On one occasion the subject turned to the Royal Society, about which Helena knew nothing. While Henry expounded on Sir Christopher Wren’s involvement, Helena remained silent, reluctant to appear ignorant in front of her little brother.
“What exactly is the Royal Society?” Helena asked, when Henry had left to return to Charles Street.
“A group of eminent men in search of knowledge. They meet in some gloomy rooms at the crumbling Gresham College.” William accepted a dish of tea. “Wren is one of the founder members. He served as President until ’eighty two. They aim to share and expand their knowledge of the world.”
“Have you ever attended a meeting?”
“Once.” He grimaced “It was interesting, if intimidating, what with all those educated old men present. I sat next to John Evelyn, who shushed me every time I tried to speak.”
“Master Evelyn is a member?”
“Indeed, yes.” William chipped bits of sugar off a slab and stirred them into the tea. “Wren gave a lecture expounding the merits of medication being introduced into the human body directly into the bloodstream.”
“Wouldn’t swallowing it have the same effect?”
“Not according to Wren. He’s of the opinion certain substances work faster if inserted through a metal needle directly into a vein.”
“Ugh! Surely not?”
William threw his head back in a laugh that made her breathless and she had to concentrate on what he said next. “King Charles found it fascinating and often attended lectures.”
Guy never discussed anything this interesting with her and she listened, enthralled.
“They’ve been accused of everything from witchcraft to heresy, but there’s no malice in them.”
How attractive he looked when he was not trying to impress her with outrageous flattery. He wore a flounced linen shirt and black breeches today, his well-muscled calves accentuated by white silk hose. Wigless, his dark hair fell loose on his shoulders. Her fingers twitched to brush a curled strand out of his eyes, and so unnerved by this urge to touch him, she completely missed his answer. “I’m sorry, William. What did you say?”
“I said, no one should prevent the growth of knowledge. Just because scientific discoveries change our traditional view of things, does not make them untrue.”
“Why would anyone disapprove of learning?”
“Exactly.” His eyes twinkled, making her shiver, exhilarated at being the focus of such absorbed attention.
“Many people are afraid of progress,” William continued. “They regard meddling with nature, or even questioning it too closely, tempts divine wrath, or some such drivel.”
“What a ridiculous notion.”
“I completely agree.”
Their eyes met over their tea dishes and held, and then he glanced away quickly, leaving Helena to wonder how she could ever regarded him irresponsible or shallow. He went out of his way to amuse her and ensure her comfort. He even paid the babies a certain guarded attention, genuinely pleased at their survival in a world where so many new lives ended before they began.
He would sit at her window some mornings to read, or write letters at her bureau while she dozed, apparently content just to be in the room. Her only misgiving was that Guy seemed more irritable than usual if he found William cooing over the babies, or reading to her.
She had asked Alyce once if his irritation was justified, but was dismissed with a laugh.
“Married women have far greater freedoms than unmarried ones. In fact I think every young wife should have a handsome admirer dance attendance on her. It keeps the husbands’ minds where they should be.”
Helena thought this a frivolous response, but Alyce would not be drawn. “My dear,” Alyce dismissed her with a wave, “there cannot be anything untoward in William’s presence. You are in our home after all.”
Given licence to behave as she wished, Helena relished those special days, knowing they were not destined to last.
* * *
December 1688, Lambtons Inn – Helena
One morning, Alyce showed Guy into Helena’s room with more than her usual gravity, pulling a face behind his back as she left.
Guy frowned at the high bed piled with cushions, a pile of trinkets and cards on a nearby table, her nightclothes discarded at the bottom of the bed.
His silent scrutiny brought home to her that the room was rather untidy, but she pushed aside her instinct to apologize with a mental shrug. “What a surprise to see you so early.” Helena indicated the pot of chocolate and plate of pastries beside the chaise she occupied, dishabille in a lace trimmed day gown. “Would you care for some?”
