The timbered building, built in old King Henry’s time, occupied the width of four shop fronts in Holborn’s main thoroughfare, not far from the newly refurbished St. Andrews church. Furnivals and Thavies inns lay in the same street, but neither could match the grandeur of Lambtons, whose black-stained beams crisscrossed its wide façade comprised of pristine white painted plasterwork and the inn sign in green and gold.
During her initiation into London life three years before, Helena had discovered that society divided themselves into those who dined at Pontacks in Abchurch Lane, and the more discerning, who frequented Lambtons in High Holborn to partake of the best food in comfortable opulence.
Lubbock, the Devereux manservant, bustled through from the rear and took her cloak. His periwig sat askew and he appeared more harassed than usual, murmuring his apologies for not being there to greet her.
“Has something occurred?” Helena asked, but he was saved from answering by the appearance of William Devereux.
He was still, without exception, the most devastatingly handsome man Helena had ever seen. Sometimes, when she came upon him unexpectedly, he reminded her so sharply of the late Duke of Monmouth, she found herself staring at him in near disbelief.
“I shall take care of Mistress Palmer, thank you, Lubbock.” The manservant backed away and William took his place. “I’ve not decided whether you are more beautiful in the mornings, or in the evenings by candlelight.” He lifted her hand and brushed his lips across her fingertips. His liquid brown eyes danced on the edge of laughter, combined with a rich, deep voice and a disarming smile distorted by an intriguing scar that cut a straight line down his upper lip.
Whether the result of a childhood accident or he had been born with it, Helena couldn’t tell. However, whenever she was in his company her gaze would drift to that slight imperfection and, like now, her heart would jump with desire.
Her hand that rested on William’s proffered arm shook, but she tried to ignore the effect he had on her. She was a married woman and refused to let her appreciation of William’s charm and brooding good looks detract her from loyalty to her husband.
“You must be exceedingly bored, sir, to offer such transparent compliments.” She cast a swift look along the hallway, but there was no sign of Guy.
Helena reminded herself why she had chosen not to encourage William in a romantic sense during her days at Lambtons. His physical charms were obvious, but she doubted he could have offered the security and respectability Guy had, or his constancy. She had thought her marriage to Guy would make her immune to William’s charms, yet it still surprised her how his presence unsettled her.
“How cruel you are, Mistress, when I am simply an admirer of true beauty.”
She rolled her eyes in mock annoyance and made to brush past him, but he plucked her hand from his sleeve with both of his, and lifting it his lips, pressed a lingering kiss on her fingers.
Alyce Devereux bustled toward them appear at the end of the hallway, a vision in salmon pink overlaid with black lace. William turned towards his mother but though he dropped Helena’s hand he did not release it.
“Helena, my dear, how lovely you decided to join us.” Alyce caressed William’s cheek absently with one hand as she talked. “Guy arrived this half hour since.” Her speculative gaze settled on each of them in turn. “Have you heard the news?”
“Mistress Palmer has only this moment arrived, Mama.” He winced as the hubbub in the hall rose to a crescendo. “Unless her chairmen proved unusually vocal, I assume she’s still in ignorance.”
Helena fidgeted, uncomfortable with his abrupt change of manner, which lent their encounter an air of intrigue where none existed. Added to which her hand still lay in his, though she did not know how to reclaim it discreetly.
“Come into the salon and we’ll tell you all about it.” Alyce ushered them to the private quarters at the back of the inn, where her two daughters sat with Robert, Ralf and Guy who occupied an assortment of upholstered chaises and high-backed chairs set round a marble fireplace; empty now but for a bowl of dried flowers and herbs that lent the room a country feel.
Robert left his chair and advanced on Helena with outstretched arms, kissing her soundly on the mouth. His place was taken by Guy, who brushed her cheek lightly with his lips then asked in a discreet murmur why she was late.
“I was not aware I was,” she responded with a bland smile, aware he would not chastise her in company. Not that he was a bully, but he expected his word to be taken as final between them.
