The Rebel’s Daughter

by Anita Seymour

  Unable to summon a convincing agreement, Tobias merely nodded just as Master Ferguson appeared at the door and made for their table.

  The two men sat over a heartier supper than Tobias suspected either of them had eaten in a long time, making plans for the brave new society Prince William promised them.

  Disillusioned, and robbed of all energy after a stressful and disappointing day, Tobias rose wearily to his feet and stumbled to his room at the back of the inn, where he slept the clock round.

  Three days later, Tobias stood in the stern of the ship taking him back to England, his inside pocket heavy with a bundle of letters for everyone at Lambtons. The wind had dropped, and the sea was calmer, forecasting a longer, but easier crossing. Among his fellow passengers were several exiles who, unlike Aaron, were eager to return home.

  The sailors threw the mooring ropes over the side, and to a symphony of called orders and echoed responses, the ship eased away from the dock. Tobias leaned on the rail, watching the land slide away from him, and remembered; he had lacked both the courage and opportunity to broach the facts of his own paternity.

  Chapter 19

  Henry tucked into his second portion of cold beef and potatoes fried in bacon fat with a resigned sigh. Despite his protestations that he was quite replete, Mrs Newman had piled his plate, again.

  After five daughters, having a young male to care for at last appeared to please her. Not that Henry minded, her attentions going some way to helping him miss his own mother less. He was looking forward to work more than usual on that particular morning. Master Newman had requested a meeting the evening before, where he expressed more than usual satisfaction with his work.

  “You won’t be spending all your time on building sites and in stone warehouses in the future, young Woulfe,” he had said, a fatherly hand on Hendry’s shoulder. “It’s time you began to learn the more aesthetic aspects of being an architect. Drawing, planning, ornamentation, and the like.”

  “I’ll look forward to the new experiences, sir,” Henry had responded with genuine enthusiasm, though he forbore to explain how much he enjoyed getting plaster dust on his hands. He liked nothing better than to run up ladders, hang precariously over drops, and scramble along buttresses to see how the masons were progressing.

  On this particular morning, however, Hendry’s thoughts were not on stonemasons. Instead, he contemplated Mary Ann Newman’s green eyes and rich, glossy hair. She was the most exquisite creature he had ever seen. Diminutive and fine-boned, she made Hendry’s lack of height seem dominant and manly beside her.

  Her eyes had attracted him first. Wide and luminous, with tiny golden flecks within, they reminded him of Helena’s. He hesitated to mention this, for fear of allotting Mary Ann a status equal to that of a relative. Thus, with a genuine compliment withheld, he was rendered tongue-tied in her company. Henry couldn’t stop looking at her, drawn repeatedly to her delicate features and her perfect, bowed lips that held a perpetual smile.

  From her position further along the table, Mary Ann flicked frequent glances in his direction from under her long, sweeping lashes, an occurrence that Henry had at first assumed mocked him.

  He quickly learned that Mary Ann was not only intelligent and quick-witted; she never grew bored with his talk of the characteristics of stone or how mortar was mixed, like Celia and Phebe Devereux did. Sometimes even Helena suppressed sighs and rolled her eyes when he grew particularly enthusiastic about a building, or a style of brickwork.

  In contrast, Henry found the younger Newman daughters, though charming, somewhat irritating. All four vied for Hendry’s attention, performing small tasks to gain his notice, until he found himself bestowing constant gratitude for their efforts.

  “I used the tiniest stitches on the tear in your coat, Henry,” fourteen-year-old Joanna simpered, her attempt to look doe-eyed and appealing not sitting well on her plump frame. “Only a small tear on the hem at the back, but I thought best not to allow it to worsen. You must have caught it on a carriage door as you climbed down.”

  Henry nodded politely. “Thank you for the effort, Mistress. I had not been aware of the damage until you mentioned it.”

  “Do you like the feather I picked for you, Henry?” Margaret, the twelve-year-old smiled coyly, brandishing her gift. “The colour will suit your new hat perfectly.”

