The Goldsmith’s Wife
The Woulfes of Loxsbeare – Book 2
By Anita Seymour
Digital ISBNs:
EPUB 9781771458269
Kindle 9781771452922
WEB 9781771458276
Print ISBN 9781771452922
Copyright 2015 by Anita Seymour
Cover art by Michelle Lee Copyright 2015
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book
* * *
Dedication
To the Historical Fiction Critique Group
for their invaluable help in telling Helena’s story.
Also, a special thanks to my editor Kathy Fischer-Brown, who did such a
wonderful job polishing the manuscript.
Chapter One
April 1688, London – Helena
Helena sat in her private closet, a small room off the bedchamber with space enough for only a bureau and a chair, plus a small dresser that held her personal keepsakes. Guy, her husband of less than two years, had arranged the room especially for her. A turkey rug softened the polished wood floor and green silk-covered walls fitted with pewter candleholders provided an intimate atmosphere. On long winter evenings, Helena imagined she inhabited her own world there.
She set down the letter from her brother, Aaron that had arrived by messenger that morning and turned to the window, below which lay King Street in all its busy glory. Hooves rung on the cobblestones on their way to Palace Yard Gate at one end, beyond which lay the great Palace of White Hall. Pedestrians kept close to the tightly packed houses to avoid the filth from the road and the kennel that ran down the centre of the narrow street where household rubbish was hurled without a care for who was passing by.
The written word had been their only contact with Aaron these last two years. Despite the General Pardon granted to all rebels who had survived the Battle at Sedgemoor, he chose to remain in The Hague with what he called other like-minded souls determined to rid England of the Catholic King James the second.
After so many nights filled with recurring dreams of him lying dead on the battlefield after Monmouth’s flight, came the indescribable joy when that first letter came, telling her he had escaped and was alive and well in the Low Countries. Her heart thumping, she scanned the lines, noting Aaron must be low on funds again, for the page was dirty coloured paper rather than thick linen parchment.
“We are confident the army officers shall refuse to obey the orders of their Catholic commanders. This cannot be prescribed as mutiny, for their promotion is illegal, them not having taken the Test. This will leave the way open for us to join Prince William when he invades England.”
A mutiny in the army, and an invasion. She closed her eyes briefly and sighed. How could Aaron talk of treason so lightly? She found his vehemence baffling. England was home and no one was made to suffer for not being a Catholic as far as she could see. Londoners still talked of the Popish Plot, but the instigators were either dead or in prison where most believed they belonged.
She refolded the page carefully, resigned to the fact that, as with the others, this missive must be kept hidden, especially from her husband. If Guy knew Aaron wrote such sedition, he would insist she cease their correspondence altogether. She thrust the folded page to the back of a drawer, where her hand brushed the leather-bound journal in which she had recorded Monmouth’s progress in ’eighty-five. She drew the small volume out and weighed it in one hand, its leather fastening soft and slightly greasy from much handling.
How headstrong she had been that summer, when she had gone chasing into Somerset with no more than a manservant as escort in search of her menfolk.
Her return with the body of Uncle Edmund had been a bitter disappointment, only to discover her mother had been killed when the militia came to Loxsbeare. Of her missing father, there had been no news, not then or now.
The slam of the front door was followed by her maid’s rich West Country accent hailing a street hawker. Spring had finally come to London, and amongst the usual chants of the costermongers came those of the flower-sellers.
Chloe missed their native Devon with its soft, green hills and open spaces; a few early blooms in the house would be welcome after a grey and miserable winter.
Helena smiled, her gaze drifted to a painting on the wall; a wedding gift from her half-brother, Tobias. Commissioned especially for her, the painting depicted the square tower of Exeter’s north gate from the city side, its arched gatehouse open to reveal a steep hill that dipped between rows of tightly packed houses, then up St David’s Hill to the Weare Cliffs. On the left, stood Loxsbeare Manor, Helena’s childhood home, on a route she had once travelled every day of her life.
The scene reminded her of a happier time, when Loxsbeare used to be her family home. The estate was seized after her father, Sir Jonathan Woulfe, joined Monmouth’s rebellion three years previously. Lord Miles Blanden, their erstwhile friend and neighbour, betrayed them to the authorities and claimed the estate for himself.
Sometimes, Helena’s grief was no more than a fleeting shadow that intruded into her day, brushed aside with ease. At others, the loss of half her family engulfed her with a choking sadness, her former life a place and time she preferred not to visit too often.
A knock on the door made her jump, dragging her thoughts back to the present. On her command to enter, her manservant, Glover, handed her a folded square of parchment.
Helena rose slowly as she skimmed Alyce’s handwriting.
—Celia has begun her labour earlier than expected and your presence is urgently required —
“Summon a hackney, Glover.” Then as he turned to go, she added, “No, wait. A sedan would be quicker.”
* * *
Helena fretted all the way to Saffron Hill, chewing the base of her thumb in frustration at every cart, packhorse, and carriage that impeded her chair.
Cannot these chairmen run any faster?
