The Goldsmith's Wife (The Woulfes of Loxsbeare Book 2)

by Anita Seymour

  She bit back a small groan, partly at her anxiety for her brother, but more in response to an internal kick that took her breath away.

  A housemaid arrived to replenish the fire. Helena watched her with mounting impatience, suppressing her desire to bombard Guy with questions.

  Questions he would not have the answers to.

  The flames roared into life and the girl curtsied before leaving.

  Guy leaned toward the blaze and rubbed his hands together. “That’s better. I must say I am amazed you can sit in such chill, my dear.”

  Helena didn’t bother to respond. She felt hot and breathless most of the time these days.

  Guy went on reading, but offered no more information. Finally, he discarded the paper and went to the mantle, applying a lit taper to a clay pipe he took from a box there.

  Her mind began wandering and she forgot what it was she had wanted to ask him. Her concentration was abysmal these days; she could barely keep a train of thought intact. The idea of food repulsed her as well, what with her bouts of heartburn and indigestion.

  At least he was home this evening. Guy spent an inordinate amount of time working lately.

  Glover entered with a tray with two pewter goblets of hot, spiced wine. Guy took one, holding the other toward her, but the herby fragrance made her stomach churn. Nauseous, she shook her head.

  “It will do you good, Helena,” Guy insisted, dismissing Glover with an impatient wave. “I went to Woolwich today with Master Devereux.”

  Helena frowned and took the goblet but made no attempt to drink. The docks, why would he? Then she remembered. In partnership with Robert, Guy had commissioned the building of a cargo ship for the transportation of West Country cloth all over the world, cloth manufactured in Exeter under the auspices of Samuel Ffoyle.

  Samuel ran the fulling mills and the warehouses for Helena and her brothers in Exeter, while Elias organized the London side of the business.

  Thank goodness, they could rely on the Ffoyles, for Aaron was too busy plotting in The Hague, and Henry focused all his energies on his career as an architect.

  Guy’s voice brought her back to the present. “Provided the captain is astute enough to evade Algerian pirates on his way home, it will carry all those expensive luxuries London’s affluent classes demand.”

  Helena tried not to roll her eyes at his smugness, then her conscience pricked her. Surely she was proud of her ambitious husband, and prouder still of the establishments bearing the name Palmer, inscribed on hand-painted signs above premises in Lombard Street and Hatton Garden.

  He had a strong room constructed in both premises to store valuables and bullion, a caretaking service he offered to a growing number of wealthy clients. Under the auspices of his uncle, Arthur Palmer, who sent back precious metals and gems from his travels to India and Africa, Guy now manufactured jewellery and plate.

  Some of the pieces of jewellery he looked after struck him as poorly made and of clumsy design, prompting his enterprising nature to scour the streets of Soho and Spitalfelds where the émigrés lived, for skilled craftsmen recently arrived from Paris.

  In exchange for a contribution to one of the Huguenot churches, he had secured the services of two artisans whose designs he felt were unique, but still conventional enough for the English market. He had set up a workshop at the back of the Hatton Garden shop where he now produced jewellery, remembering the advice Robert had given him that English ladies prefer large stones.

  Helena fingered the string of square amethysts and teardrop pearls at her throat, a present from Guy on her last birthday. Her jewel box had never been so full, enabling her to put away her mother’s pieces for formal occasions. “Where did you obtain this new intelligence of Prince William, Guy?”

  “Jonathan’s.” He glanced down at his robe, then back up at her with a smile.

  The prickle of tears made her blink rapidly. She had complained that when he went there, his clothes smelled of smoke and stale ale. He had changed his garments especially for her.

  “Celia says the coffee houses are more gambling dens than establishments of business.”

  Guy shrugged. “They are both, my dear.” He relaxed back in his chair, cradling his glass. “Though when have you known me to throw good earned money away on games of chance?”

  “I would never think such a thing of you.” She didn’t mean to sound arch, but the baby had trapped a nerve in her leg and it pained her. “Are not those coffee houses crude places with scarred tables and sluttish waitresses?”

