The midwife flicked codfish eyes over the newcomer, her curled lips loaded with disapproval. Even through her pain, Helena was amused by Alyce’s skirt which showed too much ankle, and the ludicrous swaying headdress.
Oblivious to implied criticism, Alyce proceeded to issue curt questions to the midwife, who bridled in indignation.
Confident she would be taken care of now, Helena sank back into a fog, the voices around her merging into a low murmur.
The pain grew steadily until, overwhelmed, Helena made silent bargains with God for her agony to cease, promising to be a better wife. After what seemed like a surprisingly short interval of excruciating pain, she expelled a slippery form from her body with a noisy, exhaled breath.
The midwife’s calm announcement that the child was a large, healthy boy made no immediate impression upon Helena, who, exhausted and battered, collapsed onto her pillows. She submitted passively to the woman’s ministrations, her head turned toward the cold, if pungent, breeze drifting through the window, mentally distancing herself from her physical discomfort.
Chloe exercised her power as a privileged servant by taking charge of the baby, laying him on a cloth on the dresser inches from Helena’s head. Murmuring endearments, she wiped away the bloody wax from his skin, rubbed his tiny body vigorously with a towel, and then wrapped him tightly before holding him out towards her mistress.
Helena lay passive and silent, while hot tears slid down her cheeks into her hair. Alyce broke the awkward moment with a curt command. “Put the child in his cradle. His mother is exhausted.”
Wordlessly, Chloe obeyed, a puzzled, though suspicion look shifting between them.
The midwife washed her instruments and placed them back in her leather roll. The coins Alyce handed her clinking dully in her pocket on her way out.
Helena did not attempt to sit up, for once acceding to tradition for newly delivered mothers. The baby gave a series of wails, then made intermittent mewling noises that irritated Helena’s nerves, until it was all she could do not to snap at someone to make it stop.
Alyce leaned toward her, whispering, “Look at him.”
Helena wanted to refuse, but Alyce’s penetrating stare cowed her. Reluctant, but curious, she looked into the cradle where a tiny, crumpled face lay between folds of linen. Unfocussed blue eyes open beneath thick black hair and a creased brow. He rolled his head to stare straight at her, and despite herself, her heart turned over in her breast and her nipples puckered.
“Even had I been uncertain before, which I was not.” Alyce took the tiny bundle into her arms. “There is no doubt in my mind now.”
Helena bit her bottom lip to prevent the sob rising in her chest from escaping. What have I done?
“Have you engaged a wet nurse?” Alyce demanded.
Helena shook her head.
“Then if you want him to live, you had better suckle him yourself. He’s hungry.”
Her abrasive tone penetrated Helena’s lethargy and she pulled herself up in the bed, wincing as her sore body protested.
Alyce laid the bundle against her breast and the soft, round head rooted against her.
Helena’s arms closed around him as the slightly swollen, new-born eyes tried to focus on hers. A tiny frown appeared on his softly wrinkled forehead as she traced a finger across his scalp. “Look at his hair, it’s enough to make into a peruke!” She ran the tips of her fingers over his head. “The twins had no more than light traces of fluff at birth.
Alyce’s eyes danced with mischief and when their gaze’s met, Helena’s lips twitched and the spell was broken.
Alyce sent Chloe to ensure a message reached Hatton Garden. “Make sure the master doesn’t exhaust any horses getting here. Tell him ’tis all over.”
Chloe washed Helena’s face gently, combing and tying up her curls. Her touch proved therapeutic and Helena surprised herself at her own serenity. He was just a little baby and he needed her.
Guy arrived within the half hour, tousled and with his cravat askew. “Why wasn’t I informed of this sooner?” he demanded, his eyes softening as he caught sight of his wife.
Chloe handed the baby to him, and there followed a tense moment when he expressed surprise at the child’s abundant, dark hair.
“My dear, Guy,” Alyce flirted. “It’s the same shade as your wife’s.”
“I wasn’t offering criticism, Mistress Devereux.” Guy inclined his head with a hurt expression. “I was merely admiring him.”
