by Susana Ellis
But there were points in her favor too. Having lived all her life in the country, she expressed a preference for the quiet serenity of rustic life. Her clothing was appropriate, but not ostentatious, and she was a self-proclaimed expert needlewoman, having embroidered chair covers and tapestries and taken on all of the darning in her father’s household prior to her marriage.
Darning! James scowled, wishing for a quick end to the evening. He was so bored he almost wished her rowdy Henley cousins—with whom she was currently residing—had accompanied them. Uncouth and ill-mannered they might be, but never boring. They’d welcomed him with open arms, offered him whisky, patted him on the back and talked up the virtues of their “dear sweet cousin” who’d been sadly cheated by the brutality of war. James wasn’t sure why she couldn’t return to her father’s household—somewhere in Somerset, he thought. She didn’t seem to wish to speak about it, and he did not feel at ease pressing her on it at this stage of their acquaintance.
“Quite a crush, is it not?” he said, taking out a handkerchief to wipe his brow.
A handful of urchins raced by chasing a ball, dodging people left and right.
She frowned. “It isn’t very—orderly—is it?”
“It’s not Almack’s, of course, but I suppose opening the place up to the masses makes for more profits.”
She looked away, no doubt because she considered the discussion of money inappropriate.
He opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it. Bloody hell, was he always going to have to watch his tongue around her, because if so, he was sure the only way they would get along would be to avoid her presence altogether.
Now if Helena Lloyd were here, she’d be laughing and commenting on the disparity between the Vauxhall visitors. One seldom saw elegant ladies and gentlemen, strumpets, and common urchins in the same locale. She might make inappropriate comments on the Prince Regent’s disappearance down the Dark Walk with Lady Hertford, but she’d never just sit there and bore him to death as Adele Rhodes was doing.
Speaking of the Dark Walk, he knew she’d accompany him down those mysterious paths, admire the Chinese Pavilion, and perhaps even let him kiss her, if he could persuade her to forgive him for being a pompous ass at their last meeting. He recalled the warmth of her body, the feel of her hands wrapped around his neck, the sparkle of her fairytale eyes as they’d shared that splendid kiss. He knew instinctively she’d be a passionate lover, the kind every man dreamed to find in a lover and rarely did within the bounds of marriage. His late wife Anne had been enthusiastic at first, but less so as the marriage turned sour. He wondered if that were the case with most marriages—passion turning to disappointment then boredom. It seemed to be true of many ton marriages, but he suddenly realized that wasn’t what he wanted. He rather preferred a marriage like the Newsomes’, a love match where both parties shared equally in their relationship.
“Isn’t that Lord Liverpool?”
James spun his head around and saw the Prime Minister stroll by with his wife, Louisa.
“It is indeed,” he replied, faintly surprised that she knew him, being so ignorant of politics as she’d claimed. “Are you acquainted with him?”
“No-er-yes.” Her hand flew to her chest. “My father knew him before he became Prime Minister. He visited once, when I was a child.”
Aha, James thought, hoping she would expound a bit more on her origins. “So your father is a Tory?”
She bit her lip. “My father was, yes. But he died recently, and I’ve no political inclinations.”
James felt like banging his head against the wall. “And your mother?”
“She died when I was born.”
“Any siblings?” he pressed on.
“Only my brother George. And my cousins, whom you’ve met.”
James gave up. It was hard to feign interest in a woman who had so little to say for herself. Was she hiding something or was this really all there was? In either case, he was beginning to regret showing partiality to her. While he had not formally requested to pay his addresses, he was aware that his attentions thus far must have encouraged her to expect them soon. It would be difficult to extricate himself without causing the young lady to feel humiliated.
But how in the hell was he to find a compatible wife if society did not allow them time to become acquainted? Anne he’d taken at face value, only to discover later that she wasn't the malleable, even-tempered girl she seemed. He wasn’t willing to do the same again. Adele Rhodes' reluctance to speak about herself made him suspect she was hiding something, and he wouldn't commit himself further until he knew what it was.
