The Rebel’s Daughter

by Anita Seymour

  “They were very close.” Helena’s hands trembled as she reached for the chocolate pot. The container came up light in her grasp and she indicated to a server to bring more. “Is what he is doing dangerous?”

  “I cannot say, but Prince William of Orange strikes me as a man who will not act until certain of a favorable outcome.” His voice held a cynical note.

  “And there is still no news of my father?”

  Lumm was prevented from speaking by the arrival of the server, who removed the empty plates and replenished the ale and chocolate. With a nod and a smile at them both, he slid a plate of tiny biscuits onto the table.

  “They have been experimenting in the kitchen again.” Helena watched as he plucked an oval from the dish, examining it closely before taking a bite.

  She frowned, the action sticking a chord in her head, his mannerism familiar. The tilt of his head, the way he held his hand - something that struck a memory she couldn’t quite place. “I couldn’t help but notice that you and my father appeared to enjoy an unusual relationship at Loxsbeare.”

  “What do you mean?” He stared at the biscuit he turned over in his fingers.

  “You talked to him in a way that no servant talks to his master.”

  “My relationship with Sir Jonathan bothered you?”

  Helena shrugged. “You were always in his company. Out on the estate and in the house. You went with him to Exeter and Plymouth, when before he always used to take…” she faltered, unwilling to admit the one he often took was herself. Her father’s neglect had hurt her. “I distrusted you.”

  “I know.” His gaze held hers with something like compassion, yet without resentment. He brushed crumbs from his breeches with the back of his hand. Watching him, Helena’s eyes narrowed. How he reminded of someone. But who?

  “Why did you want to bring me the letter, then go all the way to Holland to see Aaron?”

  He ducked his head, and slanted a look at her from beneath lowered lashes that made her gasp at its familiarity. “Who are you, really, Tobias Lumm?”

  He smiled, a slow, beautiful smile, bringing tenderness into his eyes. He leaned forward until their faces were inches apart. “Sir Jonathan met my mother about a year before he married Lady Elizabeth.” The corners of his mouth crinkled and a dimple appeared.

  Helena saw it, and everything became clear. “Go on,” she whispered, her heart hammering in her chest.

  “He was young, younger than I am now. He was handsome and wealthy, with a whole city paying him homage as Thomas Wolfe’s son. There was some rivalry between him and his twin when they were younger, I believe, so…” He gave a shrug as if explanations were unnecessary. “My mother was pretty, flirtatious, and flattered when he paid her attention.”

  “Father told you all this?”

  Tobias nodded. “When I first came to Loxsbeare.”

  “What happened?”

  One arched brow slid upward. “When she discovered she carried me?” At Helena’s nod, he went on, “What you would expect? Your grandfather, Thomas Woulfe put money into the inn on condition Jim Lumm made an offer for my mother. Your grandfather had already sought a betrothal for your father, and he wasn’t going to let my mother ruin his plans.”

  “Yes I see. When did you discover you were not his?”

  “Mother burdened me practically from birth with the knowledge Jim was not my father.” His mouth twisted. “She would taunt him when he tried to discipline me, so he let me run wild, and saved his fathering for my four half-brothers.” He saw her frown and hurried on. “He was a good father. I never had to suffer the beatings my brothers did. In some ways, that spoiled me.” He indicated his embroidered burgundy vest beneath the long coat and breeches and the perfectly tied cravat and lace at his wrists. “She encouraged my vanity, as you see.” He laughed a full, happy laugh, revealing even teeth.

  “When you were young, did you know who your father was?”

  “No, not until Sir Jonathan offered me the stewardship of Loxsbeare.”

  Helena sat back in her chair, her thoughts torn between resentment that she had never known any of this, and fascination at the fact her father had another child.

  In a way she was pleased, because had their lives not been so dramatically altered, they would still be living at Loxsbeare, where Helena’s distrust and jealousy would have rejected the truth, and spoiled any future relationship between them. Idly she wondered if her mother had been aware of the situation.

  “Your mother knew,” he said, as if reading her thoughts.

