The Rebel’s Daughter

by Anita Seymour

  “There’s more,” Alyce said, ignoring Robert’s frantic gestures to be quiet. “Oh Robert, just get the tiresome business over with. She must be told sometime.” She turned an eager expression back toward Helena. “Edmund Prideaux and Nathanial Wade have also been freed.”

  Robert fiddled with his cravat, adding, “They too have had to pay exorbitant fines that may well ruin them.”

  “They won’t be dead though, will they?” Helena offered a feeble smile. “I cannot blame those two for surviving in any way they can. But I still place my father’s fate, whatever that may be, at Lord Gray’s door. He was one of the chief instigators.”

  “It does seem very unfair.” Alyce tossed her elaborately curled head, setting the woven ribbons on her headdress quivering. “When Lord Grey attends court balls as if nothing had happened.”

  “Perhaps.” Helena fingered the lace at her sleeve, then split a look between them as if the idea had that moment occurred to her. “I should find a husband with the qualities required to run my father’s business.” Or what is left of it.

  “Not an unachievable ambition, my dear,” Robert said carefully. “However, you should not overlook your personal happiness.”

  “Security and position are what I need. To expect anything else in my circumstances is somewhat self-indulgent, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, as for you being a social pariah, that will pass, my dear.” Alyce waved her fan, though the fact she sat close enough to the fire for orange flames to be reflected in her face paint struck Helena as contradictory.

  “Monmouth had many detractors during his lifetime,” Alyce went on. “However it appears his scandalous death has given him the status of a martyr. Everyone I speak to regards you as someone worth cultivating.”

  Her attempt to tease a smile from Helena, if that was what it was, failed miserably. “I’m still the daughter of a fugitive rebel - alive or dead. I’m hardly good marriage material.”

  Before Robert could contradict her, she rose, gave a polite curtsey and made for the door.

  Despite her dramatic exit, Helena’s paused outside the door, her back against the wall while she waited for her rapid heartbeat to slow. Had she been too impulsive in her decision to put practicality before happiness? A decision she had made with bravado, false pride, and, she admitted to herself, some bitterness. The only man she had met since her arrival in the capital who had made her heart beat faster was William Devereux.

  Only a heavy curtain designed to stop draughts separated her from the room where Robert and Alice’s voices reminded her she had not closed the door.

  “Having been fortunate enough to marry for love,” Robert said. “I cannot help but advocate similar happiness for all my girls.”

  “Helena is not your girl, Rob,” Alyce replied, though there was no resentment in her voice, merely pragmatism. “You’re such a sentimental creature. I’m certain she’ll see things differently when an attractive young man comes along.”

  “Perhaps,” he replied. “Still, I am convinced such cold practicality can only bring her more suffering. I hope, in time, she will reconsider.”

  Helena pushed herself away from the wall and headed for the stairs. They would soon discover they had another Phebe on their hands. A woman with a mind of her own who made her own decisions.

  If marriage was Helena’s only path to security and respectability, she would take what came her way, with no thought for a person happiness she had left behind in Exeter.

  Chapter 15

  The prospect of her first Yule spent without her family filled Helena with dread. However, she soon found herself caught up in the anticipation-charged days of Christmastide at the famous Lambtons Inn. Servants darted through corridors with laden arms, and balanced on ladders draping the hallways with boughs of fragrant laurel, holly and mistletoe.

  Serving men, kitchen maids, cooks, servers and pot-men all worked together with the incomparable Carstairs, who organised the occasion like a military campaign.

  Phebe stood in the entrance hall and wrinkled her nose. “It smells like a forest in here.”

  “I know,” Helena sighed dreamily, taking deep breaths.

  Alyce glided regally between the upper rooms and the kitchens, issuing orders and supervising the preparation of the vast amount of food required for the season. There were the traditional vast Christmas pies made with game, chicken, eggs, sugar, raisins, orange and lemon peel, mixed together with rich spices. A cauldron of plum “porrage” bubbled away on the fire, with generous portions of raisins steeped in wine and spice, its rich, fruity aroma permeating the air. Sides of beef, venison, pork and various screeching poultry arrived in the kitchens, until the cooks protested they had no more room to prepare it all.