  Guy gave a snort. “Not Jonathans.” As if to prove he had not been wasting his time, he launched into a detailed account of what King James’s ambassador at The Hague had apparently reported to his master. “The Dutch intend an absolute conquest of England, and by refusing the French troops Louis offered him, the king has played right into Prince William’s hands.”

  Glover announced dinner, at which Helena heaved her cumbersome frame out of her chair and along the short step along the corridor to the dining room. Guy held her chair for her, then checked his appearance in a mirror on the wall. Helena fought an impulse to remind him they were alone.

  Guy had designed their surroundings with its heavy drapes and thick carpet with the intention of rivalling Robert’s private dining room. Helena refrained from voicing her opinion that it was too contrived to have the easy opulence of Lambtons. He was too sensitive of his rising fortunes to take criticism well.

  “Word at Jonathan’s,” Guy spooned food onto his plate with enthusiasm, “is that the king is not having an easy time of it. The king’s nephew, the Duke of Grafton has deserted to Prince William, taking eight naval officers with him.” His mouth twitched as he added, “though he’s one of Barbara Castlemaine’s brats so whoever his father is may be open to speculation.”

  “Perhaps it is their revenge for the king giving three thousand Catholics commissions in the Army,” Helena said, choosing not to comment on Grafton’s parentage. ‘Is it not true the French army is engaged in the Rhineland and not available for an invasion of England in any case?”

  Guy’s spoon halted comically in mid-air, prompting her to add, “Alyce told me. We took a nuncheon together.”

  “Ah, so you have not been entirely alone all day,” Guy teased, although she could not remember complaining. Not tonight.

  She picked desultorily at the roasted pork on her plate, her thoughts drifting back to Aaron.

  “…king’s power slipping through his fingers.”

  “I’m sorry, what did you say?” Helena jumped as his voice cut into her thoughts. She brought a piece of overcooked meat to her mouth, chewing without enthusiasm.

  “His ministers question every proclamation he makes,” Guy said. “As a result, he has made some startling concessions in an effort to win back their loyalty.”

  “What sort of concessions?” Helena sighed.

  “He’s restored the Lord-Lieutenants, the JPs and Magistrates he sacked for refusing to repeal the penal laws.” He emphasized each point with his knife. “Though it’ll be too late, you’ll see. The country has had enough of him. Though after what they did to his father you would think he had learned his lesson about running roughshod over his subjects’ feelings.”

  His voice droned on, but Helena no longer cared. All she wanted was for the meal to be over so she could go to her bed. Tears of frustration gathered and another sharp, inward kick made her shift in her chair.

  She returned his smile with a weary one of her own. Surely it was not Guy’s fault she was so irritable; it was the babe, wasn’t it?

  * * *

  November 1688, Exeter – Nathan

  Bundled up in heavy cloaks against the cold wind, Nathan sat beside Susannah in the coach as it bounced down the Exeter road. The three younger Ffoyle siblings crowded onto the seat opposite, and squabbled lightly amongst themselves as they moved through the crowds lined the roads to see Prince William march into the city.

  Nathan slipped his hand into S
usannah’s, feeling the tension of the last twenty-four hours drain away.

  “Father is safe now, isn’t he?” Rebekah asked, voicing his own thoughts.

  “Yes, Bekka, he is. The message he sent explained everything, did it not? He has decided to stay in the city for a while.”

  “Though he may discover there is little company to be found,” Susannah said, laughing. “Most of the city’s leading citizens have left in an unseemly rush so they won’t be accused of taking sides too soon.”

  “Will Father be here to watch Prince William arrive?” Robin asked.

  Nathan silently admired the resilience of the young. Only that morning the boy had been in tears, fearing his father would be sent to prison. “I expect so, but I doubt we’ll be able to see him amongst this crowd.” He nodded toward the throng crammed between the buildings, gathered on flat roofs of the houses and shops, and hanging from upper windows waving orange ribbons.

  “I was so afraid for him.” Susannah squeezed his hand.

