A Home for Helena (The Lady P Chronicles Book 2) (3 page)

Maybe not so different after all.

“Someday we shall,” he promised. “Providing you are a good girl and learn your lessons as you should.”

“Oh, I shall, Papa. I promise!” Then she smiled and added, “Of course, I haven’t a governess any longer, so take me with you today, please do, Papa! I shall die of boredom if you leave me here alone!”

Mrs. Fenwick—and Miss Ledbetter—were right. It seemed that Annabelle
was
too dependent on him. How had he missed that? Because he hadn't been giving proper attention. Fixating on estate matters was so much less fatiguing than dealing with his daughter and the guilt that still plagued him from his marriage.

He wiped his mouth and tossed his napkin on the table. “Alone? In this house full of servants? Don’t be ridiculous, Annabelle. Have a tea party with your dolls or something. I’m sure your nursemaid will assist you.”

“I
never
have tea parties! Don’t you know
anything
,
Papa?”

James tugged at his neckcloth. A good father would have known that. Wouldn’t he?

“Perhaps you should, Annabelle. Did you not just promise to start behaving as a young lady should?”

His daughter’s face turned red. “I
never
promised that! I said I would learn my lessons.”

James shrugged. “Young ladies must learn to have tea parties.” He pushed in his chair and started to leave, then added: “If they wish to go to London, they do.”

He hid a smile at the look of resentment on her face as he excused himself and left the room. It was funny… and yet, it wasn’t. Early summer was a busy time on the estate, and now he had to find a new governess for his daughter, a task for which he hadn’t shown much aptitude in the past. He found himself dreading the very thought. A man shouldn’t have to bother with such tasks. If he had a wife…

No. Not until hell froze over.

Perhaps he
should
send Annabelle to one of her aunts. He was surprised at the reluctance he felt to let her go, however. While he may not see her for more than a few minutes a day during the busy times, he’d miss her impish little face and the way she ran into his arms when he finally did come home. Without Annabelle, he’d be truly alone, barring Mrs. Fenwick, the servants and the farmhands.

But he couldn’t fail Annabelle the way he had her mother. Mrs. Fenwick was right—
something
had to be done. Soon. Annabelle deserved better.

T
he bluebells had mostly faded away
, but the remaining greenery formed a lush carpet around the trees guarding the road to Maidstone. The sun was high overhead, but there were clouds in the distance, and with the planting over and the day-to-day maintenance in the hands of his competent farmhands, he was finally free to meet with his solicitor in Maidstone.

Hearing the beat of hooves from behind him, he slowed his horse and twisted his neck around to see his pursuer, his friend and neighbor Sir Henry Newsome, who ran a prominent horse stud on his estate near Kingswood.

“Sir Henry,” he said, offering his hand when the older man drew even with him. “What a pleasure to see you on this lovely day.”

“Likewise, Walker.” Sir Henry’s handshake was firm and strong; he was in excellent shape for a middle-aged man. Except for his receding hairline and his salt-and-pepper hair, he could easily be taken for a man ten years younger… of James’s own age, in fact.

“Are you headed for Maidstone as well? My groom with the rheumatic knee tells me we’re due for a good soaking this evening and I’d best take care of business
tout de suite.”

“Yes, indeed,” said James. “The clouds in the distance appear to be of the same mind. Good for the crops, of course.”

They talked about the weather and the crops for a few minutes before Sir Henry turned the topic to horses, which he was wont to do, James reflected, being an avid horse breeder.

“I say, Walker, might you favor a trip to London this weekend? Tattersall’s has some prime breeders up for auction on Monday, and there’s a meeting of the Royal Agricultural Society on Tuesday."

Seeing James’s hesitation, he added, “Know you don’t have your own lodgings in Town, but you’re quite welcome to stay with me on Regent Street.”

James shook his head. “I do appreciate the offer, Sir Henry, but I’m not in the market for horses at present. I do have a domestic problem to settle, however.” He gave a brief explanation of the situation with his daughter.

Sir Henry grinned. “Always leave those matters to the women, myself. My Sarah can always be counted on to handle a domestic crisis. Well, almost always, anyway. Gets a bit testy when her mother visits. Treats her like a little girl, does Lady Pendleton. But the old lady is in Town now and Sarah’s got things well in hand.”

