The Rebel’s Daughter

by Anita Seymour

  “Are you sure you won’t come with us, Bayle?” Helena asked, knowing his answer would be the same as it had for over a week.

  “To a London chophouse?” He arched a brow. “I don’t think so, Mistress. I’m a country soul, not a city rat. I’m surprised Master Ffoyle is sending you there.”

  “Lambtons is an exceptional Inn, Bayle, not a chophouse.” Helena feigned affront. After all hadn’t she asked the same outraged questions several times since Samuel’s announcement? “He says the Devereuxs are wealthy people and I will never have to enter the alehouse if I do not so wish. More importantly, they are sympathetic to the late Duke, so Henry and I will not suffer at their hands from our unfortunate situation.”

  She owed Bayle more gratitude than she could ever repay, and although she would miss him, she welcomed this new life, free of all past complications.

  “As long as you are content, Mistress,” Bayle said, though his smile was not reflected in his eyes.

  “And you, Bayle? Are you content?” she asked. A foolish question, for since taking up Samuel’s offer of employment, he looked more the prosperous wool man than a manservant. He wore a dun-colored long coat nipped at the waist over soft cambric shirt, cravat, and polished leather shoes.

  She had had a speech prepared for their moment of parting, but the words never reached her lips. When he had held his hands toward her, palms upwards. Her composure broke and she threw herself into his arms in an embrace that was over almost before it began, pulling away to enter the coach where Henry waited, huddled in the corner.

  Saddened that Bayle’s concern would be for others, in future, and not for her, Helena had been about to ask Susannah to watch out for him on her behalf. However when she turned to speak, Susannah and Bayle stood close together, their gazes locked and with soft, almost longing expressions on their faces.

  Helena had looked away, smiling. Perhaps Bayle would not be so lonely without them after all.

  Once Somerset was behind them, together with Helena’s less than happy memories of her recent visit, the roads became more crowded. Their timing was not ideal either, for wet weather and cold winds made their progress slower, and the horses needed changing more often.

  Samuel’s authoritative manner had worked like sorcery on indolent maids at inns, to procure the best rooms, obtain abundant hot water, and the best food available.

  Now, no more than a morning’s drive away from their destination, excitement replaced Helena’s discomfort. She rushed to the window to take in the view. “We’re almost in London, Chloe,” she addressed the bundle in the corner. “Get up and help me dress. I want my breakfast.”

  * * *

  Helena hurried down the inn stairs; almost colliding with Samuel in the entrance hall, she stepped back in surprise at his bright blue long coat embroidered in silver and a long black periwig; items Helena had no idea he possessed.

  All through breakfast, while Henry sniggered, Samuel haggled with the innkeeper in threatening terms, declaring their bill was extortionate and the food barely adequate.

  “Master Ffoyle,” Helena said in a fierce whisper out of the landlord’s earshot. “The fare was exceptionally good.” She exchanged an incredulous look with Henry who shrugged.

  “Doesn’t hurt to keep them attentive,” Samuel declared as he ushered them onto the busy Street near the Market Square. “Now where’s that blackguard of a coachman?”

  Their progress out of Kingston was hampered by carts and pack ponies, which prompted Samuel to bellow at slow moving traffic, cuffing traders who sprang onto the backboard in an attempt to sell them trinkets from trays.

  “Life in London is harsher for servant and master alike,” Samuel said when Helena challenged this uncharacteristic aggression, “and far less forgiving.”

  As if to validate his comments, he shrieked at link boys who clung precariously to the sides of the carriage, offering their services as guides for a penny.

  “If we are set on by footpads, I’ll strangle you first,” Samuel said, tossing a coin to one pox-scarred lad, then turned and winked in response to Helena’s shocked expression. “All street hawkers are in league with ambushing villains.”

  When the carriage slowed in traffic, Samuel hollered at their driver, “use your whip, man. We’ll never get anywhere in this throng, else!”

  “Master Ffoyle, you’re frightening Chloe.” Helena scolded.

  His response was simply to glare at the maid, who cowered in her seat.