  “She always treated you kindly.” Her tone was defensive, forestalling any complaint.

  “A true lady, she always behaved graciously toward me. Although she had every reason not to do so. When Samuel Ffoyle suggested Sir Jonathan employ me at Loxsbeare, she agreed willingly.”

  “Master Ffoyle knows?” Helena stared, then shook her head, laughing. “Of course he does, Samuel knows everything.”

  The tables began to fill as morning diners greeted Lubbock jocularly, calling for mulled wine and hot pies to keep out the cold.

  Helena stared at the new arrivals without seeing them, too occupied with her own thoughts. Then something occurred to her. “Have you told Aaron all this?”

  “I intended to.” Lumm sighed. “When news of the Pardon came. I imagined I might bring him home, to you and Henry. However, my plans went somewhat awry, when he decided to use his inheritance on intrigue in Holland.”

  The word inheritance jogged Helena’s brain. “Father managed to keep some of his estate back for us. Did you know that?”

  He reached across the table to take her hand. Helena let him, even welcoming his touch. Huddled in a booth, they could have been lovers on a secret tryst. The look he gave her was certainly loving, but not lover-like. The more she looked at him, the more of herself she saw in his features.

  “He left me the property your grandfather owned near Bedford House.” His gaze searched hers, seeking approval.

  “He was your grandfather too, Tobias.” Saying his given name seemed the natural thing to do just then. “I’m glad he gave the house to you. I am delighted too that you are my half-brother.”

  His devastating smile reappeared. “Thank you, Helena. I thought you would be angry.”

  “I would have been, a year ago. But I have lost too much of my family to be in a position to reject someone who actually wants to be connected to me.” Her happy laugh caused several gazes to swivel in their direction.

  “I wanted to tell Aaron all this,” Tobias relaxed back in his seat, “but seeing his grief for your mother, it did not seem appropriate, somehow.”

  She looked down at his hand, which rested on the table between them and felt a lump in her throat. He had Aaron’s hands.

  Aaron’s selfishness clearly demonstrated he cared for her less than she had imagined. Then there was Henry, who had betrayed her in his own way, when he left to live with the Newman’s. Neither brother had given a thought as to how she would find her way in a world where marriage was the only respectable choice for a woman. But then, who would marry her now? The daughter of a convicted traitor who faced certain death if he dared return?

  She inhaled, making a decision. “I’ll keep your secret, Tobias. When do you return to Exeter?” She sipped her third cup of chocolate of the morning, nursing her new knowledge.

  “The coach leaves from The Rose Inn in under an hour.” He nodded to Chloe, who stood with his bag at her feet beside the door, stood up, and gathered his Brandenburg coat from a nearby chair. “I hope you will allow me to write you. That is, if you do not feel it inappropriate for the landlord of a small inn to write Mistress Helena Woulfe of Lambtons?”

  “This is not really my home, Tobias. I’m merely a guest here. Of course I want you to write to me.” She rose with him and wandered outside into a street that teemed with life, noise, and less than savoury smells.

  He dropped a swift kiss onto her hand, then turned and walked away, his duffle bag slun
g casually across his shoulder, his hat tipped back on his head.

  “I al'ays told you he was a strange one,” Chloe snorted at her shoulder.

  Helena returned Tobias’s backward wave. “Stranger than you could ever know,” she murmured.

  Chapter 21

  Helena sat by the window overlooking the garden in her room, déshabillé in a loose, flowing gown tied over soft linen petticoats. The pastry she had dipped in her cup of chocolate halted mid-way to her mouth as she stared at Celia.

  “You are to be married in a month? What precipitated such a speedy decision?”

  “Sugar and spice and all things nice, I believe.” Celia sneaked a slice of bread and butter from Helena’s breakfast plate.

  “You’re making no sense.” Helena placed her half-filled cup onto the tray between them. Was her friend being innocently spontaneous, or was she being deviously witty?

