He had an appointment at St James Palace in the morning with a Duchess who wished to view some ornamental glass arrived from Italy. Exhaustion overcame him at the thought of the charm he would have to expend in order to ingratiate himself.
Men were far more straightforward. If they liked something, they purchased it, without William having to pretend they graced him with their favour, or that the items he showed them were for their benefit alone.
The door closing behind the servant set something clicking in his head. None of it mattered in any event. Not without Helena. Even getting drunk held no escape for him these days; it simply made him more disillusioned with his life and unwilling to continue the pretence.
He had had enough of pretence.
Slapping the arms of his chair with both fists, he sprang from the seat, throwing himself onto the stool at his bureau and pulled a page of cream parchment from a drawer. He plucked a feather from a pot on his right and expertly cut a goose quill, his well-formed hand rapidly filling the page without one crossing out or ink blot. Once finished, he swept the sand off the parchment with a steady hand, held a stick of wax in a lighted candle to drip a blood-red molten stream onto the edge of the folded parchment. Pressing his ring into the centre of the hardening blob, he sat back, satisfied.
The same footman appeared in response to the bell and William handed him the note. “See this is delivered to Palmer House, would you?”
* * *
April 1692, Palmer House, London – Helena
Helena responded to the scratch at her bedchamber door with a weary “What is it, Chloe?”
“A messenger left this, Mistress.” She handed her the folded square of parchment.
Helena saw the familiar seal and snatched it from Chloe’s fingers, her heart racing.
Chloe must have recognized it too, for she stood sullen faced, her lips puckered in disapproval. “You may go, Chloe.”
She ignored the maid’s glare as the door closed behind her, unfolding the paper with shaking fingers, her lower lip gripped in her teeth to stop welling tears blurring her vision.
My Helena
Forgive me, I was a fool to let others interfere in what I should have safeguarded against all harm. What you are to me is more than society, or even God can censure. I allowed myself to be swayed for your sake, but dare I believe you are as bereft and miserable as I?
I shall send this with my carriage for you within the hour, for I cannot bear another day, another moment without you.
I hope you will receive this message gladly, although I have behaved like a wretch and deserve your rejection for my neglect of both you and our love.
Your William
A line was scrawled at the bottom she had to squint to read.
Indulge me — wear the red gown. W
It was a daring note, an uncompromising plea with his signature scrawled boldly for the world to see. Helena pressed the page to her lips and releasing a girlish laugh, ran to her closet. She dragged out the dress she had hurled there after baby Charles’ christening, swearing never to wear it again. He had remembered, and this fact alone told her there would be no coldness between them this time. She struggled with the fastenings, emitting an impatient sigh when a housemaid entered, her arms full of linens.
“Mistress,” the girl tutted, dropping the pile on the bed. “Don’t pull so hard, you’ll tear the fabric that way.” She hurried forward to assist. “Do you wish me to fetch Chloe?”
Helena felt her cheeks burn. “No, you shall help me.”
With her curls tied up with a hastily fastened ribbon, Helena grabbed her cloak from the bemused maid and left the house. Gravel bit through the soles of her thin shoes during her leisurely walk toward the waiting coach, as if by denying her eagerness, she could slow the thudding of her heart. A footman opened the door, revealing an interior made gloomy from the lowered and fastened flaps, bringing a smile to her face at William’s thoughtfulness.
She lifted her skirt and climbed inside, the bright daylight immediately cut off as the door swung back into place. Helena blinked in the gloom, groping to find the seat, but the driver had already cracked his whip and the contraption sprang forward. She lost her balance, but strong arms grabbed her and soft lips nuzzled into her neck.
“I couldn’t wait an hour,” William whispered.
She turned into his embrace with a choked sob, one arm circling his neck and her other hand cupping his chin, her fingertips running along his familiar jaw line. With mounting urgency, she pressed her lips to his, loving his surprised moan at her eagerness, her tongue seeking the exquisite taste of him.
