“He did no such thing.” Celia bridled. “Ralf is a goldsmith, too, which may explain why he spends so much time in Papa’s company.”
“Have you been acquainted with him long?” Helena asked, ignoring Phoebe’s smirking face.
“Well,” Celia hesitated. “Actually I know him hardly at all. We have met but three times.”
“He’s Papa’s choice,” Phebe said. “Though my sister offered no objections to the match.”
“I have a duty of obedience to Papa, Phebe, as have you.” Celia glared at her. “The contract has been drawn up and there is only my portion to be settled.”
“I offer my felicitations.” Helena attempted a smile, although she felt a sudden pang at the prospect of losing her new friend so soon.
Phebe sighed and huddled into the corner.
“You disapprove, Phebe?” Helena asked.
“It would be inappropriate and irrelevant for her to approve or disapprove,” Celia retorted, “and if Papa decreed Master Maurice would be her husband instead of mine, she would still have no grounds on which to object.”
Helena fell silent, recalling that no one had asked her opinion on Martyn Blandon, either.
Phebe snuggled into her fur-lined cloak, her eyes narrowed. “No one shall sell me to the highest bidder, like some commodity. I’ll marry whomsoever I choose.”
“Can you not be happy I am to be the wife of a man who may one day be as rich as Papa?” Celia”s blue eyes moistened. “I am to have a house, servants, and a carriage every bit as grand as this one. Ralf will take me out into society far more than I am permitted to at present.”
The threatening sky opened and heavy rain began pounding the wooden roof of the carriage, so they had to raise their voices to be heard.
Phebe gave a contemptuous sniff, then appeared to soften. “If you are content, Celia, then I shall be happy for you. However my husband shall be my own choice. Then, if the marriage is not happy, no one will be to blame but myself.”
“Why would it not be happy?” Helena pulled the rug tighter around herself as water began to find its way through the leather flaps. She remembered the servant girl and the coachman getting drenched on the outside seat, but felt it inappropriate to mention it. “Your father would take every precaution that the man he found for you would be good-hearted and well-bred.”
Lifting her pert chin, Phebe held Helena’s gaze. “Perhaps you should ask Millie Bryant that same question, and see how she answers.”
“Phebe! You are not to talk about such things!” Celia”s eyes flashed.
“Millie Sanders, or Mistress Bryant, as she became,” Phebe said, defiant. “Married just such a young man, chosen for her by her father.” Phoebe’s brown eyes shimmered with emotion. “They were married less than a twelvemonth, during which he spent her entire portion and then he turned her out of the house, where he now lives with his mistress.”
Celia gave an impatient tut.
“Please, go on, Phebe,” Helena urged, fascinated.
“Millie is the sweetest, kindest girl who ever lived, yet she had to beg to be allowed her back into her family, as if the disgrace were her own.” Phoebe’s voice cracked. “Her family treat her like an upper servant, an investment that went wrong. She cannot find a better husband, as she is still tied to that brute Bryant, who cares not a fig for her and is still received into society, where poor Millie is not.” She slumped back in her seat, breathless.
“You must be very fond of her, to champion her in this way.” Helena said.
“I am forbidden to see her.” Phebe blinked rapidly.
Impulsively, Helena leaned forward and grasped the younger girl’s hand, at which Phebe gave a start of surprise, though she didn’t pull away. “I am so sorry.” Helena strained to make herself heard above the drumming rain. “That is not to say such a fate would be yours. Your family would never tie you to a husband who discards a good wife.”
“They certainly will not, for I shall find my own.”
“Perhaps he-”
“Leave her, Helena,” Celia interrupted. “She will change her mind, when she is reminded of her duty.”
With a final glare in Celia”s direction, Phebe threw back the leather flap covering the window, heedless of the cold rain lashing her face, where Helena heard her say firmly. “I shall never change my mind.”