  As if she too had become weary of her sisters” girlish chatter, Mary Ann flicked Henry a knowing look and left the room.

  The void she left felt like a chasm opening up, though Henry forced himself not to watch her retreating figure. “Thank you for a most satisfying meal, Mistress Newman,” Henry dabbed his mouth with a napkin and rose. “I look forward to this evening’s supper, which I know will be every bit as good.”

  “Would you not take more buttermilk, Henry?” ten-year-old Millicent beamed up at him from beside his shoulder, in imitation of her elder sisters” flirting. “I used my Dutch grandmother’s special method.”

  “Perhaps I might have some, warmed, before bed.” Henry said.

  Before Jane, the six-year-old member of the family could request her doll repaired or a ribbon tied, Henry made his rapid escape along the long hall to where his coat, hat, and muff hung from the rail in the hall. Before reaching them, Mary Ann stepped out of a side room into his path, opened the front door and slammed it with a resounding bang. Pressing a finger to her lips, she drew him into the room behind her and silently closed the door.

  Henry smiled. “I have to meet your father…”

  She cut him off with a deep kiss, pressing him back against the door.

  “I know,” she said, her lips brushing his as she answered. “We haven’t been alone for days.” She leaned back, and smoothed down his shirt with both hands, sending ripples of pleasure across his skin.

  He released a tiny groan and traced the line of her chin with one hand.

  “Could you get away and meet me somewhere?” she wheedled, bringing the tips of his fingers to her mouth, nipping at them with her teeth.

  Henry swallowed. “You are bold, Mistress Newman, you know that don’t you?” He tried to look serious, but knew his enraptured expression gave him away.

  “I know, but only with you.” She jutted out her chin, pouting.

  “Your father is waiting for me at Christ Church, Newgate. It’s almost complete, and Sir Christopher will be there for the final inspection. I mustn’t be late,” Henry insisted, though made no effort to move from the circle of her arms.

  “Later then,” she breathed into his neck. “Think of somewhere we can be alone.”

  “We are alone,” he teased.

  “You know what I mean.” She giggled, leaning into him for another urgent kiss.

  The door behind him creaked in protest and they sprang apart. “Mother might have heard that,” Mary Ann whispered. “She’ll be coming to see what I’m doing.” His arms still encircled her waist and she caressed his neck with one hand.

  “Perhaps, you and your maid could pay a visit to St Bride’s Church sometime around three of the clock?” Henry suggested.

  Mary Ann gave the slightest of nods, then slid past him to open the door, checking the passage before signaling him to emerge. The footman standing in the hall saw everything, and nothing, his back ramrod straight as he stared at thin air.

  Avoiding the man’s eye, Henry slipped past him through the front door, turning to blow Mary Ann a kiss as she closed it behind him.

  Outside, Hendry’s gaze alighted on two chairmen slouching against the wall of a building opposite. Henry liked sedans, which could ease through spaces a carriage could not, making his frequent journeys through the city more efficient. He beckoned with his chin, in a fair imitation of Robert Devereux. One chairman nudged his companion before hurrying toward him, the cumbersome conveyance slung between their broad shoulders.

  Henry settled into the comfortable interior, wondering how the workmen on the building site were capable of even flexing their fingers in such weather.
Wishing Spring would come, he shoved his hands inside the fur muff, his hand closing on a small square of parchment.

  Frowning, he brought the paper into the light to read. It was from Mary Ann. The words were overly-sentimental, but they meant everything to Henry, whose lips curved into a smile as he read. He re-read the note twice, then touched it to his lips before tucking it back inside the muff.

  He and Mary Ann had skirted around each other for weeks, with shy smiles and awkward exchanges. He still did not know quite when their attraction had intensified into stolen kisses and secret meetings, but he did not regret one moment of it all.

  Their mutual pleasure distracted Henry from the terrible dilemma neither could face discussing. He might have private means, but he was also an indentured apprentice to Mary Ann’s father and therefore forbidden to marry. For him to become betrothed to his patron’s daughter under the man’s own roof in secret would be devastating for his future career, not to mention Mary Ann’s reputation.