Celia had been her confidant through those first days in London when she and her younger brother, Henry, had come to live at Lambtons Inn with the Devereuxs. They had been light-hearted girls then looking forward to an exciting future. Now Celia was a contented matron, married to Ralf Maurice, a goldsmith like her own husband, Guy.
At Celia’s house, Helena pushed past the startled footman who opened the door, and ran up the stairs. A timid maid pressed herself against the wall as Helena sailed toward the figure of Alyce at the end of the corridor.
“I’m so glad you are here, Helena.” Alyce’s face was drained of colour beneath a layer of face paint. “Celia has been asking for you.” No longer the flirtatious beauty and chatelaine of one of London’s best chophouses, now merely an anxious parent.
The atmosphere inside Celia’s room was hot and cloying, the single curtain obscuring the closed window and a roaring fire lit, though the weather was warm.
With Alyce’s views on noxious London air, Helena expected this, but the prone and immobile figure in the bed filled her with foreboding. She took her friend’s limp hand in her shaking one, gazing into clouded eyes that displayed no recognition.
Celia keened in a continual, low monotone through slightly parted lips, the mound of her swollen belly thrusting the bedclothes obscenely upward.
“She’s unaware of what is happening to her.” Alyce kept her voic
e low. “There is no respite to the pain. We tried to coax her into the birthing chair, but she resisted.” She indicated the ugly object that looked as if it crouched in the corner. “Now she is beyond that, and worse, the child is not moving.”
“Where’s the midwife?” Helena gave the room a sweeping glance, but they were alone.
“She left an hour ago saying there was nothing more she could do and I must send for the chirurgeon.”
“And have you?”
“Of course.” Alyce gaped, offended.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply you were not doing your best.” Helena did not add that in her opinion, Alyce should have engaged a Dutch midwife for Celia. They were known for their professionalism and would never have abandoned a woman in labour.
The door clicked open and Helena glanced up eagerly, but it was only a servant with a pile of linen, followed by a second with a pitcher of water. “Leave those things.” Alyce dismissed them.
Helena changed the warm, damp cloth on Celia’s brow for a fresh, cold one, though her efforts had no visible effect. At best it gave her something to do to help fight down the panic which clutched at her chest. Her restless fingers smoothed the damp hair back from her friend’s clammy forehead. Celia’s pillow was soaked and her nightgown clung wetly to her shoulders.
A sharp tap came on the door that preceded the entrance of Alyce’s younger daughter.
“The chirurgeon has arrived, Mother.” Her dour expression lifted when she caught sight of Helena. “I’m so glad you came.” Her eyes were dark with fear and her lower lip quivered in response to Helena’s greeting, which only confirmed her impression things were dire with Celia’s labour. Phebe never cried.
“Have him shown up, Phebe,” Alyce said. “And remain downstairs.” At the girl’s protest she went on, “it wouldn’t be appropriate for you to stay. You’re an unmarried girl.” Alyce gave her a push and closed the door, turned round and leaned against it. “I know you feel that was cruel of me. Phebe loves her sister, but I don’t want her witnessing—” she broke off with a sob as she gestured toward the bed.
“I understand.” Helena’s admiration for Alyce increased. How terrible to watch both her daughters suffering.
A sallow faced man in black long coat and sandy-coloured peruke was shown into the room. He went straight to Alyce and made an elegant leg.
“Never mind me, you imbecile!” Alyce slapped her skirt in frustration. “See to my daughter!”
The man stepped back, obedient, one brow raised in affront. “A difficult time for you,” he murmured in mitigation.
Helena still had no idea of his name.
The elderly woman who had followed him in waddled to the bed and began palpating Celia’s belly without a word to anyone. In her plain brown gown and white apron and cap, she looked officious enough, though she could have been a nosy neighbour for all Helena knew.
“Who is she?” Helena drew Alyce away from the bed, allowing the doctor and the woman to examine their patient.
“I’ve never seen her before,” Alyce replied. “I have an awful feeling she’s the woman chirurgeons bring in when they suspect the worse.”
The grim look the doctor exchanged with the woman just then appeared to confirm Alyce’s impression.
“Does she have a name?” Helena asked. “So I can be sure to avoid her.”
“Barlow, I think,” Alyce said, twisting her hands together
Her examination complete, the woman mumbled something indistinct to the doctor, who nodded, identical looks of dismay on both their faces.
Helena wanted to scream at them that this shouldn’t be happening this way. Where were the gossips, the card games, and the wine? There should be laughter and celebration. Celia should be tired, but happy, not still and white. And that awful moaning tore at Helena’s heart.
She glanced at Alyce’s face, either to seek comfort or offer it, she wasn’t sure. The siren of Lambtons looked suddenly old and defeated.
The midwife, if that is what she was, lifted Celia’s unresisting head and teased a few drops of liquid from a brown bottle through her slack lips. “It will speed up the pains, so it may be over quicker.” Mistress Barlow’s rough voice answered Helena’s unspoken enquiry.
She prayed she was right.
