A Home for Helena (The Lady P Chronicles Book 2)
Page 22
“I would never have—. That was before I met you—. How did you find out about her?”
Helena felt a headache coming on. Perhaps even a migraine. She never had migraines, but she sensed this one was going to be a doozy.
“Just unbutton and unlace me,” she said to Izzy, who appeared out of the darkness. “I’m too tired to do anything but fall into bed.”
Izzy gave her an anxious look. “Are you sure, miss? Your hair will be a tangled mess if you don’t braid it first.”
Helena tugged at the pins in her hair and threw them down on the dressing table.
“Good night, Izzy.”
After the maid had gone, Helena finished removing her clothing and fell into bed without bothering to put on the nightgown laid out on the bed.
She didn’t sleep, however. The image of James’s face as he’d stalked out the door haunted her. And the senseless argument between Sir Henry and his wife. She’d never heard as much as a cross word coming out of their mouths in regard to each other, and now they were fighting like cats and dogs, all due to Lady P’s lack of judgment when it came to time travel and her grandchildren.
It wasn’t meant to be, she thought as she pressed her forehead into the pillow in a vain attempt to stop the throbbing. She should never have tried to interfere in the progression of time. Even if it were true that she’d been born here and kidnapped to the future, it wasn’t like she could undo the damage that had already been done. She’d been raised in a different era. She didn’t think or act like a woman raised in the nineteenth century. She’d forever be trying to watch her language and behavior so as not to scandalize and alienate people, and thus end up by hurting the ones she loved.
I wish I had an aspirin.
The nineteenth century version—willow bark tea—would have required waking Izzy and perhaps the cook, and the last thing she wanted was to have someone hovering over her asking questions.
I’ll have to go back. Make a life for myself in the twenty-first century. Perhaps find a demanding corporate job and a like-minded spouse and squeeze out the time for a child or two. Like just about every other modern woman.
But first she’d return to London and demand that Lady P tell her what she had learned. Were the man and woman pictured in her locket really her parents? Was she truly the daughter who’d been stolen from Anne Walker's relatives, the Cranbournes? As much as she longed to see them, be reunited with them, she had to accept the fact that it was not likely to happen. Being confronted with a grown daughter they’d last seen as a baby was one thing. Accepting the incredible story of her life in the future was another one entirely. James Walker's reaction was surely proof of that.
In any case, whoever her parents were, they had long come to terms with their loss. The last thing she wanted to do was reopen their grief and cause them even more anguish.
In all truthfulness, she was terrified to put it to the test. She’d rather go away quietly than have to face their horror and rejection. It was bad enough to have seen it on the face of the man she had begun to care about.
By the time dawn arrived, Helena had packed a small valise, and written farewell notes to the Newsomes and the children, which she left on the hall table. After much hesitation—convinced that she would set out walking if he refused—Finn agreed to take her to Maidstone, where she could hire a post chaise to take her to London.
“I’m that sure the master will insist on takin’ ye the whole way,” he’d argued.
“No,” Helena insisted. It was cowardly—and rude to the family who had been so kind to her—but she didn’t wish to face anyone. It would have been better had she never come at all. As sad as she felt to leave her good friends behind, she knew it would be better if they forgot all about her. The sooner the better.
Nevertheless, a tear slipped down her cheek as she turned in her seat and watched Newsome Grange grow smaller in the distance.
* * *
Newsome Grange
Kingswood
Kent
The next morning
“Terribly sorry, Walker, but it appears that Miss Lloyd has departed for London.”
Sir Henry’s face was lined with worry—and perhaps the effects of lack of sleep after the emotional turmoil of the previous evening.
His wife, white-faced and pain-stricken herself, approached with a sheet of paper in her hand.
“She says in her letter that she is returning to London. I suppose that means Grosvenor Square, but I fear she intends to return to the future.” She darted a glance at her husband. “From all of her apologies, I take it she believes herself to blame for our quarrel last evening, Henry. Oh, how I wish we had taken it private! It simply never occurred to me that she would blame herself for everything!”
Sir Henry moved toward her and she buried her face on his chest.
While he comforted her, he nodded at James.
“She can’t have been gone long. You should be able to catch up to her if you go on horseback. Check with Finn or Jem at the stables. She must have persuaded someone there to assist her.”
James nodded briefly and dashed to the stables, where he found Finn brushing out the carriage horses.
“Miss Lloyd? She hired a post chaise in Maidstone a couple of hours ago. A yellow bounder. Seemed to be in a great hurry to get to London.” He finished his work and left the horse his oats. “I reckon it’s about time I informed Sir Henry. The gel wouldn’t take no fer an answer.”
Two hours, plus the time it took to get to Maidstone. If all went well, he should be able to overtake her before she reached the outskirts of London. It would be hard on the horse, but James would make it up to him later. He whistled for his horse and galloped off.
Less than an hour later, the sky clouded over and lightning lit up the skies. Brutus balked and nearly overthrew him. James urged him on, but when the second strike was followed by a thick curtain of rain, Brutus rebelled, and James was forced to stop and wait the storm out in a nearby barn.
