A Home for Helena (The Lady P Chronicles Book 2)

by Susana Ellis

  Madame Herne flushed. “Do not forget that our laws favor the rich and powerful. She told me that your father wanted to kill her and the babe, to keep the knowledge from his wife. She was desperate and hysterical and I suppose I was inclined to believe her.” She shook her head sadly. “Poor Maria was forced to have her children in secret and was never able to acknowledge them. She still grieves them, even though the royal jackass has long since deserted her.”

  Helena gasped. “The Prince had children by Mrs. Fitzherbert?” That was news to her.

  “Who was her husband, or so declared the pope. Yes indeed. But she was persuaded to hide their existence by the Prince’s advisors. For their own safety. So you see, Helena, such injustices are not uncommon.”

  She sighed heavily. “I thought Marnie and the child would be safe with me, but she reminded me that I had written her a reference and would surely be one of the first places they searched in London. While I was trying to think of a solution, someone started pounding at my door demanding to be allowed in, and I-I… panicked. I gave her a stone and told her how to use it.” She grimaced. "At least I think I did. But she might have misunderstood, if she'd been transported all the way to America. There wasn't much time, you see. I was afraid she might drop the babe en route, so I took up a scarf and bound the her—you—to her and told her I would give her a signal when it was safe to return. After a few weeks, I sent the signal, but there was no response. I had no way of knowing where she had gone or how to find her. I assumed she had found a safe place and decided to remain there. It's happened before, you know."

  A numbness came over Helena's mind, and she sobbed silently in her chair. The whole story was so preposterous—and yet there was a ring of truth to it. It was the gypsy girl, Marnie, who had stolen her.

  "She must have been as soon as she got there," Madame Herne said sadly. "There's always an element of risk in traveling through time. One can never be completely certain of one's landing place. It is fortunate indeed that you were not injured as well."

  She hazarded a glance at Helena. "Did no one find the stone I gave her?"

  Helena shook her head. “Only the locket, that I know of. It probably ended up on the street somewhere. Maybe even fell into a sewer drain somewhere." Where it would hopefully be lost and not create any further tragedies.

  Helena's body felt cold. She stared sightlessly in the direction of the lamp. “Why?” she whispered. “Why would she steal me from my parents? Surely she knew they would pursue her! Was it revenge, do you think? Did she even want a baby?”

  Madame Herne covered her face with her hands. “I don’t know,” she said finally, her shoulders drooping. “All I can think of is that she wasn’t right in her mind. She was always somewhat high-strung, but I attributed that to her youth. I did warn her of the folly of setting her cap for an earl, but she just laughed and insisted the next time I saw her she would be a countess and the darling of the ton. I thought she'd grow out of it. I didn't expect her to remain long in the country once she came to her senses.”

  A pained expression came over her face. “I know what she did was despicable and that she did you and the Cranbournes great harm, but I can’t help but feel sorry for her. She was a delightful girl. She could charm a bird out of its nest. I took her in because I thought I could help her do better for herself. I suppose in retrospect I encouraged her madness.”

  “Excuse me if I don’t share your feelings, Madame.”

  The excitement of discovering the truth of her parentage at last had suddenly been transformed to a strong feeling of loss, as well as resentment, that so much had been stolen from her. And anger.

  "Why couldn't you have told me this in London when we first met? If I'd known, I could have found my family right away—and not wasted so much time…" meeting people, learning to maneuver in society of the past, falling in love, having her heart broken…

  Madame Herne shrugged. "I can't speak for my future self, of course. But you can ask her yourself… if you decide to return." She gave Helena a quizzical look.

  Helena's fingernails bit into her palms. “What am I supposed to do now? My parents think I’m dead. I can hardly show up on their doorstep and tell them the truth, can I? That I was spirited away to the twenty-first century? I can never be the daughter I would have been. I don’t talk, think, or behave like a proper lady. I don’t fit in here.”

