The Rebel’s Daughter

by Anita Seymour

  “You haven’t answered me, Helena,” William said gently.

  “In regard to what, sir?” Helena feigned interest in a piece of embroidery. She hated needlework with a passion, but the activity gave her a focus. “Oh, the Gardens. That would be most agreeable. I shall have to seek permission from my brother first.” She peered up at him through her lowered lashes, and so intent on being coy, she pricked her finger.

  “Never mind mincing about the Gardens all day, William,” Robert snorted. “What about I purchase a commission for you in the Navy? A respectable enough life for a man.”

  “Eh?” William tucked in his chin and regarded his father with a mixture of surprise and horror. While Robert was busy calling in every favor he possessed to find gainful employment for his son, the object of all this industry had so far expressed nothing but ennui at the prospect of work.

  “His Majesty was Lord High Admiral when he was a young man.” Robert tried again. “You have to have some ambitions for your future.” William wrinkled his nose and waved the suggestion away, not bothering to respond.

  “The uniform would be so flattering, do you not think?” Alyce pointed out with mild regret.

  “You are not enough of a gentleman, William,” Robert jabbed the air with the stem of his pipe, “nor are you rich enough to be able to idle your life away.” He snapped his newssheet and dipped his head to the printed page again, dismissing his son with a shake of his head.

  Helena looked down at her sewing. From what she knew of his activities, William did exactly that. His days spent wherever young men went, to bet fortunes on the turn of a card or the progress of a louse up a wall hanging.

  Then there were the lengthy drinking sessions in the public rooms, or the nights he joined a group of affluent young fops in one of the private rooms upstairs; catcalling from the balconies to passersby below, until Robert called an outraged halt to their rowdiness.

  William got to his feet with a sigh and wandered to the window, where he stood staring at the street, his hands held loosely behind his back. After a moment, he appeared to make up his mind and turning on his heel, and bowed to the ladies, saying he was off to visit a coffee house.

  “Which one, Will?” Phebe asked, following him out.

  Helena suspected she did so to retain his attention, but they were at the door before he answered, so his reply was inaudible.

  When he had gone, Celia sidled up to Helena and perched on the edge of a chair. “I cannot understand you, Helena. How can you remain so unmoved, when every female who lays eyes on William, falls instantly in love with him?”

  Helena smiled. She had seen those ladies he charmed, then immediately forgot, hanging on the fringes of his company at gatherings, hoping to rekindle his interest. If he noticed their existence at all, his eyes would skim over their earnest faces with a vacant smile, and they would forgive him, call him a rogue, and sigh after him.

  “I like him very much.” Helena shrugged, pretending to wrestle with an intricate stitch. “Though I beg you not to misunderstand his attentions. He is only flirting with me, there is no real attachment.”

  Pouting, Celia fiddled with the box of sewing threads at Helena side. “You would settle him down,” she whined in her petulant voice. “I know he spends too much time gaming, and drinking and…” Helena arched an eyebrow, and Celia whispered, “…yes, well, probably whoring too.” Her light tone indicated it a minor fault. “However, if you and William were married…”

  Helena whipped her head round to stare at her. “Married?” she said in a fierce whisper. “Whatever makes you think he would…I mean, that I would…”

  Celia wasn’t to be distracted. “You would be perfect for him. Your practical sense would enable you to mould him into a stable and respectable husband.”

  Helena did not reply, one hand hovering in midair as images of a life as William’s wife paraded through her head. A future filled with worry over paying the servants, keeping creditors at bay, and hiding the playing cards loomed into her head. Then the face of a vapid redhead she had seen in his company flashed in front of her eyes. She stabbed the linen viciously with her needle.

  “It simply will not do, Celia.” Helena’s gaze went to Robert in the chimney corner, his head still bent studiously to his newssheet. In an opposite chaise sat Alyce, in black lace over scarlet silk, her brow creased in concentration over a novel.