Helena’s eyes smarted at the endearing scene they made. The sight of a man holding a baby was guaranteed to wrest tears from any woman.
“I’ve been considering names for him, Helena,” Guy interrupted her reverie. “Or have you a preference?”
“As long as it isn’t after the king.” This flash of humour earned her a bemused look from Alyce, but Guy appeared oblivious.
“I hadn’t considered it. No, I thought we might name him for my great grandfather and your brother, Helena. I should like him to be called, Charles Henry.”
Helena’s aching heart would have agreed to anything in an effort to make reparation, but it was a handsome name. “Aaron’s middle name is Charles,” she said unthinking.
Guy started, annoyed. Helena pretended not to notice.
* * *
April 1691, Palmer House, London – Henry
A footman showed Henry into the salon at Palmer House, where he found Helena on a chaise by the window, her cheek offered up to receive his kiss.
“I’ve just this morning come out of confinement, Henry,” she said. “You are one of my first visitors.”
The twins played nearby with a set of wooden soldiers, but jumped up at the sight of him, shouting his name and rooting in his pockets for the sweetmeats he always carried for them. Henry cuffed them playfully, their boisterousness threatening to knock off his full-bottomed wig. In a flurry of scolding, Chloe arrived to remove them.
The door closed and Henry turned back to Helena, frowning. “It’s not like you to prolong your confinement, my dear. The baby is three weeks old, and judging by Chloe’s enthusiasm just now, he’s thriving.
“I know,” Helena’s voice held a sigh, “but the solitude suited me.”
Helena was twenty-five, and where some women took on the physical attributes of middle age by this time, with dull complexions, double chins and the permanent critical expressions which tragedy or disappointment carve there, Helena remained youthful and glowed with vitality. Her body had endured two pregnancies and yet she was as slender as a girl, an enduring beauty in the fine bones of her face.
Her hair was still glossy and healthy, when he had given in to the battle against parasites long ago and resorted to a peruke, his own brown hair cropped close to his head.
“I have some news.” Henry said. “My apprenticeship finishes in a few months. As a qualified architect, I’ll need a residence of my own from which to establish a business. I have bought myself a house in Berkeley Street.”
Helena’s hands stilled, her lips forming a silent ‘o’.
“Berkeley Street is a most fashionable address.” Mildly hurt, he defended his choice. “One of the finest houses in London is there, the home of Lord Berkeley.
“Yes, Henry, I’m aware of the existence of Berkeley House.” Helena’s smile did not reach her eyes.
“Where’s your enthusiasm, Helena? I consider myself fortunate to have secured the property from its absent owner. It’s lain unoccupied for two years.”
This conversation wasn’t going quite as he had imagined, but he forged on, more to remind himself what a bargain he had made, as there seemed no chance now of impressing her. “It cannot be called a mansion, but there are four storeys and a carriage halt at the front. The rooms are quite small and far too numerous, the owner had braziers burning in most of them. His fuel could not have been of high quality as the ceilings are soot stained and gloomy.”
“It sounds wonderful, Henry.” She wandered to the window, her face averted
. “When shall I have the opportunity of seeing it?”
“Not yet. Give me time to begin the work, then I shall ask your opinion, you having such good taste.” He groaned inwardly, remembering belatedly that Palmer House had been Guy’s project. “I apologise for the brevity of this call, Helena.” He rose to go. “But I have been at Jonathan’s all afternoon and Sir Christopher is to dine at the Newman’s tonight and I’m invited, so must return home and change.”
She glanced back at him over her shoulder “Your hearty appetite appears to have no effect on your athletic frame, Henry.”
“Comes of spending my time scrambling up ladders and climbing over roof joists.” He brushed her cheek with his lips and turned toward the door. “I called on Aaron earlier this morning. He’s happy to be back in his apartments at White Hall and is quite his old self again.”
“I’m glad. He left here under somewhat of a cloud.” He had reached the door when she called him back. “Henry? You haven’t said what you feel about Tobias. I take it Aaron has told you?”