  Her chin trembled. “I’ve already been rejected by… the man I fell in love with. I’ve known rejection in my life before, but this—this is unbearable.”

  She leaned her head back against the upholstery of her chair. “If my parents reject me too, what will I do?” she whispered, tears sliding down her cheeks. “I couldn’t bear it.”

  She wanted to punch Marnie in the face in retaliation for what she'd done, but the girl was already dead. She might never have known anything at all had it not been for meeting Mrs. Herne that day. But wasn't it all too late? What was done was done. And even supposing it was possible to right the wrong that had been done—would she want to do that? Completely erase the past twenty-seven years and begin again? Become an entirely different person than the one she was now? Well no, she couldn't quite see that happening.

  “You must find out,” advised Madame Herne. “And give your young man a chance too. It is rather an incredible story, you know.”

  The understatement of the year, Helena thought wearily. It wouldn't be believed in the twenty-first century, in spite of the fact that man had traveled to the moon… and there was Star Trek and Doctor Who.

  “I’ll heat up more water” Madame Herne said, rising from her chair.

  “I’d like some whiskey, preferably with a little coffee in it. Sugar and cream too, if you please.”

  Madame Herne rolled her eyes and padded to the kitchen.

  “Make it a double,” Helena called after her. It was going to be a long night.

  16

  The skies were overcast and except for the huge yellow hot-air balloon rocking back and forth in the wind, the elegant park on Grosvenor Square was deserted.

  A balloon ascension on a day like this? James shook his head at the folly of it. A female figure appeared from behind the gondola, her skirts billowing in the wind.

  “Wait!” James called, his inner hero demanding that he do something to prevent the feather-witted female from certain death.

  As he raced toward the balloon, another figure rose from the depths of the gondola and began to pull the woman by the arms. Drawing closer, his heart sank when he saw the features of the woman being pulled into the basket, and he ran faster.

  “Helena! No! It's too windy! You’ll kill yourself!”

  The figure already inside the basket turned her head and glared at him, and he recognized Lady Pendleton, the woman who traveled back and forth between worlds.

  “You’ve had your chance, Mr. Walker. Helena won’t stay where she’s not wanted. She’s decided to return to the place where she was raised.”

  “But she is wanted!”

  Helena was almost inside the gondola by the time James reached her. Seizing her by her limbs, he pulled her back with all his strength.

  “No! I won’t let you go, Helena! I love you! Please stay and be my wife!”

  Helena screamed with pain, and Lady Pendleton demanded he release her.

  “You’re hurting her, you fool!”

  James reluctantly let go, and Helena fell headfirst into the basket.

  He beat his fists against the wicker until they were raw. “Helena, love, please don’t go! I need you! Annabelle needs you!”

  Helena rose, looking more beautiful than ever, her hair disheveled from her fall. She shook her head sadly at him.

  “It’s not me you want, James. It’s the Helena Gibson I might have become if things had been different. I’m sorry, but I can never be her.”

  “You’re wrong, Helena! It’s you I want! Please don't go!”

  He felt a drop land on his face, and saw tears streaming down
her face.

  “I’m sorry, James. I just—can’t. You and Annabelle are better off without me. I’ll never forget you, my love.”

  The gondola shifted, and James saw with horror that Lady Pendleton was cutting the ropes that moored the balloon to the ground.

  “No!” he pleaded, his throat hoarse from screaming. “Don’t go, Helena! Please stay!”

  Lady Pendleton snipped the last rope, and the balloon, with James hanging on to the railing, began to ascend.

  “Let go, James!” “You must let go, Mr. Walker! We are going somewhere you cannot follow. For your own sake, and Annabelle’s, you must let go!”

  “James!” A strong wind jerked the railing of the gondola out of his grasp, and he felt himself falling.

  “Goodbye, Helena!” he cried as the ground loomed beneath him. And then… nothing.

