The Rebel’s Daughter

by Anita Seymour

  “Would you excuse me?” Helena threw Samuel a hard look, surprised at his insensitivity, and drew Henry away to a quiet corner of the room. He was so volatile lately, and now he had evidently consumed more than his customary amount of wine. Where had this strange anger come from? Since they arrived in London Henry had been the first to put aside his animosity for what had happened.

  “And if Argyll hadn’t been captured, and if Lord Delamere had acted as he promised.” She lowered her voice to what she hoped was a soothing tone. “And if Gray’s cavalry had been better schooled.” She stroked a strand of hair away from his forehead. “It’s over Henry, we have to get on with our lives.”

  Henry turned cold eyes on her. “Unless the Prince of Orange invades England, and brings our brother with him.”

  “Hush, that’s Rebel talk!” She shook his arm but he shrugged her off and with a low groan made his way toward the table were the jugs of wine were laid out.

  “What’s wrong with Henry?” Deborah asked, replacing her parents at Helena’s side.

  Helena shook her head. Whatever it was, she didn’t think it was the fate of Fletcher.

  “How are you liking London, Deb?” Helena appraised her green silk gown with its yellow échelles that complimented her red-brown hair, and made an effort to stop worrying about Henry, and Blanden, and enjoy the gathering.

  “I wanted to talk about the wedding,” Deborah said.

  “It’s not until early November,” Helena replied, her gaze still on Henry, who was now flirting with a neighbor’s daughter, making her blush.

  Deborah frowned. “Oh no, I did not mean your wedding, Helena.” Catching herself, she flushed. “Although, I offer my congratulations, of course. No, I was referring to Susannah’s. Has Father not told you?” Her face took on a look of mock innocence.

  “Has father not told her what?” Samuel said, returning.

  “Susannah is to marry?” Helena looked at Debs, and then back at Samuel, who nodded. “Why did no one tell me? Do I know the fortunate young man?”

  “You do, my dear, and he is not such a young man either,” Samuel chuckled. “It is Nathan Bayle.”

  Helena opened her mouth in a silent “o”. The Ffoyles had been in London nearly a month, yet no one, not even gossipy Debs, had mentioned one word about it.

  “I think it’s a perfect match,” Henry interjected, staggering back into the circle, the blushing girl at his side. He gave a loud hiccough, then sniggered, as if his bad manners were a huge joke.

  Helena turned on him. “You knew?”

  Henry shrugged. “As our family’s former servant, Bayle wrote to me out of respect.”

  “Yet you saw no reason to mention it to me?” Her voice trembled a little.

  Henry frowned, as if confused. “It was not my news to give, but as Samuel has made it public, or rather Debs has, I can freely offer my congratulations.”

  Suppressing a sharp remark, Helena turned to Samuel. “I’m delighted for Susannah. Do give her, and Bayle, my congratulations.”

  Samuel’s steady gaze told Helena he was not fooled by her feigned poise. “I knew her heart had been inclined that way for some time, did not you?”

  Helena was about to reply she had had no idea, when an image swam into her head of Nathan and Samuel poring over a pile of ledgers.

  “He is somewhat older than her.” Samuel twirled a glass by its stem. “Which gave me cause for concern at the outset.” He glanced pointedly at his son, who looked away. “However, Nathan Bayle is a fine man, and an excellent agent, so the situation suits everyone.”

  Helena listened to the Ffoyle trio’s excited chatter without really listening. On the one hand she was happy for Bayle and Susannah, yet at the same time resentful she had been overlooked. Then another feeling, closer to guilt, that after his devotion all her life and during those days in Weston in particular, she had consigned Nathan Bayle to a time and place she tried not to visit too often. Henry had kept secrets from her too, but then had she not kept the truth of Tobias Lumm from him as well? She still had not come to a decision about Lord Blanden. Days had passed and she had heard no word from him, but knew it was only a respite. She would have to make a decision soon. Feeling sorry for herself, she subjected Henry to her bad temper in the carriage all the way back to Lambtons. He mostly ignored her, as he dozed tipsily in a corner.

