“It’s an honour to meet you once again, Mistress Devereux.”
Helena stepped back, surprised, as the pair swept past her toward the dining room in response to Glover’s announcement that dinner was ready. She glanced at Aaron for an explanation, but he merely smiled and tucked her arm through his and pulled her after their guests, whispering, “I’ll explain later.”
“Alyce is keeping Celia company,” Robert explained, when Aaron asked where their wives were.
“Celia’s indisposition is not serious, I hope?” Helena asked, concerned.
“Not at all, she is quite well. Just tired and rather uncomfortable,” Robert assured her. Then turning to Aaron, asked, “Now, sir. What honour has the Prince of Orange bestowed upon you?”
“Oh yes, Master Woulfe, do tell,” Phebe gushed.
“I should not really reveal it.” Aaron’s gaze swept the row of eager faces. “The announcements are traditionally made on the eve of a Coronation and that is not for three days.” Faces fell around the table. Aaron set down his glass and he lifted his hands in surrender. “But what harm could it do? I’ve been made a Gentleman of the Bedchamber.”
“How wonderful, Aaron,” Helena left her chair and ran round the table to kiss him.
“You are honoured indeed, sir,” Ralf sounded impressed, the remaining company rising to offer congratulations.
“So, brother. You are to stand by a chair holding a bowl of dirty water aloft for the king’s barber?” Henry said, prompting a burst of laughter.
“There are very few His Majesty would trust to hold a razor to his chin.” Aaron cuffed him lightly. “Besides, I’m in excellent company. Lords Ormond, Mordaunt, Oxford and Churchill have also been given the position.”
Uncle Arthur nodded approvingly, the ribbons in his peruke bobbing as he talked, revealing a diamond earring that winked in the candlelight. It was this which seemed to fascinate Aaron, just as it had Helena the first time they had met.
“It was an especial favour, sir,” Aaron said. “Although my father was… is…a baron.”
At the mention of their father, a lump formed beneath her breastbone and her throat became scratchy.
“Did you attend the Bill of Rights ceremony at the Banqueting Hall, young man?” Arthur asked, giving Helena time to compose herself again.
“I did indeed, sir,” Aaron accepted the plate of marinated chicken Helena passed him. The dish was Aaron’s favourite and she took especial care to ensure her cook prepared the receipt correctly.
Aaron bit into the white flesh, chewed and made appreciative noises.
Helena swelled with pride, though she noticed Guy nibbled at his with apparent boredom. She caught his eye and lifted an enquiring eyebrow, but he waved her away. “I’m not particularly hungry. I ate earlier at Jonathan’s.”
Helena accepted the explanation in silence, her fingers plucking petals from a flower arrangement on the table. Guy knew she had invited guests for dinner. Or was this his way of imparting his jealously of Aaron?
“I haven’t had chicken this tasty since Cadiz.” Uncle Arthur licked his lips with relish. “And I had to kill that one m’self.”
The ripple of laughter this elicited banished Helena’s bad temper and, pointedly avoiding Guy, she joined the discussion with an enthusiasm which was only a little forced.
“I have to confess feminine ignorance here, sirs,” Phebe said, though a flurry of murmured denials greeted her words. “What is this Bill you speak of?”
“Well, Mistress Devereux.” Aaron dabbed his mouth with his napkin. “The first part of the Bill is essentially an indictment of James II and his transgressions.”
“Humph!” Arthur Palmer tossed a bone expertly into the pewter bowl laid out for the purpose. “He committed plenty o’ those.” The missile hit the metal with a light ping.
“Quite, sir.” Aaron coughed into a fist. “Then there is a Declaration of the Rights of Citizens. The third part merely declares William and Mary are King and Queen Regnant of England, with William to exercise all power during his lifetime.”
“Which sounds like a sensible solution to all that Divine Rights business the last king believed in,” Robert said, eliciting surprised looks and the odd nod.
Helena leaned closer to Aaron and murmured, “What do you think of Uncle Arthur?”
“He looks like a pirate.”
