The Rebel’s Daughter (23 page)

Helena stifled a shocked laugh, but Phebe
was in full flow. “…and even if they were, he is unlikely to
announce the fact in the “Change. You’re quite safe.” She swung her
muff from one hand to the other, her sharp eyes scanning the hall
as she spoke. “Why, I should emulate you and simper like a
schoolgirl, I shall never be noticed.”

“
You are
bold and indiscreet Phebe, what will poor Helena think of you?”
Celia sniffed. “She cannot be used to such outrageous attention
seeking.”

Phebe
pulled a face, bowing to mutter a
polite, “Sir,” to a slightly built young man in brown velvet who
approached them. With a sweep of her arm, Phebe introduced him.
“Master Jack Montague, allow me to present Mistress Helena Woulfe,
who has lately come to town from Exeter. My sister Celia you know,
of course.”

Phebe
inclined her head, adding, “Jack is
cousin to Sir Charles Montague.”

With no idea whom the Montagues were, but
resolving to question Celia on the subject later, Helena’s gaze
fixed on the impossibly high periwig which almost overwhelmed his
narrow face.

“
Shall
you attend my Lord’s soirée this evening, to celebrate His
Majesty’s birthday?” he asked in a high, almost feminine voice with
a pronounced lisp, while he gazed at Phebe with an enraptured
expression. “I assure you it will be a well-attended
occasion.”

“
A
shame, then, that we have conflicting plans for that evening.”
Celia imitated Alice’s haughtiest tone. “I shall be sorry not to
see Master Evelyn, whom I am told shall be there.”

“
Oh…oh
yes, he certainly shall. A remarkable old man is he not? So full of
Court stories. I never tire of listening to him,” he concluded, his
tone intimating the opposite was true.

After a polite interval and much bowing, he
moved off down the concourse.

“
Huh!”
Phebe flicked her fan back and forth. “When shall I be invited to a
Court Ball, and not simply the parties held afterwards?”

“
Never.
You’re not aristocracy, Phebe.” She tucked her arm into her
sister’s and drew her in the opposite direction.

“
Do you
have a preference for that young man, Phebe?” Helena asked,
glancing back at her new acquaintance.

“
Not at
all,” Phebe smirked, earning her a hard glare from her sister. “He
is very satisfying to practice on, don’t you think?”

Helena felt instant admiration for Phebe;
obviously a young lady determined to make the best of her
opportunities.

When they returned to the coach, Phebe
banished the maid to the outside seat, leaving them to gossip
inside on their way back to Holborn, a heap of prettily wrapped
parcels balanced on their knees.

Celia attempted yet again to warn her
sister of the dangers of forward behavior in public, but Phebe
waved away her criticism. “It’s all very well for you to eschew
flirting, Celia, but we don’t all have a Master Maurice dancing
attendance upon us.”

“
Who is
Master Maurice?” Helena asked, watching a slow blush suffuse
Celia”s face. “He was that pale creature at dinner the other
night,” Phebe giggled. “The one with the dog eyes, who quivered
each time Papa spoke to him.”

“
He did
no such thing.” Celia bridled. “Ralf is a goldsmith, too, which may
explain why he spends so much time in Papa’s company.”

“
Have
you been acquainted with him long?” Helena asked, ignoring Phoebe’s
smirking face.

“
Well,”
Celia hesitated. “Actually I know him hardly at all. We have met
but three times.”

“
He’s
Papa’s choice,” Phebe said. “Though my sister offered no objections
to the match.”

“
I have
a duty of obedience to Papa, Phebe, as have you.” Celia glared at
her. “The contract has been drawn up and there is only my portion
to be settled.”

“
I offer
my felicitations.” Helena attempted a smile, although she felt a
sudden pang at the prospect of losing her new friend so
soon.

Phebe
sighed and huddled into the
corner.

“
You
disapprove, Phebe?” Helena asked.

“
It
would be inappropriate and irrelevant for her to approve or
disapprove,” Celia retorted, “and if Papa decreed Master Maurice
would be her husband instead of mine, she would still have no
grounds on which to object.”

Helena fell silent, recalling that no one
had asked her opinion on Martyn Blandon, either.

Phebe
snuggled into her fur-lined cloak,
her eyes narrowed. “No one shall sell me to the highest bidder,
like some commodity. I’ll marry whomsoever I choose.”

“
Can you
not be happy I am to be the wife of a man who may one day be as
rich as Papa?” Celia”s blue eyes moistened. “I am to have a house,
servants, and a carriage every bit as grand as this one. Ralf will
take me out into society far more than I am permitted to at
present.”

The threatening sky opened and heavy rain
began pounding the wooden roof of the carriage, so they had to
raise their voices to be heard.

Phebe
gave a contemptuous sniff, then
appeared to soften. “If you are content, Celia, then I shall be
happy for you. However my husband shall be my own choice. Then, if
the marriage is not happy, no one will be to blame but
myself.”

“
Why
would it not be happy?” Helena pulled the rug tighter around
herself as water began to find its way through the leather flaps.
She remembered the servant girl and the coachman getting drenched
on the outside seat, but felt it inappropriate to mention it. “Your
father would take every precaution that the man he found for you
would be good-hearted and well-bred.”

Lifting her pert chin, Phebe held Helena’s
gaze. “Perhaps you should ask Millie Bryant that same question, and
see how she answers.”

“
Phebe!
You are not to talk about such things!” Celia”s eyes
flashed.

“
Millie
Sanders, or Mistress Bryant, as she became,” Phebe said, defiant.
“Married just such a young man, chosen for her by her father.”
Phoebe’s brown eyes shimmered with emotion. “They were married less
than a twelvemonth, during which he spent her entire portion and
then he turned her out of the house, where he now lives with his
mistress.”

