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

by Anita Seymour

  “And the twelfth?” Helena asked through gritted teeth. Chloe had never spoken of her family before, but then Helena had never enquired.

  “Oh, I was long gone afore then. Not enough room in their tiny cottage for me. Nor much food neither.” Her voice held no bitterness, and for a moment, mistress and maid exchanged a silent look of understanding.

  When a wet cloth was slapped onto her brow, Helena threw it off, irritated. It was too wet and much too heavy. Agony twisted her back again and she tried not to cry out. “You have to push now, Mistress.” Chloe’s voice penetrated the fog in her head.

  “I—am—pushing.” Helena gritted her teeth so hard her jaw ached.

  “It’s is not enough. Push harder.”

  “How dare you take that tone with me!” Helena’s voice held little conviction and she was close to tears.

  “I’ll go without tea for a week in punishment.” Chloe grasped her hand, squeezing, hard. “But you must push.”

  “Don’t tell your master I allow you to drink tea,” Helena said, then forgot about everything as another paid gripped her and she alternated between furious snarls and childlike whimpering, cajoled through each pain by Chloe and Love.

  As a particularly bad pain ebbed away, Helena slumped back on the cushions, her bottom lip jutted forward as she blew air upwards into her face. Why wouldn’t they listen?

  “I cannot push any more. What’s the matter with you all?” A spark of rebellion ignited in her head. “To the devil with all of you. I cannot, will not…do this anymore. You’ll have to find another way to bring this child into the world. It’s too hard, and I’ve had enough.”

  A cool hand smoothed back her hair. “I know, Mistress,” Chloe whispered, telling Helena she had spoken aloud. “But you are nearly there. Another push or two and it will be over.”

  The candles on the tables glowed brighter and swirled. The abyss opened and a red mist filled Helena’s head. The room and its occupants faded away and the noise from the street became a distant roar. All that existed was the pain, wrapping itself around her body and leaving her limp and helpless. With quiet detachment, she realised that she must be dying, and if that were true, she welcomed it. The thought of sliding into blissful oblivion beckoned her like an embrace.

  Before the darkness closed in, something inside Helena broke away, then came a rush of warm wetness and she released her breath in a low moan. She flopped back against the cushions, light-headed with relief. Not dying then.

  The pain had stopped.

  Chloe fumbled between Helena’s knees, “It’s a boy!” she said, the words reaching Helena as if from a long way off.

  Helena smiled, thinking Guy would be pleased, then closed her eyes as cool towels were wiped across her clammy skin, and she imagined she was floating.

  Then the low, pull and grind had begun again. Her eyes snapped open. “What’s happening, Chloe? I—thought—it—was—over.”

  “There’s another one.” Love’s high-pitched squeal broke into her muddled thoughts.

  What was the idiot girl saying? Helena drew a deep breath to voice her contempt, but the desire to push overwhelmed her. She strained. Warm wetness flowed again. Chloe lifted something from her, pushing back her hair with an inner elbow. Helena caught sight of the blood on her hands and squeezed her eyes shut.

  “Mistress.” Chloe leaned over her. “Another boy. Look!”

  Helena couldn’t look, nor could she make sense of it. Though at last the pain had really stopped, which was all that mattered. Euphoria filled her head and she relaxed back against the cushions with a sigh. “You may all go,” she murmured. “I wish to sleep.”

  A gruff, male voice broke through her lethargy, growling close to her ear. “Mistress, you must get up.” Could that be Glover? Surely not. Get up? Was the man mad? Then he asked Chloe, “Is the birth complete?”

  “We have to clean her up, Jim. And dispose of —that.” She pointed to a bloody package Helena glanced at dispassionately, as if none of what was happening had anything to do with her.

  Bertha returned with another leather bucket of hot water and Chloe applied warm cloths to Helena’s thighs and belly. It felt wonderful.

  “Thank you, Chloe,” Helena whispered. “Perhaps you could help me upstairs to my—”

  ”Forgive me, Mistress.” Glover gripped her arm, hard. “But you must move. Now!” He hauled her to her feet, hooked his shoulder into her armpit, and half carried, half dragged her into the hall.