  Helena gave up, convinced that for all his ferocity, Samuel enjoyed the faster pace. He certainly appeared more alive in the Capital than in Exeter.

  “London has more new buildings than anywhere else in the country,” Samuel told a clearly impressed Henry, as the carriage swayed along cobbled streets. “The Great Fire of sixty-six destroyed many of the old wooden houses and churches.”

  Helena tried to imagine the magnificent city in flames, but the image eluded her. “How did the fire start?”

  Samuel gave a shrug. “Some say it was the Catholics, though I warrant it was simply a dry summer and a fire not extinguished properly in a city baker’s shop. Whichever the cause, thousands were made homeless. Some left London, never to return. Thank the Lord only a handful of people lost their lives.” He shuddered as if dispelling bad memories. “Christopher Wren drew up new plans based on an Italian piazza with streets radiating from a central point like a wheel.”

  “Such a scheme would have served far better than all these crooked alleyways and courts,” Henry said.

  Samuel crossed his hands on the top of his cane held upright between his knees. “When your house is a charred mass on the ground, my boy, you cannot wait for the ambitious schemes of kings. Londoners had to put roofs over their families” heads, and businesses to run. They simply re-built them in the same places, though the new building regulations should ensure such a tragedy never happens again.”

  “I still think the Italian piazzas style would have looked wonderful,” Henry said, craning so far forward, he was in danger of losing his hat and had to be hauled back inside by Samuel.

  The winter afternoon had faded into a colorless dusk by the time they entered a wide cobbled street, lined with half-timbered black and white houses with uneven leaded windows.

  “This area is called Holborn.” Samuel pointed with his cane. “The fire did not reach this end of the street, so most of the buildings here are much older.”

  “Are these all shops?” Helena asked, motioning toward the bow windows with leaded panes, as they passed.

  “Mostly, and with living quarters on the floors above.”

  They drew up before a timbered building with wooden balconies along the length of the upper floor. A row of wide, squat windows ran along the lower façade. A painted wooden sign in green and gold lettering on the front declared it to be “Lambtons Inn”.

  “It looks like several houses joined together,” Henry observed when they drew to a halt.

  “It’s enormous,” Helena whispered, in awe.

  Shadows moved behind the curtains. There came the sounds of laughter and loud chatter, together with the enticing smell of cooking.

  Helena’s mouth began to water, despite her hearty breakfast.

  Samuel handed Helena down from the coach just as a portly man clacked toward them on high-heeled shoes.

  Helena gaze levelled and remained on a black patch the size of a half-laurel covering his left eye.

  “I am Lubbock,” he said, tiny black eye skimming over Chloe and stopping to settle admiringly on Helena. “Master Devereux's manservant. Welcome to Lambtons.”

  A brace of grooms in a livery of buff jackets over black breeches directed the carts and the Ffoyle carriage into the stable yard.

  “I thought he was Master Devereux,” Henry whispered as the dainty little man skipped around them as if he were herding sheep.

  “I thought so too,” Helena whispered back. “Look at his clothes. I’ve never seen a manservant dress so fine.”
/>
  Helena found herself in a double-height entrance hall decorated in shades of red and gold. Gilt-framed mirrors on the walls reflected light from candles clustered into a vast chandelier attached by a chain to the ceiling.

  “I wonder whose job it is to change all those candles?” Henry asked.

  Helena shrugged, rubbing the points of her shoes into the impossibly thick, patterned carpet, spread like a colorful sea at their feet.

  “Is this what all the alehouses in London look like?” Henry asked, his mouth open in amazement.

  “This is Lambtons. The best Inn and Chophouse in Holborn, maybe even in London itself,” Samuel replied.

  * * *

  A wide staircase at the far end of the hall rose into a galleried landing that split off into either side.

  As Lubbock led them toward three ladies and a man who waited there, Helena paused at the closed doors on the side of the entrance hall from behind which animated laughter, the clinking glasses and loud conversation could be heard.

  “Devereux, my dear man,” Samuel greeted the man at the stairs. “As you can see, we have journeyed safely through dangerous countryside.”