Secrets. Adele Rhodes had them. Helena Lloyd did too. He wondered if there were any honest women left in the world.
A warning blast sounded, and the crowd outside began to move toward the river.
James rose and extended a hand to his companion. “The fireworks are about to start. Shall we, Mrs. Rhodes?”
“Yes, of course,” she said with a relieved smile as she put her hand in his. “I’m quite fond of fireworks.”
Was that the first personal bit of information she’d volunteered about herself all evening? James rather thought it was.
* * *
August 25, 1817
Newsome Grange
Kingswood
Kent
“I don’t know why we couldn’t have all gone to London,” lamented Theo. “There’s plenty of room in the townhouse, and Miss Lloyd could take us riding through Hyde Park or to see the animals in the Royal Menagerie.”
“Or to Astley’s,” Annabelle added. “Papa promised he would take me there soon. Perhaps he will take all of us. I really want to see the man who rides six horses at once.”
“Papa said he saw General Jackoo ride a horse with a candelabra balanced on a stick between his teeth,” said Theo. “General Jackoo is a monkey,” she explained to Helena, who was suitably impressed.
“He’s too old now,” Annabelle explained. “Mrs. Fenwick—she took her grandson there, you know—says the big attraction is the pig who can read minds and tell time. And Mr. Ducrow, the best horseman in the world.”
Helena sat on the grass leaning against the trunk of a beech tree as she gazed idly at the wildflowers she held in her hands.
“Don’t worry, Annabelle. I’m sure you’ll get your trip to London soon. Your father knows you’ve been a model pupil. And your parents, Emily and Theo, won’t be there long enough on this trip to make a family holiday of it.” The Newsomes had traveled to London to finalize preparations for Marcus’s wedding to Miss Hill, which was two weeks away.
She held a bluish flower to her nose and sniffed. “What’s this one called, Emily? It’s too pretty to be growing wild.”
Emily tucked a few stray locks of blonde hair behind her ear and smiled. “All of these flowers grow wild—that’s why I love the summer. That’s a cornflower, Miss Lloyd. They will soon be gone, but these meadow buttercups will bloom a few weeks more.”
The weather had been inclement for so long that when a sunny day finally came along, Helena had yielded to the girls’ pleas for an outdoor excursion. After an hour of running, climbing trees and wading in the lake, the party had adjourned for a rest period in their favorite spot, the hill overlooking the shores of the lake, glistening in the afternoon sunlight. It was a perfect day to lounge in the sun, Helena thought, wondering idly what would happen if she were caught sunbathing in her bikini as she had done frequently at Florida State. Which wouldn’t ever happen, since the bikini in question wouldn’t be manufactured for another two hundred years.
She stretched her legs on the grass and gave a deep sigh of satisfaction. There were times when she felt like her entire life up to now was nothing but a twenty-seven-year-old dream from which she had finally been awakened, like one of those coma patients in the movie Awakenings. After a few hours of glorious revival, they all went back to sleep again. Would that be the case with her too? Would she wake up one day and find
herself back in the twenty-first century and wonder if she’d been dreaming the life she lived here in 1817, or vice versa? It was all rather fantastical, she marveled, and then chuckled as she realized how the language of the period was slipping into her speech. In itself, such a thing was not at all remarkable; she’d found herself picking up Britishisms in the twenty-first century too as her stay in the UK lengthened. But if she were to stay here long enough, would she ever reach the point of forgetting her American speech? Or forget her past life altogether? She made a note to ask Lady P when next she saw her. Or Mrs. Herne—she went by Madame Herne here—if she ever returned to London from her own travels.
“Never fear, girls, you will all be going to London soon to attend Marcus’s wedding to Miss Hill. Your mother is bringing back your new gowns, and you will soon have a new sister to welcome to the family.”
“Shan’t I get a new gown, Miss Lloyd?” Annabelle’s lip trembled.