  Nathan didn’t respond, but he too had spent a sleepless night worrying about Samuel and what his arrest would have meant for the family. That the magistrates had been among those who chose not to be present for the Prince’s arrival had been to their benefit.

  “Where will the prince be, Nathan?” Robin asked, bouncing up and down on his seat until Deborah slapped him away like a persistent fly.

  At fifteen, she possessed a glow of soft youthfulness, with wide green eyes set in an oval face, and glossy chestnut hair piled in curls on her head. Her features were marred by petulance today, despite the unusual outing. Her repeated requests to be allowed to live with Elias and Amy in London had fallen on perpetually deaf ears.

  “Prince William will enter the city via Stepcote Hill, so we’ll make for there.”

  Susannah leaned over him to stare out of the windows, at the same time tucking a stray lock of hair back beneath her cap.

  Her brown hair held golden lights and her skin seemed tinged with bronze, no matter what time of the year. Wide hazel eyes often held his in what was almost an embrace, from which Nathan never looked away willingly. As if she knew he was staring at her, Susannah ticked her arm through his and snuggling closer.

  Nathan marvelled yet again that Samuel Ffoyle’s eldest daughter had not only agreed to marry the former manservant of Loxsbeare, but that she loved him the way she did. He was thirty-four, twelve years her senior, but childbirth aged a woman faster than life did a man, so the difference hardly signified. Yet Susannah was lithe and fresh faced as a girl, despite having given him two sons in two years.

  When Helena and Henry Woulfe departed for their new life in London, Nathan had proved himself invaluable to his master’s friend, Samuel Ffoyle. Susannah had treated him with polite deference, which turned into flirtatious teasing. Before he realized what was happening, he had asked Samuel for her hand.

  It still bemused him when she entered their bedchamber at night in her night shift and cap, her glorious hair cascading in waves down her back. He would look up in surprise to see her there and she would catch his eye, give him a knowing smile and he would grin like a boy. He chuckled inwardly at this image in his head, unable to remember when he had been this happy. Robin scooted along the wooden seat to hang out of the opposite window.

  “You’re squashing me,” Deborah protested loudly.

  “Don’t scold him, Debs. Here, Robin, you can change places with me,” Rebekah offered, always the one to soothe ruffled feelings.

  Nathan tapped Robin’s knee to attract his attention. “After the procession, what say we go to Moll’s for some hot pies?”

  “The promise of food should make them behave,” Susannah whispered. Her breath on Nathan’s neck made him shiver as the carriage halted near St Mary Steps Church, where Nathan had arranged to leave the carriage. He sprang down onto the cobbles, but not quick enough to stop Robin dashing past him.

  “Can you hear the drums?” Robin called back over his shoulder on his way to the street.

  “Stay close, Robin!” Nathan called, pausing to listen as he helped the girls climb down.

  The low drum beat rolled across the valley from the direction of the West Gate, while the bells pealed from the cathedral, giving the city a festive atmosphere. Nathan slung a protective arm around his wife and guided his charges through the eager crowds.

  Winter rain had pounded the roads for days, so the air held a heavy dampness. Nathan pulled his cloak tight round him, but the three Ffoyle siblings seemed oblivious of the cold in their excitement to reach the hill.

  Stepcote Hill was so steep, a man standing on the bottom could not see over the top. A jumble of timbered houses jostled for precedence on either side of the incline, the slick cobbles teeming with tightly packed crowds come to gawp at the magnificent procession gathered at the base of the hill awaiting a signal to proceed.

  “There are so many of them!” Susannah whispered, round-eyed.

  “Over forty thousand, so they say,” Nathan shouted back over a fanfare of trumpets which heralded the start of the procession. “There’s the Earl of Macclesfield leading the prince’s bodyguard.” All of seventy years, broad and fleshy about the face, but still a magnificent sight on his Flanders steed, leading row upon row of horses with ornamental saddles and bridles. The earl was another of those who had fled to Holland in ’eighty-five to avoid the retribution of King James.

  Behind them marched a line of black-skinned men in embroidered caps lined with white fur; their swords drawn and the plumes of white feathers topping their helmets swayed in the wind.

