A Home for Helena (The Lady P Chronicles Book 2) (20 page)

Not to mention the fact that Lady P could be gone for
weeks!
No, she couldn’t wait that long. But what else could she do? She had the time-travel stone Madame Herne had given her, so she could leave this century at will, but she didn’t like to leave things so… unfinished. If it turned out there would be no proper home for her in this century, at the very least she had to discover the truth. Because otherwise she would always look at that beguiling portrait and wonder about what could have developed had she remained.

Madame Herne! She recalled that the gypsy had mentioned having a shop in the same location on Gracechurch Street. Of course, the lady herself had spoken vaguely about being away that summer—a fact Lady P had verified early on. But that was several weeks ago; perhaps she'd returned by now. That’s what she’d do. Find Madame Herne and seek out her advice.

“Peters, can you send for a hackney carriage, please? There’s someone in Gracechurch Street I need to see.”

“
I
’m sorry
, sir, but Miss Lloyd is not here.”

The butler crooked a disapproving eye at the state of James’s apparel, but James was too desperate to care.

He scowled. “I am here on a matter of urgency. Is Miss Lloyd here or is it merely that she doesn’t wish to see me? Tell me the truth, man!”

Peters folded his arms across his chest. “She is
not
here, sir, and I can tell you no more.”

He attempted to close the door, but James got his foot in first.

“Then let me see Lady Pendleton. I am sure she will see me.”

Peters glared at him from the crack in the door. “Her Ladyship is not at home either. Now, if you please, sir…”

“Wait!” James said, wincing as the butler’s pressure on the door started to crush his foot. “Can you at least tell me where Lady Pendleton has gone? I am certain she will wish to assist me.”

“Her Ladyship,” the butler said in short, deliberate syllables, “has gone to Derbyshire. Now, if you will please remove your foot, sir…”

James obeyed, and the door slammed shut.

Derbyshire! James closed his eyes and bent his head upward as if in supplication. What was he to do now? If Helena had not come to Grosvenor Square, where could she have gone? What other friends did she have in London? The only other place he could think of was the Newsomes’ townhouse. He knew for a fact that they were in Kent, but it was possible—if unlikely—that Helena had taken refuge at Regent Street.

No luck there either. The Newsomes weren’t expected there for another week, shortly before their son’s wedding. No guests were in residence.

James looked at the bedraggled state of his horse and shook his head. Brutus could bear no more that day, and he himself was too exhausted to think any longer.

He mounted and caressed the horse’s neck. “You’ve been a rock, old fellow. Time for a well-deserved rest and a good meal.”

And I’ll have the same, he said to himself as he directed Brutus toward the mews at Grillon’s Hotel. Perhaps in the morning he could think of somewhere else to search. If Helena had not already taken herself back to the twenty-first century. And even if she had not, he could not be certain she would welcome his presence. Not after the drama of the previous day. "I'm such a fool," he muttered.

Upon his arrival at Grillon's, he made certain his horse would be sufficiently accommodated, and made his way to the hotel, aware that his untidy appearance would be noted with raised eyebrows.

“I was caught in a rainstorm,” he said shortly to the desk clerk. “It rains in England. That’s what makes the crops grow.”

It was an expression he'd heard Helena use. Things like weather never fazed her. "Why get unglued about things you can't control?" Now that he comprehended the origins of her bizarre speech, he found it charming. He hoped to have the chance of hearing it for the rest of his life… if she would forgive him and agree to become his wife.

The clerk pressed his lips into a fine line. Apparently he did not appreciate a sense of humor.

“Walker? Is that you, James?”

James wheeled around and found himself facing Stephen Gibson, his late wife’s cousin.

He clapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Good to see you again, Gibson. Heard you were married recently. My felicitations!”

Gibson’s light green eyes sparkled, and James had a sudden feeling of
déjà vu.
Like Helena's, he thought wearily. Would he ever see her again?

“Priscilla and I have just returned from our honeymoon in the Lake District. We’re about to dine. Would you care to join us? I’d love you to meet her.”

James looked pointedly at the ramshackle state of his clothing. “I should not wish to offend Mrs. Gibson by appearing in such a disreputable state.”

