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

by Anita Seymour

  Henry lifted his jug of ale to his mouth in an attempt to conceal the shaking of his hands, his bile rising at the image of his delicate Mary Ann being the target of lecherous attentions of such a brute. Unable to remain still a second longer, he rose, flipped a coin on the ale-splattered table, and shouldered his way into the street.

  The kennel smell from the next alley made it an unhealthy place, but Henry preferred it. At least here, he did not have to imagine Holt’s hands on the woman he loved.

  In the shadow of a closed and shuttered shop, Henry experienced a sense of anti-climax. What was he doing there? What did he intend to say to Holt, if the man should deign to speak to him?

  Henry had called on Mary Anne at Holt Place several times since his first visit. Unsatisfactory, clandestine meetings that had left them both miserable. An appeal to Lord Holt’s better nature to release her was unlikely to fall on responsive ears and he rejected the notion out of hand. Holt was amoral and with no more conscience than a cat. Henry had nothing to offer which might sway him, nor was there anything with which he could threaten the man. Holt had the upper hand. And why should he not? With his uncle’s rank and inheritance, what possible reason would he have to submit to anyone else’s wishes?

  Henry leaned his head back against the wall behind him, realizing little thought had gone into his quest, and he was in danger of failing. And losing Mary Ann forever.

  While these dismaying thought circled in his head, the door of the inn opened and Holt emerged, alone. He ducked beneath the door lintel and staggered into the street, his short sword clanging noisily off the doorjamb. He appeared to be concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other as he continued his stumbling progress in the direction of the bridge.

  A link boy appeared out of an alley and tugged at Holt’s coat, offering to light the way. Henry paused, pressing himself against a shuttered store front, but the drunken Holt merely cuffed the lad off with a curse, sending him stumbling away.

  The irregular outline of London’s bridge loomed ahead, an impressive sight with its twenty-six arches built on long barges of rubble to prevent the powerful current wearing away at its supports and pulling the entire tiny city into the swirling depths below. A double row of wooden shops and houses ran its length, like a street that towered above the river.

  With no idea of what to do next, Henry followed at a distance as Holt staggered onto the bridge and paused after the second house. Here a gap gave onto a low wall overlooking the water, where Holt leaned against the parapet, staring out across the water as if catching his breath.

  A shutter creaked thinly above, straining to be heard above the roaring of the river.

  Henry hesitated. The man was most likely too drunk to be coherent, though the sight of him fired Henry’s blood, driving him forward into Holt’s path.

  Before Henry could say anything, Holt stumbled backwards and Henry put out a hand to stop him falling.

  Holt shrugged him off with a slurred protest. “Whaddya you want?”

  “My name is Woulfe.” Henry loaded his voice with menace. “Henry Woulfe.”

  Holt merely sported a puzzled expression. “I don’t know you, sir.” His unfocussed gaze slid past Henry’s shoulder and he made to shove him aside.

  Taller than Henry, he was considerably heavier, but his inebriated state made him clumsy.

  Henry gripped his upper arms, bringing him to a swaying halt. The smell of rum was overpowering, but he kept his face close. “You are acquainted with a dear friend of mine,” he enunciated each word carefully. “Lady Mary Ann Holt.”

  A wary look crossed Holt’s face, changing to a broad, leering grin. His head rolled slightly on slack shoulders. “Don’t tell me my new mistress is being unfaithful already? And I’ve not yet even bedded the—”

  A surge of pure, white rage sent Henry’s fist slamming into the man’s face, cutting him off. His nose collapsed and blood spurted down his chin, resembling black oil in the grey half-light.

  Henry took a step back, surprised at the strength of his blow.

  Holt clutched at his face, and then pulled his hand away to stare with incredulity at the wet stain on his fingers. His eyes glinted, like a hawk spotting its prey and he jutted out his chin, taking a step toward Henry.

  “Ah! I know who you are now,” he waggled a finger in front of Henry’s face, “the architect.” He made it sound like an insult.