James well believed it. If there was any advantage in being unmarried, it was not having a mother-in-law like Lady Pendleton. He was grateful that his own in-laws visited only at Christmastide. When they were present, the Gibsons never failed to hint about his failings with their daughter when she was alive, and he was sure they never would. But he couldn’t keep them from their only granddaughter.

“By George, why don’t you send your girl over to Newsome Grange? We’ve got both nanny and governess. Always room for one more, eh?”

James wanted to agree. “A kind thought, but I could not possibly trouble Lady Sarah in such a manner.”

“Nonsense, my wife is younger than you are and a tireless ball of fire, even though she is still nursing young Colin. Emily and Theodosia could use a new playmate. I think your girl is about Theo’s age, isn’t she? Turned six last month.”

James agreed that she was.
Hmm.

“I’ll show you the agency where we found Miss Dray, our current governess. Has the look of a gorgon, but the girls love her.”

James leaned forward. The offer was
so
tempting.
Too
tempting. Annabelle lacked social interaction and voilà, the opportunity presented itself. It wouldn't be a permanent solution, of course. He couldn't impose on his neighbors forever. But he
did
need to find a new governess. And he
would
like to get away from his problems for a few days. He hadn’t been to London for more months than he could count—a short respite would be just the thing. He could visit his club and drop in on Violet, his occasional mistress. Sir Henry kept company with a lively set, and some congenial male companionship was just what James needed. Still…

“I couldn’t possibly, not without a written invitation from Lady Sarah.”

“Done!” Sir Henry clapped a hand on James’s shoulder and maneuvered the conversation back to horses.

The invitation came the next day, written in Lady Sarah’s elegant hand, and James quickly sent over a note accepting her invitation for Annabelle and her husband's for the trip to London.

Annabelle would be in good hands with the Newsomes. Sir Henry had married his second wife when he was about the same age as James’s thirty-two years. Lady Sarah Tate had been eighteen and in her second Season. Such an age difference was unexceptionable in the
ton,
perhaps, but he himself had no desire to wed a chit almost half his age. The popular perception might be that younger girls were more malleable and easier to train, but a wife wasn’t the same as a dog, as he had reason to know from his own experience. He was determined to never again tie himself to a woman with a hidden agenda or one too young to know her own mind.

The Newsomes’ marriage seemed to be a happy one, however. A love match that still continued ten years later, after two daughters and a son, in addition to an older son, the heir, from Sir Henry’s first marriage.

A most fortunate man, Sir Henry was. A young and beautiful wife—the daughter of an earl no less—with a large portion, which he didn’t need because his first wife had come with a fortune as well. An heir and a spare and two pretty daughters. James wouldn’t balk at a marriage like the Newsomes’.

But he himself was definitely not in the market for a wife. Not now, at least. Maybe never. He had Annabelle. His property was not entailed and by the time he was ready to call at St. Peter's Gate, he intended it to be one of the most prosperous estates in the area. Why risk his peace of mind by saddling himself with another temperamental woman if he could avoid doing so?

In the meantime, he was going to have a rare respite in London with Sir Henry.

“
B
ut you only just returned
, Papa!”

James closed his eyes briefly. He’d forgotten about that trip to Folkestone to investigate a shipping company seeking investors. He didn’t have a great deal of spare cash, but he’d been investing small amounts each year in solid businesses and now possessed a variety of profitable holdings.

“It’s only for a few days, Annabelle—a week at most. You’ll be so busy with the Newsomes that you won’t miss me at all.”

She hugged him so close he could feel her little body convulsing against him. “I
will,
Papa! I
will!
Take me with you, please do! I want to go to London. I’ll be good. I promise, Papa!”

He loosed her arms and put her away from him. “Not this time, Annabelle. I’ll be involved in lots of adult things that would bore you to tears. And don’t forget: you promised you would apply yourself to your lessons. Prove to me you can do that at Newsome Manor, and then we’ll discuss a trip to London.”

“But Papa…” Her tear-stricken face tugged at his heart.

“You’ll be fine, Annabelle. You’ll have other children to play with—one of them is just your age—and a baby too.”

“A baby?” Her eyes lit up.

“Yes, a little boy. Perhaps the nanny will allow you to hold him. You’ll have to be very careful, though, since he’s still quite small.”

“I’ve never held a real baby,” she confessed, wiping away her tears with the back of her wrist. “Can Fanny come along?”

“Of course,” he agreed. “Your nursemaid will be there as well.”