  A self-important Lubbock appeared at intervals, carrying the news that Lord T had arrived with his party for dinner, or that the Earl of S and his lady wished a private supper in an upper room.

  Harassed kitchen girls scurried between the tables, and serving men bore laden trays at a run up the stairs to the small dining rooms.

  “We have a system of signals,” Phebe revealed to Helena in a rare moment of confidence. “We can alert other as to when a person of consequence is served à deux in one of the private chambers. Then we can hover nearby when they leave, and see who they are.” She indicated a young man on the floor below who gestured with both hands to another server.

  “I see,” Helena said, not seeing at all.

  “Who do you think it is?” Celia asked, throwing herself into the occasion.

  “I know not, but if you wait long enough,” Phebe declared confidently. “The entire court of St James will pass along this corridor.”

  Helena awoke on Christmas morning, determined to overcome the sadness that lay like a stone beneath her ribs. Consoling herself with the knowledge Henry would be arriving later to eat dinner with them, she threw herself into the festivities, distributing the fruits of her frequent shopping expeditions to the “Change amongst her new friends.

  When she went to her room in the afternoon to fetch a shawl, she found a tearful Chloe crouched by the fire. “What’s wrong, Chloe?”

  The maid looked up, her face tear-streaked. “Master Dev’ro is so kind, Mistress. He gave me this.” She sniffed, holding up a gold chain at the end of which twirled a gold cross.

  “It’s very pretty, Chloe.” Helena noted it was a thin, light trinket and not of the best quality.

  The maid’s open delight made Helena almost ashamed at the extravagance of her own gifts. A prayer book bound in white kidskin, given to her by Master Devereux. For all his flamboyance and emphasis on wealth and position, Robert was a genuine and devout Anglican.

  Alyce had presented her with a turquoise silk shawl and a gold pin studded with jewels of green and blue, fashioned like a peacock. Phoebe’s gift was a hand-painted fan, and several lengths of ribbon, exquisitely made by the Huguenot weavers in Spitalfields. Helena ensured she made a special point of displaying pleasure over these, for Phebe was still unpredictable; as capable of delivering a barbed retort as a kind word.

  Celia gave Helena a pair of dancing shoes in gold-embroidered blue brocade with latchet ties. “For your first real ball in London,” she said, as Helena marveled at the paste jewels attached to the heels.

  Henry arrived with his arms full of decorated pasteboard boxes filled with sugared fruit, spiced almonds, stationery, and new quills. Others held combs and hair ornaments, wig brushes and buttons; these he distributed with largesse.

  He spent the entire day at Lambtons, eating, drinking and talking with the family and inn patrons, even flirting with Phebe, who at one point was convinced the Duke of Buckingham was in the dining hall, annoyed when no one would believe her.

  “Oh, ignore her.” Alyce leaned forward provocatively and caressed Hendry’s cheek. “Phebe is always searching for famous faces among the patrons.” In his mildly tipsy state, Henry tolerated Alice’s attentions unembarrassed.

  Helena
studied her brother with new eyes. In the few weeks of their separation, he had grown apace with new clothes that made him more a gallant than a child. His features had lost the boyish enthusiasm that displayed every emotion, and replaced by a more considered maturity.

  All enquires with reference to his apprenticeship he answered with forethought and intelligence that made Helena proud.

  “This has been a wonderful Yule,” Helena said, at the end of the evening when everyone collected their candles, ready to light them to bed.

  “It’s not over yet.” Celia handed her a candle from the box at the bottom of the stairs. “Don’t forget the Lambtons” Twelfth Night party. Father invites the patrons, who submit subscriptions to cover the cost of their dinner.”

  “Mummers perform plays in the main hall, and we have musicians and tumblers to entertain us.” Phebe touched the wick of Helena’s candle with a taper. “Then there is the Twelfth Night Cake, with a bean and pea concealed inside. Do you have such things in Devon, Helena?”