  He was surprisingly strong for a slight man, though even had she the energy, Helena could not have resisted. Her nether regions felt damp and sore, her legs shaky, yet she amazed herself at her own mobility.

  A rapid hammering on the front door made everyone jump. Glover reached forward to open it with his other arm. On the doorstep was one of Robert Devereux’s grooms.

  “We cannot get any closer, sir.” The man’s terrified eyes roved over Helena. “The lady will have to walk to the carriage.”

  “Another man telling me what to do,” Helena muttered, peering past him into the street.

  It was full dark now and the night seemed even blacker in contrast to the red and orange glow of the Fisher house in full flame. The fiery tongues spewed smoke and sparks upwards through a gaping roof. The coach was on the other side of the mob, the driver grim-faced in an effort to hold the animals steady. Horses hate fire, and with flakes of lit ash falling on their manes, their eyes rolled back in preparation for flight. They wouldn’t remain still much longer.

  With a sudden burst of courage, Helena gripped Chloe’s arm. “Keep close to me, and cover the babies’ heads.”

  Chloe obeyed without a murmur, gripped one bundle to her chest and gathered Love behind her with the other.

  A wave of weakness overcame her and Helena stumbled on the bottom step.

  “Mistress, allow me.” Glover swept her into muscular arms and set off toward the coach. The crowd, heedless of burning debris raining down on them, waved sticks impaled with oranges, shrieking at the burning edifice opposite.

  A sudden explosion came from inside the house as they passed, prompting a maniacal scream, followed by abusive laughter. Helena took in the jumble of faces, twisted with hate and the glow of reflected flames.

  The fire licked the roof tiles of the house next door, where an orange glow flickered behind a top window. Helena hoped the Anglican bookseller who lived there had managed to escape.

  A heavyset man in a torn coat leered at them, screaming, “No Popery!” However no one in the foul-smelling crowd attempted to attack them, or even bar their way.

  “Probably because I must look demented,” Helena mumbled.

  Once in the coach, she glanced down at her skirt, lifting her hands away from the stains with distaste.

  “Hurry,” a wide-eyed groom urged the maids who clambered in after her, and the coach lurched away almost before the doors closed.

  Helena braced herself against the frame as they took a corner. The sounds of the mob receded and she offered a silent prayer that Guy would come home safely, that her house would survive and the mob would run out of anger, or fuel, or both.

  She hoped Henry was safe, then the figures of Celia and Ralf, then Elias, Amy and their children swam in front of her. Overwhelmed, she sank back into the padded seat in tearful dismay.

  Chloe held a bundle out toward her. “Look, Mistress.”

  Helena lifted the wrapper from a tiny, fuzz covered head. “He’s so small,” she whispered in awe.

  The carriage bumped and swayed, the tang of smoke drifted in from outside and discordant shouts came from the street, but Helen’s entire attention was focused on the tiny form in Chloe’s arms.

  “Well go on, girl, let the Mistress see her other boy,” Chloe snapped at Love who huddled wide-eyed and shaking in the corner.

  Chapter Seven

  November 1688, Lambtons Inn, London – Guy

  Lubbock offered effusive congratulations to Guy at the entrance to the inn,
an attention accepted with forced calmness while he fought an urge to grasp the man by his coat and demand he be taken to his wife. Aware such behaviour would have mortified the sensitive Lubbock, Guy held back.

  Robert appeared, taking charge. “Helena will be relieved you are here. Yes, do go up. She is in her old room.” He fell into step beside him as Guy mounted the stairs. “They are fine, large boys, both of them.” Robert rubbed his hands together as if taking credit.

  Guy bridled, galled that Robert had seen his sons first, though guilt he had not being present to keep Helena safe from the riot rendered him silent, added to the fact he was loath to admit he had no idea where Helena’s old room was located.

  Robert threw open a door at the end of the corridor and ushered him in to where Helena sat up in bed wearing a night robe he had never seen before, her hair dressed and eyes shining. His heart constricted at the shadows beneath her eyes. Two vastly different wooden cribs stood by the bed.

