The Rebel’s Daughter (19 page)

Once Somerset was behind them, together
with Helena’s less than happy memories of her recent visit, the
roads became more crowded. Their timing was not ideal either, for
wet weather and cold winds made their progress slower, and the
horses needed changing more often.

Samuel
’s authoritative manner had worked
like sorcery on indolent maids at inns, to procure the best rooms,
obtain abundant hot water, and the best food available.

Now, no more than a morning’s drive away
from their destination, excitement replaced Helena’s discomfort.
She rushed to the window to take in the view. “We’re almost in
London, Chloe,” she addressed the bundle in the corner. “Get up and
help me dress. I want my breakfast.”

* * *

Helena hurried down the inn
stairs; almost colliding with Samuel in the entrance hall,
she stepped back in
surprise at his bright blue long coat embroidered in silver and a
long black periwig; items Helena had no idea he
possessed.

All through breakfast, while Henry sniggered,
Samuel haggled with the innkeeper in threatening terms, declaring
their bill was extortionate and the food barely adequate.

“
Master
Ffoyle,” Helena said in a fierce whisper out of the landlord’s
earshot. “The fare was exceptionally good.” She exchanged an
incredulous look with Henry who shrugged.

“
Doesn’t
hurt to keep them attentive,” Samuel declared as he ushered them
onto the busy Street near the Market Square. “Now where’s that
blackguard of a coachman?”

Their progress out of Kingston was hampered
by carts and pack ponies, which prompted Samuel to bellow at slow
moving traffic, cuffing traders who sprang onto the backboard in an
attempt to sell them trinkets from trays.

“
Life in
London is harsher for servant and master alike,” Samuel said when
Helena challenged this uncharacteristic aggression, “and far less
forgiving.”

As if to validate his comments, he
shrieked at link boys who clung precariously to the sides of the
carriage, offering their services as guides for a penny.

“
If we
are set on by footpads, I’ll strangle you first,” Samuel said,
tossing a coin to one pox-scarred lad, then turned and winked in
response to Helena’s shocked expression. “All street hawkers are in
league with ambushing villains.”

When the carriage slowed in traffic,
Samuel hollered at their driver, “use your whip, man. We’ll never
get anywhere in this throng, else!”

“
Master
Ffoyle, you’re frightening Chloe.” Helena scolded.

His response was simply to glare at the
maid, who cowered in her seat.

Helena gave up, convinced that for all his
ferocity, Samuel enjoyed the faster pace. He certainly appeared
more alive in the Capital than in Exeter.

“
London
has more new buildings than anywhere else in the country,” Samuel
told a clearly impressed Henry, as the carriage swayed along
cobbled streets. “The Great Fire of sixty-six destroyed many of the
old wooden houses and churches.”

Helena tried to imagine the magnificent
city in flames, but the image eluded her. “How did the fire
start?”

Samuel gave a shrug. “Some say it was the
Catholics, though I warrant it was simply a dry summer and a fire
not extinguished properly in a city baker’s shop. Whichever the
cause, thousands were made homeless. Some left London, never to
return. Thank the Lord only a handful of people lost their lives.”
He shuddered as if dispelling bad memories. “Christopher Wren drew
up new plans based on an Italian piazza with streets radiating from
a central point like a wheel.”

“
Such a
scheme would have served far better than all these crooked
alleyways and courts,” Henry said.

Samuel crossed his hands on the top of his
cane held upright between his knees. “When your house is a charred
mass on the ground, my boy, you cannot wait for the ambitious
schemes of kings. Londoners had to put roofs over their families”
heads, and businesses to run. They simply re-built them in the same
places, though the new building regulations should ensure such a
tragedy never happens again.”

“
I still
think the Italian piazzas style would have looked wonderful,” Henry
said, craning so far forward, he was in danger of losing his hat
and had to be hauled back inside by Samuel.

The winter afternoon had faded into a
colorless dusk by the time they entered a wide cobbled street,
lined with half-timbered black and white houses with uneven leaded
windows.

“
This
area is called Holborn.” Samuel pointed with his cane. “The fire
did not reach this end of the street, so most of the buildings here
are much older.”

“
Are
these all shops?” Helena asked, motioning toward the bow windows
with leaded panes, as they passed.

“
Mostly,
and with living quarters on the floors above.”

They drew up before a timbered
building with wooden balconies along the length of the upper floor.
A row of wide, squat windows ran along the lower façade. A painted
wooden sign in green and gold lettering on the front declared it to
be
“Lambtons
Inn”
.

“
It
looks like several houses joined together,” Henry observed when
they drew to a halt.

“
It’s
enormous,” Helena whispered, in awe.

Shadows moved behind the curtains. There
came the sounds of laughter and loud chatter, together with the
enticing smell of cooking.

Helena
’s mouth began to water, despite her
hearty breakfast.

Samuel handed Helena down from the coach just
as a portly man clacked toward them on high-heeled shoes.

Helena gaze levelled and remained on a
black patch the size of a half-laurel covering his left
eye.

“
I am
Lubbock,” he said, tiny black eye skimming over Chloe and stopping
to settle admiringly on Helena. “Master Devereux's manservant.
Welcome to Lambtons.”

A brace of grooms in a livery of buff
jackets over black breeches directed the carts and the Ffoyle
carriage into the stable yard.

“
I
thought he was Master Devereux,” Henry whispered as the dainty
little man skipped around them as if he were herding
sheep.

“
I thought so too,” Helena whispered back.
“Look at his clothes. I’ve never seen a manservant dress so
fine.”