  “Indeed we do, and whoever finds them rules as King and Queen of the festivities.” Helena recalled her previous Christmas with a pang.

  “Celia was Queen last year.” Phebe gave her father a level stare as if he were wholly responsible for the oversight. “Therefore this year, I insist it shall be me.”

  “You are too old for petulance,” Robert scolded, though the soft look in his eyes belied his words. “The fates will decide who shall rule Twelfth Night.”

  * * *

  Helena dressed in a plum-colored gown that fell to the ground in silken folds, with a split skirt pulled back to reveal an ivory silk underskirt. The gilded oval of silvered glass on her bureau blurred Helena’s features, giving her an ethereal look. Eschewing the paint and patches Alyce favored, she brushed a sheet of Spanish paper gently against each cheek, then rubbed it into her lips to deepen their natural colour.

  Chloe fastened her square, ruby pendant round her throat, then wound wine colored ribbons into her hair, teasing out the little “favorites” and “heartbreakers” onto her temple and neck. “Is something wrong, Chloe?” Helena smoothed cream into her hands to whiten them, while watching her maid’s frequent glances toward the door.

  “No, Mistress,” Chloe began. “It’s jus’, they’re giving a party in the kitchen today for the servants, and I thought…” Her voice trailed off.

  For the first time Helena noticed that Chloe wore her best skirt and bodice, with her hair not hidden under her usual white cap, but dressed in curls fastened with ribbon.

  “You may go, Chloe.” Helena took pity on her. “Make sure you are back in time to help me disrobe.”

  Chloe sketched a hasty bob and hurried to the door with as much grace as her damaged leg allowed, passing Celia at the door, all pink and plump prettiness in a yellow-gold gown, with a row of emeralds, a Christmas gift from her doting parents, at her throat.

  “Is it time to go down?” Helena patted her hair and smoothed her bodice. Loud chattering and laughter drifted up the stairs, accompanied by haunting mandolin music.

  “There’s someone you must meet.” Celia joined her at the mirror, their gazes locked in their reflections. “He’s not a guest, but you don’t know him, so I suppose that makes him a guest, in a way.”

  Helena placed her hands on either side of her waist, taking cautions breaths to see how much leeway her corset would allow. “Who is this guest who is not a guest?”

  “Come and see.” Celia darted to the door and back again, like a puppy asking to go out.

  They descended the stairs to the sound of clinking glass and female laughter drifting up from the public rooms. Bemused, Helena’s gaze rested on a tall young man at the bottom of the stairs, to whom Alyce gave full attention. One slender hand caressed his arm as she gazed adoringly into his face.

  Phebe hung onto his other hand and Robert stood to one side, smiling proudly.

  As if sensing her presence, the newcomer turned and met her gaze. For a moment, he reminded Helena so vividly of the late Duke of Monmouth, she almost gasped, then shrugged the thought away as ridiculous. He wore a sapphire blue long-coat with deep turned-back cuffs in pale yellow, and heeled and buckled black shoes. White lace frothed at his wrists. A carefully knotted cambric cravat was around his throat, and the ensemble was completed with a full-bottomed black wig.

  “What do you think of him?” Celia whispered, though she did not wait for Helena’s response before rushing on. “My brother William, come home from his tour. It’s a new fashion you know, for young men to see some of the continent before they embark on a career.”

  Helena smiled as realization dawned. Alyce frequently talked about her son in dreamy tones, regretting his absence and bemoaning the fact they did not possess a likeness of him to show Helena. Now here was the real thing, standing in the hallway. Alice’s motherly pride had not embellished her son’s looks, at all.

  Helena took mental stock of how she might appear to him, gratified that her fashionable gown flattered her figure, and that her hair had been washed that morning.

  Robert looked up and caught her eye, beckoning her forward.

  Although she tried to remain aloof, Helena found herself drawn into the newcomer’s deep brown eyes, alight with obvious appreciation.

  He bowed over her outstretched hand murmuring, “My pleasure, Mistress Woulfe.” He lifted his gaze to her face, but retained a firm grip on her hand. Helena felt the entrance hall recede, her fingers resting comfortably in his palm. William’s eyes flamed with silent laughter as if in challenge.