  “We borrowed them from the neighbours.” Alyce stepped forward and embraced him in a perfumed hug. “Many congratulations, Guy.”

  “Thank you, Mistress,” Guy murmured, resolving to buy new ones the moment the ’change opened the next morning. His sons were not going to sleep in borrowed cribs. He looked down with wonder at identical round heads sporting fluffs of fair hair, eyes closed in slumber, long lashes spread like tiny fans on powdery cheeks.

  “I’m so glad you are here, and safe, Guy,” Helena whispered as he pressed cold lips to her cheek, inhaling the essence of flowers and soap. An overwhelming rush of love flooded through him when she returned his kiss. She seemed different somehow, more assured. But then his Helena was now a mother.

  He longed to hold her, but the Devereux’s presence made it impossible. Even Phebe occupied the end of the bed, swinging her feet.

  “Robert and I trust you will allow Helena to recover here at Lambtons, Guy?” Alyce’s words were more an assumption than a question. “The chirurgeon says she should remain here for at least two weeks.”

  “Two weeks?” Guy’s voice lifted in agitation, hating the fact it would put him further into Robert Devereux’s debt, and with Christmas approaching.

  “If it shall not be an inconvenience,” he murmured, having no ready excuses, at the same time wishing them all away so he could be alone with his wife.

  “What shall you call them?” Alyce asked.

  “Jonathan Henry Robert and Edmund Thomas Arthur,” Guy recited with caution, certain it would be remembered if he made a mistake.

  “Good names,” Alyce confirmed, peering into the cradles. “Which is which?”

  “I’ve no idea.” Helena shrugged, a tiny frown between her eyes. Robert ordered wine and when the servant arrived, handed out glasses in an atmosphere grown festive. Glasses clinked and each of the babies was examined in turn, among laughter and banter in a room that shimmered with colour and light from many candles. Guy could not help but compare its warmth and luxury to the gloomy, damaged King Street. No wonder Helena was happy to remain here.

  Robert offered the facilities of Lambtons for the night. “Or several nights, should you wish to remain close to your wife.”

  Guy inclined his head. “You are generous, sir. However, I don’t like to leave the servants alone in case the riots start up again. I’ll return here in the morning, if I may.”

  Robert exchanged a silent look with Alyce that fuelled Guy’s hostility. With Helena ensconced so comfortably in a place she once looked on as home, he was convinced Alyce would countermand any instructions he left for his wife or Chloe.

  Loath to admit it even to himself, Guy suffered pangs of jealousy at the knowledge that William, a man who paid his wife a courtier’s attention, would also be in constant proximity. He gave the room a swift, probing glance, surprised not to see him amongst the company.

  “Helena will be well cared for.” Alyce apparently misinterpreted Guy’s look. “The nurse is very competent.” Guy gritted his teeth at the mention of a nurse. He had meant to hire one this week, but had been too busy.

  Aware his presence would not be missed, Guy left soon afterward and returned to King Street, alone.

  * * *

  November 1688, Lambtons Inn, London – Helena

  Within a day, Helena insisted on leaving her bed, even opening a window. Outraged, the nurse threw up her hands and threatened to inform Mistress Devereux, before she stomped out of the room.

  Alyce appeared with a knowing smile. “You’re plaguing the poor woman, Helena, my dear. She will refuse to stay if you counter all her orders in this way.”

  Helena wandered between the furniture, picking up objects and putting them down again.

  “She’s plaguing me, more like. How could she think I could bear to lie flat on my back in an airless room for two weeks? Not to be allowed daylight, or even a bath? It’s positively barbaric.” She rubbed her sore breasts through the nightgown, murmuring, “Though I’m beginning to warm to the idea of a wet nurse.”

  “How are my sweet boys?” Alyce cooed, throwing a look into both cradles before joining Helena on the bed.

  “They smell strange. And they look like two piglets, all pink and squealing.” Helena shuffled closer, preparing to chat. “Tell me what is going on in the world.”

  “Well, a few troublemakers are still looking for an excuse to club a few heads, but mostly, the rioting has stopped. All Catholic places of worship have been closed to help calm things down.”

