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

by Anita Seymour

  Helena sensed Guy was watching her, but where he did so in order to gauge her emotions was not clear. Worrying questions circling in her head. He was too calm, almost calculating.

  “I thought William was going to North Africa, Papa?” Phebe voiced Helena’s own question.

  “What? Oh, at first, yes. Then Guy arranged this passage from Morocco to Ceylon to take advantage of the sapphire trade. I expect some excellent gems to come into our workshops when he returns.”

  “How long will William be gone, Father?” Celia asked, piling more food onto her plate.

  Celia had recently given birth of a second healthy daughter and Ralf insisted she, “build up her strength” again.

  Robert chewed at a lamb chop thoughtfully. “Oh, we don’t expect him back in England before Christmas. Pass the salt would you, Phebe, my dear.”

  A creeping misery engulfed Helena, stealing the remains of her appetite. Christmas! An eternity away. She changed her mind about wanting to go home; the idea of being alone with Guy suddenly filled her with dread.

  * * *

  June 1694, Lambtons Inn, London – Guy

  Outside Lambtons later that evening, Guy could not help noticing Helena’s distraction as they took their leave of the Devereuxs, and the way her hands shook when she fastened her cloak.

  In the coach, she sat rigid, staring out of the window, apparently unaware of his brooding gaze fixed on her perfect profile during the journey home.

  His throat felt closed with shyness. What could he say? I deliberately sent your lover into churning seas to keep him away from you? And if William should fall overboard, or be killed by pirates, would Helena turn to him for comfort in her grief? Or would she hate him forever for being the instrument of William’s death? His intention had not been to deprive the world of the charms of William Devereux, only to separate him from his wife. Should they be apart for long enough, Guy reasoned, William may well return to England with a dusky paramour on his arm, thus driving Helena back into Guy’s arms. An image that had formed his most vivid fantasies and had sustained him through a dreary summer.

  The atmosphere between him and Helena lately held a prevalence for him to say the wrong thing. How could he approach a situation that neither of them had spoken of aloud? Should he offer her an apology, or demand one? Insist she give up her lover and come back to him? Could he use guilt as a weapon, bring their children into his argument?

  Unwilling to risk the rejection in her eyes, Guy leaned back against the upholstery, drained as the carriage swayed along the darkened streets.

  The carriage turned onto their drive. The double front door swung outwards, and a footman approached at a run, handing Helena onto the gravel and she hurried toward the house.

  Guy followed, watching the sensual curve of her waist as she glided into their impressive entrance hall, her murmured, “Goodnight” hanging on the air as she climbed the staircase, her skirt held daintily above her feet.

  He followed her progress with his eyes as she swept along the galleried landing toward her chamber. Guy winced as the door closed behind her with an ominous bang.

  * * *

  December 1694, Palmer House – Helena

  Helena sat at her bureau making lists for the Yule celebrations to be held at Palmer House. There were gifts for friends and family, the garlands of greenery to order, and vast amounts of food for the Twelfth Night Party. It was far too cold for the children to go out, so they careened around the wooden floors of the nursery in wild abandon, becoming rowdier as the day went on. Even Chloe, who adored them, grew snappish.

  Jonathan and Edmund were just six, both miniature versions of their father, both with the same determined chin. Convinced they were of above average intelligence, Guy had engaged a tutor to teach them mathematics, reading, writing and French.

  Edmund strutted around the house in breeches and long coat, checked his wig ten times a day and cheeked the servants when he thought no one would stop him.

  Jonathan was quieter, intellectually superior to his brother and a calming influence when Edmund’s temper grew too disruptive to be confined by a nurse. Both boys possessed their grandfather Woulfe’s grey eyes under finely arched brows, although Guy insisted they bore a distinct resemblance to her.

  Helena would sometimes watch them, her eyes misty as she imagined how much her father would have loved these sturdy boys. At three and a half, Charles was still in petticoats, his full lipped mouth and mop of mahogany curls making him the darling of the household, his chubby fingers extended to fondle hair, lace, wigs, or jewellery with serious concentration.