Poor motherless child. Her father had deserted her to go off courting—well, to give him his due, he was apparently searching for a mother for Annabelle. Being a man, though, he’d undoubtedly tossed the wedding invitation aside when it arrived, and hadn’t even considered his own wedding apparel, let alone that of his daughter. While it wasn’t really the responsibility of a governess, Helena found her heart aching for the child who seemed to have been overlooked for so long.
“We’ll go into Maidstone tomorrow,” she decided impulsively. “I have no doubt the modiste will be able to make up a fine gown for you to wear to the wedding. Won’t that be amusing, girls? A shopping trip for Princess Annabelle?”
The girls giggled as they always did when Helena referred to them as royal offspring, and Annabelle beamed.
“Your crown, Your Royal Highness,” proclaimed Theo, rising to offer her friend the wreath of intertwined yellow buttercups she’d woven.
“Shall I have a gown made of silver threads like the wedding dress of Princess Charlotte?” asked Annabelle with a mischievous grin in Helena’s direction.
Helena pursed her lips and pretended to consider it. Then she sighed and shook her head. “Silver gleams like nothing else when it’s polished and new, but quickly tarnishes and turns ugly. No, Your Royal Highness, your gown will be beautiful for all time, even after you’ve outgrown it and packed it away in the attic.”
Annabelle’s eyes sparkled. “Do you suppose Princess Charlotte has a servant to polish her wedding gown, like Higgins does with the silver?”
The girls laughed hysterically at the vision of the Newsomes’ butler polishing a gown with the same intensity he used for the family silver.
“He’d ruin it, I should think,” Theo offered. “And then… off with his head!”
“Goodness!” exclaimed Helena. “I shouldn’t like to be around royalty too much. I’m far too fond of my head, you know, to be exposed to royal whims.”
“Does Princess Charlotte say such things, Miss Lloyd?” Annabelle turned her inquisitive hazel eyes in Helena’s direction.
Helena shook her head. “I shouldn’t think so,” she said with a smile. “But I’m not sure being royal is much like the way it is portrayed in fairy tales.” She was thinking of Princess Diana’s tragic marriage, but she thought it applied equally to what she knew of the Prince Regent’s disastrous life and marriage. Of course, it wouldn’t be appropriate to mention either example, for very different reasons, so she deliberately shifted the subject.
“I believe we are all princesses, in our own way,” she began. “Each one of us is completely unique, with talents and abilities and emotions that no one else has or will ever have. That makes us all special. Precious, like gems, perhaps a bit rough at first, but with time and effort, each one of us has the ability to make the world a better place.”
She leaned forward and squeezed Annabelle’s hand. “So you are indeed a princess, darling Annabelle. Don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise.”
“So we’re all princesses?” Emily inquired. “That means you are a princess too, Miss Lloyd!”
“I don’t know,” Annabelle said thoughtfully. “I don’t think they have princesses in America.”
Helena burst out laughing. “I’m a princess, you are all princesses. Everyone is, really, in a way.”
“Papa’s a prince!” Annabelle’s eyes widened.
“Mine’s a king!” boasted Theo. “And Mama’s a queen!”
The girls jumped up and practiced curtseying to each other and then persuaded Helena to join them in “Ring Around the Rosie” and “The Farmer in the Dell”—all songs Helena had taught them—before they all collapsed to the ground in a heap of giggles.
“What about your parents, Miss Lloyd?” Emily remarked when their mirth had subsided. “You’ve never told us much about them. Did they teach you about being a princess when you were growing up?”
Helena swallowed uncomfortably. She knew the story she and Lady P had fabricated between them, but she loathed having to tell lies, especially when she had to keep making up details in a flash and trying to remember them later on.
And then there was the whole issue of deliberately lying to people she had come to care about. It felt—wrong—somehow. And yet, under the circumstances, how could she do anything else? It was easier to avoid the subject altogether.
But she could tell partial truth. “My parents died—or at least, my mother did.” And she told them an abbreviated version of the tale, omitting the foster homes to focus on her adoptive mother.
