Long seconds passed before he let her go, then only in response to her protests that she couldn’t breathe. Standing just an inch or so shorter than he, he drank in the face he had conjured into his head so often.
Throwing a brief, admonitory look at the footman, Mary Ann took his hand and pulled Henry into a small saloon beside the main staircase. His architect’s eye took in his surroundings in a glance. It was an elegant house, if masculine, its dark colours and heavy furnishings making Mary Ann appear like an exquisite doll.
A pair of glazed doors stood at one end of the room, a walled courtyard visible beyond. “You mustn’t stay long,” she stammered nervously, but both her hands clasped his tightly, laying the lie to her words.
“Long enough for a polite call.”
“Perhaps, but he will be back soon.”
Henry frowned. “Who will?”
“Lord Holt.” At Henry’s confused frown she held up her hand. “Not Joshua. His nephew, Ethridge. He lives here now.”
“Then you may introduce me.” He grinned.
She squeezed her eyes shut with a tiny groan. “Henry, you don’t understand.”
“Then tell me.” Instinctively he knew there was something wrong. But he didn’t care what horrors she had to unfold. This was Mary Ann and her troubles were his.
The door to the courtyard stood open and they sat side by side on a white painted love seat bathed in sunlight. It might have been a perfect scene of summer peace, but the story Mary Ann told him was neither serene, nor peaceful.
“Sir Joshua was a good man, Henry. I never wanted for anything. I was treated with respect by his household and his family.”
Henry could not help a pang of jealousy grip his stomach, but he recovered quickly. “I’m glad he made you happy.”
She cocked her head on one side, her eyes moistening. “I wasn’t happy. Just not miserable. There is a difference.” She slid closer to him on the bench until their hips touched, the pressure of her against his thigh like a burn. “The title and estate are entailed,” she went on. “I’ve always known that. But when Joshua died, Etheridge started being, well, attentive to me.”
“He courted you?” Henry forced the words past a thickening tongue.
Her sudden laugh turned into a sob. “If it was courtship, it took a very sinister turn. No, he’s made it quite clear. I am to remain in this house, under his control.”
“What do you mean? You are a widow now, with your own income and—” She pressed the fingers of one hand to his lips to silence him, her eyes pleaded with him to be patient. “Listen, Henry, please. In his will, Joshua charged Etheridge with looking after me. Me and Hannah.” She hesitated, her lips moving but no sound came out. “The settlement made upon me is in Ethridge’s hands. He will not give me one farthing unless I agree to—”
“Agree to what?” Henry frowned, what she said made no sense.
She stared at the floor. “To be his mistress.”
Henry leapt to his feet, severing their physical connection. A dull ache formed in his jaw and he stared, unseeing out at the courtyard garden. He could have exploded with frustration. After their years apart, how could fate be so cruel as to offer him a spark of hope, only to put more obstacles in their way? It was more than he could bear.
He felt her hand on his shoulder, his self-pity turning to despair that was replaced by anger. How dare he treat Mary Ann—his Mary Ann—like a common street girl. Not even to offer her marriage.
He turned to face her, seeing his own anguish reflected in her eyes. She braced both hands against his chest and dropped her head, her forehead pressed against his chin. He held her to him, brushing his fingertips across her jaw, her skin soft beneath his fingers. How had he lived so long without her? “We don’t need your husband’s money.” He gave the house a dismissive glance. “We can manage on my income very well.”
She tilted her head and searched his face, her eyes welling with unshed tears. “I always imagined you would ride to my rescue.”
“In your father’s carriage?” If his chest didn’t hurt so much he would have laughed.
“Not exactly. But seeing you at door made me hope—” she broke off with a sigh.
Henry grasped her upper arms. “Keep hoping, Mary Ann. I’ll not let you stay here. Settlement or not, you will leave here with me and—”
”You don’t understand.” She pushed him away, and bounced on her toes, frustrated. “I’ve pleaded my grief for Joshua as an obstacle thus far, but he is growing impatient.”
“The devil take him! I shall demand he release you. He has no right.”