  According to his indenture, Henry could not contemplate marriage for another six years, although the thought their union constantly occupied his thoughts. With such an obstacle hanging over him, Henry had not dared talk of the future; it was imprudent enough snatching private moments in the present. That Mary Ann would wait for him was something he knew instinctively. However, she too needed the approval of her parents, and his guardian. Without them, what would become of Hendry’s grand schemes?

  Since the wonderful news that his brother Aaron was still alive, news which Mary Ann had been as excited about as Henry himself, he had longed to see Aaron and place his future in his brother’s hands.

  He still could not bring himself to mention it to Helena; she and those Devereux girls teased him enough for blushing in Mary Ann’s company. Aaron would clap him on the back and laugh at his gaucheness, but he was head of the family now, and would know what to do even if Henry did not. Everything would be better once Aaron came home.

  Henry gazed unseeing at the interior of the sedan as it rocked and bumped along in the heavy traffic. He kept the leather flap down, allowing the familiar sights of London to pass him by unnoticed, his thumbs gently stroking the square of parchment inside the muff.

  They turned a sharp corner and the chair jolted, causing the chairmen to shout a protest. Henry put out a hand to steady himself, but was thrown hard against the padded backboard. He righted himself and threw up the flap, craning forward to scan the street.

  They had almost collided with a large handcart, which lay on its side, its load spilled onto the cobbles. Henry joined in the abuse and yelled at the hapless carter gathering up his belongings from the filthy road, ordering the way be cleared so he could complete his journey. Henry was a busy man, and could not tolerate delays.

  * * *

  Lambtons was busy, and in order to keep out of the way of running feet, Helena found a private corner in the kitchen parlor where to sit. The sounds of raised voices, and the clashing of pots and clunk of cleavers on wood filled the background. A cook shouted at a maid for dropping a plate, a serving man relayed a customer’s orders, while the door to the dining room swung open with a creak, then flapped back into place with a rhythmic whoosh.

  The kitchen parlour was where Mistress Carstairs ruled her domain, a scrubbed wooden table on one side and a potbellied stove the other. A narrow shelf circled the room above head height, displaying a collection of blue and white Delph, sent to the housekeeper by her Dutch son-in-law.

  Helena joined them on cold afternoons, warming her feet at the stove and chatting to Lubbock, who sipped tea like a gentleman and gossiped to Mrs Carstars.

  He reminded her of Benoit in some ways, the cook at Loxsbeare, whose fastidious nature and vanity about his appearance was the bane of the servants” hall.

  Helena settled herself at the oak table, her journal and a bowl of coffee beside her. The doors on either side of the room stood open, the kitchen side revealing the cooks bullying the serving men, while the other gave onto the clamour of the dining areas. In a sudden flurry of movement, Lubbock scrambled to his feet, bowing respectfully.

  “Mistress Woulfe, I thought I might find you here.” William leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, his black periwig arranged artistically over both shoulders.

  “Indeed, you have found me, sir.” She tucked a hand beneath her chin. “With my favorite gentleman at Lambtons.” She nodded her head toward Lubbock, who hovered in the background.

  William pressed both hands over his heart. “And I came hot-foot from Wills, leaving my coffee untouched, in my haste to be the first to bring you the news.”

  “How thoughtful of you. And what news is this?”

  “King James has issued a general pardon to all those who fought in the Western Rebellion.”

  “Everyone?” Helena sprang to her feet, all traces of the coquette gone. “All pardoned?”

  William’s eyes told her no. “Those who came over from Holland with him are excluded, as are a few of the more prominent rebels. Sir Jonathan Woulfe is still listed amongst the fugitives condemned to death. Aaron Woulfe, however, is a free man.”

  “Thank you, William. At least half your news is good.” Helena’s cheeks grew warm, which she told herself was for Aaron’s sake, but the feel of William’s eyes roving over her face and sliding down onto her bodice made her quiver. Did Father know he could not come home? Where would he go now? For nothing would convince her he was dead.