Thoroughly soaked and disheartened by the circumstances, he paced back and forth, trying to convince himself that Helena would not leave immediately, that there would still be time to intercede even if he could not overtake her on the road. But the more he recalled her stricken face at his reaction to her incredible tale, the less confidence he had. It was clear that she held herself to blame for the contretemps of the night before, and it seemed likely that she would take the first opportunity to take herself out of the picture.
Wait for me, Helena! Give me a chance to apologize. You cannot leave without knowing I love you! I won’t allow it! Besides… you still owe me that kiss, remember?
* * *
Later that day
“Thank you,” Helena said to the postillion as she handed him a few coins as a tip. Perhaps one wasn’t supposed to tip the postillion after all, she thought wearily as his eyes widened with surprise at the sudden wealth.
“Ye sure ye don’t want me ta wait?” His eyes glowed with the anticipation of earning even more wealth.
“I’m sure,” she replied, retrieving her valise from the inside of the coach. The thin young man was soaked from the heavy rain, and the muddy roads had made his job much more difficult. But then, it did rain a lot in England. No doubt this wasn’t the first time he’d had to toil in the damp and mud while his passengers rode in ease and comfort. Well, perhaps not exactly comfort, but at least with a roof over their heads.
Her knock on the door of Number 42 was met by a surprised butler.
“Miss Lloyd! I didn’t expect you, that is, Her Ladyship didn’t inform me that you were expected.”
“She didn’t know. I didn’t know myself until… well, my trip was somewhat precipitate. I’m sorry for the inconvenience, Peters. I must see Lady Pendleton immediately!”
Peters ushered her into the foyer and peered out the door.
“Did Izzy not accompany you, Miss Lloyd?” Then he paled. “Has something happened in Kent to bring you here so suddenly?”
The butler let out a huge sigh. “Yes, Miss Lloyd.” He called out for a footman to take her valise. “Unfortunately, Her Ladyship is from home at the moment, but she would undoubtedly wish you to remain here until her return. Mrs. Peters will see that your room is made up.”
Helena’s heart sank. “When will she be back, do you think?”
Peters shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t say, miss. She comes and goes as she pleases. She left upwards of a week ago for Derbyshire. She didn’t say when she intended to return, but then, that’s not unusual. Sometimes she’s gone for months at a time, and her son-in-law manages things for her.”
“Her son-in-law? Sir Henry, you mean?”
“Not that one. Mr. Stanton, the husband of her eldest daughter, Julia. He is part owner of Stanton's Bank, and they live in Manchester Square.”
Helena briefly closed her eyes as she pondered her next move. After the drama of the previous day, her nerves were stretched to the breaking point. She should go up to bed and get a night of sleep before doing anything rash. The sleepless night and the bumpy, seemingly endless journey had surely affected her judgment. But she’d been playing and replaying the events in her head the entire day, planning exactly what she wished to say to Lady P, and she felt like she would burst if she had to wait another night to get it off her chest.
Not to mention the fact that Lady P could be gone for weeks! No, she couldn’t wait that long. But what else could she do? She had the time-travel stone Madame Herne had given her, so she could leave this century at will, but she didn’t like to leave things so… unfinished. If it turned out there would be no proper home for her in this century, at the very least she had to discover the truth. Because otherwise she would always look at that beguiling portrait and wonder about what could have developed had she remained.
Madame Herne! She recalled that the gypsy had mentioned having a shop in the same location on Gracechurch Street. Of course, the lady herself had spoken vaguely about being away that summer—a fact Lady P had verified early on. But that was several weeks ago; perhaps she'd returned by now. That’s what she’d do. Find Madame Herne and seek out her advice.
“Peters, can you send for a hackney carriage, please? There’s someone in Gracechurch Street I need to see.”
* * *
“I’m sorry, sir, but Miss Lloyd is not here.”
The butler crooked a disapproving eye at the state of James’s apparel, but James was too desperate to care.
He scowled. “I am here on a matter of urgency. Is Miss Lloyd here or is it merely that she doesn’t wish to see me? Tell me the truth, man!”
Peters folded his arms across his chest. “She is not here, sir, and I can tell you no more.”
He attempted to close the door, but James got his foot in first.
“Then let me see Lady Pendleton. I am sure she will see me.”
Peters glared at him from the crack in the door. “Her Ladyship is not at home either. Now, if you please, sir…”
“Wait!” James said, wincing as the butler’s pressure on the door started to crush his foot. “Can you at least tell me where Lady Pendleton has gone? I am certain she will wish to assist me.”
“Her Ladyship,” the butler said in short, deliberate syllables, “has gone to Derbyshire. Now, if you will please remove your foot, sir…”
James obeyed, and the door slammed shut.
Derbyshire! James closed his eyes and bent his head upward as if in supplication. What was he to do now? If Helena had not come to Grosvenor Square, where could she have gone? What other friends did she have in London? The only other place he could think of was the Newsomes’ townhouse. He knew for a fact that they were in Kent, but it was possible—if unlikely—that Helena had taken refuge at Regent Street.
No luck there either. The Newsomes weren’t expected there for another week, shortly before their son’s wedding. No guests were in residence.