  Helena fought against favouring him, but it was so easy to love this child. Sometimes there was a certain look, an expression or a sideways flick of his eyes, which reminded her so much of William, it would send a frisson of love through her.

  Guy adored all his sons, and even if he could be a stern and uncompromising father, he was particularly adept at dealing with them when they were sick. He would sit with an ailing child for hours without a sign or impatience until they, or he, fell asleep.

  Helena coped less well, imparting her distress to the patient, which made them more fractious and unsettled. Watching Guy with his beloved boys, tendrils of guilt would grip her, gnawing at her peace of mind.

  William had been gone six months and wasn’t due home until the New Year. Helena tried hard not to long for him and made an effort to be both an exemplary mother, as well as an attentive wife.

  Three days before Christmas, the carefully prepared lists on her bureau were only half crossed through. Helena sat fretting she would never get it all done, when the sound of carriage wheels reached her from the front drive. Sighing, she set down her quill and rose in preparation to greet a caller, but the voice she heard at the door was Guy’s.

  She entered the hall in time to see him sway on the threshold as Glover eased his coat from his shoulders.

  “Sir John practically threw me out,” Guy said, with an air of mild surprise, his movements sluggish and his complexion almost grey. “Said he didn’t want to catch a chill from me to spoil his Christmas.” He gave a false, embarrassed laugh. “Glover, could you send for a drink of ale, I’m so thirsty.”

  “Perhaps you should rest before dinner, Guy,” Helena suggested as he headed for the stairs, though even with Glover supporting him, his progress was slow.

  Following, Helena held open the door of Guy’s apartment as Glover helped him out of his vest.

  She turned down the bedclothes, unable to remember when she last visited the half-panelled room whose dark wood furnishings glowed in the candlelight. Forest green brocade bed hangings with a deep red trim, added warmth to a very masculine room. Elegant yet unaffected, like its occupant. At least, the way he used to be, Helena mused. His tendency to pomposity could be irritating, although just now he looked merely confused at his own lethargy.

  Guy tugged at his cravat, but his fingers wouldn’t work properly and he gave up with a gesture of irritation.

  Helena stilled his clammy fingers and unwound the sweat soaked cambric for him.

  “I don’t want to miss the festivities,” he murmured, collapsing onto the mattress. “I’ll get some rest and be better in the morning.”

  “Lots of chills going about, sir,” Glover said as he retrieved Guy’s discarded shoes and bowed out of the room.

  Helena settled him beneath the covers, by which time Glover had returned with the wine and a nervous housemaid, whom he set to laying a fire.

  Distracted from her preparations, Helena returned to the salon where she took supper alone that evening. Glover brought her frequent reports on Guy’s condition, saying first he slept, then that he had woken and complained of the headache.

  “I’ll prepare a draught to help him sleep,” he said, with the solicitousness of a nurse.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Helena sat on a chaise in her negligee, discussing meats and puddings for the coming celebrations, her morning chocolate at her si
de. Bertha had been her housekeeper for the best part of six years, and knew exactly what was required for Christmastide, but Helena found the exercise therapeutic.

  Glover appeared at the door as Bertha rose to leave.

  “The Master’s fever is still quite high, Mistress.” He glanced at the cook, then away again. “He says his limbs ache. He cannot get comfortable, and Mistress,” he paused, waiting for Bertha to close the door behind her, “there’s a livid rash across his shoulders.”

  A roaring sounded in her ears and her hands shook. “We must send for Chuirgeon Stone,” Helena blurted, her voice curt with panic. She clasped her trembling hands together in her lap, refusing to contemplate the worst. It could easily be something a strong man like Guy could shake off. “Send a messenger, Glover. I must dress.” She avoided his eye as she made for the door. The man looked stricken.

  The physician was a stooped, middle-aged man with an obsequious manner and darting eyes. He made no more than a cursory examination of his patient before returning to Helena, who paced up and down in the salon.