  * * *

  Grillon’s Hotel

  Albermarle Street

  London

  Mid-morning

  Persistent knocking on the door brought James back to reality. His eyes flew open, and for awhile, he wasn’t certain of his whereabouts. The empty bottles and glasses on the nearby table assured him that he hadn’t landed in heaven, and the lack of flames anywhere seemed to likewise rule out the other place.

  “Mr. Walker, your laundry is ready. They told me to bring it right up.”

  His clothing? Suddenly it all came back to him. Grillon’s and Gibson and the night of desperation and dissipation. Helena! Where could she be?

  He sat up too quickly and groaned at the pain in his head. What an idiot he'd been to allow himself to get so foxed at a time when he especially needed a clear head.

  But he wasn't giving up. He would head over once again to Grosvenor Square and demand to see her. Set up housekeeping on the doorstep if necessary. He couldn’t let her leave without talking to him first.

  “Bring it in,” he ordered. “And have some coffee sent up straight away.” He looked at the ormolu clock on the mantle. Eleven o'clock already?

  The servant laid out his freshly laundered suit and handed him a small box. “We found this in the waistcoat pocket, sir.”

  Inside was his mother’s betrothal ring. In all his anguish, he’d forgotten to remove it.

  “Excellent,” he said, reaching for his purse on the night table. “Thank you, man. I’m hoping to have the opportunity to use that today.” He handed the man a coin.

  “Thank you, sir. Is there anything else, sir?”

  “My horse. Have him brought round in half an hour. And the coffee, of course.”

  The footman bowed out the door, and James set himself on his feet, trying to ignore the pain in his head.

  Helena, I must talk to you. Wait for me!

  * * *

  42 Grosvenor Square

  London

  Late morning

  “I’m afraid she’s not here, sir."

  Before he could close the door, James pushed his way in. “Then I shall wait for her. The drawing room is this way, as I recall.”

  The normally unflappable Peters planted himself in James’s path. “Sir, you have not been given leave to enter this house.”

  James winced. “Must you speak so loudly?”

  “Have you been drinking, Mr. Walker?”

  James peered up to the top of the stairs, where he made out the figure of Lady Pendleton in dishabille, an irritated expression on her face.

  “Your Ladyship, this gentleman forced his way in.”

  His mistress sighed. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, let him in, Peters!”

  The butler stepped aside and gave James a disapproving stare. “Come this way, sir.”

  “Oh, and Peters. Do order some refreshments for Mr. Walker, if you please.”

  She turned her head in James’s direction. “You’ll have a bit of a wait, James. I’m afraid I got in very late, and was catching up on my rest when I was awakened by the pandemonium in my foyer.”

  “Do you not wish to know why I’ve come?”

  Lady Pendleton snorted. “Do not be ridiculous. Of course I know why you are here. You’ve come about Helena.”

  James’s mouth fell open. “How did you—”

  The door knocker sounded again. Peters, looking annoyed, held out his arm for James's hat and cane and waved him to the drawing room.

  "Wait here, sir."

  But James remained in the corridor while the butler made his way to the door. Could it be… Helena?

  It was. A rather haggard-looking version of her. She squealed with surprise and took a step backwards, dropping her valise, and nearly stumbling over the threshold.

  James rushed over to support her with his arm.

  "Helena, I'm so sorry—"

  “Oh James, I thought I'd never see you again!" she said, bemused. And promptly fainted in his arms.

  From her perch abovestairs, Lady Pendleton chuckled. “Take her into the drawing room. She can rest there on the settee until I find some Extra-Strength Tylenol for the both of you.”

  At James’s look of confusion, she sighed. “A miracle cure for the hangover—the indisposition that plagues you when you are intemperate? I brought back a large supply on my last trip. Yes, my friend, it appears that the both of you over-imbibed last evening.”

  * * *

  Helena felt herself falling for what seemed like forever, her stomach roiling in protest, the way it did the last time she did Expedition Everest at Disney’s Animal Kingdom. She could hear voices calling her from above, voices she instantly recognized as her birth parents. She couldn’t see them, however, couldn’t even see the light of day, she was so far down.