  “I suspect your matchmaking is the result of you having spent this morning in the company of your betrothed.”

  Celia”s deep flush proved her right.

  Master Ralf Maurice called at Lambtons almost daily, making it clear he could not wait for them to be married.

  Helena observed them together with wry amusement, intrigued that a pleasant, but undistinguished and shy man, had overnight become Celia”s romantic dream. The bride-to-be tripped around the inn with a beatific smile, bestowing goodwill on everyone. Phebe, exasperated with her sister’s cloying sentimentality, flounced out of the room whenever marriage was mentioned.

  “William might very well offer for you, Helena, if you gave him sufficient encouragement,” Celia suggested huffily.

  Helena held up an imperious hand. “I don’t want a husband. Well, certainly not yet, at any rate.” And not that one.

  Chapter 20

  When Tobias returned to London with a companion, that the self-conscious stranger in the taproom was definitely not Aaron Woulfe.

  “I have invited Master Foe to take a libation with us,” Robert explained. “Phebe and Alyce will be down shortly, for had I failed to inform them, they would insist I repeat whatever Master Foe says over nuncheon.”

  By the time the ladies appeared, Tobias had confirmed what Helena had already guessed. Aaron was still in The Hague.

  Helena took the empty seat, which happened to be beside William, and like the others, putting the stranger under close scrutiny. Master Foe appeared to be in his mid-twenties, with a swarthy complexion on a long-jowled face that threatened to turn to fleshiness in later life. His chin and nose were both sharp, and there was a mole beside his full mouth. Definitely insignificant beside the handsome and colorful Tobias, his wool coat looked as if it had been made for someone broader. His linen, if frayed, looked laundered, although shadows of old stains remained.

  “It was kind of you to attend us here, Master Foe.” Robert said in an obvious attempt to put the man at ease, but this proved unnecessary when the newcomer returned his look with pride and not a little arrogance.

  “Er, actually, sir.” Foe gave a cough. “I returned to London from The Hague last year.” His gaze darted round the room, as if the word itself might rouse Troopers from the corners. “I was eager to return to my wife. I also had some pressing family business requiring my attention. Master Woulfe, cognisant of my distress, gave me passage money he could barely spare.”

  “You were not afraid of the soldiers?” Helena asked.

  Foe’s eyes clouded. “I feared being brought to account for my involvement, certainly. In fact, my name is on the Petty Jury List for Cornhill Ward. I’m in the process of negotiating with a Master Penne to have it removed for a…a consideration.” He blushed. “Which ah, Master Woulfe has provided, since his fortunes have altered of late.”

  Helena rolled her eyes, fixing the newcomer with her fiercest glare. “Why has my brother not come home?” She tried to appear calm, but her anger was well-nigh tangible.

  Foe turned admiring eyes on her, then flinched. “I believe, Mistress, from the letter Master Lumm brought me, that Master Woulfe feels the loss of his mother and his uncle keenly. He will take time to recover from the dreadful news.”

  Helena clamped her lips together to stop the angry tirade that sprang onto her tongue. Did Aaron think he was alone in his grief? What about her? And Henry?

  Foe rested his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers. Helena wondered for a moment if he was preparing a prayer for them all, but instead he said, “Master Woulfe feels the time is not yet r
ight to return to England, not when our present Monarch still occupies the throne.”

  “He’s not coming back at all?” Helena regarded him with disbelief, though the truth was right in front of her. Aaron hadn’t sent this man to prepare the way. He had sent him as his replacement.

  “Has Master Woulfe been presented at the Prince of Orange’s Court?” Alyce asked, revealing rather more décolleté than their guest seemed comfortable with.

  Foe flushed and looked away. “I am reluctant to reveal Master Wolfe’s specific plans at this stage. For security reasons, you understand. However I have been told the Prince of Orange keeps a close eye on the situation in England,” he stammered. “Though it is widely believed he is not unsympathetic.”

  “And how does that concern my brother?” Helena demanded, her patience wearing thin.