Minutes dragged into an hour and Celia’s groans persisted, growing louder at times and then so soft as to be almost inaudible.
Then the activity round the bed became more urgent. At a signal from the chirurgeon, Helena stepped back, firmly excluded from the proceedings. Even Alyce could only stand to one side looking on, with no part to play.
More linens and hot water were called for, and delivered, the room filling with people and then emptying again. After a final tussle, where the patient remained placid and uncooperative, it was over.
Celia had delivered a stillborn son.
With swift, capable movements, the woman bound the tiny form in a linen cloth, then carried the bundle to where Alyce stood, hips clamped into a thin line. She gave a brief, anguished nod. Just as the midwife flicked back a corner of the cloth, Helena gave a sob and turned away.
At the pressure of Alyce’s hand on her arm, she turned back, but stared at the floor as the woman covered the tiny body with a cloth.
“Are you quite well, Helena?” she asked as they stepped onto the landing.
“Me?” Helena snorted. “I’m simply a coward and no help to you at all.”
“No one could have made the outcome different but God. You are not responsible.”
“I know, but… Oh, Alyce, I’m mortal sorry, but I cannot stay here.” Helena glanced through a gap in the door and then back to Alyce’s sad face. “You must think I’m a selfish woman, but I simply cannot bear it. Because, because—”
“Because you are with child,” Alyce finished for her. “I guessed as much.” Her kindness evoked more tears until Helena had to grope into her pocket for a handkerchief. “It’s still early yet, but seeing Celia suffer in that way, when she is the kindest of souls, is so unfair. I had no idea things could go so dreadfully wrong.”
“You must not dwell on such things. Sad feelings may transfer to your child. I’m very happy for you,” she said gently. “And Celia will be too when she wakes.”
“She will recover?” Helena wiped tears from her cheek with a hand that trembled.
“There is no fever as yet, so we must remain hopeful.”
“But her baby?” Helena’s eyes filled again.
“The chirurgeon has assured me there will be more children. God has his reasons for taking this one.”
“Is that what you really believe?” Helena’s voice rose. “That her child has been taken from her as some sort of divine plan?”
“Perhaps not.” Alyce shrugged. “But life is cruel, and it might comfort my Celia.”
“A searcher must be sent for,” the haughty chirurgeon interrupted them. Then in response to Alyce’s stricken face, added, “though in this case there is no question it was a natural death.”
“I should hope not,” Alyce bridled, her chin quivering.
“I’ll go,” Helena said, her gaze lingering for a moment on the tiny, wrapped form lying so still on the end of Celia’s bed. “I require an interview with Master Maurice first.” The doctor pulled on his gloves without looking at Helena.
“Of course” Helena’s hackles rose at being addressed like a servant. But then how could he know who she was. Once they were outside in the hallway, she paused and turned towards him. “Tell me, sir. Will your patient live?”
He wrinkled his nose as if her question were unanswerable. “I’ll have to relinquish that responsibility to God.”
“And if she dies, will you give your fee to God?”
He blinked, his slack mouth opened and then closed again soundlessly.
Dismissing him, Helena flung away and descended the stairs, not caring if he followed her or not.
In the hall, she waylaid a houseboy and sent him to fetch th
e searcher, before entering the salon where Ralf waited. A hopeful expression leapt into his face when he saw the chirurgeon at her shoulder.
Helena fought her distress as the man told Ralf his son had not lived long enough to draw breath.
“Mistress Maurice has not been damaged by the birth, sir,” he said with well-practiced gravity. “The labour progressed almost normally in its final stages. I’m confident there will be other children.”
Ralf’s boyish face crumpled and his cheeks were wet with tears. “How do I tell her she cannot have this one?”
Helena laid her hand on his forearm. “Her mother will tell her, Ralf, if you cannot.” He gave her a look of such gratitude, Helena’s own eyes filled.
How unfair life was. If ever a man was meant to be a father, it was sweet, gentle Ralf.
The chirurgeon continued to offer empty condolences and unable to listen to any more, Helena retreated to the hall where she instructed a servant to hail a sedan, and then grabbed her cloak from the footman and left.
Helena sat slumped in a corner with the flaps secured as the sedan bumped and swayed on its way back to King Street, shame burning inside her for her lack of courage at not being present when Celia received the worst news given to any woman.
That night Helena spent in her husband’s arms, his quiet sympathy both a surprise and a comfort, when he could be pragmatic about most things.
“You must return to Saffron Hill tomorrow,” Guy whispered against her hair. “Celia will be awake by then and hopefully recovering. She won’t understand why you would stay away.”
“I know.” Helena whispered back. She would face that in the morning. For now, she just wanted to snuggle into his embrace and dream good dreams.
Chapter Two
June 1688, London – Helena
Helena entered a scene of bustling chaos at Lambtons Inn, where patrons filled the taproom, and dining halls. They crowded the wide staircase and spilled from the upper rooms holding loud conversations across the galleries.
The Goldsmith's Wife (The Woulfes of Loxsbeare Book 2) Page 1