Gibson shrugged. “We are in no hurry. We’ll wait for you to change.”

James cleared his throat. “Well-uh, unfortunately, I don’t have a change of clothing with me. My trip was rather precipitous, I’m afraid.”

Gibson’s eyebrows furrowed. “Now you’ve captured my interest. Why don’t you go up to your room and freshen up a bit, and I’ll be up later to share a brandy. M’wife’s been wanting to write to her sister, and I could use some male companionship for a change.”

“Brilliant idea,” said James. He turned to the haughty clerk. “My room key, please.” Then, key in hand, he turned back and said, “Send up some hot water and a hot meal—a pork pie and some cheese would be fabulous. A robe of some sort too. This suit will need to be laundered immediately.”

“Of course, sir,” said the clerk, wrinkling his nose. “Will there be anything else?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Gibson replied for him. “A bottle of your best brandy and some glasses.”

He accompanied James to the stairway and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Toplofty fellow, ain’t he? If there’s one thing about being heir to an earldom, it’s being able to give set-downs to pretentious fellows like that one.”

Ascending the stairs to his room, James recalled that Stephen Gibson was indeed the heir to the Cranbourne earldom. His father, a younger brother of the current earl, had died in the Battle of San Sebastián four years ago almost to the day in 1813. He recalled Anne’s tears upon learning of “Uncle Frederick's" death, and attending the man’s funeral soon after. William, the current earl, who he’d encountered recently at this very hotel, had sired no sons, thus making Stephen the heir apparent.

The Cranbournes
had
had a daughter, though, he recalled. She must have died, as so many infants did, because he couldn’t remember hearing anything about her from Anne. Something grated on his mind, but he was too tired and hungry to make any sense of it.

Later, as he poured glasses for himself and his friend as they sprawled in chairs around a small table, he gave a brief summary—sans any reference to time travel—of the purpose of his abrupt trip to Town.

Gibson leaned back in his chair. “Ah, so it’s a woman,” he drawled. “I wondered when you would venture again into the parson’s mousetrap. The bachelor-life getting a bit stale, Walker? Or Annabelle becoming a bit of a handful? Good grief, she must be five or six by now! Last time I saw her she was taking her first steps. Anne was so proud of her. Such a shame, that accident.”

He took a long swig and shook his head. “Can’t blame you for forging ahead with your life, though. A wife gives a man stability. Someone to come home to at the end of a day. Not to mention the nightly
companionship,
eh, Walker!”

James winced, and Gibson sat up. “Sorry, old man. I know you’re eager to patch things up with this… Miss Lloyd.” He leaned his head back and frowned in concentration. “An American, you say? A Welsh name, is it not? What else do you know about her?”

“Lloyd is not her birth name,” James explained. “Lloyd was the name of her foster mother. She’s been seeking her birth parents. I believe Lady Pendleton has been assisting her in that endeavor.”

He stood up and began pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace. “I thought for certain she’d head for Grosvenor Square, but the butler says not, and I have to believe him. Nor is she staying at the Newsomes’.” He set his glance on the mantle and leaned against the heavy stone, head down. “Where are you, Helena?”

His friend nearly choked on his drink. “Helena? Did you say her name was Helena?”

“Do you know how she came by that name?”

James stared sightlessly at his friend while he searched his memory for any reference to the origin of her name. Then he shook his head.

“She didn’t say. Why do you ask?”

Stephen’s green eyes—so like Helena’s—gleamed with excitement.

“Because, my friend, I had a cousin by that name. Disappeared when she was naught but a babe. The Cranbournes scoured the country for her for years. Not a trace of her or the parlor maid.”

“The parlor maid?”

“Aye. It was said the parlor maid took her, since they both went missing at the same time.”

Gibson set his glass down and stared intently at James. “How old is this Miss Lloyd, anyway? What does she look like?”

Feeling like his insides were vibrating, James felt like embracing his good friend.

“She believes she was born in 1790, and she bears a startling resemblance to you, Gibson.”

The pair stared at each other with growing excitement.

“Could it possibly be…?” breathed Gibson. “Could she be my long-lost cousin? Where do you suppose she’s been all these years?”

“Across a big, big pond,” said James grimly. “And if we don’t stop her, she’ll likely go back there.”