Guy shook his head. “You seem extremely—settled, Helena.” His voice sharp with reproach.
“I used to live here, Guy. Of course I’m settled, as you put it. I’m well looked after.”
“You have imposed on the Devereuxs’ hospitality long enough. It’s time you returned home.”
Helena paused with the chocolate pot held in mid-air, her mouth open in surprise. So that’s what Alyce was trying to tell her?
She adopted her most appealing look. “It’s been three weeks, Guy. Most women’s confinements are an entire month. Besides, I-I’m not quite ready to—”
“I think you are, my dear.” His stern expression brooked no argument. “I’ve instructed Chloe to pack your things.”
“Does it have to be today, Guy?” She indicated the untidy room. “I need some warning at least.”
“You had none on coming here. Yet you managed it quite well.” His voice was so cold,
Helena flinched.
“However, I’m not uncaring of your comfort,” he went on. “I’ve engaged a wet nurse for you.”
Helena was about to protest, then realized she didn’t want to. It was tiring feeding two babies and her nipples were cracked and sore. Having been so adamant about nursing the boys herself, her pride had prevented her from backing down. “Thank you, Guy. That was considerate of you.” Yet still she hesitated. The idea of going home should have delighted her, but at King Street, the responsibility for the babies would be hers alone. She felt safe at Lambtons.
“I know you’re concerned about caring for the boys on your own, Helena.” Guy’s voice softened.
He did understand. She fiddled with a ribbon at her neckline. “You must think me selfish, but it’s been so convenient with nothing more taxing to do each day than entertain my guests. However, you are right. It’s time for me to come home.”
“Is that such an unwelcome prospect?” Guy sounded hurt.
“No, of course not,” she lied. “I’ve missed you.”
The slight tick at the corner of one eye showed that he too, had been anxious about this encounter. Beneath his stern countenance, he was unsure of his place, not only in society but her life. A fact she was aware of, but had never acknowledged openly so as not to bruise his already fragile pride.
He held out his arms and she went into his eager embrace, reminding her of what she had left behind. Guilt washed over her, followed by a thrill of anticipation as the feel of his arms brought half-forgotten memories of delicious nights into her head.
He was right. It was time for her to take up her responsibilities again. Not just as a mother, but those of a wife too.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered into his shoulder. “I’ve neglected you.”
“You have indeed,” he murmured against her hair. “But I forgive you.”
* * *
December 1688, London – William
William received none of his father’s suggestions for a career with any marked enthusiasm, partly because Robert Devereux’s imagination had gone no further than either a commission in the navy, or to follow in his own footsteps and become a goldsmith.
Neither prospect held much appeal.
He had agreed to visit his father’s workshop out of politeness. However, when he arrived at the newly refurbished building in Greville Street, he was pleasantly surprised. �
��I admit it was Guy Palmer’s new methods which prompted me to buy this place.” Robert nodded to the rows of benches where artisans bent over their work. A shiny leather trough fixed to the edge of the long workbench to collect the tiny scraps of gold for re-use. Arched windows, too high to climb through were set above, which afforded the workers maximum light. The building smelled of new cut wood, paint and linseed oil.
“Huguenot workers are excellent, and cheaper than the local variety.” Robert made no attempt to lower his voice. William noticed a few shoulders stiffen, but no one looked up from their work.
“This is unusual, Father.” William indicated a brooch shaped like a flower, the oval gems sitting proud in an almost invisible setting.
“Master Dupree…” Robert indicated the hunched, frail-looking man at his elbow who peered at them with myopic eyes at mention of his name, “…is a master with floral pieces. They look almost real, see?” Robert held out his hand in which sat a glowing ruby and emerald cluster.
William weighed the jewel in his hand, toying with the idea of showing it to several ladies of his acquaintance, whom he knew would wish to possess such a beautiful piece. He wondered what Helena would think of it, and during the rest of the brief tour, his thoughts were of her.
