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

by Anita Seymour

  “I miss them all.” Henry exhaled in a heartfelt sigh. “Uncle Edmund, Mother, and Father. I even miss Parry.” The sound of his name unearthed a memory in Helena’s head; he was one of the grooms at Loxsbeare who had joined the rebels.

  “As boys, we used to throw stones into the river Exe together when he accompanied me out riding.” His eyes took on a faraway look. “He always won.”

  Helena studied her hands, not knowing what to say. They had found Parry, mortally wounded in St Mary’s church at Weston after Sedgemoor, but she had never been able to bring herself to tell Henry. Her throat tightened and she knuckled a tear from the corner of her eye.

  “You will stand sponsor to the boys, won’t you?” she asked, making a clumsy attempt to change the subject.

  Henry sent her the same beaming smile she remembered from their childhood. A smile she didn’t see often now, which made her glad she had asked him.

  “And Aaron?” He raised a well-shaped eyebrow.

  “Oh, I suppose so. If the Prince of Orange can spare him.” She plucked at the coverlet, but Henry did not react to her peevishness. “Will you go and watch the procession when Prince William arrives? Alyce tells me it is not seemly for a woman just out of childbed to appear in public.”

  Henry laughed at her mime of Alyce’s favourite expression, but it was not a serious complaint. “No doubt he will slink in under cover of darkness to avoid the fuss. He’s not one for pomp and ceremony, I hear.”

  “Where did you hear?” A suspicion tugged at her. “You’ve heard from Aaron?”

  Henry nodded. “I’ve had two letters since he landed at Brixham.”

  “I see.” Helena sniffed, hurt. The last time she had heard from their brother was before he left Holland. “He’s in England then?”

  Henry peered into the second cradle. “Of course. May I hold the other one?”

  Helena frowned, confused. “Why? They are both the same.”

  His sudden laugh made the child in his arms jump. The tiny fists opened and he emitted a pained wail, but at a gentle word from Henry, settled down again. Henry lifted him onto his shoulder, which he seemed to like, his little head lolling. “How long before he knows me, Helena?”

  “I don’t know.” A knot of anxiety formed in her chest at her inadequacy. These tiny people were entirely hers, yet she had not the first idea what they wanted or needed at any given time.

  Alyce insisted they could not see yet, but the way they looked at her was disarmingly penetrating. When she spoke, they moved their little heads in the direction of her voice. They had not smiled either and she didn’t know what to do when they cried. She would have to overcome her fear and ask Alyce. If only Mother were here. Helena sniffed again at the pull of ever-present tears.

  Henry’s expression turned wistful and he stared off over the baby’s shoulder. “I saw Lady Holt at the ’change the other day.”

  Helena’s heart sank. She had hoped he had got over his disappointment in that direction, but apparently not. Mary Ann Newman had been his employer’s daughter, but at her parent’s behest had married Sir Joshua Holt.

  Helena was about to deliver a warning, but he shook his head to forestall her. “I didn’t speak to her, nor did I make myself known to her party.” His lips twitched into a sad smile. “She looked lovely. For a moment our eyes met across the concourse, and I swear she felt the same jolt I did.”

  “Henry, don’t!”

  “Lord and Lady Holt,’ Henry continued, ignoring her. ‘Spend their time between an estate in Derbyshire and their mansion in The Strand .They attend King James’ White Hall parties and mix with the highest society.” His laugh was bitter. “Too exalted for an apprentice architect.”

  “I gather she is well?” Helena wanted to hate Mary Ann for her acceptance of a marriage that had broken her brother’s heart. Henry’s explanation at the time was generous. What else could the girl have done? Andrew Newman did what any father would. He accepted an advantageous match for his eldest daughter, unaware she loved Henry, his own apprentice. Mary Ann could hardly have refused the match, not when Henry still had six years of his apprenticeship left to serve and was thus forbidden to marry.

  Henry bent his head to the baby, murmuring, “She is to have a child.”