James looked at the bedraggled state of his horse and shook his head. Brutus could bear no more that day, and he himself was too exhausted to think any longer.
He mounted and caressed the horse’s neck. “You’ve been a rock, old fellow. Time for a well-deserved rest and a good meal.”
And I’ll have the same, he said to himself as he directed Brutus toward the mews at Grillon’s Hotel. Perhaps in the morning he could think of somewhere else to search. If Helena had not already taken herself back to the twenty-first century. And even if she had not, he could not be certain she would welcome his presence. Not after the drama of the previous day. "I'm such a fool," he muttered.
Upon his arrival at Grillon's, he made certain his horse would be sufficiently accommodated, and made his way to the hotel, aware that his untidy appearance would be noted with raised eyebrows.
“I was caught in a rainstorm,” he said shortly to the desk clerk. “It rains in England. That’s what makes the crops grow.”
It was an expression he'd heard Helena use. Things like weather never fazed her. "Why get unglued about things you can't control?" Now that he comprehended the origins of her bizarre speech, he found it charming. He hoped to have the chance of hearing it for the rest of his life… if she would forgive him and agree to become his wife.
The clerk pressed his lips into a fine line. Apparently he did not appreciate a sense of humor.
“Walker? Is that you, James?”
James wheeled around and found himself facing Stephen Gibson, his late wife’s cousin.
He clapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Good to see you again, Gibson. Heard you were married recently. My felicitations!”
Gibson’s light green eyes sparkled, and James had a sudden feeling of déjà vu. Like Helena's, he thought wearily. Would he ever see her again?
“Priscilla and I have just returned from our honeymoon in the Lake District. We’re about to dine. Would you care to join us? I’d love you to meet her.”
James looked pointedly at the ramshackle state of his clothing. “I should not wish to offend Mrs. Gibson by appearing in such a disreputable state.”
Gibson shrugged. “We are in no hurry. We’ll wait for you to change.”
James cleared his throat. “Well-uh, unfortunately, I don’t have a change of clothing with me. My trip was rather precipitous, I’m afraid.”
Gibson’s eyebrows furrowed. “Now you’ve captured my interest. Why don’t you go up to your room and freshen up a bit, and I’ll be up later to share a brandy. M’wife’s been wanting to write to her sister, and I could use some male companionship for a change.”
“Brilliant idea,” said James. He turned to the haughty clerk. “My room key, please.” Then, key in hand, he turned back and said, “Send up some hot water and a hot meal—a pork pie and some cheese would be fabulous. A robe of some sort too. This suit will need to be laundered immediately.”
“Of course, sir,” said the clerk, wrinkling his nose. “Will there be anything else?”
“As a matter of fact, yes,” Gibson replied for him. “A bottle of your best brandy and some glasses.”
He accompanied James to the stairway and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Toplofty fellow, ain’t he? If there’s one thing about being heir to an earldom, it’s being able to give set-downs to pretentious fellows like that one.”
Ascending the stairs to his room, James recalled that Stephen Gibson was indeed the heir to the Cranbourne earldom. His father, a younger brother of the current earl, had died in the Battle of San Sebastián four years ago almost to the day in 1813. He recalled Anne’s tears upon learning of “Uncle Frederick's" death, and attending the man’s funeral soon after. William, the current earl, who he’d encountered recently at this very hotel, had sired no sons, thus making Stephen the heir apparent.
The Cranbournes had had a daughter, though, he recalled. S
he must have died, as so many infants did, because he couldn’t remember hearing anything about her from Anne. Something grated on his mind, but he was too tired and hungry to make any sense of it.
Later, as he poured glasses for himself and his friend as they sprawled in chairs around a small table, he gave a brief summary—sans any reference to time travel—of the purpose of his abrupt trip to Town.
Gibson leaned back in his chair. “Ah, so it’s a woman,” he drawled. “I wondered when you would venture again into the parson’s mousetrap. The bachelor-life getting a bit stale, Walker? Or Annabelle becoming a bit of a handful? Good grief, she must be five or six by now! Last time I saw her she was taking her first steps. Anne was so proud of her. Such a shame, that accident.”
He took a long swig and shook his head. “Can’t blame you for forging ahead with your life, though. A wife gives a man stability. Someone to come home to at the end of a day. Not to mention the nightly companionship, eh, Walker!”
James winced, and Gibson sat up. “Sorry, old man. I know you’re eager to patch things up with this… Miss Lloyd.” He leaned his head back and frowned in concentration. “An American, you say? A Welsh name, is it not? What else do you know about her?”
“Lloyd is not her birth name,” James explained. “Lloyd was the name of her foster mother. She’s been seeking her birth parents. I believe Lady Pendleton has been assisting her in that endeavor.”
He stood up and began pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace. “I thought for certain she’d head for Grosvenor Square, but the butler says not, and I have to believe him. Nor is she staying at the Newsomes’.” He set his glance on the mantle and leaned against the heavy stone, head down. “Where are you, Helena?”
His friend nearly choked on his drink. “Helena? Did you say her name was Helena?”
“Do you know how she came by that name?”
James stared sightlessly at his friend while he searched his memory for any reference to the origin of her name. Then he shook his head.