D
usk had fallen
by the time the hackney cab reached Gracechurch Street, and Helena had to strain her eyes to search for Madame Herne’s shop in the dimly lit street. Not surprisingly, the buildings were nothing like what she remembered from modern-day. She made out a cobbler's shop, a haberdasher's, and an apothecary in a line of store fronts surrounded by modest residences.

“Gracechurch Street, miss. Wot’s yer direction?”

“I’m not sure,” she confessed. “It’s a fortune teller. A Madame Herne.”

He murmured under his breath, and she could imagine what he was thinking. A lady traveling unaccompanied after dark to visit a fortune teller. Foolish in the extreme. Where was her husband?

Helena wasn’t feeling very sensible at the time. Exhausted and brokenhearted, she simply wanted someone to confide in, someone who would listen to her without thinking she was either a witch or a lunatic. Someone who could help her search out the truth.

So much for finding a home, she thought bitterly. If she didn’t belong in the twenty-first century, it was a cinch she didn’t belong here in the nineteenth either. Perhaps the gypsy had made a miscalculation. The couple pictured in her locket might not be her parents at all. As long as she was going to be homeless and out of sync, she’d rather be in the modern-day where she could at least support herself. The nineteenth century didn't have much use for an independent woman, and there was no way she could eschew her modernistic viewpoints to become a typical downtrodden female.

“There it is!” she cried, suddenly catching sight of the wooden placard bearing the words
Genuine Gipsy Fortune Telling.
Much more discreet than the gaudy red-lettered sign she recalled from the future.

The shop was different too. No window, no mannequin, just a black wooden door, one of many along the street in the same dilapidated building. The street appeared to be mostly deserted, although Helena could make out some movement in the distance. She shivered. What if Madame Herne were not at home? She did mention that she had been “traveling” a great deal that summer.

“Wait for me,” she instructed the driver as she handed him his fare. “If the shop is closed, I will need to return to Grosvenor Square.”

“That'll cost ye extra, miss. Not good ta keep the horse standin’ long.”

“I won’t be long,” Helena promised.

She descended from the coach and crossed the pavement toward the shop. No one answered her knocking. She knocked harder.

“Madame Herne!” she called. “Please let me in!”

Nothing. But she heard a scuffling noise inside, so she knocked again. “Madame Herne! I’ve come from Grosvenor Square. Lady Pendleton sent me!”

The door flew open. “Hush! Do you want the entire neighborhood to hear?”

A dark figure grabbed her arm and pulled her inside.

“Who are you and what do you want?”

In the dim light, Helena made out the form of the gypsy lady who had instigated her journey into the past. Incredibly—except for the gown, which was a closely-fitted, tightly-laced white blouse tucked into a skirt of tomato red clasped with a black leather belt—her appearance was the same as when they’d first met… two centuries into the future!

The gypsy woman peered out the door. “Is Agatha with you? What is this about?”

Helena swallowed. “No, she’s not. She’s in Derbyshire. I came to see you because—well, I need your help.”

“My help?” The woman’s raven-black eyes peered into Helena’s. “What sort of help, exactly? And you still haven’t told me your name.”

Helena swallowed. Why had she expected the nineteenth century Madame Herne to remember events that wouldn’t happen to her for two hundred years?

“I’m Helena Lloyd,” she said hoarsely, “and I’m from the twenty-first century. That’s where I met you… and you helped me come here.”

The other woman drew a sharp breath. “I-I see,” she said finally. “I wonder what sort of mischief my future self has managed to stir up for me now. It seems I am my own worst enemy."

She waved Helena inside. "I suppose you’d best come in and sit down. I’ll put the kettle on. I suspect it’s going to be a long night.”

Helena felt a sudden release of tension. “Oh, thank God,” she breathed. “I was really hoping you could help me.”

At the sound of a horse’s whinnying, Madame Herne stared pointedly toward the noise. “You’d best send away the hackney. I’ve a place you can stay for the night. That is, if we either one of us manages to get any sleep.”

“
S
o tell me
,” the gypsy said as she settled into the overstuffed armchair across from Helena, “what have I been up to in the twenty-first century? I confess I am both eager and fearful to hear, Miss Lloyd.”