“I know,” Helena replied, giggling. “I think he’s wonderful.”
She glanced up at Phebe and Hendrick, wondering how to encourage them to join the conversation, but they only seemed interested in each other. Robert was quieter than normal, though he kept his brooding gaze fixed on the Dutchman.
“Who shall succeed them?” Guy pushed the chicken to the side of his plate and gestured for the vegetable dish.
“Should they remain childless, which seems likely,” Aaron began, “Princess Anne would take up the Protestant line of succession.” The dish had reached him, but instead of passing it to Guy, he tipped the rest of the onions onto his plate.
Guy narrowed his eyes before gesturing to Glover to bring more.
“What about the baby Prince of Wales?” Helena chewed her bottom lip to prevent a laugh escaping. “He has been excluded entirely.”
“Most likely he’ll become both a figurehead and a hero. Catholic or not.” Guy was disdainful.
“It has already begun. This is how they toast James Stuart these days.” Uncle Arthur lifted his goblet and passed it over the finger bowl beside his plate.
“It’s a toast to the king over the water,” Aaron said when Helena frowned in confusion.
She relaxed back in her chair. “Oh yes, I understand. I’ll have to watch out for that.”
“There’ll be Jacobites everywhere before you know it,” Robert grumbled.
“Phebe appears taken with your friend,” Helena whispered to Aaron. “Don’t you agree she looks lovely this evening?”
Phebe’s brown hair was dressed in neat curls on top of her head, to which she had added a fontange with ribbon bows. The tight bodice of her gown emphasized her budding curves, and whenever Hendrick directed a remark toward her, she tilted her head coquettishly.
Aaron grinned in triumph, but when Helena met Robert’s glance, he inhaled slowly, puffing up his chest as if preparing for a confrontation.
Oh dear, he doesn’t approve. She lowered her lashes quickly, grateful when Aaron asked Guy a question which distracted him.
“How goes the goldsmith business, may I ask, sir?”
“I’ve a regular list of patrons willing to leave their gold and valuables in the safekeeping of the Palmer vaults.” Guy exchanged a smug smile with his uncle.
Helena watched as her husband draw himself up with pride. Did Aaron really want to know, or did he ask merely to see the smug expression on Guy’s face? She suspected the latter, but when Uncle Arthur joined the conversation with enthusiasm, she let them get on with it.
“I brought back some unusually fine minerals with me this trip,” Uncle Arthur picked his teeth and slurped his wine. “Guy will make a pretty penny from it if I’m not mistaken.”
“All three workshops are manned with a rotating staff of guards to ensure the strong rooms remain inviolate. They sleep on the premises.”
“Are such precautions necessary?” Aaron asked, directing a slow wink at Helena, who glared back, her grimace a warning that now he had begun, there would be no stopping either of them for some time.
“Indeed, there have been three altercations between local bands of villains and the liveried guards.” Guy’s self-important tone made Helena squirm in her chair. “I think the fellows imagined the new vaults would prove an easy target.”
“Sounds dangerous. How did you counter it?” Ralf’s pleasant, open face turned serious.
Helena suppressed her boredom by concentrating on peeling an orange. Among Uncle Arthur’s generous presents, he had brought her an orange tree, now installed in the rear kitchen close to the fire. Helena doubted i
t would live, but resolved to enjoy the fruit while it lasted and chewed the segments slowly, savouring the sweetness.
“One blackguard was killed and some sustained injuries inflicted by my guards, none of whom suffered damage themselves, of course.” Guy almost laughed, but at Helena’s scowl, he turned it into a cough.
“I cannot help feeling it’s dangerous to keep a private army, Guy.” Her fingers gouged the flesh of the fruit. “You have given them permission to maim and kill as they will.”
“Only if one of my strong rooms is threatened.” Guy bridled. “My men don’t go around the streets attacking people.”
“Even so, it’s a dangerous licence to give,” Phebe interjected.
Helena silently applauded her.