“It is not so simple, Henry.” Her voice was flat. “He will take Hannah from me. He knows she is the only one I care for. Besides you.”
“How could he do such a thing, she is your child?”
She reached up to touch his cheek, a weary smile on her face. “My sweet, innocent, Henry. Do you have any inkling of how easy it would be for Lord Holt to separate me from my daughter?” Henry shook his head, genuinely baffled. “Of course you do not. You are a man. Your decisions are your own. Ethridge could publicly declare me an unfit mother. Bribe a doctor to say I’m unstable. His status and his money will cushion him from any law, every morality. Henry, he can do exactly as he pleases.”
Henry felt dizzy. Could what she said be true? Did the man want Mary Ann so badly, he was willing to force her into his bed? “What if we told your father? He has friends, he would not let this happen.” New hope filled his chest as the possibilities came to him. “Helena knows John Evelyn, he would help, I’m sure.”
“None of that would save Hannah. Etheridge would keep her to spite me. I love you, Henry. But I’m not going to leave her here. With him.”
Pain seared his chest anew. Of course she could not abandon her daughter. How could this be happening? The last time they stood this close, she had been crying then too.
He examined minutely the face he had conjured so often during their time apart, drinking it in as though it might be the last time. But it couldn’t be.
He wasn’t going to give up now.
Rested his thumb beneath her eye, he trapped a tear that threatened to spill onto her cheek.
She dabbed at her face with a kerchief, relaxing against him with a small sigh, pulling away almost immediately to bring a finger to her lips. Henry turned, half expecting to see the cause of his heartbreak. Instead of the unknown figure of Lord Holt, a tiny girl of about two years old sat hunched against the banister.
Her knees were drawn up under her chin and thick, red-brown curls hung loose down her back. Wide, round eyes stared at Henry with interest and fear. She wore unrelieved black, which struck him as odd in a child so young. He wondered how long she had been sitting there.
“This is Hannah,” Mary Ann said unnecessarily.
Henry hunkered down and held out his arms. He did not know this child, and he was a stranger to her, but it seemed the most natural thing to do. Small arms clamped round his neck and she came away light as he lifted her onto his hip, her tiny chin tucked in as she regarded him gravely.
“She likes you,” Mary Ann sniffed, dabbing her nose delicately with an inadequate square of lace.
“Why shouldn’t she like her new Papa?” Henry squeezed the little body, making her laugh. She had her mother’s laugh.
Mary Ann’s face crumpled. “Oh, Henry, if only we could.”
“Not yet,” he whispered. “But we will. We deserve our happiness and I promise I’ll find a way to take you away from here. Both of you.”
Carriage wheels rumbled onto the drive and all too soon, the footman could be heard, welcoming his master home.
In a swift, capable movement, Mary Ann grabbed Hannah out of Henry’s arms, shoving him back toward the room they had just left. She pulled him toward the casement and ushered him into the courtyard. “The gate at the far end leads into a rear alley.”
He paused, debating with himself whether to run or stand and challenge the man, but kne
w it would do no good. A confrontation may make Mary Ann’s position untenable. “I’ll go, but I’ve found my courage. I won’t fail you again.”
“Dear Henry, you’ve never failed me. We both did what we had to do.”
“Even so, I—” She stopped his words with a firm, demanding kiss, then pushed him out of the door and fastened it behind him.
Henry held the gate open as long as he dared, fixing her white face in his head, her slender hand held up in farewell and her tiny daughter clutching her shoulder.
Chapter Twenty-Four
November 1691, Hatton Garden, London – Guy
Guy stood at his desk behind the wooden partition at the back of the workshop, examining a consignment of gold plate ordered by a belted earl for his country estate. The Huguenot craftsman hovered at his shoulder, pointing out the embossing of the family crest on each piece with a work-calloused finger.
The man laboriously explained the difficulties with the design, but Guy forbore to mention he had been a goldsmith long enough to appreciate these characteristics for himself.
The low buzz of the workshop interspersed with the clicks and scrape of hand tools was interrupted by the arrival of Elias Ffoyle.