Chapter 14
During Helena’s first hectic weeks in London, a constant stream of guests paraded through Lambtons; some to pay their respects to the orphans of the ill-fated rebellion, others she felt sure, out of sheer curiosity.
When she had expressed bewilderment at so much attention, Alyce had tried to explain. “Your distracted grief gives you an enigmatic air, my dear, which will secure you a husband before you know it. Men adore mysterious women.”
Helena had not known how to respond, but despite her forthrightness, she liked and admired Alyce Devereux; it was only willful Phoebe’s occasional bouts of jealous resentment that soured her contentment in her new surroundings. However, of late Phebe was making an effort to be agreeable since their moment of mutual understanding in the carriage.
Helena found being surrounded by people at all times of the day stifling. Although she loved the teeming life that made up Holborn and its surrounding streets, the perpetual rumbling of carts and loud voices became too much for her to bear when she needed some time to think.
Samuel had delayed his return home by over a week, but when the weather changed for the worse, he had announced his need to set off before the roads became impassable. Saying goodbye to him had been harder than she imagined, though Helena had determined to be strong. He was her last link with her home. From now on, she and Henry would forge their own path in this strange but fascinating city. Would they rise up in society to a position of affluence, or disappear into the anonymity that engulfed so many?
She eased her way through the bustling kitchens, where cooks shrieked at the scullery maids, serving men exchanged bawdy jokes in loud voices, pans clattered, and meat sizzled.
Helena slipped through the rear door into the walled garden, her breath forming wispy clouds in the cold air. The walled space suffered from a lack of attention. The plants not been properly trimmed back for the winter, and the hedges were ragged and overgrown in places. Yet but it was quiet, and offered some respite from the ever-constant clamour of the inn. Seats nestled in arbours in the walls, with ornamental hedges trimmed and trained to form a covered archway, which, Helena imagined, gave cool shelter on sunny days.
On her second tour of the pathways, she turned at the bang of the kitchen door. Henry was hurrying toward her. “Here you are!” he called brightly, pulling his cloak tighter with a dramatic shiver. “It’s bitter cold out here.”
“Walk with me, it will help you keep warm.” Ignoring his cursing, she looped her arm through his. “Tell me, Henry, how do you like living in an alehouse?”
“I’m enjoying it, and besides,” he placed a finger to his cheek in a gesture characteristic of Master Devereux. “Lambtons is no ordinary alehouse.”
Helena’s laugh rang across the dormant winter garden. “You don’t think Father would disapprove of us being here?”
He frowned. “What makes you say that?”
She shrugged, suddenly overcome by sadness. “I would not care if he came back and dragged us away in a rage. But as each day passes, I doubt more and more it will happen.”
“That he will drag us away?”
“That he will come back.”
Henry stared off with a frown, making Helena sorry for being the cause of his melancholy. He had been so much happier lately, spending every moment he could with his new friend, Sir Christopher Wren. In an effort to lighten the mood, she asked the first question that came into her head. “Have you been at St Paul’s again today?”
His face showed surprise. “How did you know?”
She raised both eyebrows in response.
Henry stamped his feet and blew on his hands.
“I met Master Hawksmoor this morning.”
“And who might he be?” Helena feigned enthusiasm.
“Sir Christopher engaged him as his pupil, when he was not two years older than I am now.”
Helena waited, suspecting there might be more.
“He’s taking me to see the new chapel, the one the king has had built in Whitehall Palace.”
“Do you think that’s wise?” She halted on the pathway, everything she had learned about Papists rushing into her head. “Has he not filled the chapel with figures of saints and gold statues?”
Henry laughed at her expression. “Helena, I’m not going to attend Mass, I going there to study the building.”
On their stroll back toward the kitchens, she looked down as Henry scuffed his feet on the gravel. She was about to reprimand him for damaging his shoes, but the words died on her lips. He was no longer her little brother. Circumstances had turned him into a man heartbreakingly too soon. He spoke with care these days, and was no longer the enthusiastic boy who would say the first thing that came into his head.