  Celia rearranged her lace bertha round her voluptuous shoulders. “Ralf’s great uncle died last spring…which is a tragedy of course…” she waved the bread in the air. “Although Ralf hasn’t seen him since the age of five, or was it six…?” She trailed off and stared at the ceiling, a finger at her cheek.

  “Celia!” Helena prompted.

  “Oh, sorry. His uncle’s will stated when his ship returned from the West Indies, the proceeds of the cargo were to go to Ralf.” She nibbled delicately at the bread as she talked. ““Everyone imagined it must have been lost in a storm, or to pirates, or something; but the Emerald came into port last week. The cargo went for auction and sold for four thousand pounds.” She dragged the words out for effect. “Therefore, we have no need to wait and can marry immediately. Is that not wonderful news?”

  “Did Ralf ask if you were willing to marry earlier than planned?”

  “Should he have done?” Celia asked, reaching for another slice of buttered bread.

  Helena sighed and changed the subject. “Which church shall you be married in?”

  “We shall marry here of course, in Lambtons.” She licked butter from her fingers with a grimace. “No one of quality gets married in church.”

  “Why ever not?” Helena stared, the concept quite unknown to her.

  “Because, the ceremony would have to take place during divine service, when everyone who cares to may come and watch. The notion of a charivari would simply mortify Mama.”

  “What is a charivari?” Helena asked.

  “A charivari, my dear,” Celia”s mouth twisted in distaste, “is when a band of complete strangers gather outside the bride’s window with drums, whistles and bang sticks. They make as much noise as they can until they are paid to leave.”

  The image of Alyce Devereux confronted with such a spectacle made Helena smile

  “We are to have an evening wedding,” Celia declared, this apparently being the height of sophistication. “As it is, Father will have to pay the clergyman twenty shillings for us to marry outside canonical hours.” She rolled her eyes and sighed. “There seems to be a fee for everything one wishes to do these days.” Barely pausing to draw breath, she gabbled on, “Ralf is taking me to see his house tomorrow.”

  “He has bought a house?” Helena said, envious.

  Celia frowned. “Well no, the uncle left it to him. An old retainer lived there. According to the will, he could not have been dislodged. However, he died months ago, so now the property belongs in its entirety to Ralf. Is that not convenient?” Celia asked, her eyes shining with excitement.

  Helena’s thoughts went to the old servant, whose death appeared to have no effect on Celia. A year ago, Helena too would have been hard pressed to have given sympathetic thought to a servant. She wondered if this new aspect to her character was a good thing or not.

  Pouring more chocolate for herself and Celia, she pondered on how complicated life had become, with so many things to feel sad about. She could hardly remember the days when all that concerned her was how her new gown looked, or if her father would take her riding. How swiftly and with such randomness could fortunes be turned.

  The fact she lived comfortably with generous people reminded her there could have been a far worse alternative. In fact, had Master Devereux expected her to work as a serving girl in his inn, she would have been in no position to complain. The thought made her shiver.

  “Why are you looking so melancholy, Helena?” Celia asked suddenly.

  “Is that so? I apologise. What have I to feel melancholy about?”

  * * *

  On Celia”s wedding day, Helena wandered through Lambtons” halls. The walls were hung with ribbons, branches, violet and yellow heartsease, and cream meadowsweet like an enchanted garden, while serving men and girls bustled around like insects in response to Alice’s shrill orders.

  Despite several visits from the seamstress and hours of being measured, pinned and tucked in preparation for their wedding outfits, it was not the bride who declared her gown did not become her.

  “I hate the colour. It makes me look pale,” Phebe announced. Her complaints persisted most of the morning, and throughout Chloe’s weaving of sprays of rosemary and bay dipped in scented water. However, when Phebe caught sight of herself in the long glass, her features softened. “I look like a wood nymph,” she declared, smiling for the first time that day.

  The invited guests thronged the main dining hall, while the taproom regulars peered in at the windows to wish the bride happiness.

