Robin’s face lit up and the girls grinned.
Chapter Five
December 1688, London – Guy
Guy emerged from his workshop in Hatton Garden and hailed a sedan on the corner of Leather Lane, inside which he pondered a pleasant afternoon spent in good company.
Without warning, the chair halted and Guy’s head collided with a wooden support, dislodging his peruke. “Easy man!” He rapped the frame with his cane.
The chair was set down and a face appeared at the side window. “Beg pardon, sir. But we cannot go any further.”
“Why ever not?” Guy scrambled into a street where a fire spread across the cobbles ahead; the scene so alien, it made no sense. A crowd stood nearby but no one tackled the blaze and there was no sign of a fire truck. Instead, a gawping crowd threw missiles at the flames, catcalling abuse at the cowering carters who sought refuge in a doorway.
Guy grasped the arm of a gentleman, who would have kept moving had not Guy’s grip held firm. “What’s going on?”
“A mob has attacked the Clerkenwell convent!”
Guy frowned in confusion and waved his cane at the burning carts. “St Johns is streets away, man, what occurs here?”
A loud cracking sounded, and something fell with a whoosh, followed by a fresh shower of sparks and a raucous cheer.
“The militia disbanded the miscreants there.” The man shot a furtive glance behind him, obviously eager to be gone. “The clerics tried to save their books and furniture. But the mob caught up with these two carts and set them afire.”
“God’s Blood.” Guy spotted a few scruffy looking characters on the fringes of the mob. Not residents, he guessed.
“The dregs of society have crawled out of the gutters,” the man sneered, interpreting his look. “Cutpurses and ringdroppers have joined with idle apprentice boys in every inn and brothel in the lanes, looking for the excitement of a riot.”
Guy took a step back, blinking in alarm at the man’s rant, which now begun he seemed reluctant to end.
“The Franciscan house in Lincolns Inn was looted, and the chapels in Lime Street and Bucklersbury are burned out.” The man’s darting eyes reflected the glow of the burning cart. “They’ve even destroyed the king’s printing press.”
Guy took in the clamminess of the man’s skin and a thought occurred to him. “Are you a Catholic, sir?”
“And if I am?” The man’s eyes glowed with defiance, but fear stood in the hazel depths.
“Then, sir, I offer you my hopes you reach home safely.”
With a swift bow, and a sideways look, the stranger muttered his thanks and hurried away.
The heat from the flames seared his face and Guy stepped back, brushing flakes of ash from his coat. In the coffee house earlier in the day, rumours circulated that George, Prince of Denmark, the Princess Anne’s husband, together with the Dukes of Ormonde, Grafton, Lord Churchill, and Trelawney, had all deserted at Axminster and joined the prince.
With the king effectively powerless, London saw its chance and was taking premature revenge on its Catholics.
“We’ll have to leave you here, sir.”
“What?” Guy turned to the older of the chairmen who had spoken. “Understood, my man, understood.” He thrust a coin into his hand, and hoisting the empty chair between them, loped back the way they had come.
Guy turned on his heel and strode into Holborn and Lambtons where a sympathetic Lubbock divested him of his cloak in the entrance hall. “When the streets clear further could you call me a hackney so I may go home?”
“Certainly, sir,” Lubbock disappeared, his place taken by Robert, dressed in one of his banyans, a beaver cap pulled down on his shorn head and slippers on his feet. “Alyce is busy gathering the latest gossip in the taproom, but she’ll be with us presently.” He ushered Guy into their private salon where Phebe sat by the fireside, and Guy recounted his eventful evening again. “I’m worried about Helena. She’s alone in the house but for the servants.”
“I doubt they will bother with her,” Robert sounded confident as he handed Guy a glass of wine. “Helena is not a Catholic.”
“Maybe not.” Guy sipped his wine gratefully, though a seed of unease burrowed beneath his breastbone.
Alyce bustled into the room several minutes later, her eyes shining. “I have it on good authority that the Princess Anne has fled White Hall with Sarah Churchill. Oh, good evening, Guy what brings you here?” She did not stop to hear his answer. “A page of the backstairs is in the taproom at this very moment with the story.”