“Well then,” she said with a shrug, “I suppose that will be all right. Will you bring me a present from London?”

She pouts just like her mother did.

“A small one, perhaps. If I can spare the time.”

“Sweets! Or a puppy? Can you bring back a puppy, Papa? I’d love a puppy to cuddle!”

James chuckled. “We needn’t go all the way to London for a puppy, child. I’m sure you could find a hundred in Langley Heath alone.”

“Perhaps the Newsomes know of one. I shall find one, Papa, wait and see if I don’t!”

He left her daydreaming about the delights offered by a new pet. On Sunday he would take her to Newsome Grange and he and Sir Henry would depart for London and a few days of male merriment.

What could be better?

I
t was official
. Helena was homeless once again. This time, with nothing but the clothes on her back and her minuscule cross-body bag with about fifty pounds in cash, a credit card for emergencies, a pair of sunglasses, lip balm, her iPad mini, and her mobile phone. Wait—the phone wasn’t even hers. Lucille Earskine had neglected to demand it back when she’d simultaneously sacked and evicted Helena for the alleged crime of seducing Mr. Earskine.

Tears of anger formed in Helena’s eyes. It was all so unfair! She’d never seduced any man in her life, and certainly would never have chosen creepy Richard for the honor. On the contrary, she had ignored his advances as long as she could, hoping he would get the message, but trust-fund Dickie wouldn’t take no for an answer. The firm rebuke she gave him had been long in coming and included a few choice words that left him in no doubt of her opinion of him as a man.

The satisfaction gained from speaking her mind lasted only a minute or two, after which she realized her job was toast. Within the hour, Tricky Dickie had falsely confessed to being seduced by the nanny, and his furious wife Lucille had tossed her out of the house. In front of the children, no less! Helena could still hear their fearful wailing. Poor little things, to have such parents!

At least they
had
parents! She’d never known hers. Until Mrs. Lloyd had taken over the role. Her eyes pricked with tears at the memory of the warm-hearted woman who'd given her a real home, at least for awhile.

A drop of rain on her bare shoulder brought her back to the present. She looked up to see dark clouds gathering. Damn! She hadn’t been allowed to retrieve any of her belongings, not a jacket or an umbrella, and her peach tank top would soon be soaked. What to do? Where to go? She kicked the gate post before recalling that she was wearing rope-trimmed espadrilles. Double damn! The pain radiating from her injured toes escalated her anger.

This wasn’t her fault. The Earskines owed her money, her wages for the month and another in lieu of notice. Then there was the issue with her possessions. She needed to retrieve them, but was certain that she’d never be allowed to cross the threshold again. She needed help.

The agency. They were contractually obligated to help her. She took out the partially-charged mobile phone.

“Yes, hello. This is Helena Lloyd. May I speak with the director, please? It’s urgent.”

“She’s on the other line—” began the receptionist.

“I’ve got it, Fran.” The receptionist rang off and the voice of the director exploded. “Bloody hell, Helena, what have you got us into? I just got off the phone with Lucille Earskine and she’s threatening legal action against us all!”

“Is that so? Well, the person she
ought
to be suing is her lying lecher of a husband. For divorce!”

Helena gave a brief summary of the events leading up to the unfortunate confrontation, ending with a request for direction.

“You can stay here at the Centre for a day or two, but we’ve new girls coming next week and will need the room.” The director cleared her voice. “Helena, I’m afraid we won’t be able to place you anywhere in London, at least not until the Earskines cool down. They have too much pull in this city. What do you think of the north of England, or perhaps even the continent?”

Helena blew out a long breath of air. “I don’t know. We’ll discuss it later. But I’ll need my clothes and other stuff.” Her portrait, for one. She couldn't allow Lucille Earskine to toss it out with the garbage.

“I’ll send someone over to collect them for you. In the meantime, Helena—” her voice softened— “try to relax. You aren’t the first woman to be victimized by a filthy rich philanderer. Do you have any family or friends you could spend some time with?”

Not really. Her adoptive mother was gone, she’d lost touch with her high school and college friends—not that she’d been all that close to any of them. Always the loner. She’d met a few people during her travels—even dated a few times—but none of them had ever clicked. She supposed she should be looking out for a serious relationship, like just about every twenty-seven-year-old she’d ever heard of, but she couldn’t really work up any enthusiasm for it. The truth was that she didn’t really know what
she
wanted, and until she did, she wasn’t willing to screw up someone else’s life while she figured it out.