His hands on her bodice conjured vivid, sensual memories and her body began to stir. A groan of desire escaped her lips and she let her head fall back to invite his kisses on her neck. It was difficult to see him in the half light, but she didn’t need to. She knew every contour of that beloved face, and besides, it was delicious kissing in the darkness.
“Are we going to Berkley Street?” she asked when they finally separated.
“What a hussy.” William’s voice was throaty with a combination of lust and laughter. He pulled her back into his arms. “Later. This afternoon, my love, we are to attend the theatre.”
“In public?”
Helena’s teasing look was most likely lost in the shadows, but she was too happy to care. William’s arms tightened around her and she relaxed against him, shivering when he kissed her almost naked shoulder. Comfortable in his arms, she knew there would be no recriminations or apologies; none were needed.
The carriage rolled to a stop and William opened the window flap. She slid closer on the bench seat, a pleasant tugging deep within her gut. “Why don’t we forgo Drury Lane altogether?” She just wanted to be in his arms.
“I said, later.” He held her off, yet his eyes smouldered as he met her gaze. “Will this be adequate?” He indicated a black satin mask that dangled from one hand.
“Excellent.” She made a grab for it, but he moved it out of her reach, so she exchanged it for kisses. “Wait, I must pull up my hood, the vizard isn’t enough. Is my face covered?”
“From hairline to mouth.” William laughed as he handed her down from the carriage. “No one could tell who you are. I might be escorting the Queen.”
“Hardly, Her Majesty is taller than me.”
He escorted her into a box above the stalls, in plain view of an audience who talked loudly in groups or leaned over balconies calling to friends. Candles were placed around the stage, emitting a layer of smoke which gave the actors an ethereal look.
“It is not remarkable to attend the playhouse with a family friend,” William reasoned when Helena drew back from the stares directed their way.
“I know, but I suspect Chloe knows I’m with you. I simply don’t want any awkward questions asked when I get home.”
“Chloe?” William’s laugh brought curious and admiring stares from nearby boxes. “Are you telling me you are hiding behind a cloak because of your maid?”
“Shush, Will, everyone is looking.”
During the interval, a parade of visitors called at their box to pay respects to William, including matrons with unmarried daughters who gushed and simpered over him, completely ignoring Helena. Suspecting many came principally to discover more about his masked companion, Helena remained haughtily silent while those to whom she had often played hostess at Palmer House cast her curious looks.
“Now I really do feel like a Mistress,” she whispered, indicating the retreating back of a Marquis who sat with them throughout the interval, winking at her and grinning suggestively. “He barely speaks when I encounter him in Guy’s company.”
The second act passed in a blur, with Helena sitting closer to William than strictly necessary. Contentment spread through her when he lifted her hand to his lips, leaning in to kiss her in full view of the audience, who pretended to watch the play. Helena giggled. It was all so delightfully dangerous.
“Are you enjoying th
e play at least?” he asked, nibbling the ends of her fingers.
“I’m not sure. What is it?”
His shout of delighted laughter brought a sea of heads lifting in their direction from the stalls below. “It’s Congreve’s Old Batchelor. Madame Bracegirdle is acting her heart out as Araminta on stage and you have no idea what the play is about?”
“Oh, I don’t care Will, could you move closer? I want you to kiss me again.”
At Berkley Street later that afternoon, Helena reacquainted herself with William’s bed, where fat cupids watching them from the canopy. Later, she wrapped herself in a white sheet and drifted to the window seat overlooking the Berkeley House garden. “Have you seen much of your new neighbours?”
William looked up from pouring wine, frowning. “You mean the Princess Anne?” His bare head and muscled, naked torso made her fingers itch to touch him—again. “I heard she moved out of the Cockpit, but not the more salacious gossip that prompted it.”
“According to Phebe, it is all to do with this interminable quarrel between the princess and the queen. The princess persistently demands privileges for her favourite, together with more money for herself. Aaron says the king is convinced Sarah Churchill is at the root of it and has taken against the Marlboroughs. He says they must go.”