  “Oh.” She was about to ask how he knew, but then realized his employer most likely imparted the news of his first grandchild with pride, unaware how it would affect Henry.

  “She taught me how to love, Helena.” He gave a deep sigh. “But how do I stop?”

  Helena fidgeted on the bed. She wanted to hug him, but the chair was between them and he still held the baby. “Surely, you are not waiting for her?” she joked.

  “Aren’t I?”

  Chapter Eight

  November 1688, King Street, London – Guy

  The morning after the riots, Robert accompanied Guy to King Street to survey the damage. Rubble and broken missiles littered the rear yard, the street in front strewn with debris, ash and pieces of burned furniture. The badly charred front window being replaced by a gang of workmen.

  “They were not easy to find.” Guy indicated the labourers. “There’s more than enough work for them in the city today.” He slapped his hands together to rid them of sawdust.

  “I hear the more prominent Catholics store their possessions in embassy buildings.” Robert poked his cane at the bits of wood left on the cobbles. “The Spanish Ambassador fled in his nightclothes and sought refuge at White Hall. They destroyed the embassy and removed its paintings, plate and furnishings.”

  “What outrageous folly, when Spain has always been an ally of the Prince of Orange.”

  “There is no reasoning with a mob.” Robert nodded toward the gate to the palace at the end of the road. “The royal guards are taking no chances, I see.”

  More men were stationed there than normal and both the carriage and pedestrian gates appeared to be shut fast. He slapped his upper arms. “What say we leave the workmen to it and retire to a coffee house? It’s mighty cold out here.”

  Guy was shivering by the time they stepped into the warm, smoky atmosphere inside Jonathan’s. The low rumble of male voices greeted him and delectable smells assailed his senses — some not quite so pleasant, a combination of ale, coffee, male sweat, warm wool and manure trodden into the matting.

  Having paid their pennies to the woman at the booth inside the door, he settled in his favourite chair. Apron-clad serving men shuttled back and forth in the panelled room with its bowed windows, the whole a male dominated sanctuary and the best place in the city to glean the latest news. He had not frequented it much since his marriage, content to return to Helena in the afternoons. Yet, as he sat opposite Robert in the moist warmth, browsing news sheets and speculating on what the king would do next, he found he missed the comfortable atmosphere. He even missed the tang of male sweat and choking pipe smoke.

  Robert was on the point of ordering a second dish of coffee, when a man approached their table. Guy stood and bowed, “Master Devereux, allow me to present—” halting when his companion held up a hand.

  “Master Montague and I know each other.” Robert nodded in acknowledgement of the newcomer.

  This came as no surprise to Guy. A famous Whig, Charles Montague was amongst those who had evolved a scheme to found a national bank. An enterprise in which Guy himself was interested.

  Montague arranged himself artistically on a chair, a smug expression on his handsome features. “King James, it seems has followed his wife and fled during the night.”

  Guy smiled. “Do I hear an echo of the words, ‘good riddance’ appended to that statement?”

  Montague’s guffaw drew several curious glances in their direction. “He must have been in high dudgeon, for he threw the great seal into the river.”

  Robert’s cup paused on its way to his lips. “You don’t say so?”

  “I doubt Prince William will pursue him. Glad to see the back of him I should imagine.” Montague turned to Guy.
“I believe I have to offer you congratulations on becoming a father, sir. In somewhat unusual circumstances, it has been reported.”

  Guy accepted the congratulations graciously, wondering how his friend had learned of it so quickly.

  “Did you also know Prince William has been formally invited to London?” Montague regarded each man in turn.

  “I suspected as much.” Guy cocked his chin at the street. “Something had to be done after the riots.”

  “The trained bands have been sent out to disperse the rabble.” Robert pointed his cane at the leaded window. He almost tripped a serving boy handing out the latest copies of the London Gazette. “Here, boy, give me one of those.” He tossed the boy a coin, and scanned the page with a shout. “Hah! His Majesty has been arrested at Faversham.”

  “Will they take him to the Tower?” Guy declined another cup of coffee.