He found Helena’s newfound confidence in her own femininity irresistibly attractive — even more so than the proud, if unworldly girl he met on her arrival in London. She proved a challenge to his powers of attraction, and her choosing to marry Guy Palmer wounded him more than he admitted to himself at the time.
She was a very different experience for him after the simpering girls his mother paraded before him. Helena’s intelligent interest in the world fascinated him and she had a wicked way of looking at him with those startling brown eyes that sometimes looked black. At times he found himself quite disconcerted to be on the receiving end of her intense stare.
From the workshop, William took a sedan to the ’change, where he passed a leisurely hour parading up and down the concourse with the other gallants, admiring the ladies. At one of the stalls, he flirted with a young woman, who showed him a polished oak pin box with an acorn carved into the lid. Recognizing the symbol that decorated the journal Helena always kept with her, he purchased it without bothering to haggle with the stallholder. Then he added a gold hat pin with an oak leaf before taking a sedan home.
At Lambtons, he handed Lubbock his coat. “I shall be with Mistress Palmer should I be required.”
“Er… Mistress Palmer has returned home, sir.”
William halted, glanced up at the galleried landing and then back at Lubbock. “Home?”
“To King Street, sir. Master Palmer collected them in the coach earlier this morning.”
William dismissed him with a curt nod and took the stairs three at a time, his feet drumming on the floorboards down a familiar route. Helena’s room stood stripped of any trace of her, right down to the little brazier in the corner. Her bed linen had been removed from the large bed, her playing cards no longer sat on the marquetry table by the window. Even the spindly gold dressing table where her tortoiseshell combs had lain stood bare.
He stood listening to the silence, his heart beating in a chest gone tight. With a shock, William realized he had no direction or reason for his time, then or for the future. He pulled the door closed behind him and went in search of his father to discuss what he might do with his life.
* * *
April 1689, King Street, London – Henry
Henry left his lodgings in Charles Street, and signalled to a chairmen slouched against the wall of a house opposite. The chairman nudged his companion before hurrying towards him, the cumbersome conveyance slung between their broad shoulders.
Henry gave them Helena’s address in King Street and settled into the comfy interior, pondering on how routine his life had become. He spent his mornings on building sites with his master, Francis Newman, who often included him on his visits to Sir Christopher Wren at his various projects in the city. In the afternoons, Henry might spend an agreeable couple of hours at Will’s, his favourite coffee house, followed by dinner at either Lambtons or a local inn, returning to his rooms to pore over drawings long into the night, often falling into exhausted sleep at his bureau.
Guy had purchased two adjoining plots of land in Rupert Street that spring of the coronation, seeking Henry’s professional advice on his plans for building a new house.
“When the king abandons the smelly, inconvenient old Palace of White Hall to divide his time between St James and Kensington, the Court will certainly follow. St James will become the most sought after address in the city. I’ve no intention of being left behind in the redundant White Hall, which will deteriorate into a ruin in no time.”
Guy’s instincts proved reliable as St James was rapidly filling with the ever more beautiful residences for London’s newly rich merchant class.
Helena had appeared unimpressed with the plans for the new house, declaring the empty strip of land, with its potholes, discarded rubble scattered amongst a jungle of weeds uninspiring.
“I have no imagination,” she had said, laughing, on her first and only visit. At the first opportunity, she had lifted her skirts and picked her way across the churned earth and broken pipes back to the carriage which waited on the corner of Coventry Street.
Guy’s new project gave Henry an excuse to spent long evenings at his sister’s house, poring over plans and drawings with Guy, enabling him to avoid Lady Holt’s frequent visits to her family. When their paths crossed, Mary Ann always treated him with delighted civility which always left him strangely unsettled.
He had almost expected, perhaps even hoped, that she would be dull-eyed with pain at having to endure an unhappy marriage, but this did not appear to be the case. Animated and pretty, her attempts to engage him in conversation were met with monosyllabic responses. Angry with himself, Henry knew his behaviour was childish, but found himself powerless to prevent it.