“I can always go to Disney,” she quipped. Might as well inject a bit of humor into the conversation.

“Disney?” The director’s voice sounded baffled.

Helena’s giggle had only a touch of hysteria. “Just kidding. It’s an American thing.”

In any case, she didn’t have the funds for a hotel, let alone a vacation. The story of her life. One adventure after another. Helena’s Excellent Adventure. No doubt someday she'd be laughing about it with her grandchildren… if she ever had any, that is. An intense longing for a home and family came over her, and she choked back a sob.

"I have some applications in for positions in my field," she assured the agency director. "I'll check back with them and see how things are progressing. In the meantime, if I could stay at the Centre for a day or two, that would be awesome."

She clicked off the mobile phone just as a loud clap of thunder reverberated above her. Before she knew it, her hair and clothes were drenched and she was shivering uncontrollably.

Shelter. Coffee. Food. In that order. And then perhaps the world wouldn’t seem so dismal.

H
elena chose
a table in the back of the sandwich shop to sit down at for her meal. Still reeling from the shock of her confrontation with the Earskines, she wanted to curl up in a ball and hide from the world. But even at three in the afternoon, cheap eateries in central London ran at a fast pace, especially in summer when droves of tourists spilled into the city. Helena huddled in her seat avoiding eye-contact while she picked at her turkey-bacon-mustard sandwich and slowly sipped her diet soda. For the most part, people respected her silent plea for privacy; they were too busy chattering with their companions to notice her, which suited her just fine. She was just too discouraged to interact with anyone.

"Do you mind if I sit here?"

Helena looked up in surprise to find an oddly-dressed woman standing in front of her, a hand on the table. She was tall with a solid figure and wore a flowing crimson caftan and a bright red headscarf. Her black hair was liberally streaked with gray, and her dusky face was slightly wrinkled.

Helena pointed her head toward the vacant tables nearby. "There are other tables." It wasn't like her to be rude, but this wasn't any ordinary day.

"No, it isn't," agreed the woman.

Helena's eyes widened. Had she said that aloud?

"No, you didn't," the other woman said as she pulled out the chair opposite Helena and seated herself in it.

Helena's mouth fell open. What was happening? This woman seemed to be able to read her mind.

"It's not really mind reading," the woman said conversationally. "It's more like a strong sense of hearing. But it doesn't work with everyone. But you—well, I could hear your distress calling all the way from Gracechurch Street."

Helena stiffened. "That's ridiculous. I'm just peacefully eating my lunch. I'm not in distress and I didn't call anyone."

The woman snorted. "You are a dreadful liar, my dear. But that's neither here nor there. I'm here because I think I can help you."

Helena blinked. "Help me? What do you mean?" And then, tilting her head to the side: "Who
are
you?"

The woman grinned. "My name is Ethelberta Herne. I am Romany—a gypsy to you
gorgios.
I am possessed of some unusual powers, Helena dear. One of them is detecting an aura from you that seems to indicate a temporal glitch. Fascinating really, because they occur so rarely."

Helena wrinkled her nose. "A temporal glitch? Is this some sort of
Star Trek
thing? Because I don't really believe in that crap."

She felt a headache coming on. Really, this was outside of enough.

The gypsy woman chuckled. "Not
Star Trek
crap. No indeed." She leaned in looked Helena directly in the eye. "This is the real thing, Helena. My senses tell me that you've been out of sync with the world nearly all of your life. Homeless. Without roots. A wanderer in search of the life she was born to, but lost. Does any of this ring true to you?"

It did indeed. A lump developed in her throat and she felt like sobbing. But this woman could be nothing but a clever con-artist, and her "unusual power" was probably just an ability to read people's non-verbal body language.

The woman patted her hand. "I understand," she said in a soothing tone. "You have no reason to trust me. Those of my race have not always conducted themselves honorably, and for that, we must all bear the stigma."

She pulled away from the table and made as if to leave. But Helena suddenly realized she wanted her to stay.

"Wait."

Helena offered her hand to the other woman. "I'm sorry I've been so rude to you. Please stay and tell me more about your–er special powers."

Mrs. Herne smiled and accepted Helena's hand. "No need to apologize." She looked pointedly at Helena's food. "Is that a turkey sandwich? It looks delicious."

