The Goldsmith's Wife (The Woulfes of Loxsbeare Book 2)

by Anita Seymour

  William squeezed his eyes shut. He did not need her approbation. The look in Helena’s eyes had been enough. He had felt the barb cut right into his heart.

  The carriage rocked to one side as the driver avoided a near collision with a cart. William gripped the strap hard to keep from falling. His wrist cramped, but the pain was a welcome distraction.

  He had known the christening would be difficult, but no scenario he ran through his head in the preceding days had lived up to the misery that washed over him when he saw Helena.

  The rich, deep red taffeta she wore added warmth to her eyes. Her complexion glowed with life, not the pasty, white-powdered masks her contemporaries favoured. Her welcoming smile was so loving, he felt his throat constrict and his hands shake.

  He had fully intended to follow his mother’s advice. To greet her civilly, in the knowledge their affair was over and she was no more than his father’s ward. “Think of the child, William.” Alyce had warned him as they climbed the steps of Palmer House. “Consider her reputation. You could ruin her.”

  “It is too late, for she has ruined me,” he had murmured to himself as they waited to be admitted to the house.

  Hunched into the corner of the carriage, William relived the inadequacy that had overwhelmed him earlier, surrounded by the trappings of Helena’s life in the opulence of Palmer House. When his unacknowledged son was held up for him to admire, he had treated Helena with cruel coldness in his determination not to let his ravaged feelings show.

  His obsession with Helena had developed into a liaison that proved to be everything he imagined a union between a man and a woman could be. He always knew it was dangerous, but their passion for each other moved with volition of its own. When they inhabited the white room he had created, just for her, there was no one else. He built his days around the next hour, or the next afternoon they could be together.

  That day last winter came back with painful clarity. The day his mother revealed what William had convinced himself was a carefully kept secret. When he protested he did not intend to give Helena up, she had cut across him with the words, “She’s with child, Will.”

  Before his legs gave way, he had slumped onto a chair and dropped his head in his hands. His breath squeezed from his lungs in despair.

  “In law, the child will be Guy’s.” Mother had paced the room, dispensing her wisdom on how he should conduct himself.

  William had barely listened, while an incredulous smile had spread across his face. The child was his!

  “Will she tell him?”

  “Of course not, William. What can you be thinking?” She had tutted in irritation. “And neither shall you, if you have any feeling for her at all.”

  Any feeling for her? His mother had no idea. Helena was everything to him, and it was entirely for her sake that during Helena’s pregnancy, William had obeyed.

  His time at Court proved more successful as the months passed. Yet William was increasingly aware of his own discontent for the glittering world he inhabited, where indulged, affluent court ladies appeared to labour under the impression, that to own a Devereux jewel, would gain them access to the young man himself.

  His charm, however, became an integral part of the business, and to receive his personal attention in the commission of an individual and expensive piece, commanded a satisfying premium. One their husbands, fathers and lovers seemed happy to part with. Although on certain occasions, delightful flirtation often led to unspoken promise; yet their availability remained uninviting. Not that he always resisted the attractions of other ladies, though each encounter left him unaffected, more unsettled than before.

  King William’s passion for houses brought the clean lines of Dutch style of architecture into a country obsessed with building, where red brick, black and white tiled floors and sash windows became the latest fashion.

  William’s days were frantic with commissions to source paintings, chandeliers, sculptures and furnishings for the rich, none of whom had any idea how to put together a room to reflect their newfound positions. In his search for intellectual oblivion, he became fascinated by the financial revolution he saw coming and had added his name to this small group of enlightened men lobbying for a national bank. However, no matter how full he kept his days, nothing diminished his grief for Helena.

  The carriage pulled up outside Lambtons and William dragged himself back to the present. He jumped down onto the road, turning back to hand his mother down the narrow step.

  “Don’t fret.” Alyce said. “Helena will forget you in time, as you will her.”

  His jaw tightened and he levelled a hard stare at her face, watching the flush creep into her skin. She seemed about to speak, but instead, she bussed his cheek before sweeping toward the door Lubbock held open for her.