She took in what looked to be a new sky-blue long coat with turned back yellow cuffs with a look that brought a slight flush to his cheeks, though she neither commented nor begrudged him spending money on himself. He worked hard and earned all he had.
William stood by the chaise where Celia reposed like a duchess, still pale but evidently recovering from her ordeal. Planting a gentle kiss on her forehead, he slid his fingers along her cheek, while she gave him a sad nod in response to his enquiry as to her health.
William returned Phebe’s exuberant hug and Alyce’s motherly caress, with enthusiasm; his carelessness of women excluded his mother and sisters, whom he treated like princesses.
Watching them, Helena experienced a pang of distress as she recalled her own father and how much she missed him. No one had heard a word from him since Sedgemoor and she often wondered where he was now.
When William stole Phebe’s seat, their subsequent bout of light-hearted banter attracting Alyce’s censure, watched benignly by Robert from his oversized chair. Phebe’s dark vivaciousness matched her mother’s and was a perfect foil for her sister’s fair looks and gentle nature.
While envying their closeness, Helena caught Celia’s pensive expression and instant shame surged at her having felt sorry for herself. Every life had its tragedies.
“Did you hear the bells, Helena?” Phebe asked.
“I did indeed,” Helena replied, summoning a smile. “Has something happened?”
“Indeed it has,” Alyce said in a tone which promised speculation and gossip. “Queen Mary Beatrice has given birth to a son.”
“I thought Her Majesty was not due for another month?” Helena stared at her in surprise.
“Well, she’s dropped early.” Robert sniffed. “And it is not good news either. A Catholic prince could prove disastrous to the country. Our saving grace lay in the fact we had Anne Hyde’s girls, the Princesses Mary and Anne to succeed the king. Now this.”
Robert’s reference to the late Duchess of York made Helena’s lips twitch. She recalled her father once referring to Anne Hyde as a scheming commoner who had trapped King Charles’ brother into marriage.
“They’re talking of nothing else in the taproom,” Phebe said, then at her mother’s disapproving glare, added, “or so Lubbock says.”
Helena suppressed a smile. Alyce discouraged her daughters from venturing into that particular section of the inn, declaring it was full of ‘low folk’.
Helena pressed a kiss on Celia’s pallid cheek. “You’re looking well,” she lied, lowering herself onto the chaise beside her. In fact Celia had lost weight and blue shadows still sat beneath her eyes.
“She gains strength daily,” Ralf said, as if reassuring himself. He placed a cushion at his wife’s back, then lifted her feet onto a footstool. “I thought the company would do her good, and that we might celebrate the royal birth together.” He gestured theatrically with both arms, flushing when Robert glowered at him. “Or not.”
“’Twas a lovely notion, Ralf.” Alyce tutted at Robert and cupped Ralf’s cheek briefly in one hand.
“How unkind of you to be disparaging about the queen, father.” Celia shuffled backwards into the cushions, her cupid bow mouth in a soft pout. “Her Majesty has been most unfortunate in motherhood.”
Ralf adopted a beaten puppy look, at which Celia slapped his arm. “Don’t look so stricken, Ralf. I’m not upset by it, truly. I pray the child remains healthy, no matter the i
mplication for the country.”
“A very feminine, but I must say clouded view, Mistress,” Guy said. Helena threw him a furious look, and he added, “Which is the true Christian one to have.” His look of silent apology in Helena’s direction sent confidence surging through her. Since the confirmation of her own pregnancy, his heightened devotion was empowering, yet at the same time, often left her confused.
She had married Guy Palmer to obtain respectability and a secure future, never imagining he would be so passionate in his attentions. Although far from finding his demands onerous, he woke in her a sensuality she had never anticipated. The fan in her hand slowed its arc as their previous night’s lovemaking replayed pleasantly in her head, interrupted by Celia’s nudge to her ribs.
“I said, what do you think, Helena?”
“I’m sorry,” Helena forced her thoughts back into the room, “what do I think about what?”
“That the queen’s child is a Catholic plot to deceive us all?”
“I doubt that vapid Italian woman has the wit to fool the entire court.” Alyce made a moue with her lips.