Guy strode forward to welcome his visitor, while curious faces watched their progress down the room from the row of benches.
“What can I do for you, Elias?” Guy frowned at his unexpected presence. “Have you come to select some jewels for the lovely Amy?”
A shadow crossed his visitor’s face and Elias shook his head. “I collected this at Lloyds about an hour ago.” He pressed a broadsheet into Guy’s hand. “I can only say how sorry I am.”
Puzzled, Guy read the paragraph Elias indicated, but it didn’t make sense at first and he had to read it again. Then his knees buckled and he staggered against his desk, the paper falling from his nerveless hand onto the polished surface.
“…on the eighth day of the month of October, the ship Cyrene went down in a storm off the Gambia with the loss of all souls on board.”
“I imagined it would be better coming from a friend.” Elias laid a hand on his shoulder. “I lost my mother last winter. I know what it is you feel.”
Murmuring a promise to bring Helena to see Amy and the children soon, Guy saw Elias to the door in a daze. He returned to a subdued workshop, ignoring the condolences thrown his way, shouldered behind the concealing partition and slumped at his desk.
Images of his childhood raced through his head of standing on the quayside at Gravesend, shivering in the pre-dawn with a morose servant at his side. Then the thrilling sight of his uncle, his arms full of packages brought from exotic places as he stomped down the gangplank. Down many gangplanks. In every memory Guy cherished, the old man wore a bright yellow or light blue coat, his peruke ribbons bobbing and the jewels in his ears winking in the sunlight.
Guy was thirty-three, a wealthy, respectable goldsmith, would-be banker, husband to a beautiful, well-bred woman and father of three delightful sons. But as he sat with his head in his hands, reality tilted away from him, leaving him bereft and alone.
“Now I’m truly an orphan,” he whispered into the chilled room.
When Guy looked up again, the workshop was empty. The brazier in the corner had grown cold and an icy wind sliced beneath the door. Dragging himself to his feet, he fumbled with the fastenings of his coat. Nodding a brief salute to the burly guard assigned to sleep in the strong room that night, he stepped into the icy street.
It was a sharp, clear evening and he walked slowly, oblivious of the urchins and whores who tried to catch his eye. He recalled his uncle’s sprightly step as he boarded the Cyrene, anticipating the coming voyage with the enthusiasm of a child. Not for a moment had Guy imagined he might never see his only surviving relative again.
The footman took his cloak at the door of Palmer House and Helena wandered into the hall to greet him. Guy did not respond to her gentle enquiries as to why he was so late, or her offer to send Glover to prepare a cold supper. Her warm lips on his cheek were almost his undoing, and only the presence of the servants prevented him from throwing himself into her arms.
He followed her into the salon and before his nerve failed him, repeated the report he had memorized from the London Gazette.
Helena gasped, bringing her hands to her mouth in horror, her glorious eyes flashing accusingly. “You should never have let him sail to Africa.”
He stared back at her in shock, her grief taking him completely by surprise. He had no idea she held the old man in such regard.
“Uncle always made his own decisions, Helena. He was more than aware of the possible consequences of sailing ships.” He draped a comforting arm around her shoulders, accepting that he had had most of the afternoon to reconcile himself to news.
“Oh, Guy, how unfeeling,” Helena snapped, her face tear-streaked. “Possible consequences indeed. The truth is we sent him away to be drowned in some terrible storm.” She shook off his arm and fled the room, her sobs echoing in the hall as she ran up the stairs.
Guy stood, bewildered at the echo of yet another door shaking in its frame. Helena seemed to cry a great deal lately.
Alone again, he leaned an arm on the mantle, watching flames lick and spit in the grate. “Uncle loved storms,” he whispered, blinking hard.
* * *
March 1692, London Bridge – Henry
Henry hung back in the shadows on the icy cobbles of a deserted Thames Street. Unwilling to make himself the subject of awkward questions he had no inclination to answer, he kept a wary eye out for the Watch.
His cloak smelled musty and, imagining who might have been its previous owner, Henry wrinkled his nose in distaste. Purchased at Gimbarts, the second hand clothes shop in Long Lane, he kept it concealed in his room. Had they seen it, his hosts would have asked questions about why he possessed such a drab, worn thing.