  “And Prince William?” Helena sat up straighter. What she really wanted to know, was if Aaron was in London, and safe, but doubted even Alyce could provide that information.

  The babies began to fret and, on cue, the nurse reappeared. She lifted one of the bundles from a cradle and laid him in the crook of Helena’s arm. Her sullen expression indicated she disapproved of mothers who fed their babies, but her pursed lips made no impression on Helena.

  The baby latched to suck, which proved difficult at first, and his tiny head lolled drunkenly.

  “He is quite sweet, isn’t he?” Helena asked uncertainly when he settled.

  “A perfectly lovely boy, my dear. Which one is this?”

  Helena stared at her and shrugged.

  Alyce laughed. “I’ll get the nurse to attach different coloured ribbons to their wrists.”

  “Why didn’t I think of that?” Helena sighed. Already she was an inadequate mother.

  When the second baby had been duly fed, the nurse changed their swaddling and returned them to the cradles just as a housemaid arrived.

  “Master Henry,” the girl announced, flushing furiously.

  Helena squealed with pleasure and scrambled off the bed, throwing her arms round him as he came through the door. Henry overtopped her by a mere inch, but he was well built and handsome with nut-brown hair and expressive hazel eyes. The smattering of freckles across his nose, so prominent in his youth, now blended charmingly into his skin.

  He had the most devastating smile that lit up his face. When she mentioned this to him once, he had shrugged. “If it is, Helena, then it’s identical to yours.”

  “Er…shouldn’t you be in bed having poultices applied or something?” His face was a picture of astonishment.

  “Huh! I have no patience with that sort of thing.” Helena linked her arm through his, drawing him into the room.

  Alyce retreated. “I’ll leave the two of you alone, but do come and see me in my salon before you go, Henry. I wish to discuss the theory that Sir Christopher’s Monument to the great fire is in fact an observatory. Robert might be sceptical, but I’m intrigued.”

  “I would be happy to, Mistress Devereux.” Henry inclined his head as the door closed behind her.

  “Is that true?” Helena asked, adjusting his cravat and smoothing his hair.

  “About the observatory? It most certainly is. There’s a basement which few know about where Hook and Wren planned to erect a telescope—”

  ”Wonderful, Henry.” Helena cut him off a
bruptly. “I’m sure Alyce will be fascinated. Now come and meet the babies.”

  He stared into each cradle in turn, before asking, “May I hold one?” He lifted glowing eyes to the nurse, who blushed, curtseyed and handed him a bundle. She hovered close by, clearly expecting to retrieve her charge after a moment, but Henry settled himself in the nursing chair with every appearance of a long visit.

  Helena made a shooing motion and the nurse withdrew, scowling.

  “They are just perfect.” Henry grinned at each of them in turn. “What are their names?” Helena told him, hesitating when he asked which one was which.

  “I notice you have not bestowed the name Aaron on either of them.”

  “No.” She bridled at his boyish grin. “I see my hostile relationship with our absent brother amuses you, Henry.” Helena hoisted herself back onto the bed. “When I told him I was with child, he wrote saying it was ’a performance of my natural duty.’ It still rankles.”

  “I can see it does.” The baby’s puckered lips fastened on Henry’s smallest finger. “I’m not unsympathetic, Helena. I have mixed feelings about Aaron myself.” He removed his finger but the tiny mouth quivered and he put it back.

  Helena was intrigued. They rarely discussed their brother, other than to revel in the fact he still lived. “Tell me, Henry.”

  He hesitated a moment. “I was angry when Aaron decided to stay in The Hague with his Rebel friends, instead of coming back to England. It was callous and selfish of him, when he knew we no longer enjoyed the protection of our parents.”

  “The battle of Sedgemoor was a dreadful experience for him. He barely escaped with his life.” Despite similar feelings, she found herself defending Aaron.

  The other baby stirred in his cradle. Henry leaned forward to rock it with a foot. “Perhaps, but he will go his own way, no matter what we feel.”

  “I have not accepted his decision either.” Helena folded her arms, then wished she hadn’t when her chest exploded with pain. “He should have come home when the king issued the General Pardon. But I do miss him.”