  Helena refused to look away, hoping she didn’t blush and betray how he affected her.

  “Isn’t Helena lovely, William?” Phebe slid her arm possessively through his, forcing him to drop Helena’s hand. “You must tell us about Italy and France, we want to hear all your stories.”

  Alyce stepped briskly to his other side, and with Robert leading the way, they entered the throng of partygoers. At the door, William glanced backward, his gaze fixed on Helena as if an invisible thread ran between them.

  Light-headed, Helena returned his steady appraisal, then Celia jerked her forward, breaking the magic. “Helena, you’re blushing,” she said, mischievously.

  “Not at all; it is exceedingly warm in here.” Helena lifted her chin and this time, she was the one dragging Celia along in her wake.

  The party gathered momentum, with new arrivals crowding the hall being greeted exuberantly by those they knew. Men wore high periwigs in a variety of colors, piled high on their heads with rows of thick curls flowing over their shoulders. Some sported tiny black patches on their faces, to disguise scars and blemishes on their skin. Others wore as much face paint as the women, making them look like garish mannequins, with splashes of red dabbed beneath their eyes.

  Wherever Helena found herself during the evening, William was never far away. Flattered, she encouraged his company. She introduced him to Henry, who had arrived with Master Newman, his pleasant, homely wife and their eldest daughter, whom he introduced as Mary Ann.

  “What a wonderful party,” Mary Ann exclaimed in a musical voice, her hands clasped together in delight.

  “How are you enjoying your “liking”, Henry?” William’s gaze drifted to Helena as if seeking approval for the pertinent knowledge he possessed of her brother.

  Hendry’s mild expression altered to one of earnestness. “Master Newman took me to Stationers Hall this last week, to have my indentures stamped, so now I am officially an architectural apprentice.”

  William turned a laugh into a cough and beside him, Helena resisted the urge to ask Henry if this procedure had been as painful as it sounded. Instead, she observed how pretty the Newman’s” daughter was. Henry blushed, refusing to look at the subject of his embarrassment.

  “Well, do acquaint us with her, Henry,” Celia urged, appearing in the middle of his embarrassed stammering.

  Left with no choice, but to present his patron’s daughter to his employer’s, Henry
acted with grace and dignity, but also a good deal of stammering.

  While these niceties were being observed, Helena’s gaze slid to an elderly gentleman, who appeared to be giving a lecture to a group of enthralled guests in the middle of the room. Clothed in black, with a long ebony periwig on top of a narrow face, he spoke in a braying voice, his heavy-lidded eyes displaying tired cynicism.

  “Who’s that serious-looking man over there, Celia?” Helena tilted her fan toward him.

  “That, is Master John Evelyn, Commissioner of the Privy Seal,” Celia whispered. “The short, plump person with spaniel eyes sitting beside him is Master Samuel Pepys, the Secretary to the Admiralty.” With a sigh added, “they’re both quite old, but have some fascinating stories of their youth at the court of the old King.”

  “My Uncle Edmund worked for Master Pepys, many years ago.” Helena said, exchanging a look with William, who gave a slow nod, evidently impressed.

  Celia”s eyes flew open in surprise. “I had no idea, Helena, how interesting!”

  “He looks very proud.” Helena said in a stage whisper.

  “Master Pepys?”

  “No, Master Evelyn. He appears to be well respected man judging by the crowd he has gathered round him.”

  “He was a close friend of the late King, and therefore has a lot of influence at Court.” Celia took her arm and guided her closer. “Godfrey Kneller painted his portrait, which is something of a privilege, as that gentleman only deigns to paint people of consequence.”

  “A gentleman painter?” Helena smiled, knowing all about Master Kneller; but Celia”s way of describing people was so entertaining.

  “Simply, a gentleman who paints.” William smirked at her from her other side. “That particular one will paint himself into a knighthood, if I am not mistaken.”

  “He would never paint me, William, I am far too lowly.” Celia giggled. “I believe Master Evelyn is not overly fond of His Majesty, due to his favouring of Papists.”