Robert snorted. “I’ll wager he hasn’t paid for a drink all afternoon.”
“Maybe the princess assumed the king would have been captured by Prince William’s troops by now?” Phebe said.
“Huh! Hoped he had been captured you mean.” Robert snapped his news sheet. “Much as I would like to see His Majesty cowed into submission, I cannot take pleasure in the fact he has an ungrateful, treacherous child.” He scowled at his daughter, whose mouth fell open in surprise.
“What have I done?” Phebe’s jaw went slack.
Alyce made a sympathetic moue at Phebe with carmined lips. “Then the other story is an angry mob has gathered outside White Hall demanding they show them Princess Anne. They think she has been abducted by Catholics,” she added, contradicting her first story.
“What do they want her for?” Phebe snorted. “She’s a stupid, dull thing with not a sensible thing to say.”
Guy started forward in alarm. “White Hall? Will Helena be safe do you think?”
“Do not fret, Guy,” Alyce crooned. “The city is not about to burst into flames because of a few troublemakers. Glover and the servants will care for Helena. Then as soon as the fuss calms down a little, we’ll make sure you get home safely.”
“I wager the entire royal family will run off to France rather than face Prince William,” Phebe said, evidently enjoying the drama.
“If King James abandons his throne,” Guy glared at his wife and daughter, “we shan’t have him back again.”
Guy thanked Robert for his excellent wine and the respite of a quiet fireside for an hour. He refused more wine, which had begun to taste sour. Where was Lubbock with that hackney?
Chapter Six
November 1688, King Street, London – Helena
Helena dozed in a cocoon of warmth and darkness, the bed hangings pulled tight to keep out the cold. Disturbing noises came to her through a haze and mingled with a pleasant dream until a loud crash woke her with a start.
Blinking into full consciousness, she hauled herself upright, searching blindly for where the hangings met. Tugging one back with a rattle, she heaved herself awkwardly to her feet and with one hand supporting her heavy belly, shuffled to the window.
Sounds of breaking glass and shouts rose from the street, and clouds of black smoke poured from the middle storey windows of a house farther along. A crowd of people gathered on the pavement in front, but instead of tackling the flames, they cheered and catcalled.
Fuddled from sleep, Helena was still trying to make sense of it, when Chloe threw open the door.
“The mob is sacking the Fishers’ house, Mistress!” she cried, her thin chest heaving with exertion. “Come away from the window.”
“What shall we do?” Chloe asked, glancing first at the window and then back to Helena.
“I—I don’t know.” Helena forced her fuddled mind to think. “Is your master downstairs?”
“No, Mistress, he’s still away from home.”
The noise outside grew louder, and someone screamed. The front door slammed, and Helena jumped, still unable to make a decision.
“That’ll be Glover, Mistress.” Chloe sounded relieved. “He went out to see what was happening.”
Helena relaxed, grateful to be able to shift the burden onto the manservant’s capable shoulders.
Voices drifted up from downstairs, followed by heavy footsteps, then the smut-streaked face of Glover appeare
d. “The mob is intent on burning out the Catholics. We must get you away from here, Mistress, before it gets worse.”
She frowned, confused, rubbing at her lower back where a dull ache throbbed. “Why should I be in danger?”
He arched a cynical eyebrow. “If the fires spread to non-Catholic homes, do you imagine the mob out there would call the fire trucks for you?” His uncharacteristic sharpness made her blink, but before she could respond, a bang reverberated through the house, followed by a high-pitched shriek from downstairs. Helena recognized Love Hatchett’s voice; their kitchen maid had a penchant for hysterics.
“What do you suggest we do, Glover?” Fear replaced Helena’s lethargy.
“Send to Lambtons for Master Devereux’s carriage. Pack a few things, and go to the inn until the mob has calmed down.”
“I should leave?” Helena indicated her swollen belly. “Like this?”
“We’re too close to the Palace of White Hall where a mob is gathered demanding the Princess Anne. They think she’s been kidnapped and if she isn’t produced, I don’t know what will happen.”