  “Help me! I’m falling! I don’t want to leave you!”

  But she kept falling, for hours and days and months. The years passed. She couldn’t hear them anymore; they must have given up on her. But they wouldn’t know me anyway, she thought bitterly. I’ve been falling for twenty-seven years and I don’t resemble the child they knew. I might as well just forget all about them.

  And then suddenly, miraculously, her downward spiral came to an end. Someone’s strong arms snatched her and carried her safely out of the bottomless pit. Her hero was dressed in a skintight Superman costume, red cape and all, and the heated look on his face when he looked at her took her breath away.

  “You’re mine now, Helena,” he said gruffly. “I rescued you, so you belong to me now.”

  “Do I?” she said, feeling lightheaded. “I guess I must be Lois Lane, then.”

  She closed her eyes and opened them again. This time, it was James Walker she saw, and he was looking at her as though he would never let her go.

  * * *

  “Who is Lois Lane?”

  She awoke to find herself spread out on a sofa, with James’s face looking down at her with the determination of the Terminator himself. He looked both haggard and relieved.

  “Helena? Are you awake yet? How do you feel?”

  “James. You’re here! Where is here?” she added, lifting her head to survey her surroundings.

  “Number 42 Grosvenor Square,” said James. “Pendleton House.”

  “Oh,” she said, as her memories returned. “You’re here too,” she added stupidly.

  He chuckled. “Indeed I am. And who is this Lois Lane you mentioned? I hope you haven’t taken on another identity. I’m quite fond of Miss Gibson, and would hate to see her disappear.”

  “Are you? Miss Gibson?” Helena lifted herself to a sitting position and winced. “How did you know? Oh, my head!”

  “Her Ladyship sent this for the two of you.” It was the voice of Mrs. Peters, the housekeeper, who held a tray with a pitcher of water, two glasses, and four oblong white tablets in a small dish.

  Helena stared at the pills. “Is that what I think it is?”

  “Madame said it would ease your pain,” the woman said, setting the tray down on the table in front of them.

  “I think this must be the remedy for our hangovers,” James said, reaching over to p
ick one up and inspect it for himself. “Do you know what it is?”

  Helena tried to smile and winced. “It looks like Tylenol. Take two and give me two. We can thank Lady Pendleton later.”

  The tea trolley arrived, along with a cold collation of thick slices of buttered bread, ham and cheese. Helena groaned and turned her head away from the food, her stomach roiling in protest.

  James grinned. “Not quite the thing,” he agreed. “However, a spot of tea wouldn’t insult my stomach too badly. Would you like a cup?”

  “I suppose so,” she replied without enthusiasm. “James, did you…? Why did you…?”

  “Get jug-bitten last night? Why did you?” He handed her the tea. “No milk, one sugar."

  She thanked him and took a long sip.

  "Now tell me about this Lois Lane," he demanded. "Were you with her last evening when I was searching all over London for you? I was so fearful that you had left me—returned to-er-where you came from—that I interrupted your cousin Stephen's honeymoon for a boozy night making indentures on a bottle of brandy." He wrinkled his brow. "Although there may have been some whisky involved as well. It's all a bit foggy this morning."

  At the mention of Lois Lane, Helena felt like laughing hysterically, but her aching head put paid to that thought.

  "My cousin Stephen? I have a cousin?"

  He'd called her Miss Gibson. He knew her identity? How had he found out. There were so many things she wanted to ask him. Discuss with him. Prime among them—did he care for her? Enough to take her on with all of her modern ideas and demands? Because no matter how much she loved him, she'd never tie herself to a man she could not trust implicitly. But those were questions she didn't feel comfortable asking. Yet.

  "We—Stephen and I—believe you to be the missing daughter of the Earl and Countess of Cranbourne. His uncle. That makes you his cousin. And also cousin to my late wife Anne."

  He knew! Heat radiated through her chest. If her head hadn't been aching, she'd have rose to her feet and danced a jig.