  * * *

  A sharp wind blew between the buildings as Helena stepped onto the street outside Lambtons. Passersby barely paused to acknowledge acquaintances, who hurried between carriages and houses, grimly hanging on to flapping cloaks and lifting hats. The food peddlers and hawkers had left early, most likely searching for warmer alleys and more sheltered squares.

  The guard to whom Helena presented herself at the Palace Gate had given her pass no more than a cursory glance. “This way, Mistress,” he indicated the path that ran alongside a wall. “I was instructed to show you into the Privy Garden.”

  He halted beside a wooden door, indicating she must go through. He did not follow, but let the door close behind her with a thump. Helena allowed her hood to fall back on her shoulders as she was enveloped in the relative peace and still quiet of the garden, where rows of classical statues draped in Roman robes occupied individual plinths in a patchwork of lawn. She wandered the pathways between them, examining the blank, serene faces of mythical gods and goddesses, imagining their blind eyes gazing into the distance to a place where grapes and olives grew beneath a burning sun.

  Fat pigeons strutted across the roofs above her, the air heavy with the scent of late summer flowers. She imagined the Royal family walking in the rooms behind the windows above her.

  “Good day, Mistress Woulfe,” a voice drawled from behind her.

  Helena swung round, her face relaxing into a smile as she bobbed a curtsey. “Thank you for agreeing to see me.”

  John Evelyn, Keeper of the Privy Seal, immaculate in unrelieved black smiled down at her. Still slender and upright for a man in his sixties, he held a japanned cane in one delicate, almost feminine hand.

  “I was intrigued by your note,” he said, stepping closer. “I hope you do not mind the location of our meeting. I assumed you might appreciate privacy.”

  Helena relaxed. “Thank you for your understanding, sir.”

  “Shall we walk?” He extended an arm and with her hand on his sleeve, he guided her along a gravel pathway. “I confess I’m not entirely ignorant of the reason for your visit.”

  Helena stiffened, her gaze on her feet. If he knew about Blanden already, maybe it was too late?

  “I presume you wish to discuss the petition, which a certain person has lodged with his Majesty.”

  “Are - are you familiar with my situation, sir?”

  “I am, Mistress Woulfe. Sir Christopher Wren is a close friend, and has a great fondness for your brother; Henry isn’t he?”

  Helena nodded, relieved.

  “This - person seeks to obtain the remainder of your father’s possessions in Exeter. Specifically, the property and business interests signed over to Master Ffoyle before the Rebellion.” He studied a late flowering rosebush as if fascinated, before murmuring, “Have I summarized his expectations correctly?”

  “You have, sir. Is there any possibility his Majesty might refuse his demand?” Helena risked a quick glance at his averted face, expecting ridicule. Why would the King refuse to grant one of his own Royal Commissioners what amounted to a traitor’s possessions?

  A gust of wind swept through the garden, swirling the leaves into a colourful whirlwind. A louvre banged shut on an upper floor.

  “Tell me, how is that other brother of yours, Master Aaron Woulfe?”

  She whipped her head round and met his gaze, suddenly fearful. Relieved to see he was smiling. “London is a village, my dear. Secrets don’t thrive here.”

  “It was stupid of me to imagine otherwise.” Helena relaxed a little. “He’s in The Hague, sir, with…” she trailed off as a man in a black cloak, a
wicked looking sword at his waist, approached.

  Evelyn paused beside a sundial as the man drew near, and tapped the podium with his cane. “This was King Charles” favorite item in the garden, you know.”

  “I-It’s very beautiful.” The plain marble column struck her as quite unremarkable. Her eyes followed the figure, who nodded to Evelyn but strode on without stopping.

  “Lord Rochester knocked it over once with a somewhat colourful expletive.” Evelyn gave a light laugh. “He was drunk, of course. That fellow was always drunk. His Majesty was incensed, as I recall.” He lowered his voice. “I believe Aaron Woulfe has plans in respect of the Prince of Orange?” His gaze held hers for long seconds before he gave a slow nod. “Ah! Don’t answer that, I can see by your countenance that my source was accurate.”

  Bile rose in Helena’s throat, and the question she did not want to ask burst from her. “Is Aaron putting himself in danger, sir?”