“So you don’t know where your father is?” Emily asked, lying on her stomach with her hands propping up her head.
Helena blinked. “No, I don’t. I may well never know. I knew that when I came here, but your grandmother—Lady Pendleton—has been kind enough to make inquiries for me.”
“When you find him, will you stay?” asked Theo. “Or will you go back to America?”
Helena shrugged. “It all depends,” she said. “While I’d love to have a father, I can’t be certain he’ll be equally delighted to have a grown-up daughter thrust on him. I believe I’d be satisfied just to know the truth about what happened.” And then I can go on from there. Whatever that means.
Annabelle’s brow furrowed. “I remember my grandmother telling me about my aunt's stolen baby. At Christmas, when she was talking to me about my mother and how much she missed her. She said at least she’d been able to see her little girl grow up, where my Aunt Mariah didn’t even have that. When I asked if the baby died, she said no, someone stole her away and they never saw her again.”
She grimaced. “But that can’t be you, can it, Miss Lloyd? Because your mother died in a carriage accident.”
Helena pressed her palms downward on her thighs to keep herself in check. But her heart was racing wildly. Annabelle's aunt could not actually be her parents. But it was an intriguing coincidence. She wished she could meet them and compare their images to the man and woman whose images were painted in her locket. “What were—are—their names?” she asked in a trembling voice.
Annabelle leaned back and frowned. “Gibson. My mama was a Gibson before she married Papa. Aunt Mariah and Uncle William.”
Gibson. Where had she heard that name before? It was that young man at the inn. The one Izzy said had mentioned her resemblance to his cousin. Her muscles went weak. Was it Anne who was his cousin? And if the lost child of the Cranbournes was really Helena… she was Anne's cousin as well!
Helena tried to quiet her racing thoughts. It's impossible. Coincidences like this simply do not happen to ordinary people like me.
But they did. What about the portrait—her initial attraction to it, the prompt encounter with two people who resembled the images on it—so soon after her arrival? Coincidence? Or Fate?
She stood and brushed the grass from her blue morning gown. “All right, that’s enough play time,” she said after a deep breath. “Gather a few more flowers and we’ll have Mrs. Morton find a vase so we can admire them in the schoolroom.”
She w
asn't sure how she managed to contain the adrenaline rush that accompanied this latest discovery, but finally, after dinner, she was able to pour it all out in a letter to Lady P. How she wished she could pick up a phone and be able to compare notes on their separate findings. It was maddening to feel so close to the truth and still have to wait days or weeks for the confirmation.
And if it was true that she had been the baby stolen from her parents, how in the world would she be able to prove it, without DNA testing? Likenesses could be deceiving and they would, of course, be skeptical. Add to this the whole time travel imbroglio… it was likely they'd have her tossed out of the house, assuming they'd agree to see her in the first place.
But at least she would know that her parents hadn't tossed her away. And have blood relatives, like Annabelle and her mother. Was that why the portrait had reached out to her? Because she and the headless lady were blood relatives?
Of course, that didn't explain her immediate attraction to the figure of Annabelle's father in the portrait. Or why her dreams these days seemed to be fixated on him…
* * *
August 26, 1817
Grillon’s Hotel
Albemarle Street
London
London was a dead bore.
Except for that brief period when he’d met and courted Anne, he’d always found it so. Anne was at her element in London, basking in the glamour of the balls and parties and the feminine fripperies. He found the social rounds extravagant and superficial, and the clubs even more so. On one of the few times he’d accompanied Sir Henry to White’s, he’d been horrified by the expression on a young cub’s face upon comprehending that he had gambled away his entire inheritance. As for the betting book—it appalled him to see what silly things gentlemen found to bet on. Lord Alvanley had lost three thousand guineas on a bet to see which of two raindrops would reach the bottom of the bow window first. Egads! Three thousand pounds! When James considered how long it had taken him to earn that much through hard work and dedication on his own manor, the absurdity of it all made his temperature rise.