  “Well?” she demanded as soon as he appeared.

  “It’s the smallpox, I’m afraid.”

  Helena froze with shock, his next words barely registering. “I have ordered the maid to extinguish the fire in his room and open the windows.”

  “But it’s freezing outside!” Helena protested.

  The man remained unmoved. “All the better to reduce his high fever. His bed clothes should be no higher than his waist also.”

  Helena did not argue, though she was sceptical. “And the treatment?”

  He shrugged. “Spirit of Vitriol in small beer sometimes helps.”

  ‘Sometimes?” Helena’s voice hitched in frustration.

  “I can offer little, Mistress,” he murmured in a doom-laden voice. “He will either shake off the infection unaided, or…” He lifted both in a gesture of supplication. “I advise neither you nor your children go near him, and keep the servants away as they’ll spread the infection. I can send you a nurse who has cared for such cases, but I can promise you nothing.”

  At the door he turned back, murmuring uselessly, “I’m so sorry.” With his two guinea fee clinking in his pocket, the footman showed him out.

  The door had barely closed on him before Helena went straight to Guy’s room. He lay prone under the covers in a linen nightshirt, a white cap on his shorn head. At first glance he could have just been sleeping, but his skin was hot and waxy, covered with a sheen of perspiration. Faint colour still highlighted his cheeks and no tell-tale spots showed on his face, but Glover had seen them, so she knew they were there, waiting to erupt into harbingers of death.

  “You should not be here, Mistress,” Glover murmured at her shoulder.

  “No more should you, James.” She had never used his given name before, but it seemed appropriate with what lay ahead for both of them.

  “I contracted the disease in my tenth year, so with your permission, I would like to remain.” There was a plea in his voice. “Shall I engage the nurse?”

  “No.” Helena shook her head firmly. “I’ve had it too. We’ll do it together, you and me.”

  “You should send the children away, Mistress.”

  The children. “How could I inflict them on another household? We’ve no idea how long Guy has carried the infection.”

  “He has been working so hard of late. He has not seen the boys for over a se’n-night, thus their chances of contracting it are low.” Glover had evidently given the matter some consideration. “If they leave now,” he warned.

  Helena’s mind raced with possibilities. Celia would take them, but she had two children of her own, and they couldn’t go to Amy with her four.

  “They could go to Master Devereux, Mistress.” Glover seemed to know exactly what she was thinking.

  Helena made for the bureau. “I’ll write a note and have it taken round to Lambtons.”

  Within the hour, the Devereux carriage arrived to collect the three boys, together with some of their hastily packed belongings. When Helena suggested Chloe was to accompany them, an unseemly tussle ensued between them, with Glover adding his opinion.

  Their mistress won.

  Helena stood at the bottom of the stairs as the children were brought down. Jonathan’s high-pitched voice sounded all the way along the hall. “No, no. I want to say goodbye to my Papa. I want to.” Chloe shushed him, dragging him bodily down the last flight.

  Helena squeezed Edmund’s shoulder as he passed. He paused at the door and looked back, the knowing look in his eyes almost breaking her heart. Little Charles looked puzzled as he was lifted into the carriage and offered a tentative wave through the window.

  Helena stood, shivering on the front step while the coach lurched away, wondering what the circumstances would be when they came home again.

  With the boys safe, cold practicality took over. Helena changed out of her gown into a plain wool skirt and bodice that allowed easier movement. In Guy’s room she found Glover lining the walls with thick, red cloth. At her look of enquiry he explained. “We must drape this all over the room, Mistress. It will draw out the infection.”

  Helena hid her scepticism and set to helping him. It could certainly do no harm, though the work proved hard for just the two of them. The rest of the household did not need to be told twice that they were forbidden the upper storey of the house.

  Downstairs again, Helena pulled the ubiquitous Hannah Woolley volume from the shelf, but the lady offered scant advice for smallpox sufferers.