  Having got out of the habit, he had drunk too much already.

  Montague groaned. “They should have let him go. Had I been there, I would have held the gangplank for him.”

  “They’ll take him far away from London if they have any sense.” Guy laughed at Montague’s comical expression. “Prince William is on his way to London, and I cannot imagine he wishes to come face to face with his father-in-law.”

  * * *

  November 1688, Lambtons Inn, London – Helena

  Helena reclined on a chaise, enjoying the luxury of a quiet snooze, one new-born son nestled in the crook of her arm. The child’s tiny fat fists clenched beneath his chin, pink mouth working in his baby dreams.

  A thick frost clung to the bare trees in the garden below the window, but the room was comfortably warm with a fire in the grate and a pot-bellied brazier filled with glowing coals set at the far end.

  The door clicked open and Alyce glided into the room on a whisper of taffeta. “I came to tell you that you have a visitor, my dear.” She bent and lifted the infant clear of Helena’s arm.

  “I thought I was not permitted visitors.” Helena said, smiling, although a steady stream of well-wishers had paraded through her room since her arrival at Lambtons to hear the story of her escape from the riots.

  “This one is special.” Alyce tutted. “You removed his swaddling again.”

  “He likes to kick and wave his hands,” Helena said, her voice slurred by sleep.

  Returning the baby to the cradle, Alyce backed out of the room, her place taken by a young man, who hesitated just inside the door.

  Helena permitted herself a small triumph at his discomfort; after all this was her room and anyone who arrived unannounced must take their chances.

  Blinking sleep from her eyes, Helena studied her unknown visitor dispassionately. Lean and fair, his hair was drawn back and secured at his nape with a black ribbon. A blue long coat accentuated strong shoulders and he wore a well-worn baldric slung across one hip, empty now, for he must have left his sword with Lubbock at the front door.

  His bright blue eyes stared back at her with an incredulous expression, until recognition sharpened her senses. She jerked upright. “Aaron?”

  A slow, familiar smile spread across his face.

  Helena threw herself across the room into his arms. “Oh, Aaron, is it really you?”

  He folded her into a more muscular embrace than she remembered, her forehead grazing the light bristles on his chin. The smell of wood smoke lingered on his coat, mingling with the masculine scent of him. Her hands trembled and the years melted away; she was safe and young again because her big brother was here.

  Then a tiny flame of anger lit in her head and she pulled back sharply.

  “Prince William has been in London three days. Where have you been?”

  He gave a deep, throaty laugh and threw back his head. “Doing my duty.”

  “Drinking and carousing more like.” She punched his upper arm. His stammered, half laughing protest brought back memories so sharp, she felt actual pain. She hugged him again, almost afraid he would disappear into the London mist, and she might have dreamed him after all.

  “You are so changed, Ellie. Just look at you. I can hardly believe it.” He held her away from him, his eyes raking her from head to toe. “You’ve become a beauty.”

  Helena arched an eyebrow, peering through her lashes with her best coquette look. “You sound surprised, sir.”

  His bark of laughter was replaced by a small frown. “I trust you are recovered from your recent ordeal?”

  “Oh yes, but it was awful. We got away just in time and thankfully no one was hurt—”

  “Actually,” he interrupted, “I refer to your recent lying-in.”

  “Oh, that!” She waved an arm airily, then dissolved into giggles at his shocked expression. Their noisy reunion woke one of the babies, who threw his fists in the air with an angry wail.

  Aaron took a step forward, but seemed reluctant to go too close. “Two fine sons, just like Father and Uncle Edmund.” He faltered and a cloud crossed his face.

  Watching him, Helena felt tears threaten. Even saying their names pained him.

  She cleared her throat. “The chirurgeon says they are identical, Father and Uncle weren’t.”

  “I know.” He gave a small sniff and blinked, his smile reappearing. “And does Master Palmer provide well for my sister and my nephews?”