Celia gave an impatient tut.

“
Please,
go on, Phebe,” Helena urged, fascinated.

“
Millie
is the sweetest, kindest girl who ever lived, yet she had to beg to
be allowed her back into her family, as if the disgrace were her
own.” Phoebe’s voice cracked. “Her family treat her like an upper
servant, an investment that went wrong. She cannot find a better
husband, as she is still tied to that brute Bryant, who cares not a
fig for her and is still received into society, where poor Millie
is not.” She slumped back in her seat, breathless.

“
You
must be very fond of her, to champion her in this way.” Helena
said.

“
I am
forbidden to see her.” Phebe blinked rapidly.

Impulsively, Helena leaned forward and
grasped the younger girl’s hand, at which Phebe gave a start of
surprise, though she didn’t pull away. “I am so sorry.” Helena
strained to make herself heard above the drumming rain. “That is
not to say such a fate would be yours. Your family would never tie
you to a husband who discards a good wife.”

“
They
certainly will not, for I shall find my own.”

“
Perhaps
he-”

“
Leave
her, Helena,” Celia interrupted. “She will change her mind, when
she is reminded of her duty.”

With a final glare in Celia”s direction,
Phebe threw back the leather flap covering the window, heedless of
the cold rain lashing her face, where Helena heard her say firmly.
“I shall never change my mind.”

Chapter
14

During
Helena’s first hectic weeks in
London, a constant stream of guests paraded through Lambtons; some
to pay their respects to the orphans of the ill-fated rebellion,
others she felt sure, out of sheer curiosity.

When she had expressed bewilderment at so
much attention, Alyce had tried to explain. “Your distracted grief
gives you an enigmatic air, my dear, which will secure you a
husband before you know it. Men adore mysterious women.”

Helena had not known how to respond, but
despite her forthrightness, she liked and admired Alyce Devereux;
it was only willful Phoebe’s occasional bouts of jealous resentment
that soured her contentment in her new surroundings. However, of
late Phebe was making an effort to be agreeable since their moment
of mutual understanding in the carriage.

Helena found being surrounded by people at
all times of the day stifling. Although she loved the teeming life
that made up Holborn and its surrounding streets, the perpetual
rumbling of carts and loud voices became too much for her to bear
when she needed some time to think.

Samuel had delayed his return home by over
a week, but when the weather changed for the worse, he had
announced his need to set off before the roads became impassable.
Saying goodbye to him had been harder than she imagined, though
Helena had determined to be strong. He was her last link with her
home. From now on, she and Henry would forge their own path in this
strange but fascinating city. Would they rise up in society to a
position of affluence, or disappear into the anonymity that
engulfed so many?

She eased her way through the bustling
kitchens, where cooks shrieked at the scullery maids, serving men
exchanged bawdy jokes in loud voices, pans clattered, and meat
sizzled.

Helena slipped through the rear door into
the walled garden, her breath forming wispy clouds in the cold air.
The walled space suffered from a lack of attention. The plants not
been properly trimmed back for the winter, and the hedges were
ragged and overgrown in places. Yet but it was quiet, and offered
some respite from the ever-constant clamour of the inn. Seats
nestled in arbours in the walls, with ornamental hedges trimmed and
trained to form a covered archway, which, Helena imagined, gave
cool shelter on sunny days.

On her second tour of the pathways, she
turned at the bang of the kitchen door. Henry was hurrying toward
her. “Here you are!” he called brightly, pulling his cloak tighter
with a dramatic shiver. “It’s bitter cold out here.”

“
Walk
with me, it will help you keep warm.” Ignoring his cursing, she
looped her arm through his. “Tell me, Henry, how do you like living
in an alehouse?”

“
I’m
enjoying it, and besides,” he placed a finger to his cheek in a
gesture characteristic of Master Devereux. “Lambtons is no ordinary
alehouse.”

Helena
’s laugh rang across the dormant
winter garden. “You don’t think Father would disapprove of us being
here?”

He frowned. “What makes you say
that?”

She shrugged, suddenly overcome by
sadness. “I would not care if he came back and dragged us away in a
rage. But as each day passes, I doubt more and more it will
happen.”

“
That he
will drag us away?”

“
That he
will come back.”

Henry stared off with a frown, making
Helena sorry for being the cause of his melancholy. He had been so
much happier lately, spending every moment he could with his new
friend, Sir Christopher Wren. In an effort to lighten the mood, she
asked the first question that came into her head. “Have you been at
St Paul’s again today?”

His face showed surprise. “How did you
know?”

She raised both eyebrows in response.

Henry stamped his feet and blew on his
hands. “I met Master Hawksmoor this morning.”

“
And who
might he be?” Helena feigned enthusiasm.

“
Sir
Christopher engaged him as his pupil, when he was not two years
older than I am now.”

Helena waited, suspecting there might be
more.

“
He’s
taking me to see the new chapel, the one the king has had built in
Whitehall Palace.”

“
Do you
think that’s wise?” She halted on the pathway, everything she had
learned about Papists rushing into her head. “Has he not filled the
chapel with figures of saints and gold statues?”

Henry laughed at her expression. “Helena,
I’m not going to attend Mass, I going there to study the
building.”

On their stroll back toward the kitchens, she
looked down as Henry scuffed his feet on the gravel. She was about
to reprimand him for damaging his shoes, but the words died on her
lips. He was no longer her little brother. Circumstances had turned
him into a man heartbreakingly too soon. He spoke with care these
days, and was no longer the enthusiastic boy who would say the
first thing that came into his head.