Helena set down her cup and gave a brief description of their first meeting.

“You said I had an aura of being out of my time. Out of sync. A lost soul.”

“A lost soul? And how did I decide on this particular year for your return?”

Helena unclasped the necklace with her locket and handed it to the other woman. “This is the only thing they found on my mother—if she
was
my mother—when she died. It says “Helena” on it—which is why I was called by that name—but we don’t really know it was mine, or that those were my parents. They could have been hers—the woman who was killed in Florida, I mean.”

Madame Herne opened the locket and studied the faces inside. After a long appraisal of Helena’s face, she noted that there was a slight resemblance to the man. “The blond hair, the celestial nose, the set of the eyes, although the color is difficult to determine. Did the woman who was killed resemble you at all?”

Helena shrugged. “I don’t know. I was too young to remember, of course. But the caseworker remarked in her report that she was dark and ‘foreign-looking’, whatever that means.”

“Foreign-looking.”

Madame Herne wrinkled her nose. “I can’t tell you how many times my people are described in just such a way, and it’s not meant as a compliment, I assure you. How disappointing to hear that such attitudes persist two centuries into the future!”

“Oh no!” Helena hastened to explain. “Well, actually, the old aristocracy is still in place and almost exclusively Caucasian, and England is becoming more and more diverse, with immigrants from India and Africa and so on.” She blew out a puff of air. “Although there are still plenty of xenophobes who don’t like it, I have to admit.”

“Humph! Doesn’t sound like things have changed all that much!”

“It will. In time,” Helena said confidently. “The younger generation doesn’t see diversity as a threat, and eventually—”

“—their elders will die off and the world as they knew it disappears,” finished Madame Herne. “Oh yes, I’ve seen it before. That’s the way of the world. And a good thing too. Otherwise we might still be living in the Dark Ages.” She shuddered. “That was a fearful time, I assure you.”

The clock on the mantle struck ten, and she started. “Goodness! We
have
wandered off-track, have we not? So the woman who died was ‘foreign-looking’, was she? That usually means dark coloring, distinctive features…” She frowned. “Not at all like you, blonde and light-skinned.”

Helena pressed her lips into a fine line. “Well, it could be that I resemble my father,” she offered.

Madame Herne shook her head and studied the locket. “I think not," she said. “There isn’t a hint of ‘foreign-looking’ about you. It's more likely that these people are your relations." She put the locket down in front of Helena, who didn’t need to look. She had had many years to memorize those painted faces.

“But who was she, then? Was it she who brought me to the future? Why would she do that?” Helena shook her head. “There’s something else I haven’t mentioned yet. It may have nothing to do with me at all, but I discovered that there was a child who disappeared at about the time of my birth.”

She gave a brief rundown of what she had heard from Annabelle, which wasn’t much. “The surname was Gibson, the same as Annabelle’s mother. They might live in Derbyshire, where Annabelle’s maternal grandparents live, but I’m not sure.”

Madame Herne gripped the arms of her chair, her face white. “Gibson?” she squeaked. “That’s the surname of the Cranbournes. From Derbyshire.”

Helena leaned forward. “The Cranbournes. Yes. Lady Pendleton went to Derbyshire,” she said, eyes wide. “Do you think…?”

Madame Herne slumped back in her chair, her eyes closed. “This is all my fault,” she said finally. "I see it all quite clearly now. Of all the foolish things I've done… this one ranks among the worst." She put a hand to her head. "How could I have been so credulous? It's not like I haven't had centuries of experience to know better. But she was so convincing. And I suppose I
wanted
to believe her. She was like a daughter to me. A daughter I never had."

Helena's mind raced. The gypsy wasn't making any sense. But it was clear that she knew… something. And Helena was frantic to know what it was.

"Can I get you something? What can I do to-er-help you?"

The woman pulled out a handkerchief and blew her nose. "No. No thank you, my dear. It's just that—well, it is just so disconcerting—truly dreadful—to discover that it was my fault that you were lost to your parents all those years. I hardly know what to say to you."

Helena's eyes narrowed. "Do you mean
you
were the one who stole me from my parents?" she asked, choosing her words carefully.