  His jaw rigid with frustration, he leapt back into the carriage, slamming the door viciously. He banged the ceiling with his cane so hard, the footman clinging to the rear dipped his head to the window to enquire if there was something wrong.

  William growled at him to resume his place and thumped the ceiling harder for good measure.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  July 1691, Palmer House, London – Henry

  Helena enjoyed the warmer weather of a London summer, the threat of plague notwithstanding, though an image of William’s face at their last meeting haunted her.

  Henry joined her in the salon, the trappings of afternoon tea arranged around them. “These almond pasties your chef makes are excellent, Helena.” He wiped golden crumbs from his breeches.

  “Apparently so,” Helena responded archly. “You have eaten three.”

  He grinned boyishly, dabbing his lips with a linen cloth. “Have I told you how I intend to refurbish my new house?”

  “Twice. But you may tell me again if you wish.”

  Henry waved a hand. “Wouldn’t dream of borin’ you with it.” Helena rolled her eyes. He had been doing just that all afternoon.

  “I met with Sir Christopher Wren at St. Margaret Pattens this morning.” His admiration of the man he regarded as his hero apparent in his face.

  “Where?” Helena frowned. There was so much construction going on in the city, she could barely keep up.

  “It’s in Eastcheap, near the monument to the great fire.” Henry picked a fleck of dirt from his breeches. “Of a most unusual design with a two hundred foot spire.”

  A server entered with a replenished tray and Henry accepted a dish without pausing in his speech. “—the pews are canopied, which is in itself unusual and there is a punishment box carved with a devil’s head.”

  “Whatever is a punishment box?” Helena handed him a dish of hot tea.

  “It’s where wrongdoers have to sit during the service.”

  Helena silently resolved never to step across the threshold of such a church, and changed the subject. “Do you intend to live in Berkeley Street alone?”

  “Haven’t you heard?”

  “Heard what?” she asked, distracted.

  “Sir Joshua Holt is dead.”

  Helena’s empty tea dish almost slipped from her fingers, but she caught it in time “I-I had no idea.”

  “He had an apoplexy of some sort.” Henry made an unsuccessful show of nonchalance, but Helena saw hope in his eyes.

  “I never met him, but it’s sad news all the same.” She braced herself to ask the question which she knew he expected. “What of his wife?”

  Henry’s expression did not change but his eyes softened. “She and the child were visiting friends at the time. Sir Joshua was alone with the servants.”

  “How dreadful, the poor man.” She chewed a nail absently. Then a thought occurred to her. “Henry, you have not visited Lady Holt?”

  “Of course not.” Henry grimaced. “I’ve sent a customary letter of condolence.” He pressed a finger onto the crumbs on his plate, transferring them slowly to his mouth.

  Helena placed her tea dish on the table slowly, choosing her words. “Mary Ann m
ay have changed since you knew her, Henry. Marriage and childbirth alters women. She may not feel the same way toward you.”

  “She loved me once.” Henry pummelled the armrest of his chair with a fist. “And I have to believe she still does.”

  Helena bit her lip. My poor, constant Henry. “Perhaps you are right. But don’t plan your whole life around a woman of whom you are not certain.”

  Henry cast her hard look. “It cannot be less useless than yearning for a man who is not your husband.”

  The room tilted and Helena felt faint. “How did you know?” she asked, her voice tight.

  “Give me credit for knowing my own sister,” he snapped. “When you and William are in the same room, what is between you is obvious. At least, to those of us who know what love is.”

  A smile tugged at Helena’s mouth. “Do you think, Aaron—?”

  “No.” A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth “I doubt Aaron knows.”

  “I don’t see William, now.” She felt her lip quiver, but this confidence with Henry was suddenly important. She wanted him to understand. “But I still love him.”

  He leaned closer, lightly touching her cheek. “I know, dear. Love has a life of its own. Which is why you must understand my feelings for Mary Ann.” He sat back and waved an arm.”

  “Besides, I can wait another year.”