“Why now, after fifteen years without a living child should she produce a healthy prince?” Robert held his hands out in appeal. “I smell a papist plot.”
“She has had children before, although none lived very long.” Alyce sniffed, implying this was an acquired weakness.
“When he grows up to look like his father, everyone will see the truth,” Celia nibbled a square of marchpane from a tray Ralf placed in front of her.
Possessing no deviousness in her own character, Celia was incapable of imagining it in others. On this occasion, Helena agreed with her; she had heard nothing but good reports of the queen, her religion notwithstanding.
“A daughter would not have caused all this fuss.” Phebe plucked a sweetmeat from the tray.
“If the babe was a girl, my dear, no one would give a fig,” Robert sneered. “Besides, his parentage may well be in question.”
In response to Helena’s shocked look, Phebe sighed. “They’re saying little James Francis was smuggled into the queen’s bed in a warming-pan.”
“What nonsense.” Alyce snapped her fan shut. “The queen’s ladies-in-waiting as well as the, the entire Privy Council remained in the birthing room throughout.”
“The infant did well to avoid infection in such a crowd,” Helena said, earning a bark of laughter from Phebe and an amused grin from William.
“What purpose would a warming pan serve in a birthing chamber?” Alyce was scornful.
“I believe I can explain why,” Helena began, drawing all eyes. “The builders renovating White Hall were particularly noisy, so Her Majesty removed to St James Palace. As she wasn’t expected, the birthing chamber wasn’t prepared.”
“Henry told you that, I suppose?” Phebe sniffed.
“It is all too bad about the child,” Robert continued a conversation he appeared reluctant to abandon. “What with all the trouble over the bishops.”
“Bishops, Father?” Celia blinked. “What bishops?”
Robert sighed, exasperated, while Guy turned a chuckle into a cough.
“Celia, the bishops are the talk of the city.” Alyce threw back her head in an exuberant laugh, revealing a white throat remarkably unlined for a woman past her fortieth year.
“King James,” Helena said gently, sympathetic with Celia’s evident confusion, “has issued a second Declaration of Indulgence to allow greater religious tolerance.”
“Is that not a good thing?” Celia blinked, bewildered. “The late king deprived hundreds of dissenting preachers of their living. Perhaps the new king intends to allow everyone to worship as they wish?”
“It’s the thin end of the wedge.” Robert poured himself more wine, holding the jug aloft in a silent question. “The king wants to abolish the ‘Test’, though some of the clergy refused to read out the Declaration in the churches. He has vent his spleen at their disobedience by sending seven of them to the Tower.”
Ralf held his glass beneath the spout into which Robert slopped the scarlet liquid angrily, then offered the same to Guy, who shook his head and backed away. “Seditious libel indeed,” Robert muttered almost to himself. “What the bishops did was uphold the tenets of the Anglican Church.” He returned the jug to the table and plucked a clay pipe from the mantle, turning it over in restless fingers.
“Calm yourself, husband,” Alyce warned as Robert’s face turned a deep puce. “Or I shall have to send for the chirurgeon to bleed you.”
“I don’t require bleeding!” The pipe broke and he threw the pieces into the fireplace. He ruined more of them in temper than he ever smoked. “The king is playing right into the hands of that Stadtholder, Prince William, who’s waiting for his chance to claim his wife’s inheritance.” “The king’s preferment of Catholics in the army has already caused discontent,” Helena repeated what Aaron had written in his letter. “In which case, would not Prince William’s arrival be welcome?”
Guy tilted his head and looked straight at her, one eyebrow raised in silent rebuke.
Too late, she remembered he regarded opinionated women as unfeminine, which always puzzled her, for he admired Alyce; yet there was no one more feminine, nor more opinionated.
“Many wish the prince would intervene, Mistress Palmer. But at what cost?” William said with all seriousness.
Helena exchanged a sympathetic smile with William, content in the knowledge that unlike Guy, he valued her intellect. She could still feel his touch on her fingers, and the tantalising way he had rubbed them gently in his while his mother had stood less than five paces away.