  “She advocates changing the bed linen frequently, and not allowing perspiration to be taken back into the body of the diseased person,” Helena explained to Glover when he arrived for instructions. “And bad air could also be drawn into the body.”

  “The windows are all fastened, Mistress,” Glover murmured, deep worry lines etched on his features.

  “Good, I didn’t like Dr Stone’s suggestion. There’s frost on the ground, though maybe we keep the fire low.” The book shook in her hands. “We must put gloves on his hands, Glover, it says here they are ‘to hinder the hands from murdering a good face.’”

  She attempted a smile, but her lips quivered. “And he does have a good face.”

  Glover turned away, but not quickly enough to hide gathering tears. “I could make him up a julep with violets and rose water mixed with vitriol oil.”

  “Violets in December?”

  “Dried ones are available, Mistress, from the apothecary in Dean Street.”

  Helena was convinced it would be useless against such a virulent disease, but knowing how important it was for Glover to do something practical, she agreed.

  * * *

  December 1694, Palmer House, London – Aaron

  Aaron was admitted into an unnaturally silent Palmer House, where few candles burned in the halls making the luxurious house almost gloomy. Worse, there was no smell of dinner coming from the kitchens. He was about to demand an explanation from the lone footman who had let him in, when Helena descended the half lit stairs, a pile of towels in her arms.

  “What’s going on, Ellie? And why are you dressed like a housekeeper?”

  “Aaron, you must not be here.” Helena laid the pile on the table at the bottom of the stairs, brushing back stray tendrils of hair from her eyes.

  “You invited me for dinner.” He grinned as he shrugged off his cloak and handed it to the footman.

  “No! Don’t come any closer.” She fended him off. “Guy has the smallpox.”

  His knees buckled. “When did this happen?”

  “Yesterday, why?”

  He exhaled slowly. “Queen Mary has been taken ill with smallpox at Kensington Palace.”

  “Have you been to the palace?” Helena staggered against the banister, her shoulders slumped. He took a step toward her, but she had already recovered and held him off.

  “No. I’ve not been near the Court for a month. It’s too quiet at Kensington.” He winced, r
egretting such an inappropriate remark, but Helena seemed not to notice. “There are also several cases of smallpox in the city.”

  “You must leave, Aaron, immediately.”

  “Then you must not be here either.” He was aghast. “You have not had the smallpox, Ellie.”

  Helena frowned. “I’m sure I have. Don’t you remember? I was about twelve. Mother made my lie in the dark and kept telling me not to scratch the spots.”

  Aaron shook his head in agitation. “That was the measles, Ellie. Not this. Call a nurse, don’t do this to yourself.”

  Helena shook her head, defiant. “Would you send a message to Henry not to call? I’ve sent the boys to Alyce’s.”

  Aaron tried to persuade her and she continued to refuse, until even he could see no purpose in their circular argument. Furious, he drove straight to Berkeley Street to inform Henry and Mary Ann. Henry began an almost identical diatribe about why Helena should not remain with Guy, but Aaron convinced him it was useless.

  “All we can do is pray for them,” Mary Ann said stepping between them. She placed a comforting hand on Henry’s arm. “For both of them.”

  Defeated, Aaron accepted Henry’s invitation to stay and they ensconced themselves in Mary Ann’s beautiful drawing room and drank brandy all evening, waiting for news.

  * * *

  December 1694, Palmer House, London – Helena

  Christmas Day dawned wholly unmarked. Before dusk, Guy’s fever had reached a critical level. Weakened and exhausted, he barely moved in the large bed, giving soft groans as his pain increased, or perhaps, Helena speculated, because his dreams disturbed him.

  The spots had appeared and spread over his face and neck until the skin in between was hardly visible. His hands, extending from the sleeves of the nightshirt, were covered with bright red pustules that burst and distorted his fingers. Helena steeled herself each time she had to change his gloves, fearful of hurting him, but he lay passive and accepting throughout the process.