  “What are they?” Robin voiced the curious murmurs of those around them.

  “I’ve heard of these men.” Nathan frowned in search of a distant memory. “They’re from the Dutch plantations in America.”

  The awed crowd muttered amongst themselves as the alien creatures marched past, the whites of their eyes shining out from their broad mahogany faces. None of them had seen an ebony man in their lives, so when one of them smiled at a small child, Nathan was not surprised when her mother gave a howl of fear and dragged her back.

  A line of pale-skinned soldiers came into sight, impressive in their black armour. “Those are Finlanders,” he said. “They come from a land where the ocean freezes and the night lasts half a year.”

  Deborah snorted and Robin’s stare was sceptical. Even naive Rebekah was disbelieving.

  Susannah laughed. “Nathan, don’t tease them so.”

  Nathan opened his mouth to protest, but their attention had already turned to a line of slow moving horses, each led by two grooms, followed by two state coaches. Lines of young boys ran alongside, carrying coloured flags, which fluttered and bobbed in the wind.

  Several liveried men worked the crowd, handing out sheets of paper. Robin stretched out his arm and caught one as it soared over his head.

  “What is it?” Rebekah leaned over her brother’s shoulder, squinting at the page.

  “It’s a copy of Prince William’s Declaration,” Nathan read. “Says he has come to England to protect the Protestant religion.”

  Susannah took the page from him, then tugged at his arm. “It says here the Catholics are planning to attack and massacre Protestants in London.” She stared up at him fear in her brown eyes.

  “Only rumours spread to cause disquiet.” He kept his voice light. “They say such things to ensure the prince is welcomed.”

  “But Elias and Amy. The children…” her voice trailed off.

  “Don’t fret, my dear.” He hugged her closer, whispering into her hair. “I’m certain there’ll be no massacre.” His voice was steady, but a flame of concern bloomed in his head. His first thought had also been for Helena and her coming child. And Henry? He thrust the paper into his pocket and turned back to the procession.

  “Is that the prince?” Robin pointed to a figure on a white horse in shining armour, who stared stonily ahead, looking neither left nor right, a cold breeze swaying the plume of white feathe
rs in his helmet.

  A double line of footmen ran beside him up the incline while a few uneasy murmurings were heard amongst the cheers.

  Nathan nodded thoughtfully. “I suppose it must be.”

  “The prince is rather thin. And why is he crouched over like that?” Robin bobbed on his toes to get a better view.

  “Hush, Robin.” Nathan nudged him, although the boy had a point. Was this pinch-faced, sour looking man, who held his head like a bad smell sat beneath his nose, really the protector of the Protestant Church? After all the speculation, Nathan found to his surprise that he sympathised with the boy.

  “He’s quite small.” Deborah sounded disappointed. “But the man on the chestnut horse is comely-looking.”

  “That’s Lord Shrewsbury,” Nathan said, then whispered to Susannah. “Young Deborah has an eye for a handsome young man.”

  “Indeed she has, which is why Father won’t allow her to live in London with Elias and Amy,” she replied.

  Nathan’s attention was snagged and caught by a magnificent black horse striding up the hill toward them, muscles rippling beneath a glossy coat.

  As he appraised the animal’s conformation with envy, the rider lifted his hat and leaned forward, bestowing kisses to a group of giggling girls in the crowd.

  Nathan’s stomach clenched and his arm halted in mid-air. He found himself searching a familiar face. Before he could attract the man’s attention, the procession had already swept further up the hill.

  Susannah gave an excited cry beside him. “Nathan, was that—?”

  “Yes, it was.” Nathan felt his mouth widening slowly into an incredulous grin, but couldn’t help it. “Aaron Woulfe has come home.”

  As the black horse disappeared into a swirl of waving arms, a hard lump formed in Nathan’s throat. Wherever Sir Jonathan was now, he wished he could have been here to see his son return. And to do so in the company of a prince. He pushed the thought away and tapped Robin on the shoulder. “Now, how about that pie?”