  Alyce made her Grand Entrance late, gliding into place beside Robert in a fuchsia silk gown, her face painted and patched like that of a courtier. Ralf wore nut-brown velvet, sumptuously embroidered with leaves and spring buds to match the season, which complemented the design picked out on Celia”s cream bodice. He stood shuffling his feet beside the bride, in an ebony wig that did not suit his pale colouring; his responses made with much stammering and false starts, whereas Celia was word perfect. After the ceremony, the principal guests surged forward to shake hands with the newlyweds, some to show approval for an alliance well-forged, while others congratulated themselves for whatever part they played in this union.

  Helena moved between acquaintances and strangers, chatting to guests who devoured the elaborately-prepared supper: roasted meats, savory pies and pasties, puddings and sallets, with cheeses, nuts and fruit, together with the excellent wines, ales and spirits Robert had bought especially for the occasion.

  Close to midnight, the wedding party all trooped noisily upstairs to the newlywed couple’s chamber in preparation for the bedding ceremony. Before the Groomsmen arrived, Alyce untied Celia”s blue silk garters, destined to be worn on their hats for weeks afterward, insisting, “We cannot have young men hunting disrespectfully beneath your skirt.”

  Celia stood shyly in her negligee as a loud knocking came at the door and a male voice called, “Ho Madame, let us in, we have a groom to put to bed!” Without waiting for permission, the door flew open, and a group of young men crowded the bedchamber, pulling a blushing Ralf after them.

  The Bridemen removed Celia”s garters and the riotous process of tying them to the men’s hats followed, hindered somewhat by the copious amounts of wine everyone had consumed.

  There followed loud and suggestive toasting, mostly at the groom’s expense, before a blushing Celia and self-conscious Ralf clambered onto the canopied bed. Phebe and Helena took up their positions, with their backs to the bed and each holding one of Ralf’s stockings.

  “Why are we doing this again?” Helena asked Phebe in a whisper.

  Phebe rolled her eyes, obviously scornful of the entire process. “Tradition states that if one of the stockings lands on one or both of them, the thrower will be married within the twelvemonth.”

  Giving the superstition no credence, but happy to join in the general hilarity, Helena acted on an indiscrete cue from Alyce and hurled the length of silk at the bed accompanied by loud and tipsy cheers.

  “Now you turn round,” Phebe urged, grabbing Helena’s arm. “Look, yours draped itself across
Celia”s face, but mine fell short. What a shame.”

  “You did that on purpose,” Helena accused her, rewarded with Phoebe’s mock innocent shrug. “Now what happens?”

  “It’s the men’s turn. Only they throw Celia”s stockings. Watch out!” Phebe tugged her swiftly aside. “These gallants tend to be less than gentle when they are full of Papa’s wine.”

  Repeated, the procedure proved a good deal noisier and far less skilled. The first stocking caught on the tester above, while Henry toppled over as he threw, drawing rowdy laughter as the stocking slid to the floor.

  Handsome in navy blue silk, William led the group of inebriated young men to raucous teasing of the bride and lewd suggestions to the groom.

  When Celia”s blushes threatened to turn into tears, Ralf earned Helena’s admiration by calling for silence and, nightshirt notwithstanding, firmly ordered everyone out.

  More laughter followed the disorderly mob onto the landing.

  “And you say this was better than a charivari?” Helena asked.

  “Indeed yes. Much more refined,” Phebe countered, staring at her as if she were demented.

  Helena stood to one side as the guests surged past her down the stairs. She arched her neck to release tense muscles, easing her shoulders luxuriously, and at the same time taking care not to disturb her elaborate coiffure.

  The chatter below receded. In the comparative silence that followed, Helena sensed she was being watched. She swiveled round at the same second a young man stepped from the shadows to her right. He leaned nonchalantly against the wall, an enigmatic smile on his lips, and his arms folded over his broad chest.

  Helena’s gaze roved his wine-colored suit worn with a loose white silk cravat, his brown hair tied back. He was not wearing a wig, and his air of unadorned masculinity made the rest of the male guests look overdressed. She placed her right hand on the rail, aware the pose showed her off to advantage. “I don’t believe we have been introduced, Sir.”