Helena found herself in a double-height
entrance hall decorated in shades of red and gold. Gilt-framed
mirrors on the walls reflected light from candles clustered into a
vast chandelier attached by a chain to the ceiling.

“
I
wonder whose job it is to change all those candles?” Henry
asked.

Helena shrugged, rubbing the points of her
shoes into the impossibly thick, patterned carpet, spread like a
colorful sea at their feet.

“
Is this
what all the alehouses in London look like?” Henry asked, his mouth
open in amazement.

“
This is
Lambtons. The best Inn and Chophouse in Holborn, maybe even in
London itself,” Samuel replied.

* * *

A wide staircase at the far end
of the hall rose into a galleried landing that split off
into
either
side.

As Lubbock led them toward three ladies
and a man who waited there, Helena paused at the closed doors on
the side of the entrance hall from behind which animated laughter,
the clinking glasses and loud conversation could be
heard.

“
Devereux, my dear man,” Samuel greeted the man at the
stairs. “As you can see, we have journeyed safely through dangerous
countryside.”

“
Is that
so, Master Ffoyle? And there I was, imagining you came from
Devon.”

So this was
the real Robert Devereux. He
wore a patterned brocade garment of palest blue and gold, gathered
on one hip over a shirt with flounces that peeked out at the front.
This strange garment reached to his knees, decorated with birds and
flowers. Spindly legs clad in white hose ended in what looked like
gold silk slippers completed the picture.

In place of a heavy periwig, a fur turban
covered his head; a strange appearance that might have discouraged
her, had he not possessed an oval, friendly face and blue eyes that
twinkled as if constantly amused.

“
Welcome
to Lambtons, my dear Mistress Woulfe.” He took Helena’s hand in
both of his, the touch warm, dry and comforting. “I do hope you
will both be happy here.” He indicated a lady beside him. “Allow me
to acquaint you with my dear wife, Alyce.”

Helena had imagined a London version of
Meghan Ffoyle, in more fashionable clothes, but this magnificent
creature who enveloped her in perfumed, satin-clad arms was almost
girlish.

She wore a silver-colored manteau that
shimmered in the candlelight, pleated and fastened to reveal the
top of an elaborate corset holding in her tiny waist, with an ample
décolleté.

The split skirt pulled back and up was a
new fashion to Helena. It was fastened on the woman’s still slender
hips, and draped to reveal a blue underskirt. Her glossy mahogany
hair was piled in large curls on top of her head. With looped
ribbons and feathers in creamy pinks and greys, it made her appear
taller than her husband.

The lady stepped back a pace to appraise
Helena, who could see that close up, the lady was older than she
first appeared, her advancing years hidden under a careful veneer
of face paint, with a crescent moon taffeta patch set next to her
carmined lips.

“
I’m
delighted such an attractive young couple has come to live with
us,” she whispered huskily, making Helena wonder what she would
have said had they been less so. When Hendry’s turn came for her
embrace, she appeared reluctant release him, caressing his shoulder
with one hand.

Helena tried to catch his eye, but Henry
appeared bewitched by her.

“
This is
my elder daughter, Celia.” Robert waved a hand toward a plump,
pretty girl of Helena’s own age in an aquamarine bodice worn open
over a visible corset that made Helena stare. Her generous
décolleté, cut straight across in the current fashion, only made
respectable by a bertha of exquisite cream lace.

“
Welcome
to Lambtons,” Celia’s voice was high-pitched. “I hope London is all
you wish it to be.”

A younger girl in buttercup yellow silk who
possessed all the daring, self-confident look of her mother,
greeted Henry with a girlish giggle and a tap of her closed fan on
his shoulder. She then turned a penetrating gaze on Helena with a
narrowing of her eyes.

After a long silence, Alyce nudged her,
hard. “Phebe, offer your respects to Mistress Woulfe.” Alyce forced
a laugh. “Please forgive my younger daughter, Helena dear, she can
be rather shy on occasion.”

Celia gave a derisive snort and flapped her
fan.

“
Mistress,” Phebe murmured, her curtsey barely discernible,
before she turned pleading eyes on her father. “You promised I
could go to the “Change this afternoon, Papa. I have waited all
morning.” She turned her back to Helena in an obvious
snub.

“
So you
will, my love,” Master Devereux, apparently oblivious of her lack
of manners, slung a silk-clad arm around his youngest daughter
“Though first, we have a nuncheon laid out for our
guests.”

Helena frowned, perturbed by Phoebe’s
hostility. And dropped back to Samuel’s side. “What is that
extraordinary garment Master Devereux is wearing, Master
Ffoyle?”

“
It’s
called a banyan,” he replied grinning. “A robe of silk brocade from
India. Many gentlemen here have adopted them as indoor
attire.”

Helena found this hard to
believe.

What Master Devereux had described as a
nuncheon seemed to Helena more like a feast.

The meal was served in the
French style, with an array of dishes being placed on the table.
Robert launched into a recital of each dish as it appeared. “Here
we have venison pasties and
sallets
; carrots mulched in vinegar; a cow’s tongue
garnished with capers and
spinnage
, rabbit in butter, and some plump
radishes.”

At her hesitation, Samuel helped identify
the other meats and pastries, piling her plate high as he regaled
the company with their crossing of Blackheath.

“
We had
to wait for other coaches to join us, so we could cross in a
convoy,” Henry ventured between mouthfuls, his eyes round at the
memory.

“
Well, I
think you were all very brave to venture into such inhospitable
country.” Alyce fluttered her eyelashes. “One dare not even imagine
the consequences, had you been attacked.”

Helena
’s nervousness disappeared at their
friendliness, marveling as even more dishes were carried in and set
on the table.