells me—a premonition, a hunch, whatever you want to call it—that this painting has a connection to you, madam.”
Misunderstanding the amazement on her face, he added, “Not that I hold with such things as a rule. No indeed. Brought up Church of England and so I will remain until my dying day. But there’s a wee bit of my Scots grandmother the clairvoyant that whispers to me on occasion, and this is one of ‘em.”
Helena gripped the table for support, swaying on her feet.
"How odd."
He shrugged. “It's probably nothing. Could be just the devil working overtime, like my mum used to tell me. Doesn’t matter. They come and won’t be ignored.”
The old man scratched his chin. “Do you have English ancestors, maybe? Could this be some of your relations?”
Helena swallowed. “I don’t know. Could be, I suppose. I was adopted as a baby, in Florida. I don't know anything about my biological parents."
He nodded understandingly. "A shame, that. In my mind, a person has a right to know where he came from."
A sentiment with which she could eagerly agree. In her case, however, it was as though she'd sprung out of nowhere.
He cocked his head and gave her an assessing look.
. “Instinct tells me that this painting belongs in your hands, ma’am. Normally, I’d price something like this at fifty pounds, considering it’s at least two centuries old, but seeing as how my negligence caused you to suffer a fall in my establishment, I’m willing to let it go for half that.”
She surveyed the painting with a critical eye. There was no way she’d go home without it, as he undoubtedly knew. But she was well aware that negotiating the price was obligatory.
“Well,” she said, her brows drawing close together, “I’d snap it up at that price if the canvas were intact, but the cost of replacing the frame and hiring a competent artist to restore it would probably cost me ten times that.”
He pressed his lips together and gave her a quizzical look. “In good condition, a painting like this would go for at least several hundred, perhaps close to a thousand. But considering the extensive damage, I’ll let you have it for twenty and I’ll throw in the name of a competent local artist.”
“Ten is my final offer,” Helena parried, knowing it wasn’t.
They finally settled on fourteen, and the proprietor shook his head admiringly.
“You’re quite good,” he said as he took the painting to the front desk for wrapping. “Are you sure you aren’t interested in employment? Can’t seem to find decent help. Young people these days just aren’t interested in the past.” He tilted his head to the side. "You aren't a tourist, are you?
“Not really,” she said, opening her purse to hand him the money, “but I already have a job.”
Although it did occur to her that she might prefer to work with the old man than with the demanding Mrs. Earskine and her leering husband. But nanny jobs came with room and board, and considering the cost of living in London, that was nothing to be sneezed at.
She glanced out the window and saw a bit of sunlight peering through. She still had
several hours left of her free day, but what she really wanted to do was take her precious purchase home and stare at it some more.
“Here you are, ma’am. I’ll write the name of the artist on the receipt. You certainly got yourself a good bargain.”
“Yes, thank you, I believe I did. It’s quite an intriguing piece, isn’t it?”
“Nice piece for a dining or living area, or will be anyway, when it’s restored. A pleasant sight to look at in this day and age, with so many broken families.”
Helena nodded. "In retrospect, the old ways always seem better, don't they? Better even than they were, perhaps."
He shrugged. "You might be right about that. Still, in my day, young people knew they had to work for a living. Not so with the ones I've seen."
She picked up her package and headed for the entrance of the store. He followed, fastening a "Staff Wanted" sign to the window.
“Good luck with that,” she told him with a sympathetic shake of the head.
* * *
Excitement over her unexpected find and her eagerness to rip the paper off and study it again in greater detail prompted her to cancel her planned visit to the London Transport Museum. Picking up a salad and coffee at a sandwich shop, she took a bus back to the Earskines’ home on Regent Street. Clasped to her chest, the package seemed to fuse with her inner self, making her insides jump and dance with anticipation. What was it about this painting? The feeling that she was meant to find it grew with each step toward the lush Georgian townhouse where she resided.
Her quarters—intended for a live-in maid—boasted a private entrance as well as her own bathroom and a lock on both doors to keep out wandering children and dogs, as well as predatory fathers. Of late, Richard Earskine had been eyeing her with a bit too much interest for her liking, and her attempts to discourage him seemed to have the opposite effect. She hoped he would get the message soon, because she was disinclined to search for another position until she had news from several museums about her applications for positions in her field.