  He spread his delicate hands outwards, but did not reply, the answer in his heavy-lidded eyes as they held hers.

  Helena pushed herself away from the sundial with a small cry. As if she didn’t have enough to worry about.

  “You look unwell, my dear.” Evelyn took her elbow. “Come, sit. I cannot have you falling into a faint, I’m far too old and frail to catch you.” He gave a brittle laugh and guided her to a bench.

  Helena fought dizziness, while her companion occupied the seat beside her, allowing her time to recover.

  Her breathing slowed, and she recalled that during his lifetime, this man had seen a king beheaded outside the Banqueting Hall, not far from where they sat. He had endured the Commonwealth, was befriended by Charles the Second, remained in the city by choice during the terrible plague of sixty-five, and even witnessed the conflagration that had destroyed so much of it the year after.

  Evelyn was known to abhor the religion of the current king, yet remained a loyal servant. Had Helena’s own family been as wise as this man and put aside their prejudices, how different their lives would have been. Feeling more in control, Helena twisted on the bench so she could see Evelyn’s face. “What should I do to protect my brother?”

  Evelyn stroked his chin. “I admit His Majesty’s favoritism of Catholics is a cause for concern. My position here, and indeed that of many Anglicans, is at risk.”

  “I understand, sir.” She folded trembling hands in her lap and stared off angrily. Why did Aaron have to be such a principled fool?

  “I knew Monmouth, you know, Mistress Woulfe.”

  “Yes. You told me at the Twelfth Night party at Lambtons.” Helena watched as courtiers wandered the paths and talked together, an occasional high-pitched laugh floating across the garden.

  He turned to her in surprise. “I did?”

  She nodded. “Master Evelyn, who are those people?” The group listened intently to a gesticulating man in a pale brown wig and elaborate suit, as if what he said was of paramount importance. Two footmen stood a little way off, while another liveried man held two small dogs on leads.

  Evelyn followed her gaze. “Ah, that, my dear, is King James. Our second Sovereign of that name.”

  The King. The man whose army had killed her uncle, the reason her father could not come home, and an indirect cause of her mother’s death. He was why Aaron was still abroad and not here, safe.

  Her jaw tightened, and she forced herself not to grind her teeth, remembering with a wry smile her father’s warning that she didn’t want to end up with a wooden set.

  “The lady beside him is Queen Mary Beatrice.” Evelyn whispered “Do you think her beautiful?”

  Helena’s looked at the tall, dark woman, evidently a foreigner, whose hand rested possessively on her husband’s arm. “Indeed, although her silks, furs and jewels make a significant contribution to that beauty.”

  Evelyn gave a gentle laugh.

  “Who is that man beside his Majesty? The handsome one on the left, in the black peruke?”

  Evelyn’s gaze rested on the man. “That is the Chief Chancellor, Lord Jeffreys.”

  An involuntary shiver went down Helena’s back, and gathering her skirts, she rose from the bench. “I must go, sir.” She hesitated, regretting her impulse. He had still not told her what might happen with Lord Blandness petition.

  Evelyn held up a restraining hand. “I doubt they have an inkling of who you might be, Mistress.”

  The party wandered off through a doorway and Helena sank back onto the seat again. The footman with the dogs lingered while the spaniels sniffed around the path, though in seconds, they left too.

  “Am I a threat to them, Master Evelyn?” The thought gave her a modicum of satisfaction.

  “Your brother might be, although the King has far more weighty personages to worry about.” Catching her expression, he went on quickly. “I suggest you write to Aaron and advise caution.”

  “About taking action against the King?”

  “About whom he tells that he is taking action against the King.”

  Helena almost laughed. There was no judgment in his advice. In fact, he appeared almost sympathetic. “I doubt he would listen to me in any case. My brother is foolish, impetuous, and headstrong. He has not given a thought to how this may affect me, my brother Henry, or…” She held her hands up in a helpless gesture. “However there is a more urgent matter.”

  “Lord Blanden, yes I am aware of him,” he said slowly, staring off, his eyes narrowed.