  Elation filled Henry that Mary Ann had spoken of him, instantly replaced by anger. He grasped the facings of Holt’s coat and hauled him closer, their eyes almost level. “She–is–not–your–mistress,” he said, emphasising each word with a shake.

  “Leggo of me!” Holt bellowed and pulled away, bringing his clenched fist up towards Henry’s chin, but swung wide and clumsy, missing his mark.

  Henry ducked, then threw another punch of his own. The crunch when it connected was almost as satisfying as the first one.

  Holt yelled a smothered protest and Henry hit him again, almost relishing the pain which shot through his hand.

  The bigger man went down, but rolled to one side with surprising agility. He came up again in a crouch and came barrelling into Henry at waist height, sending them both sprawling to the ground.

  Holt used his weight to pin Henry down, but he twisted out of his grip with ease. However, he misjudged his speed, issuing a cry of surprise when Holt grabbed his ankle, pulling him to the ground and threw his entire weight across Henry’s legs.

  A dog barked in a house nearby, followed by a hard voice issuing a threat to summon the Watch.

  Again, Henry twisted out of the man’s grip and their positions were reversed. Any thoughts he had of reasoning with his assailant evaporated; besides, inflicting physical pain proved more satisfying than he could have imagined, each punch landing squarely on Holt’s head and ribs.

  Their grunts and scuffles combined with the roar of rushing water below them, until something thin and reflective flashed near Henry’s face.

  Holt had drawn his sword, the sight of the blade freezing Henry in his tracks, his eyes fixed on it in horrified fascination. It waved back and forth in an unsteady, but deadly swathe.

  Holt let out a howl and brought the sword down in a wide, slicing arc. Henry twisted away at the last second and threw himself sideways, his back slamming against the river wall. A sharp pain lanced through his shoulder, telling him he had not been quick enough.

  A burst of sheer panic drove Henry scrambling to one side on all fours. He crouched on one knee by the waist high wall, just as Holt let out a feral roar and launched himself forward, his face distorted in the moonlight, a streak of black blood smeared across one cheek.

  With nothing to halt his progress, his attacker ran straight at the low wall. And vanished.

  Henry staggered to his feet, clutching at his throbbing shoulder with one hand. His chest heaved with exertion as he dragged himself to the wall, blinking to banish the lights swirling in his head. Bracing one hand on the parapet, he looked down at the rushing water below.

  Holt lay prone and immobile on a starling beneath the second arch, half in, half out of the water.

  Henry shook his head as a bout of dizziness overcame him, but his eyes focussed again, Holt had gone. The black water bubbled and churned, lit only by winter moonlight and the thin streetlights on the riverbank.

  London’s river was treacherous, taking life easily and spewing it out again on the silt flats farther down river. Oarsmen and scullers would often leave their passengers at The Three Cranes, then rejoin the boats downstream at Billingsgate, rather than risk “shooting the bridge” in the dangerous currents funnelled through the arches at high tide.

  The moon dipped behind a straggly cloud and the Watch in an adjoining street called eleven ’o the clock. Startled, Henry sprang back from the wall, his nerves stretched tight and his breathing shallow and rapid. On shaking legs, he hobbled into a deserted Thames Street and headed northwards, his shoulder sticky and growing stiffer beneath h
is cloak with each step.

  He eased through the rear gate of the Newman house in Charles Street, and climbed through the kitchen window he had left unfastened on his way out, relieved to find no one had discovered it. The action proved more painful than he had imagined, hampered by his injured shoulder. In his room on the top floor, he lit a candle and examined his wound in the looking glass. It was a clean cut, about three inches long, but shallower than it felt.

  Bundling the slashed cloak beneath his bed, he washed the cut as best he could with cold water from the ewer on his dresser, binding it with a strip torn from his ruined shirt.