Guy dismissed them both with a wave. “I intend offering promissory notes on deposited monies, so my patrons need not risk being robbed in the streets. In time, they will engender such confidence, the paper will hold value in itself.”
Despite the complimentary remarks this elicited, Helena felt more irritated than proud. Added to her discontent was the all-consuming attention Phebe and Hendrick shared, which only served to exacerbate her resentment. Their absorption with each other made her envious.
Guy turned to her then with a concerned look. “We do not tire you with our talk, my dear after you have worked so hard to provide this excellent meal for us?”
A wave of guilt flooded through her and she retreated behind her fan. “I’m no tired. Thank you.”
“To whom else has His Majesty given honours?” Robert poured more wine for them all. “So I may take it to the coffee house before the news sheet come out.”
Aaron’s previous reticence disappeared. “Bentinck has been given the Earldom of Portland, and Princess Anne’s husband, George of Denmark has been made the Duke of Cumberland.”
“Count Zuylestein has been given the Earldom of Rochford.” Hendrick’s face darkened when Robert, Guy, and Ralf groaned in dismay.
Henry lifted a hand in the Dutchman’s direction with a, “what-did-you-expect?” look.
Robert shook his head. “Three foreigners given English peerages? What blatant disregard for the English nobility who invited him to come to England.”
“I sympathize to some extent, sir,” Aaron said. “However, my years in Holland have forged a deep respect for the Dutch. They might be sterner than the English, but more staunchly moral, loyal men could not be found anywhere.” He clapped Hendrick on the back. “And my friend, Hendrick, is second Private Secretary. Is that not good news also?” His hard expression dared them to express disappointment.
“Excellent, Master De Groot. I offer my congratulations,” Helena said with genuine pleasure. She liked the self-effacing blond giant and Phebe was certainly smitten.
Hendrick beamed and Phebe dimpled, while the men looked sceptical.
“I hear John Churchill’s ability to change his coat with the wind paid off.” Ralf exchanged rueful smiles with Guy and Robert. “Hendrick here tells me he is Earl of Marlborough now.”
“What, no dukedom?” Robert asked in mock surprise.
“Give the man time, Master Devereux,” Guy mused knowingly.
Chapter Twelve
April 1689, White Hall Palace, London – Aaron
Aaron stood before a full length mirror, his arms raised as his manservant fastened his sword round his hip. The apartment held a four-poster bed piled with cushions and hung with sumptuous red and gold brocade hangings, a necessary luxury where dragging firewood up four floors twice a day tested the most agile servant. A thick, dark rug adorned the polished floor and a fringed curtain hung in the window that overlooked the Privy Garden far below.
The fact Aaron had furnished these rooms from his own pocket did not spoil his pleasure, for it was handsomer than those he occupied during his first months in London. Different too, from the mean little attic in The Hague which was his first home as a fugitive. Yet he found himself missing his elegant little house in Lange Voorhout, and vowed he would return there one day.
The door rattled on its hinges before flying open. Hendrick marched into the room, hurling his cloak onto a chair without looking to see where it landed.
Aaron twisted his head, following his friend’s progress across the room. The manservant tying his cravat inhaled a controlled breath, but Aaron continued to fidget, concerned with Hendrick’s scowling face.
“The ceremony is postponed,” Hendrick growled, staring out of the window, his arms folded over his chest and the fingers of one hand tapping his upper arm.
“Why? What has happened?”
“The Queen has received a letter from her fahzer, James Stuart.” His tension clear in the in his slurred his pronunciation.
“Is that all? Surely a letter could not halt a coronation—”
”This one has.” Hendrick sighed. “He reprimands her for her disloyalty, and states she has no right to be crowned when her brozer, the Prince of Wales, still lives.”
“Her Majesty knew what she was doing months ago. Why the attack of conscience now?”
“Perhaps, but it seems to have affected the queen badly to see it written down in his own hand. However, zere is another problem.” Hendrick exhaled slowly. “Archbishop Sandford has refused to crown zem.”
“Why? Because Prince William declared the coronation ceremony too Popish? He was merely making an observation.”