  Foe’s eyes filled with righteous fervor. “As it should concern every Anglican!” He scanned each face in turn. “The King’s closeness to French Louis; a standing army in peacetime, his promotion of Papists into high office. All these events indicate he intends bringing the country back to Rome. By force, if necessary.”

  “I disagree,” Robert said, indignant. “I know no one in London who has found life more difficult as an Anglican, since the succession.”

  “Perhaps, sir.” Foe gave him a superior smirk. “Though Catholics seeking office in court and Parliament have found it considerably easier of late. One would think we didn’t have such a thing as the Test Act.”

  “Actually, Father, “ William ignored his mother’s warning glare, “Evelyn complains of seeing Popish pamphlets on the streets, yet no moves have been made to have them banned, or the publishers imprisoned.”

  Robert looked about to respond, but William had not finished yet. “The King is aware his preferment of Catholics is making him unpopular. His attempts to have that very act you mentioned repealed, Sir, proves that.” He turned to the circle of faces. “Master Foe may be right. King James may well be arming himself against his subjects in order to force his religion on the country.”

  William turned toward Helena with a slow wink she pretended not to see. Was his fanning of the political flames been to impress her, or to annoy his father?

  “There is also the fact King James keeps over thirteen thousand soldiers in barracks.” Foe held up a finger to emphasis his point. “Their regiments should have been disbanded after the rebellion. No, he retains them to put down any objection to his Papist schemes.”

  While the company absorbed this thought, Robert took the opportunity to whisper an instruction to a server at the door. The man scurried away to comply.

  Helena bit her lip in frustration. It seemed Master Foe and Aaron had been closeted with their fellow fugitives for far too long, with time lying heavily on their hands. The only use they appeared to have made of it was to imagine plots and counter-plots coming out of Whitehall against the entire Protestant world.

  With his wife to distract him, Foe would most likely adjust to normal life again in due course, she imagined. However, the longer Aaron remained in Holland, the more romantic a figure he would become in his own eyes, if not those of his fellow Protestants. In her view, Aaron should return to England as soon as possible, to take up the ties of responsibility he still had left.

  “And tell us, Master Foe, what does your future hold in London?” Robert asked, apparently determined to divert the conversation away from religion.

  “I’m a hosiery merchant,” Foe replied. “Although, in truth, I have had a great deal of time to think these last months.”

  “I should imagine you have, sir,” Robert muttered under his breath, passing his guest another glass.

  “Pamphleteering is rewarding, but can be somewhat dangerous.” Foe took a gulp of Robert’s best claret. “I also write for the Review, but I have a novel in mind.”

  Robert raised an eyebrow. Political or religious rhetoric perhaps, but a novel?

  “And what shall this novel be about?” asked Alyce.

  Helena smiled. Alyce spent a great deal of her free time devouring novelettes, the more racy, the better.

  “I have not yet a story in my head, Mistress Devereux.” Foe’s face softened at being the focus of Alice’s dazzling smile. “However, when I was hiding from Troopers after Sedgemoor, I found myself huddled beside a gravestone with a most unusual name inscribed upon it. I have never forgotten it, and since then I have had a notion to name my hero after that dead man.”

  “What was the name?” Tobias asked.

  “The gravestone bore the inscription, Here lies Robinson Crusoe.”

  “Strange indeed,” mused Robert. “I wonder what manner of story one could write around such a name.”

  * * *

  “What does he say?” Celia asked Helena, referring to the letter Aaron had sent through his messenger.

  Master Foe had proved the hungriest man she had ever seen, and he had spent the entire day partaking of Lambtons' finest cuisine before Robert saw him off to Deptford in his coach. By evening, Helena’s jaw ached from smiling at the man’s accounts of how the entire country and everyone in it were doomed under the Papist King James.

  Helena broke the seal with growing excitement, only for her chest to hollow out as she read her brother’s much anticipated handwriting. “He says, he hopes I am well and happy and will continue to conduct myself respectfully in my Guardian’s home.”