Chloe leapt forward to help Helena dress, giving the manservant a scandalized look when her mistress’s loose gown fell round her shoulders. “What about the house?” Helena ignored Chloe, who bobbed about in an effort to place herself between her mistress and the manservant.
“My powers are limited against a mob. But I’ll do what I can.”
“What about Master Palmer?” A sob rose in Helena’s throat as she realised she had no idea where Guy was.
“I shall wait here for him, Mistress.”
This solution seemed wholly unsatisfactory, but for the moment she had no choice.
Once dressed in her mantoe and cloak, Helena lumbered down the narrow stairs, anxious she might miss a step as she was unable to see her feet. In the hall, Bertha and the housemaid hovered by the kitchen door, their eyes wide with fear. The houseboy cowered behind them, whimpering.
The mob had a quarrel with her, it was true, but Glover was right, fire was every Londoner’s enemy. Yet the fact she was running away, again, dismayed her somehow.
“Have the Irish come, Mistress?” Love Hatchett squeaked.
“What Irish?” Helena snapped, her discomfort increasing. Her back ached and she wanted to lie down.
“In the market today, I heard the Irish soldiers from King James’ army are on their way to slit every Protestant throat they can find.” Love gabbled. “Is that them out there, Mistress?”
Helena groaned in dismay. The Irish were feared above all the Catholics, referred to as the, “dark foreigners” of children’s’ nightmares. How the rumours spread they were marching on the capital was a mystery. Another loud bang came from outside, followed by the sound of breaking glass and cheering.
“They’re just a mob making trouble,” Helena scolded, far calmer than she felt. “There are no Irish soldiers here.” She hoped she was right, or the servants might run when they got outside.
The dull backache, which had plagued her since she woke, turned into a vice gripping her lower belly. A grinding, pulling sensation doubled her over and dread crept up along her spine.
Bracing both hands against the wall, she groaned. “Oh no— Please God, not now.” She dropped her chin and squeezed her eyes closed, her teeth fastened on her bottom lip.
“What is wrong, Mistress?” Chloe asked.
Helena’s response froze in her throat, the agony ripping her breath away as she stared at Chloe with an intensity she hoped would communicate her pain and terror.
Chloe’s eyes widened. She hauled on Glover’s sleeve and whispered something, at which he turned slowly toward Helena.
Helena fought down hysteria. Stop looking at me like startled codfish, and do something!
The pain receded, and she gulped in air. Perhaps it was just a twinge after all? Almost immediately the tight pull began again, building to a height until she barely had the strength to stand upright.
“Get the mistress into the front parlour,” Glover ordered, handing her to Chloe. He turned and headed for the kitchen, his call for Love Hatchett echoing down the hallway.
Standing several inches shorter than Helena, Chloe’s efforts were more hindrance than help. Helena broke away from and staggered toward the parlour, each step an effort. She managed to keep moving long enough to reach the sofa and was about to lower herself onto it when Glover returned.
“No! Chloe,” he shouted. “Get her on the floor, there’s no room on there.”
The floor? Helena opened her mouth to reprimand him for such an outrageous suggestion, but he had gone, her protest stifled by another pain.
Chloe eased her down on the rug, about to turn away when Helena groped for her arm. “I—cannot—have—this—baby—here.”
“I doubt you have a choice, Mistress,” Chloe whispered.
Love returned carrying what appeared to be Helena’s best linen bed sheets. Helena’s brain screamed, “No, not those!” But her protest tailed off into a moan of despair as the pain returned.
Love arranged the soft lengths of expensive cloth around her and Chloe thrust something firm behind her that eased the pressure on her back.
In a brief, painless interval, Helena glanced over one shoulder, recognizing the cushions from her finest settle, but no one seemed to register her annoyance. In the next second, her mind emptied of sheets and cushions when a particularly fierce grinding left her whimpering in distress.
Chloe’s face loomed above her. “Is it bad then, Mistress?”
“Don’t ask stupid questions,” Helena growled through gritted teeth, dimly aware of Glover hovering at the door.