Madame Herne rubbed the bridge of her nose. "No. It was Marnie. She's the one who took you. But I thought—that is, she told me—you were hers. I should have known better—the babe didn't look at all like her—but she was so convincing. And heaven knows I’ve seen so many similar cases, where servants are misused and then blamed and persecuted by an unprincipled rake of a peer. I offered to buy her passage on a ship bound for America, but she insisted that the baby’s powerful father would find her and kill them both.”

Helena's face tightened. "I'm confused. Why would my father want to kill me?"

Madame Herne took a deep breath and looked her directly in the eye. “No, my dear. I believe Marnie—the maid who conveyed you to the future—must have stolen you from your birth parents, the Earl and Countess of Cranbourne. And I'm the one who gave her the power to take you into the future."

Helena felt a rush of adrenaline flashing through her body. "Why? Why would you do such a thing?"

The other woman shook her head sadly and began the tale. Marnie's tale.

“I knew Marnie from the time she was a young girl, perhaps fourteen or fifteen. She was Romany, as I am myself, from one of the tribes that roamed about in the southern counties. I found her when I was returning to London from an engagement at the Pavilion, the Prince Regent’s palace in Brighton.” She glanced at Helena, who nodded curtly. “Maria, that is, Maria Fitzherbert, the Prince’s-er-mistress, nominally lived at house nearby, but in truth she resided at the Pavilion for many years and was treated as the Prince’s wife in everything but name.”

“Yes, I know the Prince married her,” Helena said. “But it wasn’t a valid marriage, of course.”

Madame Herne’s lip curled. “I am certain it was to her,” she insisted. “In any case, she and the Prince jointly sponsored many popular entertainments there, and I agreed to divert them with my fortune-telling on occasion. Maria is a long-time patron,” she added quickly, “and I was pleased to serve her in that capacity. If it had not been for her, I would never have humbled myself to do such a thing for His Royal Highness, the lecherous jackass. I can’t tell you how many times Maria has come to me in tears because of his constant betrayals. She always feared he would forego their marriage for a marriage of state—and indeed, that's what he did. Married that German woman."

She smirked. “Got what he deserved, that-that imbecile. A wife he can’t stand to be in the same room with. Whereupon he comes running back to Maria, declaring that she is the wife of his heart. Poppycock! I told Maria the leopard would never change his spots, but she didn’t listen.”

“Marnie,” Helena urged impatiently. “Tell me about Marnie. You met her on the way back to London…?” Frankly, she didn't give a rat's ass about the Prince Regent's affairs.

“Oh, yes, of course.” Madame Herne glanced at the teapot. “Goodness! The tea has cooled. Would you like me to put the kettle on?”

“No,” Helena said definitively. “I want to know how Marnie fits into this story and why you believe my parents are the Cranbournes.” Get to the point. Before I lose my temper.

Madame Herne took another deep breath and closed her eyes. “Very well, my dear. It's just so dreadfully
humiliating
to acknowledge my own part in this dreadful tragedy.”

But she managed to straighten up and lean forward. “Marnie was a taking little thing, and she was desperate to leave the tribe and make a better life for herself. She begged me to take her to London, and finally I gave in.” She caught Helena’s eye. “Her parents sold her to me for a guinea. They had a dozen other young mouths to feed, and one less wouldn’t be missed.”

Helena swallowed hard. “Go on,” she said shortly. Being sold by her parents was horrific, but she wasn't able to feel much sympathy for Marnie yet. Not if she had been responsible for ruining Helena's life.

“I set her to work cooking and cleaning for a month or two, and then she asked me to write her a reference so that she could get into one of the upper houses.” She shook her head. “Marnie was an ambitious sort of girl. She wanted to be a lady, have fine dresses, jewels, and a coach to drive in the park to show off her good fortune. When I warned her about the disadvantages of becoming a courtesan, she laughed and said she wouldn't settle for less than a title. A countess, or perhaps even a duchess. She was so confident. I often thought her behavior not quite rational, but she was young, you know, and the young do have that tendency, before they are grown. So I gave her a reference, and she put in an application at a staffing agency, and it wasn’t long before she came rushing in all excited at having been hired as a parlor maid for the Earl of Cranbourne’s home in Derbyshire.”