“King James wants to be like King Louis,” Guy interjected, “who runs roughshod over his own clergy and believes Church, State, Parliament, and the bishops all belong to him.”
“There will be another civil war. I’m sure of it.” Robert’s glass clattered to the table. “And this time it will be the Prince of Orange who starts it.”
“Prince William is on the verge of war with the French,” Ralf began. “If he moves against King James, King Louis will join the fight. But if Louis attacks Germany instead, with whom he has his own quarrel, Prince William will have a clear run at England.”
“Very succinct, Ralf.” William regarded his brother-in-law with rare admiration.
Celia frowned. “What makes you think Prince William will invade England?”
“Common knowledge,” Guy replied idly, keeping his voice low. “Correspondence between the Dutch to their English spies have been crossing the North Sea for months. The prince is simply waiting for a formal invitation.”
Talk of spies set Helena’s nerves on edge. She fidgeted and stared at her hands while the conversation went on around her. Despite the Devereux’s empathy for Sir Jonathan Woulfe’s loyalties, Helena did not know how they would view her brother’s schemes. Plotting against a king, even an unpopular one, was still treason.
“With such a clear view of the situation, I am surprised you do not join the navy, Will,” Robert said. “I could still get you a commission.”
Robert called in favours all over town to secure him the rank of an officer, but William resisted. An image of William in uniform came into her head, but she pushed it away; her face already felt warm. “As an Englishman, and an Anglican, I cannot, in all conscience, attack a navy that is attempting to protect my own religion.” William stared down his patrician nose at his father. “I would hate to be on the wrong side when the time comes.”
“Which side is the wrong one, Will?” Phebe asked.
“Why, the wrong one of course,” William said, his languorous eyes revealing nothing.
“You believe Prince William will come then?” Helena pushed for a sensible answer, aware he preferred to hide his astute mind behind lazy responses.
“It’s likely.” His shrug was dismissive. “We should also not forget that the Dutch fleet far outweighs our own.”
“Enough about invasions and wa
rs,” Alyce snapped. “I wish to talk of something pleasant. In fact, I have a fancy to visit the theatre tomorrow afternoon. They are performing Shadwell’s The Squire of Alsatia.”
“Excellent notion, Mama.”
“May we also have the pleasure of your company at Drury Lane, Mistress Palmer?” William turned intense brown eyes on Helena. “Anne Bracegirdle is a Venus of seventeen years, and her performance is not to be missed.”
“I-” Helena faltered, her cheeks warm.
“If you have a yen to see Mistress Bracegirdle, Helena,” Guy said, cutting off her feeble refusal. “I have no objection to your visiting the theatre.”
“That’s settled then,” William said, triumphant. “We’ll all go together.”
Helena flicked open her fan to disguise the sudden warmth suffusing her face. Just when she had decided William was ignoring her, he flirted with her again.
Celia’s eyelids started to droop, which precipitated Ralf pleading her recuperation as an excuse for taking their leave. Their going precipitated the party breaking up in a flurry of cloaks, gloves and farewell kisses.
Helena turned from embracing Alyce to take her farewell of Robert, when William appeared beside her. He snatched the hand she had extended to Robert and pressed his lips against her knuckles.
“Goodbye, Mistress Palmer.” His voice was a purr. “Until tomorrow then.”
“Tomorrow,” Helena murmured. She reclaimed her hand and followed Guy to the carriage. At the door, she turned back to where William lounged against the doorframe, his arms crossed and a teasing grin on his handsome face.
Had she imagined it, or had William nipped her fingers with his teeth?
Chapter Three
November 1688, Exeter – Nathan
Nathan Bayle ducked his head to clear the low lintel of The Ship inn in St Martin’s Lane, and stepped into the ancient, panelled room where Sir Walter Raleigh was once a frequent guest. Its walls were blackened from years of blazing fires set in the massive hearth, the furnishings old and scarred, but sturdy; in all, a comfortable place to spend an hour or two.
The Goldsmith's Wife (The Woulfes of Loxsbeare Book 2) Page 2