  * * *

  October 1691, Palmer House, London – Helena

  On a dull, dark late autumn evening, coach wheels on the drive signalled the arrival of a visitor at Palmer House. Guy muttered useless questions about who would dare call at such an hour, when Aaron pushed past the footman without waiting to be announced.

  He had not surrendered his cloak at the door and his cheeks were heavily flushed from the cold air.

  Helena rushed forward to embrace him, but he stood rigid in her arms.

  Her hands dropped uselessly to her sides. “What’s wrong, Aaron?”

  He pulled away and went to stare out of the window. Knowing he would not be hurried, Helena resumed her seat on the sofa, waiting in silence.

  Finally, Aaron turned to face her. “Ellie, I’ve received word from Ireland.”

  The look on his face reminded her of when Nathan Bayle had told her he had found her Uncle Edmund, the longed for news delivered with an undertone of misery. “They have found Tobias?”

  Aaron threw a pleading glance in Guy’s direction and a creeping dread took hold of her. “Tell me.”

  “He continued to serve in Lutrell’s regiment.”

  “Didn’t they fight at Aughrim?” Guy spoke from behind her, referring to the Jacobite defeat which had signalled the surrender of Galway, followed by that of Limerick.

  “Aughrim?” Helena lifted her hand to her throat. “Robert says the casualties were enormous there.”

  “Around seven thousand, yes,” Aaron answered stiffly.

  “But it was a victory for King William. Wasn’t it?” Helena stared from her husband to her brother, unwilling to acknowledge what she most feared.

  “Three thousand of those casualties were Williamites, Helena.” Guy approached her with outstretched arms, but she backed away.

  “Please don’t say it,” she pleaded.

  “I have to,” Aaron said, his voice almost a whisper. “Tobias was killed.”

  “No!” A hard lump formed in her chest and she tried to cry out that it wasn’t true, but the words lodged in her throat.

  “Captain Dunbar, his commanding officer, says he fought bravely,” Aaron said. “He saved many of his comrades by throwing himself at the enemy—”

  Helena swung round to face him. “I don’t need to know how he died! What difference could it make when I’ve lost my brother?”

  Had she struck him, Aaron could not have looked more shocked.

  Guy muttered disapproval, but Helena held up a quivering hand. “I don’t wish to hear about empty heroism from either of you.” She whirled between them, silencing both with her vehemence. “Tobias Lumm was a wonderful man and I’m proud he was my blood, even if you, Aaron, couldn’t see it.” She dashed tears from her face. “I know you did not send him to his death deliberately, but he must have felt wretched for not being good enough to be a Woulfe. It would have made him more reckless.”

  Aaron held out his arms in a gesture of apology. “I’m so sorry, Ellie. I wish I’d had an opportunity to speak to him. Perhaps make it right between us.”

  “Would you have accepted him as kin?” She watched his gaze slide away from her, a dull flush creeping into his face. He was such a handsome man, and so loving, but he could be unyielding when he chose. “I thought not.” She turned and fled the room, slamming the door behind her. Lifting her skirts, she sped up the stairs to her chamber and threw herself on her bed, giving way to her grief.

  The door to her closet stood open and when she raised her head to wipe her face with a kerchief, she was looking at the painting of Exeter North Gate, which Tobias had given her as a wedding gift.

  Her tears flowed faster and above her sobbing she heard carriage wheels crunch down the drive, telling her Aaron was leaving.

  A moment later the door opened and Guy sidled quietly to her side. He took her in his arms and planted kisses in her hair, murmuring to her softly as she cried.

  Helena lay passive, trying not to wish the arms holding her close were William’s.

  * * *

  October 1690, Gravesend, Kent – Helena

  Guy and Helena stood on the quayside at Gravesend, waving Arthur Palmer off on the Cyrene, bound for Africa on the morning tide. He wore his gold embroidered long coat, brightly coloured ribbons dangling from tiny plaits of his periwig. Yellow diamonds winked in his ears, the wide sash round his waist blood coloured and heavily fringed

  “He still looks like a pirate,” Helena observed in the coach taking them back to London. “Though I cannot imagine why he should embark on an ocean voyage with winter approaching.”