“Are you listening to me, Helena?”
“Oh yes, yes, of course I am. Tell me, Henry. How serious is this interest of yours in architecture?”
His eyes shone. “In no other city in the world is there so much building going on. Everywhere you go there are builders, carpenters and stonemasons.”
Helena refrained from pointing out that he was one of few who might feel this an advantage, instead saying, “Father always imagined you would go into the army.”
“Which army?” he said, one brow raised.
Helena opened her mouth, and then closed it again. He had a point, and Master Devereux complained constantly of the large numbers of soldiers the king kept in barracks on Hounslow Heath, soldiers whom by rights should have been discharged after the rebellion.
“I am sixteen, Helena,” he said firmly. “I have decided I want to be an architect.” He halted beneath an arbor, its leafless branches twisted together above them in a high curve. “If you will agree, I want to ask Master Devereux to find a master to indenture me to an apprenticeship.”
“Are you sure about this?” At his expectant nod, she felt the prick of tears behind her eyes. He was talking about a career, about leaving. She cleared her throat. “If-If that is what you want, Henry. But we shall have to tame this.” She tugged at a thick strand of fair hair, which, being hatless, he had left to hang loose on his shoulders.
He jerked his head away, laughing in mock protest. “This is what I want, Helena. However I must be sure you are happy about this path I have chosen.”
Helena slowed down her footsteps. “I love London. Lambtons is a wonderful place and the Devereuxs couldn’t be kinder. But as to my future,” she gave a bemused shrug, “I shall have to be married to obtain anything in life, as Celia is always reminding me.”
“I would feel better about leaving, if you were.”
She wondered if he meant happy, or married, but decided not to pursue the subject. She inhaled a deep breath, tucking her arm beneath his. “So tell me, how does one go about becoming an architect?”
Henry brightened, his enthusiasm palpable. “I need a Master willing to take me on for a liking, and-.”
“Whatever is a liking?” She bit her lip to prevent herself laughing.
“This is serious, Helena.” A sharpness entered his eyes, betraying hurt.
Chastened, she composed her face into an expression of studious enquiry. “Explain.”
“I stay with the Master for a period of a month, to see if we get on well together, and to determine if I have aptitude for the work. If he is agreeable, I pay him a premium, that is, an agreed sum of money, for a seven-year apprenticeship.”
“Then shall you build cathedrals?” Helena forced herself to sound cheerful, though the idea of Henry leaving her for so long made her chest hurt.
His chin lifted in mock disdain. “Eventually, I might. Most likely I shall be a journeyman to gain experience.”
“What would a premium cost?”
He puffed up his cheeks and blew out a breath air that condensed into a stream of white in the chill air. “I have to study mathematics and drawing, so several hundred pounds would be needed for my tuition.”
Helena turned her shocked gasp into a cough. The pleading look on his face told her that any reservation on her part would crush his dreams. “Th-that doesn’t sound insurmountable. We’ll speak to Master Devereux this evening.” When he flushed she said, “I assume you have already spoken to Samuel?”
“The day before he left, yes. Oh don’t look at me like that, Helena. I had approach him before he left for Devon, I-”
She halted on the gravel and turned to face him. “A whole week ago, Henry. Why did you not say anything to me?” He started to speak but she held up a hand, halting his excuses. The situation already felt out of her control. “What did he say?”
“That I would make a better architect than a wool man, at any rate.”
“I can see you have thought of everything.” She had not intended her voice to be so sharp, though he barely noticed.
“I knew you would be happy for me and not mind my going.” He gripped her arm so hard, she called out in protest as he dragged her toward the door. “Let’s go in, Helena, I cannot feel my feet.”
Mind? Of course she minded, though she allowed him to bundle her into the kitchen with its steamy warmth and enticing smells.
When Lubbock bore down on them with a tray of freshly baked pasties, Henry fell on them ravenously.