“John Churchill too?” William looked up with a broad smile. “I hear he accepted bribes.”
“Do you think that’s true?”
William shrugged. “The Churchills are always amenable to hard cash.”
“Princess Anne took Sarah Churchill to court after Marlborough’s dismissal, and actually expected Queen Mary to receive her,” Helena said, shocked.
“A flagrant breach of etiquette.” William feigned outrage.
“You know this already, don’t you?” She flapped a hand at him.
“Yes, but I like to hear you tell it. You make it sound far more interesting.”
Handing her a glass, he lowered himself onto the seat beside her. “Go on, I’m listening.”
Helena sipped the wine and nibbled at a cake. “Well, the queen was incandescent with rage, but with the Princess Anne pregnant again, she simply wrote and demanded Sarah Churchill be dismissed. Instead, the Princess packed her bags and left her apartments in a fierce temper.” Helena brushed crumbs off the bunched up sheet.
“And Churchill is now in the Tower,” William murmured, narrowing his eyes to peer at the garden below. “Which one is she?”
“Sarah or the princess?”
“I’m a great admirer of the divine Sarah. No, I meant the princess.”
Helena slapped him playfully. “The short woman in the blue gown, see?”
“She’s very stout, and her not yet thirty.” William removed the plate of cakes from her lap, turned sideways on the seat with an arm draped across her bare shoulders and his head bent to nibble her neck.
“Lady Churchill is quite impatient with her. They appear to be arguing. William, do look.” She pretended to scold, but relished the feel of his skin against hers. He tightened his hold round her, resting his chin on her shoulder. The light took on a rich, golden glow as they sat watching the tiny court squabble in the garden below. “I’m sad for her,” Helena said. “She suffered all those pregnancies, and yet with no baby to hold at the end.” A shudder ran through her and she pushed such thoughts away, plucked William’s hand from her waist, her fingers twined in his.
“I must go home,” she whispered, though she hated to leave him. It had been such a wonderful day.
“Will you return tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow. And every tomorrow.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
April 1693, Palmer House, London – Helena
Helena bustled around Palmer House, relishing her role of hostess to family and friends gathered to celebrate the marriage of Henry Woulfe, to Lady Mary Ann Newman Holt.
The death of Lord Holt had caused a minor scandal the previous year, but despite frequent urging, Henry volunteered no further information than what was reported in the broadsheets.
By the time the mourning period was over, the incident was forgotten and the Newmans accepted Henry’s courtship of their daughter with something like relief.
“With two girls yet still unmarried, I expect they had no more energy for a second round of husband-hunting for the eldest,” Guy had observed tactlessly.
William arrived alone for the wedding, darkly handsome in blue velvet and a black periwig. In every room he occupied, simpering girls and blushing matrons gravitated toward him. Helena hovered on the fringes of his admirers, looking for opportunities to simply look at him or hold her hand out to be kissed, the pleasure of his touch heightened by mutual desire.
“I’ll be back in a moment,” she whispered at one point, her fingers tracing his jaw. “I must ensure the servants have prepared the tables correctly.”
“I’ll wager neither Mary Ann nor Henry will notice the food when they see what you have done here.” He waved an arm at the swags of spring flowers looped over the doorways and the overflowing bowls on every surface.
He followed her into the dining room where she fluttered from one table to another, moving silver platters an inch here, a glass a fraction there. Crisp white linen cloths adorned tables and crystal glasses winked in the sunlight.
“I simply want everything to be perfect.” She set off along the hall. “Henry and Mary Ann have waited so long for this day.”
“It’s all perfect.” His voice held an exasperated note, and without warning, he pulled her into a small salon beside the main ballroom, away from the partygoers. She made mild, but ineffective protests as he closed the door with a swift backwards kick and took her in his arms.
“I’ve missed you this past week,” he whispered into her hair.