  Henry stood by his window staring at his own reflection in the black glass until the rooftops sprang out of the darkness in a purple rising dawn. Slowly, his image faded from the glass and he left the window and crawled into bed, where he fell into an exhausted, though untroubled sleep.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  January 1692, Holt Residence, London – Helena

  “Are you certain you wish me to accompany you, Henry?” Helena asked for the third time since the carriage had left Palmer House.

  On the seat opposite, Henry kept his face averted, a lace trimmed wrist pressed against his face as he mumbled his response. “It will look better if I don’t arrive at Lady Holt’s alone.”

  His cold voice disturbed her, and his reluctance to talk forced a heavy silence between them on the short coach ride.

  Guy had spotted the report in the London Gazette the previous morning. “Another poor soul was pulled out of the river yesterday. So many lives end there through accident, foul play or suicide. And this one a Lord, no less. I cannot think what could have brought a respectable man to drown in the Thames.”

  “Can you not, Guy?” Helena failed to keep the sarcasm from her voice. “Don’t most young lords about town seek entertainment among the taverns and gaming houses there?”

  “God’s blood! Guy had bolted upright in his chair with a shout. “I knew I recognized the name. Etheridge Holt was Sir Joshua Holt’s nephew.”

  A chill gripped Helena, whose first instinct had been to ask Henry what he knew, but changed her mind, repulsed by the idea he could know anything. Henry was not capable of deliberately ending a man’s life.

  The carriage swayed toward the Strand, past the old and decaying residences of the rich nobility behind massive walls. Their coachman waited behind several others lined up on the drive of Holt Place, where Francis Newman bustled forward to welcome them.

  Helena had only met him a handful of times, but she liked Henry’s employer, mainly for the way he treated her brother like his own son during his apprenticeship.

  Newman appeared to be having difficulty keeping his face sufficiently grave for the occasion as he led them into a vast room hung with black draperies.

  Diminutive and fine-boned, Mary Ann bobbed her head in acceptance of Helena’s condolences. When she turned to Henry, what passed between them was a combination of longing and apology, which quickly dissolved into polite detachment.

  Helena didn’t know if she was relieved to see that look, or worried it signified something more sinister, but shook the notion away as unworthy. Henry and Mary Ann had behaved with impeccable correctness throughout her marriage. Helena absently accepted a glass of wine from Master Newman, and sipped the dark liquid slowly but barely tasted it.

  “It is indeed a terrible world we live in, which allows young men to die so easily,” Master Newman whispered at her shoulder.

  “What? Oh yes, indeed it is. Terrible.”

  “I assume you saw the report in the Gazette?” His eyes danced with a mixture of excitement and sympathy. Henry stiffened at her side and she forced herself not to look at him. “I was surprised to see it reported in the news sheets,” Helena said. “Accidental deaths don’t normally warrant a mention.”

  “That they do not, Mistress Palmer. Such incidents are usually listed in the regular Bills of Mortality, but my nephew-by-marriage was a member of the nobility. Some have even suggested there was foul play involved.”

  “Indeed?” Helena inclined her head in silent acknowledgment. “How is Lady Holt? I mean, I know Ethridge Holt was a distant relative, but a second death so soon after—”

  “Indeed, a terrible tragedy for my poor girl. Although now there can be no obstacle to her inheriting the entire Holt estate.”

  At Helena’s shocked look he flushed, murmuring apologies about being precipitous.

  Helena was afraid he was about to allude to Henry’s wish to marry his daughter, but exhaled in relief when he excused himself.

  Apart from an interlude where Helena was re-acquainted with Mary Ann’s four younger sisters, the rest of the visit proved tedious, with hardly a word spoken. When more callers arrived to pay their respects, Henry cocked his head at the door, indicating it was time to leave.

  Helena followed the footman up to the first floor in order to collect her cloak.

  On her way down again, she glanced over the banister on the galleried landing, where Henry stood in the entrance hall with Mary Ann, her hands firmly clasped in his, their faces close together.