Helena nibbled at hers, unable to force it past the lump in her throat.
* * *
Master Francis Newman, a city architect with several public buildings to his credit, had accepted an invitation to the Lambtons for supper, and an audience with Robert Devereux. A younger man than either of them had anticipated, he had piercing light blue eyes and a pleasant manner. Over an excellent supper and a few glasses of wine, Master Newman agreed to take Henry on as his apprentice.
Samuel had agreed to send the premium required on completion of the “liking” and Henry was to reside at Master Newman’s house in Charles Street, to learn the profession.
“What do you think of him?” Henry whispered, from their position at the back of the room where Robert Devereux drank wine with Mr Newman.
“He seems amiable enough,” Helena said, non-committal, trying not to glare at the man who was about to take her brother away from her. “You are the one who will have to work with him. For seven years,” she added, with a tinge of bitterness.
“It will pass quickly, you’ll see.”
It seemed nothing would dampen Hendry’s enthusiasm.
It seemed to Helena it was all too soon after their conversation in the garden, that she stood with the Devereuxs on the road outside Lambtons, shivering from the chill, but unwilling to cut short her farewells to Henry.
In the cold morning air, which Alyce had declared was injurious to their health, Henry bounced on the soles of his feet as he thanked the senior Devereuxs for their hospitality; embracing Celia and Phebe with enthusiasm. Having disengaged himself from Alice’s suffocating clutches without giving offence, he gathered his sister’s hands in his. “I will make Father proud of me, Helena.”
Helena’s prepared words of love and encouragement caught in her throat. “I know you shall,” she croaked, her eyes swimming with tears.
The chair stood on the cobbles with its lid up and door open. Henry climbed inside, and the chairmen hoisted the poles between muscled arms, setting off at a trot over the cobbles, calling “make way, make way there”, as hawkers and streetwalkers leapt out of their path.
“Charles Street is a mere step away,” Phebe snapped in response to Helena’s heavy sigh. “You’ll hardly know he’s gone.”
Celia glared at her sister, who flounced away along the hallway, leaving the two girls alone in Helena’s room. Celia chattered happily and Helena stared moodily down at the sodden
garden.
Despite her friend’s overt sympathy, Helena could not explain that she felt adrift in a world where she had no place. Lambtons felt like a stage where she played the part of a tragic heroine, the daughter of the rebel whose fate was unknown.
At night, Helena lay sleepless, listening to the watch calling each hour, her loneliness gnawing at her until the London dawn crept across the sky.
* * *
Lambtons came alive in the evenings, the ground floor a noisy, bustling, aroma-filled place where servers crashed through doors and ran from room to room in response to shouted orders from customers and cooks alike.
However, one particular evening, things weren’t quite the same. Henry had been gone only a day, and yet she missed his cheerful face peeking round doorframes, and his laugher in the hallways.
Alyce looked up from her place beside the fire as Helena entered the salon. “Have you told her, Robert?”
“Er-not yet, woman. I have hardly had an opportunity.” He beckoned Helena closer, shifting sideways on the chaise longue to make room for her. “Do sit with me, my dear.”
Helena frowned. He never called Alyce “woman”. Then watching the flush suffuse his face, her stomach lurched in a familiar feeling of dread. What was wrong now? With Henry gone, had they decided her fate too must be organised before she became too much of a burden?
Robert gave a cough. “We thought you should hear it from us, instead of through gossip in the dining hall.”
“Hear what, sir?” Helena kept her face calm.
“That Lord Grey has been given a pardon,” Robert said, wincing as Alyce gave her throaty laugh.
“Hardly given, Rob,” she snorted. “He paid forty thousand pounds for the privilege.”
Helena closed her eyes and inhaled slowly. Her initial excitement at the word “pardon” diminishing by the second. “Even if Father came home tomorrow,” she said sighing. “We could never raise such a sum to free him.”
The Rebel’s Daughter Page 16