Helena's hand touched her throat. She'd forgotten all about eating. "Turkey-bacon-mustard. It's okay. Nothing special."

The gypsy eyed the sandwich with interest.

"Oh." The woman was hungry. "Can I get you something to eat?" How could she eat her own meal while her table companion had nothing?

Mrs. Herne's face lit up. "How kind of you to offer, Helena dear. I'd love an egg sandwich, but I left my handbag at home, you see…"

For the next half-hour, while they chatted, Mrs. Herne had a sandwich, potato crisps, lemonade, and a pastry. And when they parted, Helena had an invitation to visit Mrs. Herne's shop on Gracechurch Street.

Which she was inclined to do, oddly enough. Mrs. Herne might be a con-artist or merely a kook, but she'd certainly caught Helena's attention. What the heck? She had nothing better to do.

T
he sign painted
on the window read “Genuine Gipsy Fortune Telling” in large red letters with “Palm Reading • Tarot Cards” in smaller print underneath with the bottom line proclaiming “Séances Scheduled at Your Convenience”. A mannequin dressed flamboyantly in a red peasant blouse and gold skirt stood in the window with outstretched arms, no doubt meant to lure the bystander inside. Although an attempt had been made to give her a gypsy appearance—black wig tied back under a bright red headscarf, and glittery gold dripping from every possible place—her expression was the typical bland stare associated with mannequins.

It was cheesy. The sort of place an educated person would never deign to enter. Certainly not Helena, who had never believed in psychics or fortune telling, let alone "auras" and "temporal glitches".

“I might be able to help you find your proper place,” the gypsy had said cautiously after finishing the meal Helena had bought her. “The time you were born in. Come to my shop”—she'd pushed a card toward Helena—“and we can discuss it.”

Helena’s eyes had narrowed. “Why not now? Here?” she asked, indicating the busy sandwich shop. “Why must I come to your shop? Do you need your crystal ball or something?”

Mrs. Herne had simply smiled and excused herself, leaving Helena to decide whether to ignore her or investigate further her incredible assertions.

Oddly enough, she wanted to believe. The gypsy’s words struck a nerve. Helena had never fit in anywhere, no matter how much she’d tried. Perhaps there was a reason for it. Something that could be done to remedy the situation. But—travel through time? That sort of thing happened only in science fiction. As Dr. McCoy explained in
Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home:
“Sure, you slingshot around the Sun, pick up enough speed—you’re in time warp. If you don’t, you’re fried.”

Star Trek. Outlander.
Fiction. Nobody with any sense believed there was any truth in either story, but they did appeal to the imagination. What if people
could
travel through time? What would they do? How would they live? How would the future be affected by one's actions in the past? She shook her head. It was all nonsense, of course.

But here she was, standing outside Mrs. Herne’s fortune-telling shop, gathering up the courage to go inside. Well, she’d come this far. Might as well go for broke. She rang the bell and stepped inside.

The foyer was covered in red damask sprinkled with gold medallions. On a table between two gold satin wingback chairs was an vintage
Ouiji
board. On the adjacent wall was a showcase with a magnificent crystal ball in the center and zodiac plates on the side.

But what really drew Helena’s attention was the familiar-looking Zoltar fortune-telling machine in the corner. The gold-turbaned gypsy male figure had a narrow black beard and a thick mustache that turned up at the ends like a villain’s. He wore a black leather vest over a gold shirt, hoop earrings, and his eyes seemed to be laughing at her. The case of the machine was of made of elaborately carved wood painted in black and gold, and the front of the glass box said “Zoltar” in gold-outlined red at the top, and “Speaks” on the bottom. His right hand hovered over a crystal ball, and the left one seemed to beckon her to come closer. Now where had she seen that before?

“It was the movie
Big,
”

Mrs. Herne pushed aside some of the strands of colorful beads that obscured the interior of her shop as she approached Helena.

“They had one exactly like this, but mine is the original. I purchased it from Patty Astley herself when her husband refused to have it anywhere near his amphitheatre. She was a good friend of mine, was Patty. Quite the horsewoman, too. But then, Philip was an excellent teacher.”

Astley? Of Astley’s Amphitheatre? From upwards of two hundred years ago?

“How old
are
you, Mrs. Herne?” She certainly did not have the look of a senior citizen, let alone someone who'd lived centuries. Weirder and weirder.