Henry nodded. “A few days after he returned to White Hall. Physically he had healed, but he still carries a lot of guilt about Tobias.”
“I know Aaron’s emotions,” her voice was brittle. “I need to know how you feel, Henry.”
“I’m not sure how I feel,” he answered truthfully. “It was a shock, certainly. However, the person who should answer my questions is not here.”
“Father?”
“Indeed, and besides.” He turned and strolled back a few paces into the room, resting his arms across the back of a chair. “I’ve always liked Tobias. He protected me when the soldiers came to Loxsbeare and when the minister refused to bury Mother, he persuaded him to honour the family. He’s a good man.”
“I think so too.” She looked as though she were fighting tears.
“Aaron has always bathed in the glory of the firstborn son and finding himself usurped proved hard for him.”
Helena glanced up sharply. “He’s still the firstborn. Tobias isn’t legitimate.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Aaron is more incensed about Father having bequeathed him the house in Bedford Street.”
“Hmm, I know.” He too resented the house leaving the family, but then they had lost so much anyway as a result of the rebellion, it hardly mattered. “I could talk to him if you wish.”
Her bright smile indicated a weight had lifted from her chest. “Oh, Henry, would you?” Then she looked sad again and as the door clicked shut behind him he heard her say, “I so want him to forgive me.”
When he reached the street, the thought occurred to him, whom did she mean? Aaron, or Tobias?
Chapter Twenty-Two
May 1691, Palmer House – Helena
Chattering guests filled the ground floor of Palmer House, gathered to celebrate the new baby’s christening. Helena drifted through the elegant rooms with a sense of not belonging. Bright sunlight from the long casement windows washed the colour from fabrics and furnishings, adding to her sense of unreality.
Guy had insisted upon a lavish affair, perhaps to make up for the discrete occasion of the twins’ christening. He had invited almost the entire London goldsmith and banking community to admire the opulence of Palmer House. John Houblon hovered near the fireplace with his wife, whose heavily accented voice rising above the low murmur of conversation.
Adopting a fixed smile, Helena eased through vaguely familiar groups, searching for the one person she wanted to see. A face she dreaded, yet longed for.
Charles Montague detached himself from a group and grasped both her hands in his. “You’re looking exceptionally beautiful today, Mistress Palmer. One would never take you for a matron and mother of three.”
Helena shuddered inwardly at his description, but returned his gracious smile. She liked the handsome Charles, who was one of the few men of their acquaintance whom Guy encouraged to flirt with her. Charles, assuming the baby was named for him, had bestowed some expensive gifts on him, making Guy obliged to invite him as sponsor. Bathing in the glow of Montague’s admiration, Helena regretted her suspicion that Guy had intended such a reaction.
“I hope you don’t feel I’ve encouraged your husband to neglect you of late, Mistress.” Montague dropped her hands and offered her his arm, drawing her toward the long table laid out with an array of cold meats, puddings and salets for their guests.
“Not at all, sir. I know how important the national bank scheme is to all of you.”
Montague offered her his lazy smile. “I would the government had your sense, Mistress, for His Majesty is proving harder to convince.”
She glanced across the room to where Guy, handsome in a buff long coat with black embroidery stood in conversation with a plump, over painted matron.
His expression of fierce concentration at the woman’s animated face reminded her of what a genuinely nice person he was. Sadness crept over her at the fact they seemed like polite strangers these days. She was convinced his liaison with Poll Harker still flourished and it lurked between them like a shadow.
Just then, her senses became alert, and even before she heard Alyce’s rich voice float through from the hallway, Helena excused herself and hurried in that direction. She slowed her steps as she drew nearer, not wanting to appear too eager. Alyce greeted Henry, kissing him full on the mouth in her indomitable way. He flushed, elated, a reaction she elicited in most young men, which made Helena smile, then freeze as she took in the figure beside them.