  Helena could not see their expressions, but their voices were magnified within the lofty entrance and she unashamedly eavesdropped.

  “You do believe me, don’t you?” Henry said.

  “I would never demand an explanation of you, Henry,” Mary Ann answered. “Nor would I ever doubt you. Whatever happened was an accident, you would never have—”

  Helena’s foot clicked on the stair and alerted them to her presence; Mary Ann stepped back into the shadows, and Henry moved to the bottom of the stairs, a hand lifted to see Helena down the last steps.

  Master Newman appeared from a room beside the front door. “I’m honoured you came to offer your condolences in person, Mistress Palmer.” He turned to Henry. “I trust I’ll see you tomorrow, young man? We’ve some plans to go over and Sir Christopher Wren has invited us both to dine.” He gave a broad smile and delivered a hefty whack to Henry’s shoulder.

  Henry started. His face turned grey and with his lips clamped tightly together, he inhaled slowly. His hand shot out and grasped Helena’s arm, murmured an unintelligible response, and pulled her outside.

  “Are you unwell, Henry?” Helena asked as he handed her into the waiting coach.

  “I’m quite well,” he replied through clenched teeth.

  He took his seat with what appeared to be extreme care, his face averted, though he spoke not a word all the way back to Palmer House.

  * * *

  April 1692, Berkeley Street, London – William

  William shrugged off his cloak in the hallway of his Berkeley Street house, wondering where the footman had got to. He was about to call out when he heard voices drifting through the open door leading to the kitchens. Hearing his name mentioned, he stepped closer.

  “He were such a quiet, charming man when I came ’ere.” The strident tones of the East End chambermaid reached him, a girl whose name William could never recall.

  “Well I, for one, am keeping outta ’is way until he stops throwing perfectly good china against walls for no reason,” an older female voice William recognized as that of the cook answered.

  “He weren’t this surly when I worked at Lambtons. It began last year, when the lady stopped calling.” This, from his footman, the man who should have been at the door waiting for him.

  With a sigh, William crossed to the dining room, unable to summon the energy to chastise his own servants. Something his mother would have had something to say about if she knew.

  Ignoring the tray of cold meats arranged on the table for his midday nuncheon, William slumped into a chair by the window and stared out at the garden.

  The sight of its neglected state, with drooping weeds choking the flowerbeds and its overgrown pathways saddened him. Helena would have been disappointed had she seen it; they had chosen the plants together. The thought of her brought pain, but it was one he had almost grown fond of. It
reminded him he still loved her.

  He closed his eyes. She was there in his head, her glorious tousled curls flowing over smooth white shoulders and her open mouthed, uninhibited laugh when he chased her round the vast bed in what he always thought of as ‘their’ room.

  He loved her face when it flushed with arousal, when those startling deep brown eyes turned smoky and luminous, just for him. Then the image dissolved, replaced by the haughty stare he recalled from their last meeting. How she must have loathed him at that moment.

  The disastrous christening party had been a year ago, yet still he mooned about at home or sulked at Lambtons.

  “I can always take a commission in the Navy,” he had told his mother impulsively. “Perhaps I could join Admiral Russell in Cherbourg to see off James Stuart and his Irish soldiers.”

  “Whatever for?” Alyce had been scornful. “To be victorious in battle, so you may live your life a national hero and bachelor to the end?”

  Her sarcasm cut into him. Alyce Devereux did not believe in martyrs. “Most likely I would be taken off by a French cannonball during the first conflict, whereupon I shall sink to the bottom of the channel.” He brought his foot down hard on a cockroach skittering across the floor. “But what use would that be to Helena, and the boy?”

  “Forget the boy.” Alyce glared with disdain at the smeared insect on her floorboards.

  He had offered no argument, but his pain continued unabated and he eschewed all company, except, strangely, his mother’s.

  He was brought back to the present by the arrival of the footman to collect the tray, giving him a pointed look at the untouched food. William glared him into a retreat.