  “Is that so, Master Ffoyle? And there I was, imagining you came from Devon.”

  So this was the real Robert Devereux. He wore a patterned brocade garment of palest blue and gold, gathered on one hip over a shirt with flounces that peeked out at the front. This strange garment reached to his knees, decorated with birds and flowers. Spindly legs clad in white hose ended in what looked like gold silk slippers completed the picture.

  In place of a heavy periwig, a fur turban covered his head; a strange appearance that might have discouraged her, had he not possessed an oval, friendly face and blue eyes that twinkled as if constantly amused.

  “Welcome to Lambtons, my dear Mistress Woulfe.” He took Helena’s hand in both of his, the touch warm, dry and comforting. “I do hope you will both be happy here.” He indicated a lady beside him. “Allow me to acquaint you with my dear wife, Alyce.”

  Helena had imagined a London version of Meghan Ffoyle, in more fashionable clothes, but this magnificent creature who enveloped her in perfumed, satin-clad arms was almost girlish.

  She wore a silver-colored manteau that shimmered in the candlelight, pleated and fastened to reveal the top of an elaborate corset holding in her tiny waist, with an ample décolleté.

  The split skirt pulled back and up was a new fashion to Helena. It was fastened on the woman’s still slender hips, and draped to reveal a blue underskirt. Her glossy mahogany hair was piled in large curls on top of her head. With looped ribbons and feathers in creamy pinks and greys, it made her appear taller than her husband.

  The lady stepped back a pace to appraise Helena, who could see that close up, the lady was older than she first appeared, her advancing years hidden under a careful veneer of face paint, with a crescent moon taffeta patch set next to her carmined lips.

  “I’m delighted such an attractive young couple has come to live with us,” she whispered huskily, making Helena wonder what she would have said had they been less so. When Hendry’s turn came for her embrace, she appeared reluctant release him, caressing his shoulder with one hand.

  Helena tried to catch his eye, but Henry appeared bewitched by her.

  “This is my elder daughter, Celia.” Robert waved a hand toward a plump, pretty girl of Helena’s own age in an aquamarine bodice worn open over a visible corset that made Helena stare. Her generous décolleté, cut straight across in the current fashion, only made respectable by a bertha of exquisite cream lace.

  “Welcome to Lambtons,” Celia’s voice was high-pitched. “I hope London is all you wish it to be.”

  A younger girl in buttercup yellow silk who possessed all the daring, self-confident look of her mother, greeted Henry with a girlish giggle and a tap of her closed fan on his shoulder. She then turned a penetrating gaze on Helena with a narrowing of her eyes.

  After a long silence, Alyce nudged her, hard. “Phebe, offer your respects to Mistress Woulfe.” Alyce forced a laugh. “Please forgive my younger daughter, Helena dear, she can be rather shy on occasion.”

  Celia gave a derisive snort and flapped her fan.

  “Mistress,” Phebe murmured, her curtsey barely discernible, before she turned pleading eyes on her father. “You promised I could go to the “Change this afternoon, Papa. I have waited all morning.” She turned her back to Helena in an obvious snub.

  “So you will, my love,” Master Devereux, apparently oblivious of her lack of manners, slung a silk-clad arm around his youngest daughter “Though first, we have a nuncheon laid out for our guests.”

  Helena frowned, perturbed by Phoebe’s hostility. And dropped back to Samuel’s side. “What is that extraordinary garment Master Devereux is wearing, Master Ffoyle?”

  “It’s called a banyan,” he replied grinning. “A robe of silk brocade from India. Many gentlemen here have adopted them as indoor attire.”

  Helena found this hard to believe.

  What Master Devereux had described as a nuncheon seemed to Helena more like a feast.

  The meal was served in the French style, with an array of dishes being placed on the table. Robert launched into a recital of each dish as it appeared. “Here we have venison pasties and sallets; carrots mulched in vinegar; a cow’s tongue garnished with capers and spinnage, rabbit in butter, and some plump radishes.”

  At her hesitation, Samuel helped identify the other meats and pastries, piling her plate high as he regaled the company with their crossing of Blackheath.