  “He does indeed.” His failure to enquire after her happiness irritated her. Yet, she could not bring herself to take him to task for not asking the right questions. Aaron had come home. “How long are you staying?”

  A thin wail interrupted their talk and Helena rocked a cradle with her foot, relived when the nurse arrived to settle them.

  “Here in this magnificent alehouse?” Aaron cocked his head to indicate their surroundings.

  “Lambtons is not just an alehouse,” she replied, protective of her guardians and her first home in London.

  “Or did you mean England?” he teased, wandering to the window to stare down at the street, his chin tilted and one hand balanced on his hip in a stance she remembered. The sight of him there made her breathless. She had missed him so much.

  “Master Devereux has invited me to dine this evening in his wonderful dining hall downstairs. And for the moment, Prince William has no plans to leave the city.”

  “How did you know I was here?” She changed the subject, determined to postpone political debate for another time.

  He turned back to smile at her, arms crossed nonchalantly on his chest. “I went to King Street first, but your manservant re-directed me here.”

  “James Glover. He’s a good man, very like Nathan.”

  “I saw Nathan Bayle in Exeter.” He turned from the window with a broad smile. “Samuel Ffoyle too. They came to see me in the Close soon after we reached the city. Some of our men needed treatment, and on my way back from the Maid’s Hospital, there they were on the cobbles by the East Gate. Why, we might have spoken just the day before.”

  “Dear Samuel, he visits me whenever he comes to London. Elias and Amy live in Freemans Yard. They have four children now. Oh, of course I told you in my letters. I forgot.”

  “We’ve so much to thank Samuel for. He’s taken exceptional care of you and Father’s affairs.”

  “Master Devereux has been wonderful too.” Aware her voice held reproach, she softened her tone. “Where are you staying in London?” She wondered if she should offer him hospitality at King Street.

  “I have lodgings at White Hall Palace.”

  “My. Aaron Woulfe residing at the Palace,” she mocked, fluttered her eyelashes.

  “You live with your husband in the adjoining street, Helena.”

  “Ah, but on the other side of the gate.”

  He smiled at her joke. “I have been allotted a small apartment, but it’s temporary. I expect to have a set of rooms commensurate with my position at court soon.”

  “You are to be part of Prince William’s court?” She joined him at the window and leaned against him, lifting her chin to
rest it on his shoulder, just like she used to. She needed to touch him, to reassure herself he was real.

  “When it’s King William’s court, yes,” he corrected, “and I hope to make a better courtier than I did a soldier.” Raw pain appeared in his eyes and he, wrapped his arm around her waist.

  “You cannot imagine how many times I visualized you standing right here in this room.” Helena’s words were muffled by the cloth of his coat. She lifted her gaze to his brow. “And that’s a rather becoming scar you have there, brother.”

  He fingered it absently, but didn’t respond. Its presence seemed to confuse him, and his gaze took on a distant quality as if memories marched through his head. Perhaps they did, this man who looked so like her brother, but who was more than he had been. He had acquired the ancient knowledge of the warrior. Secrets he couldn’t share, but would stay with him forever.

  Something else nagged at her, which, if she didn’t broach it now, she might never be able to. She unwound his arm from around her waist and took his hand, leading him to the chaise. Obeying her silent command he lowered himself onto the brocade, leaving a wide space between them, almost awkward in her company.

  “Aaron,” Helena began, “about Mother.”

  He lifted a well-manicured hand to forestall her. “I will never understand her death, Ellie. I’ve still not accepted she is gone.”

  “There is nothing to understand. A soldier ripped her necklace from her throat and she fell down the stairs. Her neck was broken. There was nothing anyone could have done.”

  Aaron leaned forward to run both hands over his face, then dropped them between splayed knees. “She never even saw my letter.” His self-pitying tone brought a rush of annoyance into her chest. Did he think his grief for their mother was his alone? “It was worse for Henry. He was there.” Pain entered his face and she relented, reaching across the void between them to cover his hand with hers. “There is still no news of Father?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing. Not since Sedgemoor.”