Hendrick shook his head slowly. “Sandford claims he swore fealty to King James, and now his conscience won’t allow him to do so to anozer king, while the Stuart still lives.”
“Pompous fool,” Aaron muttered, dismissing the manservant.
The man packed his shaving bowl and razor before bowing bowed out of the room.
Aaron unclipped his belt and dropped the gleaming sword onto the bed. “I shan’t need this today, after all.” He flopped down in a chair, his hands between his knees. “What shall we do, my friend? Dressed in our finery with nowhere to go? Perhaps this would be a good time to introduce you to some of the more leisurely pursuits London has to offer.”
Hendrick scowled. “I’m hardly in de mood. There’s a rumour zat James Stuart has been received well in Ireland.”
Aaron sat bolt upright. “How much of a rumour?”
“A strong one, I zink. He reached Dublin unopposed.”
Aaron banged his fist on the arm of his chair. “I knew we should have sent a force when he landed in Kinsale. He’s had a month to establish his position.”
“His Majesty did not believe the Irish cared much for James Stuart.”
“He’s most probably right.” Aaron snorted. “They see him as a tool to wipe away Protestantism in Ireland, with France paying the bill.”
Hendrick’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. “But His Majesty has been discussing the possibility of an Act of Union with the Privy Council for weeks.”
“Hah! Tell that to the Irish and the Scots,” Aaron said with a growl. “It may happen in the council chamber, but the king needs to send an army to protect the Protestants. The small strongholds like Londonderry and Enniskillen cannot hold out alone.”
Hendrick gave him an oblique look. “I had no idea you were so familiar wiz Ireland.”
“My fellow fugitives and I had a lot of time on our hands in Holland after the rebellion. The Ulstermen among them claimed James Stuart has been sending arms to the country for the last two years in case his Papist friends needed a refuge. This is not a last moment affair, my friend.”
A sharp knock came at the door and a pageboy stuck his head round the doorjamb. “Sirs!” he exclaimed in a voice made high by excitement. “Bishop Compton has agreed to perform the ceremony. The Coronation will proceed.” The lad disappeared, and continued to deliver his news along the hall.
Aaron leapt to his feet, grabbed his sword and swept up his sash and cloak. With Hendrick hard on his heels, he stepped into a hallway alive with harassed courtiers and servants easing their way through the crowds. Men spilled from every
room, chattering and jostling each other on the staircases in their eagerness to reach the courtyard where crowds of soldiers and bystanders gathered beneath pennants that fluttered in the spring wind.
“At least the crowds have all turned out to show their support,” Aaron shouted to Hendrick above the sound of cheering all around them.
“They don’t know about ze letter, or ze success of the invasion,” Hendrick called back.
“We’ll worry about the Stuart tomorrow.” Aaron nodded at the crowds.
Hendrick nodded. “They’ll soon forget James Stuart.”
“I hope you are right.” Aaron’s grin dissolved. The Irish might be their first obstacle, but Prince William had argued with the French for years; it was simply a matter of time before he declared war. Would England be content with their foreign king then?
* * *
May 1689, Palmer House, London – Helena
On a warm May morning, Helena stood at an upper widow watching her husband chivvying the workmen into some semblance of order as they packed their belongings onto carts. Whenever he turned his back, one or more of them wandered off or found something less arduous to do.
Guy had suggested his Uncle Arthur take over the King Street house for his impending retirement, to which the old man had agreed willingly.
“The journey to The Gambia becomes harder each year,” he had told Helena. “My old bones need a rest.”
Helena treated this remark with scepticism, one she believed he had created to please Guy, for he appeared sprightly as ever.
Uncle Arthur had arrived in a hired hackney that morning, with two carts piled high with his possessions following behind. Amid orders for unloading, his carters mingled with Guy’s and, inevitably, the boxes became muddled with some of Guy and Helena’s ending up back in the house.
Helena found the enterprise amusing rather than annoying, although Guy was angry enough for both of them.
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