William stood, garbed entirely in black, with a starkly contrasting white cravat and hose. His full mouth with that irresistibly familiar cleft she had kissed a hundred times pulled into a wry smile.
Helena’s heart turned over and she wished the noisy, jostling company were miles away. Drifting forward, she held her hand toward him for a kiss, eager for contact with him, however brief.
Whatever warmth was in William’s eyes when he accepted Henry’s greetings had vanished. Even the light of interest Helena was used to igniting in men of all ages was not there.
“You are looking remarkably well after your recent ordeal, Mistress.” He said, his voice distant as he accepted her hand in his gloved one, his lips paused an inch above. His grip remained loose and his teeth did not nip her skin in his habitual silent message. She fought the impulse to throw herself forward into his arms, while his cold gaze kept her at bay. They had not spoken, or touched in weeks, yet his eyes, which had always held such desire for her before, were empty, affecting her like a physical blow.
“I’m the most fortunate of women, sir, in that I recover quickly.” Sir and Mistress? They never addressed each other thus. Helena bit her lip, fighting rising tears.
William dropped her hand as if it burned him and surveyed the hallway. Nodding to an acquaintance, he accepted a glass of wine from a passing server.
“What a beautiful gown, Helena,” Alyce gushed. “That shade is exquisite, like rich wine, and it looks so well on you against your dark hair.” She chattered and waved her elegant hands, the contrivance unnecessary, for William merely seemed bored. As ever, his brooding expression exuded a magnetism, which attracted every female eye in the room.
Helena made herself relax, managing several minutes of pointless conversation, although her eyes slid repeatedly to William, searching his face for a loving look, or a gesture—something. There was nothing. It was as if they were strangers.
Love Hatchett appeared bearing baby Charles like a trophy, swaddled and sleeping after his busy day. His tuft of silky black hair hidden beneath his bands, his tiny black lashes curled on powdery cheeks.
“A handsome child,” William murmured, giving Love the benefit of his brilliant smile. “And what an enchanting nurse he has, but wholly unappreciated at such a young age, I’m sure.”
Love flushed an angry red, remaining tight-lipped. Hugging the baby to her chest, she turned on her heel and fled the room.
Helena was too shocked to react. William was perfectly aware that poor Love had
experienced a disappointment and Glover had had to rescue her from her seducer. To tease her in such a way was cruel and so unlike him. William’s light, mocking laugh made her turn aside in sudden pain, and she came face to face with her husband. Helena thought she detected a hardening in William’s jaw, but it was gone before she was sure.
“My dear, Mistress Devereux, and, sir.” Guy addressed William as he slid a possessive arm around Helena’s waist.
“Do allow me to congratulate you on your newest child, sir,” William drawled. “And of course this magnificent party you are giving in his honour.” He indicated the crowded rooms with a nod.
Guy accepted the compliment, but Helena could not reconcile her lover with this cold stranger. More guests joined them to exchange felicitations with the new parents, forcing William further onto the fringes, until even silent communication became impossible.
When Helena looked for him some time later, the Devereux mother and son had disappeared.
“Mother had a touch of the headache, Helena dear,” Celia trilled in answer to her question. “William has escorted her home.” Her pretty features displayed innocent happiness. “However, Ralf and I fully intend to enjoy this wonderful party.” She waved at the jostling crowd with her empty glass, which she swapped for a full one as a server appeared. “Phebe and Hendrick are in the garden with Aaron. Come and join us.”
Painting a smile on her face, Helena accepted Celia’s invitation and stepped onto the sun-bathed terrace, her heart like a stone in her chest.
* * *
May 1691, Palmer House, London – William
The Devereux carriage rolled down the drive of Palmer House and out onto Rupert Street. William settled back in his seat, staring morosely out of the window, the knuckles of his left hand pressed to his lips.
“I congratulate you on your detachment, William.” His mother cocked her elegant chin at the mansion behind her. “But was it wise to flirt with that girl who held the baby?”
The Goldsmith's Wife (The Woulfes of Loxsbeare Book 2) Page 18