She spread her hands against his chest, pushing him away playfully. “I know, and I’ve missed you.” She tugged his cravat into place, planting a kiss on his cheek. “Now I must return to my guests, William.” She pried his arm from her waist with a teasing smile. “And, have a care for my reputation.” She opened the door and re-entered the hall, just as Aaron wandered by, looking elegant in a light blue long coat embroidered with gold and mother of pearl. A young woman Helena did not recognize clung to his arm.
“Good day, Helena.” He waved a hand in her direction, then spotting William at her shoulder, bowed, adding, “Master Devereux.”
Helena appraised him with a smile, aware of the doe-eyed girl giving her suspicious looks over her shoulder as they moved off down the hall. Helena was used to this, but still hated the fact that women would almost knock her over in their eagerness to attract Aaron’s attention.
Lifelong knowledge told her he resembled their mother, although it dismayed her to realize she had forgotten what Lady Elizabeth Woulfe looked like. Even her father was no more than a vague imprint. Henry reminded her of him sometimes, but fleetingly.
Helena’s gaze sought out the bridegroom, who stood proudly beside his new wife, chattering to a group of well-wishers. Mary Ann’s musical laughter carried across the hall, her tiny waist encircled by Henry’s arm with Hannah between them. The little girl was almost four years old now and looked charming in pink muslin and lace, her hand held firmly in Henry’s.
William leaned close, whispering, “And shall you visit the newlywed couple, often, Mistress Palmer?”
His warm breath on Helena’s bare shoulder made her quiver. “More often than they shall ever know,” she murmured, unable to prevent a sigh as she studied her younger brother.
William seemed to sense her unease. “Are you still worried about the circumstances of Lord Holt’s demise?”
“I cannot dwell on it any more. Whatever the truth of it is, Henry and Mary Ann deserve to be together.”
“Depending upon whom you believe, the man was either a grand fellow or a complete blackguard. Henry had his reasons to believe the latter.”
Helena brought her chin up to stare into his eyes. “He told
you?”
“Not all of it, but we’ve talked.”
“What do you think I should do?”
“Leave well alone, my love. Sometimes good can come out of a reprehensible action.”
“You think Henry—?”
He held a finger up to her lips. “I think nothing. Henry is a good man. They deserve their happiness. Leave them to enjoy it.”
She gave him a teasing look. “Who would not be happy, with a collection of jewels Queen Mary would envy?” She nodded toward Mary Ann’s emerald collar, studying it with the eye of a goldsmith’s wife.
Helena looked to where Celia bustled toward them, aware that William had jerked his arm rapidly from round her waist.
“Helena, why are you hiding away in this corner?” Celia scolded. “While your own wonderful party carries on without you.” Her breathless speech and extravagant hand gestures reminded her of Alyce—the same inflections but without the patches. Celia was pregnant again and seemed to have grown to a matronly shape quite early.
“Have you seen Phebe?” Celia asked, frowning as her gaze swept the room. “I saw her but a moment ago.” Without waiting for a response, she rushed on. “Hendrick is to be given a title and allocated larger apartments at St James.”
Helena made appropriate noises, but it was hard to concentrate while William stroked her bare arm behind her back.
“I had heard, and I’m happy for them. However, I’ve not yet been invited to her present ones.” A smile tugged at Helena’s mouth as William pulled and squeezed the fingers of her right hand.
“Have you not?” Celia’s light brown eyes fluttered in surprise. “They’re quite small, and high up in the attics, but well appointed.”
They were interrupted by Celia’s small daughter, Eleanor, who dragged her mother way to mediate over the possession of a toy horse up in the nursery. “Edmund took it and frew it in the garden.” The child’s brown eyes flashed anger, but her pink bowed lips quivered.
Celia bore her away in a flurry of kisses and when she was out of earshot, William leaned toward Helena. “It’s time I behaved like a proper guest and returned to the party.” He caught her hand in his and dropped a soft, lingering kiss on her upturned wrist, gazing into her eyes with a look of such intimacy, warmth crept into Helena’s face and she wished they were alone.
The Goldsmith's Wife (The Woulfes of Loxsbeare Book 2) Page 22