  Lubbock made a mumbled excuse about having duties to perform, and slipped away. Most likely, Helena imagined, to inform the rest of the kitchen staff. She smiled as Mistress Carstairs appeared at the door, only to be pushed back by the retreating Lubbock.

  William flicked up the back of his coat and sat opposite her the table. “Is this coffee still hot?” he asked a passing serving girl.

  “This ten minutes, Master William.” Her face scarlet, the girl bobbed an awkward curtsey and hurried away.

  William’s fingers brushed hers as he passed her the cup. A sharp jolt ran through her, and when she looked up, the sudden flare in his eyes showed he had felt it too.

  She withdrew her hand with an inward sigh, wondering why he created such mixed feelings. During his kinder moments, William treated her with genuine affection, and it would be churlish to rebuff him. Then he would make a frivolous joke at someone else’s expense, talk disparagingly of an enamored lady in Helena’s company, or lose a vast amount of money he had not earned at a gaming table, and her heart would harden against him.

  They were still staring into each other’s eyes when Celia arrived with Phebe hot on her heels.

  “Have you heard about the Amnesty?” Celia asked, waving a hand at Lubbock’s retreating back.

  “Yes.” William and Helena replied simultaneously.

  Celia clasped her hands together. “Isn’t it wonderful? Aaron can come home.”

  “Why are you sitting here in this horrid little room?” Phebe gaze flicked around the parlour with distaste. “Do come into the salon, both of you. There’s a lovely fire in there.” “I cannot wait to meet your brother,” Celia said as they traversed the hall and took their places on the settles, chaises and chairs around the welcoming blaze.

  “I am sure he will adore you, as I do,” Helena said, appreciative of Celia”s enthusiasm for someone she had not met.

  “Do you think he could stay here, at Lambtons?” Phebe asked, positioning herself behind her brother’s chair, her long fingers caressing his shoulders.

  “I expect he would prefer his own establishment,” William said, entering the room last, his gaze still on Helena.

  Celia”s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, but, suppose he insists you go and live with him?”

  “That seems unlikely, at first at least.” Helena said, laughing. “In any case I shall insist I remain…” she stopped short as the truth occurred to her. As head of the family, Aaron could command her to live where and how he wished and she would have no choice but to
obey. She wondered why this idea held no appeal, then pushed the thought away.

  “Will Aaron know about the pardon by now?” Helena asked.

  William laughed. “No doubt all the rebels in The Hague will crowd every available ship out of the harbor as we speak.” He was still looking at her, and she revelled in his appraising scrutiny, unable to tell if the thrill she felt was due to her brother’s imminent return, or to William’s smile.

  Robert and Alyce arrived to join in the general celebration, speculating with their daughters as to where Aaron might live.

  “I insist we have the blue guest room prepared for him,” Alyce announced. “At least, for when he first arrives.” She clasped her hands together just like Celia. “How wonderful to have a real Rebel in our midst. I shall be the toast of the district.”

  Helena listened distractedly, hearing only snippets of their conversation.

  William observed Helena with a half-mocking smile, his high-backed chair positioned so close to hers that their toes almost touched. He had a habit of staring into her eyes as if she were the only person in a room, daring her to be the first to look away. When she could forget his sheer masculine physicality, he was excellent company; he often sought her out for fascinating discussions on any subject that came to her. Helena experienced a heady sense of her own feminine power during these sessions, exchanging banter in flirtatious verbal jousts.

  “That’s enough of the absent master Woulfe, or I shall become quite jealous,” William commanded them with a glint in his eye. I would prefer to discuss more entertaining subjects.”

  “Such as what, William?” Phebe enquired, one brow raised.

  William paused, one ankle crossed over the other, swinging his foot gently. “Helena, I hope you’ll allow me to escort you to the Pleasure Gardens at Fox Hall when the sun decides to shine. They are particularly pleasing in the Springtime.”

  “Will we ever have a Spring?” Phebe pulled her shawl tightly round her shoulders. “Master Evelyn told me the other evening that this winter had been unusually mild, but I disagree. I’m constantly freezing, no matter the fires are lit every day.”