“This baby will be here in no time at all,” Chloe told the manservant cheerfully.
Helena opened her mouth to correct her, but the words stayed in her throat and her back threatened to snap her body in two. It was all she could do not to scream. Then the realization dawned. She really was going to give birth now.
“Chloe,” she whimpered. “It was not supposed to happen like this.”
“The babe decides that, Mistress, not you.”
Helena’s thoughts drifted to the prepared chamber upstairs, to Celia and Amy, who waited for her summons as her gossips. “What about the midwife?” she groaned.
“I doubt we’ll never get her through this,” Glover murmured.
As if to confirm his words, more clamour and banging came from the street.
“We have to try.” Chloe pointed to the houseboy who peered round the doorjamb. “Send Jeb. He can go the back way.”
The fierce cramps in Helena’s lower belly eased, though she knew it to be only a temporary respite in preparation for the next onslaught. She pushed a tendril of damp hair from her forehead with an impatient hand, wriggling into what she hoped was a more comfortable position, which proved to be merely a less uncomfortable one.
The next pain hit her and instinctively, she drew her knees up to her chest.
“Not yet, Mistress,” Chloe ordered. At the reappearance of Glover, she scrambled to her feet, pressing her skinny hands against the manservant’s chest, shoving him back into the hall.
The sight of the diminutive Chloe manhandling Glover out of the room brought the absurdity of Helena’s situation into sharp relief. That she lay on the floor of her own parlour, fully clothed and in the worst pain she had ever experienced; her swollen abdomen bobbing in front of her, and a mob rioting out on the cobbles.
She couldn’t decide what terrified her more, what was happening inside the house, or the threat gathering force in the street.
Glover discreetly knocked at the door, and at Chloe’s response, entered with the second houseboy, a sheet of thin wood held between them. Giving and affronted squeal, Chloe held up a bed sheet to conceal her mistress, but Glover barely glanced at either of them.
“In case the mob breaks the window, Mistress,” Glover said, his face averted while they hammered it into the frame, adding more discordant noise to t
he general chaos. With the glow of the fire outside blocked out, the parlour was plunged into almost complete darkness and seemed to close in around them. Helena almost sobbed in relief when a kitchen maid appeared with more lit candles, followed by the houseboy carrying a bowl of water. And a knife.
Helena moaned at the sight of him, and fell into uncontrolled shaking. Could this really be happening? Before she could decide, the binding in her back began again and she surrendered herself to the inevitable pain, defeated.
Hot tears trickled down her face as the agony receded, and she choked back a sob. Where was Guy? Where was Alyce? I wish my mother were here. As each pain reached its peak, she became convinced her entire body lifted clear of the floor. When the agony faded away, she flopped back down again, breathless. The relief lasted such a short time before the familiar pull and grind heralded another. Her body took on a will of its own, assaulting her with terrifying regularity while figures moved around her and voices murmured unintelligibly. How long had she lain there?
Glass shattered upstairs. Something hit the window behind the sheet of wood, shaking the frame.
Love screamed and threw herself on the floor. Lifting a hand, she stared at a trickle of blood running down her wrist. “I’ve hurt myself, Mistress,” she whined.
Chloe sniggered, and Helena glared Love into silence.
The acrid smell of smoke permeated the room, a thin grey plume insinuating itself between the wood and the window frame. The fire was getting closer. From a long way off came the slam of a door, followed by light footsteps, then Jeb’s face appeared round the doorjamb.
The boy had been running, his scrawny chest heaved and his eyes popped.
“The midwife wasn’t there, sir,” he gasped, breathless.
Glover hurried him away and Helena whimpered in disappointment and fear.
“Well, Mistress.” Chloe knelt on the floor beside her. “You’ll just have to make do with me.” She cut off Helena’s objection with a raised hand. “I’m the eldest of twelve. I delivered my mother’s eighth, ninth and the eleventh with no help at all.” She massaged Helena’s shoulders with strong fingers. “The tenth, she birthed in the lower meadow during harvest, me sister helped that time.”
The Goldsmith's Wife (The Woulfes of Loxsbeare Book 2) Page 5