  “He tried hard to be a respectable city gentleman, but it simply did not suit him.” Guy watched the streets as they rolled past the carriage window. No one had asked him if he would miss his uncle

  “Certainly not in the way it suits you.” Helena’s laugh held a trace of scorn.

  Guy slid his eyes at her exquisite profile, wondering what he had done to make her so scathing, but there were no clues in her face. No matter what she thought, Guy had acted out of compassion for his uncle, though criticism for his actions had been universal.

  He relaxed back in his seat and recalled a day three weeks before, when he had sat with his Uncle Arthur in the parlour at King Street.

  The old man had sat hunched on a settle beside in an indifferent fire, staring at nothing.

  “Are you unwell, Uncle?” Guy had asked, mildly annoyed the man did not seem pleased Guy had taken the time to visit.

  “No, merely restless confined to the city, Guy. It may sound incomprehensible to you. But I long to breathe salt air again.”

  Since Guy was a boy, his Uncle Arthur’s face stood out in his memory as being brown and tough as leather from the sea and sun. His sparking blue eyes were always moving, assessing, missing nothing. He still wore brightly coloured coats and the diamond earrings which so fascinated Helena, but the eyes he had lifted to Guy’s face that day were dull and lifeless.

  His complexion had sported a yellowish tinge and the old man spent the rest of Guy’s visit reminiscing about the thrill of rounding Cape Horn, sailing into Cadiz Harbor on a spring day or falling asleep under stars on a too-hot deck. Even living on rations and battling high seas in the southern hemisphere were memories he harked back to with ill-concealed longing.

  While Guy marshalled his thoughts in his head, his uncle must have taken his reticence for disapproval and gave a half-hearted laugh. “Ach! Don’t listen to me, boy.” He had waved a dismissive hand. “Pay no heed. It’s just an old man’s yearning for his younger days.”

  Guy had sipped his coffee, regarding him properly fo
r the first time in weeks. What he had seen had unnerved him. His relative was visibly withering in the noisy, polluted confines of King Street. On impulse, he had made a suggestion. “Why don’t you take one last voyage, Uncle? While you are still fit enough to stomach ship’s food.”

  The old man lifted wet eyes in disbelieving gratitude and Guy had known it had been the right thing to do.

  * * *

  October 1691, Charles Street, London – Henry

  Henry found it impossible to keep his promise to his sister not to see Mary Ann. He convinced himself a formal visit to offer his condolences would be perfectly acceptable and presented himself at the Holt mansion in The Strand.

  The footman stared at him down a patrician nose, keeping him on the step.

  “Lady Holt is not receiving, sir”

  “I insist you announce me,” Henry growled, incensed.

  The footman gave an insolent shrug and while Henry was drawing himself up in preparation for a confrontation, he heard a familiar voice.

  “Henry. Is that you?”

  The footman shuffled aside with a barely concealed snort, at which Henry brushed past him into the hallway. Mary Ann stood in a shaft of light coming through the quarter light above the door.

  “I knew you would come,” she breathed, twisting her hands in front of her. “I saw Father’s coach from the landing, but I knew it would be you.” Henry stared at her, unable to believe she was real. She looked just the same with her pert, oval face and the wispy curls at her temple glowing almost red in the sunlight. Her eyes glowed and her smile told him she had longed for this meeting too.

  “Y—your father was kind enough to lend it to me,” he stammered. From the corner of his eye he saw the footman’s disapproving stare and tried to ignore it. The morning light illuminated Mary Ann’s slender figure in her black satin gown. Her hair, worn in glossy curls pulled back from her brow, took on a dozen shades of chestnut, copper and red. A simple black ribbon brushed her slender shoulders, her white throat bare of jewellery. She took a step toward him and his arms closed around her, their bodies fitting together as if they had touched like this just yesterday. He closed his eyes, drinking in the same fragrance he remembered, a combination of jonquil and tuberose. His anxiety vanished when her soft lips melted into his and she strained against him, her arms encircling his neck.