Henry’s discrete enquiries about Lord Holt culminated at a barber in Cheapside, who claimed to regularly visit the man at his place of business. In the tradition of his profession, the man proved loose-tongued, almost eager, to reveal his patron’s less endearing habits.
“He’s a gambler is that’n,” the barber prattled. “I suspect he gives Lady Luck a nudge on occasion, so to speak.” He winked knowingly. “Like most rich bachelors he likes the ladies too. “’E frequents the Rose Tavern, and those ’ores are said to be the best this side of the river.”
Henry listened with growing revulsion while he endured a shave he did not need.
Leaving the barbershop, he located the euphemistically named Rose Tavern in a side street near Botolph’s Wharfe. In the alley that ran down one side, a gap-toothed baggage accosted him, singling him out, Henry imagined, as a healthy change from her usual clientele. Ignoring his polite rebuff, it took a threatening curse to dislodge her at the same moment a coach rolled to a halt on the far side of the street. The dim street lamps placed at every tenth house provided poor light, but he could make out the Holt crest on the doors.
Henry pressed flat against the wall as a figure stepped onto the slick cobbles, his face hidden by a broad-brimmed hat. Before entering the Rose Tavern, he waved the carriage off, leaving Henry to wonder if the coachman would return for his master later, or if Lord Holt planned another method of returning home.
Tightening his cloak around him, Henry pulled his hat down low over his face and strode into the inn. The room was badly lit and had a low ceiling, with poor quality tallow candles that smoked into an atmosphere already thick with pipe smoke, stale ale and human sweat. Rickety wooden benches stood against clumsily nailed together tables scattered haphazardly around the room.
Holt’s appearance was unremarkable, but Henry imagined he had a certain masculine presence that might appeal to women. Tall and square shouldered with deep brown eyes, Ethridge Holt was wholesome and well groomed, revealing good teeth in a wide, frequent smile.
Instead of joining the other patrons, Holt turned and disappeared through
a rear door. Prepared to wait, Henry made his way to a table and signalled a server to bring him a jug of ale, recoiling as the soiled sawdust from the floor stuck to his shoes. His refusal to make eye contact successfully discouraged approaches from serving girls and drinkers alike, who left him to his solitary vigil and the slightly sour ale.
The clientele was made up of those with little place in the respectable world, who required somewhere to pass their daylight hours until darkness came, when their nefarious activities could begin.
Henry watched with fascinated detachment a scrawny man sidle past three patrons, pocketing something from each. He was so absorbed in the man’s sleight of hand, he almost missed the swaggering re-entry of Lord Holt into the room, his embroidered vest unbuttoned over a crumpled shirt, his cravat hanging loose. A slatternly girl clung to his arm; she appeared to have dressed in a hurry, her hair awry and her bodice loosely fastened. A frisson of excitement coursed through Henry at the sight of his enemy.
“’Ad a good night of it, Milord?” the landlord addressed Holt, rubbing his hands together in anticipation of a generous spender.
Holt ordered rum in a braying voice, and slapped the serving girl on the rump with a loud, wet chuckle that sent her off with a squeal, while the one on his arm pursed her lips in a sulky pout.
Holt dragged a stool across the floor and joined a group of men who ignored everyone else in the room, their voices loud and patronizing. They ordered copious amounts of spirits, which rapidly disappeared down the men’s throats, their conversation growing ever louder and bawdier. A girl in a faded green skirt sauntered by, strands of her long, grubby fair hair peeking out from under her frayed cap. Her route through the tables brought her near Holt, his lewd remark making it clear he had enjoyed her temporary favours in the past. He made a clumsy grab for part of her anatomy, but she twisted out of his reach with well-practiced skill, the rip in her sleeve indicating she had failed that manoeuvre on at least one other occasion. The rebuff did not appear to bother Holt, who winked broadly at her retreating rear.
The Goldsmith's Wife (The Woulfes of Loxsbeare Book 2) Page 20