  “We had to wait for other coaches to join us, so we could cross in a convoy,” Henry ventured between mouthfuls, his eyes round at the memory.

  “Well, I think you were all very brave to venture into such inhospitable country.” Alyce fluttered her eyelashes. “One dare not even imagine the consequences, had you been attacked.”

  Helena’s nervousness disappeared at their friendliness, marveling as even more dishes were carried in and set on the table.

  “What is that?” Henry pointed to an oval dish that gave off a savory aroma that made Helena’s mouth water.

  “I think it might be Boeuf à la Mode, but I cannot be sure.”

  “Indeed it is, my dear Helena,” Robert said, forking several thick slices onto Hendry’s plate. “The finest English buttock beef, larded with bacon and stewed in claret, cinnamon cloves, mace, and pepper.”

  “The dish is a favorite of my William’s.” Alyce sighed, stroking Hendry’s cheek with undue familiarity. Helena stared, but Henry didn’t seem to mind.

  “William is my son.” Alyce twirled her spoon in the air, answering Helena’s unspoken question. Despite encouraging them all to eat, Alyce herself pushed her food round her plate after the first few mouthfuls. “He’s not in London just now, but you’ll meet him one day.”

  Celia spent the entire meal with her arm looped through Helena’s, as if she had decided they were to be inseparable. Phebe imitated her mother in both lack of appetite and flirtatiousness, fluttering between the men like a bright butterfly, gazing at them from under her lashes or from behind a coyly held fan. She issued any servant moving into her field of vision with pointed, but needless instructions, establishing her position as daughter of the house.

  Helena found the talk lively, if superficial, each testing the experience and opinions of the others.

  Alyce probed for details of their family life at Loxsbeare. “I’ve never been so far west.” Her inflection intimated it was a foolhardy thing to do.

  “Why should you wish to, Mama?” Phebe made a moue of disgust.

  “Have you ever visited the theatre?” Celia asked.

  Helena shook her head. “The only plays I have seen were private performances at friend’s houses.”

  “In that case, I shall personally correct that omission in your education. Until one has seen the magnificent Anne Bracegirdle, one simply hasn’t lived, my dear.”

  Master Deve
reux quizzed Henry, probing for details of what kind of life he saw for himself in the city. Their father had planned that Henry would enter the army, but lately, Henry refused to discuss soldiering; so Helena was curious as to how he would answer Robert’s question.

  Alice’s husky voice distracted her. “I am determined you shall see the New Exchange shops and stalls, my dear, and there is of course Covent Garden and the Hungerford Market to visit. I guarantee you’ll have seen nothing like them in the provinces; you are in for a treat.”

  When she turned back to her brother’s conversation, Helena discovered they had moved on to horses and dogs. Disappointed, she listened to Samuel telling Celia he planned to stay in London for a week or so in order to oversee his warehouse in Freemans Yard, before returning home to Exeter.

  Grateful he was not leaving too soon, Helena suppressed a yawn. The warmth of the room and the good food conspired to remind her she was exhausted.

  “I feel it is time you retired for a rest, my dears,” Samuel clapped his hands to summon Lubbock. “He will show you your rooms and we’ll gather here again later this afternoon.”

  At the top of the staircase, a footman led Henry off down a hallway.

  Helena followed Lubbock along a sumptuous upper floor with wide corridors and walls covered with richly-patterned wallpaper. One storey away from the lower rooms, the mirrors and gilt paint diminished and the candles stabbed into dark corners.

  “Your chamber, Mistress,” he said, showing her into a cosy panelled room that contained a four-poster bed with green and gold hangings draped on either side. A thick piled rug in the same colours covered most of the boarded floor. Helena braced her arms on the black wooden sill of the leaded window that covered one side of the room. “They have a garden!” she called to Chloe, who limped in awkwardly behind her, red-faced, and her arms full of bundles.

  In a walled courtyard below, neat flowerbeds arranged in geometrical patterns crisscrossed with pathways bordered by dwarf shrubs; so different from the semi-wild expanse of lawn bordered by tall, ancient trees at Loxsbeare.