  “Oh dear.” Celia swiveled on the stool next to Helena’s dresser, her voice dull. “Does he have nothing more personal to say to a sister he has not seen for so long?”

  “My sentiments exactly!” Helena snapped the page and read on, “I must thank you for the service you have performed in bringing our dear Uncle Edmund’s body back to Devon.” She broke off with an angry sigh “He writes as if I were a stranger! Listen to this! ….I have most graciously been received by His Highness Prince William, who discussed with me in a personal manner the most urgent need to protect the Protestant religion in England…” She parodied the final words as she paced the room.

  “That sounds dangerous for your brother,” Celia murmured. “Should he have committed such intimate details to paper? I mean, mentioning the prince?”

  “No he should not have done so! And it’s practically treasonous!” Helena crumpled the page in her hand as she continued to pace the room. “I cannot believe that after all he has been through, all we have been through, he takes such a risk!”

  She could hardly believe her handsome, sunny brother had written to her in this way. All those nights she had lain awake after the rising, sending messages into the heavens for him to stay alive, keep safe, and come home to her. Then his first letter addressed to her contained inane instructions to behave, and a calm announcement he planned yet another armed rising against the King.

  “Why do men who have bloodied themselves in battle, crawled away from the field of blood with their lives and little else, their names ruined and lost everything, why do they simply get up and do it all again?” Helena demanded.

  Celia shrugged. “Perhaps their memories are poor.”

  Helena only half-listened, her thoughts on Aaron’s last words. She read them again, running a finger beneath the line. “…our father appears to have disappeared into the mud and mist of the battlefield.” She slapped the offending page on her bureau, telling herself he was wrong. Their father still lived, somewhere.

  * * *

  “Would you care to break your fast with me, Mistress Helena?” Lumm strode forward and grasped her hands as she descended the stairs early the next morning. “If you have not yet dined, of course.” His expression was guarded, as if he presumed too much.

  He looked nothing like a steward, in an emerald green long-coat, with strands of his peruke tied into knots with colored ribbon. “I should be glad to.” Helena accepted his proffered arm with genuine pleasure, glad of the opportunity to discuss Aaron with him alone.

  Lubbock showed them to a table in a corner of the dining hall
, the room almost deserted so early in the day. A serving man brought thin slices of buttered bread and hot chocolate for Helena, while her companion ordered new ale, fresh bread, cheese and cold meat.

  “What do you think of Lambtons?” Helena asked, noticing he took no more than mild interest in his food.

  Helena pulled her shawl tighter, wrapping her chilled fingers round her cup of chocolate in the cold room. Like the observant host he was, Lubbock set a brazier near their table without being asked.

  “I wonder what my patrons at The Ship would think of this.” Lumm grinned as his gaze swept the elegant room. “When Samuel told me where you and your brother were going to live, I never imagined anything so grand.”

  Helena looked around her, trying to see what he saw. Lambtons surprised everyone on their first visit, but she was now accustomed to its unexpected luxury. “The Ship Inn must be very different from - from Loxsbeare.” Simply speaking the name aloud brought a lump to her throat.

  He glanced at her over the rim of his tankard, then set it down with a nod. “How could it not be? But I shanty talk about the past if it upsets you.”

  “No, I don’t mind,” she lied, forcing a smile. “Though I would rather hear about Aaron. How is he, really?”

  He wiped his mouth on a linen napkin and leaned back in his chair as if giving himself time to consider. “He is changed. Still handsome and charming, but his personality is – darker, somehow.”

  Helena did not respond, having come to this conclusion herself.

  “His hatred of the king colours his judgment, I feel. As it did for…”

  “Of my uncle, Edmund Woulfe?” Helena finished for him. He gave a slow nod. “Having to tell Aaron about your mother was the worst thing I have ever done.” He turned from her to stare morosely into his morning draught.