  Helena’s eyes swam with unshed tears. Was she asking for too much?

  He exhaled noisily, his hands braced on his thighs as he pushed himself to his feet, his extended arm toward her. “Now, let me escort you to the street and summon a hackney.”

  All the way back to Lambtons, Helena could not fathom out whether he had agreed to help her or not.

  Chapter 25

  “Thank you, Lubbock,” Helena said, trying to stop herself shaking as Lord Blanden was shown into the small salon. “We shan’t require any refreshment. His Lordship won’t be staying long.”

  “A pity,” Blandness irritating smirk appeared. “I was hoping you might at least offer me some of Devereux's wine. He keeps a good cellar, I’m told.” He neither bowed, nor did he accept her silent invitation to sit. Instead he toured the room, his cane held to his bottom lip while he examined the furniture and pictures on the walls.

  “An excellent one, sir,” Helena said, silently promising herself he would never enjoy anything at Lambtons. Least of all the wine.

  “Business has kept me busy in the city this last week or so.” He continued his slow tour of the room, passing close to the chaise where Helena sat, her fists clenched on the upholstery. “Or I would have come sooner. In face I’ve an appointment with the Chancellor Jeffreys this afternoon to discuss a certain petition.” He circled the chaise and paused beside her.

  Not daring to look at him, Helena closed her eyes and swallowed, fighting to keep her breathing even. He gave off a fusty smell of badly-stored clothes, combined with an earthy smell of male sweat and ale.

  “I take it you have had sufficient time to consider my proposal?”

  “I have, sir.” Her stomach lurched and she pressed a hand to her abdomen in an effort to control the roiling inside, convinced he must hear it. “I don’t think we would suit.” She glanced at the clock while at the same time fingered the note in her pocket. He said he would be here. Where was he?

  “Come now, Helena,” Blandness use of her given name set her to grinding her teeth. “I think you are teasing me. But then women like to be persuaded, I find. After all, what choice do you have? He reached out a hand and traced the line of her jaw, then his fingers slid down her neck and onto the bertha tucked into her bodice, tugging it gently.

  Helena froze, unable to protest or even slap his hand away, enraged at his presumption. The fact that he took his time, and actually chuckled, evidently relishing her discomfort made her want to thrust him away and scream that he was a monster. Her bravery deserted her and she cou
ld only swallow and will him away.

  When she didn’t respond, he laid the cane on the floor and took the seat beside her, his chin lowered to just above her shoulder. “I did not take you for a cold woman, my dear. And the prospect cannot be so unwelcome. After all I am a lusty, full grown man, knowledgeable in the ways of women.” He gave another chuckle, this one low and menacing. “A better one than my mealy-mouthed son would have made, that I can promise you.”

  Her shock overruled her horror. “How could you talk of your own dead son in such a manner?” Blanden went to take her hand in his, but she snatched it away. “A boy he may have been, but he was a good soul. Kind and gentle.”

  “He was a disappointment,” he sniffed. “I, however will not be.”

  Helena held her breath, wondering how long this farce would have to continue. Then the corner of the curtain twitched and she smiled. Gathering her courage she turned her head and stared into his eyes. “You already are, My Lord.”

  “You disrespectful wench!” His mouth curled into a sneer as he grasped her upper arms in both hands and swivelled her roughly towards him. “For that, I’ll make sure I ruin your brothers and I’ll have you anyway. Then I’ll-”

  He broke off as the curtain over the door was swept aside and Robert advanced into the room, John Evelyn and Alyce behind him. They still wore their outdoor clothes, which told Helena Lubbock must have warned them at the door that Lord Blanden was already here.

  “I see you wasted no time, sir.” Robert removed his gloves slowly, looking meaningfully at his own hands.

  Helena squirmed and rolled her shoulders out of Blandness hold and rose, backing away from the chaise, and stood next to Robert.

  “I-I was merely paying Mistress Woulfe a call.” Blanden stood, tripped over the cane he had placed on the floor, and staggered slightly.

  “As what, sir?” John Evelyn asked. “An old family friend?” The Devereux husband and wife advanced on Lord Blanden like wolves circling their prey. “I think not.”