His fantasies of rescuing her from a reluctant marriage sustained him, but the birth of her daughter had spoiled his dreams. The idea of enticing away the mother of another man’s child was abhorrent to him, and besides, Mary Anne did not appear to need rescuing.
“We be here sor,” the chairman called, halting the chair outside Helena’s house.
Heaving a sigh, Henry climbed from the sedan, tipped the carrier generously and waited for Glover to respond to his knock.
Chapter Eleven
April 1689, King Street, London – Helena
Helena gave the dining table a searching glance to ensure everything had been arranged to her satisfaction, moving items a fraction of an inch, then standing back to assess the effect.
“I see we expect a larger number of guests than usual, my dear,” Guy said. He lounged against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest.
“Aaron is bringing his friend, the Dutchman he talks about.” Helena avoided his eyes. “There is Henry of course. Robert and Alyce, with Celia and Ralf.” She attempted a light laugh. “I only hope my kitchen can compete with Lambtons.”
“I take it we expect Aaron to make an announcement this evening?” Guy said, his tone flat.
Helena inhaled slowly. “Maybe the king thinks Aaron has earned a position in the royal household.” She wished Guy wouldn’t make her so defensive. Wasn’t he as proud of Aaron as she was?
“He’s not king until he’s been crowned.”
“A matter of days, Guy. It’s not like you to be sharp,” she said, meaning the opposite. Before he could make another remark, she made for the door. “Do excuse me. They will be here soon and I must dress.”
With Chloe’s help, Helena completed her toilette, then went to spend a few minutes in the nursery. By the time she came downstairs again, Arthur Palmer, Guy’s adventurous uncle, stood in the hall where a footman relived him of his cloak. He had spent most of their marriage in the Gambia, supervising his gold mines and had only recently returned to London.
&n
bsp; He had presented them with his house in King Street, a property that once belonged to his cousin, Lady Barbara Castlemaine, the notorious mistress of the late King Charles.
His bright yellow long coat was a little old fashioned and had slightly faded turned back cuffs, but was obviously a well-loved garment in which he felt comfortable. Thin, coloured ribbons were knotted into small locks of his black peruke. His sharp eyes of the brightest blue swivelled towards her, his lined, leathered face instantly lighting in a wide smile.
“My dear, Helena. You look positively beautiful this evening.” The tone and volume of his voice more suited for the bridge of a ship.
“You are just in time to escort me into the parlour.”
“Charmed, my dear.” He strode into the room, almost dragging her behind him, where Guy sat talking to Aaron and a young man with almost white hair and light green eyes. All three leapt to their feet when they entered.
“Helena, allow me to present my friend, Hendrick De Groot.” Aaron indicated the stranger, whose stature, as well as his unusual colouring, proclaimed his foreign origins.
Helena faltered over the pronunciation of his name, but Hendrick did not appear to mind. She liked him immediately, despite his disconcerting habit of leaping to his feet whenever anyone entered or left the room for any reason, even the servants.
Henry’s arrival was quickly followed by Robert, Ralph and Phebe, the latter in a flurry of happy laughter and girlish greetings.
“I do hope you do not mind my taking Celia’s place.” Phebe relinquished her cloak and muff, her face flushed and breathless. “My sister is indisposed.”
Helena was about to express her delight at seeing her, when Arthur rushed forward and clutched Phebe’s hand to his chest, drawing her into a closer embrace than was usual for two strangers. He pressed an enthusiastic kiss on her palm, declaring, “What a delightful creature.”
Helena blinked in surprise and mild embarrassment, but Phebe appeared charmed. Helena had just recovered from the incident when the shy Dutchman took Phebe’s attention and without an introduction, he strode forward and bent over her hand.
The Goldsmith's Wife (The Woulfes of Loxsbeare Book 2) Page 9
