The Rebel’s Daughter (31 page)

“
Would
you not take more buttermilk, Henry?” ten-year-old Millicent beamed
up at him from beside his shoulder, in imitation of her elder
sisters” flirting. “I used my Dutch grandmother’s special
method.”

“
Perhaps
I might have some, warmed, before bed.” Henry said.

Before Jane, the six-year-old member of
the family could request her doll repaired or a ribbon tied, Henry
made his rapid escape along the long hall to where his coat, hat,
and muff hung from the rail in the hall. Before reaching them, Mary
Ann stepped out of a side room into his path, opened the front door
and slammed it with a resounding bang. Pressing a finger to her
lips, she drew him into the room behind her and silently closed the
door.

Henry smiled. “I have to meet your
father…”

She cut him off with a deep kiss, pressing
him back against the door.

“
I
know,” she said, her lips brushing his as she answered. “We haven’t
been alone for days.” She leaned back, and smoothed down his shirt
with both hands, sending ripples of pleasure across his
skin.

He released a tiny groan and traced the line
of her chin with one hand.

“
Could
you get away and meet me somewhere?” she wheedled, bringing the
tips of his fingers to her mouth, nipping at them with her
teeth.

Henry swallowed. “You are bold, Mistress
Newman, you know that don’t you?” He tried to look serious, but
knew his enraptured expression gave him away.

“
I know,
but only with you.” She jutted out her chin, pouting.

“
Your
father is waiting for me at Christ Church, Newgate. It’s almost
complete, and Sir Christopher will be there for the final
inspection. I mustn’t be late,” Henry insisted, though made no
effort to move from the circle of her arms.

“
Later
then,” she breathed into his neck. “Think of somewhere we can be
alone.”

“
We are
alone,” he teased.

“
You
know what I mean.” She giggled, leaning into him for another urgent
kiss.

The door behind him creaked in protest and
they sprang apart. “Mother might have heard that,” Mary Ann
whispered. “She’ll be coming to see what I’m doing.” His arms still
encircled her waist and she caressed his neck with one
hand.

“
Perhaps, you and your maid could pay a visit to St Bride’s
Church sometime around three of the clock?” Henry
suggested.

Mary Ann gave the slightest of nods, then
slid past him to open the door, checking the passage before
signaling him to emerge. The footman standing in the hall saw
everything, and nothing, his back ramrod straight as he stared at
thin air.

Avoiding the man’s eye, Henry slipped past
him through the front door, turning to blow Mary Ann a kiss as she
closed it behind him.

Outside, Hendry’s gaze alighted on two
chairmen slouching against the wall of a building opposite. Henry
liked sedans, which could ease through spaces a carriage could not,
making his frequent journeys through the city more efficient. He
beckoned with his chin, in a fair imitation of Robert Devereux. One
chairman nudged his companion before hurrying toward him, the
cumbersome conveyance slung between their broad
shoulders.

Henry settled into the comfortable
interior, wondering how the workmen on the building site were
capable of even flexing their fingers in such weather. Wishing
Spring would come, he shoved his hands inside the fur muff, his
hand closing on a small square of parchment.

Frowning, he brought the paper into the
light to read. It was from Mary Ann. The words were
overly-sentimental, but they meant everything to Henry, whose lips
curved into a smile as he read. He re-read the note twice, then
touched it to his lips before tucking it back inside the
muff.

He and Mary Ann had skirted around each
other for weeks, with shy smiles and awkward exchanges. He still
did not know quite when their attraction had intensified into
stolen kisses and secret meetings, but he did not regret one moment
of it all.

Their mutual pleasure distracted Henry
from the terrible dilemma neither could face discussing. He might
have private means, but he was also an indentured apprentice to
Mary Ann’s father and therefore forbidden to marry. For him to
become betrothed to his patron’s daughter under the man’s own roof
in secret would be devastating for his future career, not to
mention Mary Ann’s reputation.

According to his indenture, Henry could
not contemplate marriage for another six years, although the
thought their union constantly occupied his thoughts. With such an
obstacle hanging over him, Henry had not dared talk of the future;
it was imprudent enough snatching private moments in the present.
That Mary Ann would wait for him was something he knew
instinctively. However, she too needed the approval of her parents,
and his guardian. Without them, what would become of Hendry’s grand
schemes?

Since the wonderful news that his brother
Aaron was still alive, news which Mary Ann had been as excited
about as Henry himself, he had longed to see Aaron and place his
future in his brother’s hands.

He still could not bring himself to
mention it to Helena; she and those Devereux girls teased him
enough for blushing in Mary Ann’s company. Aaron would clap him on
the back and laugh at his gaucheness, but he was head of the family
now, and would know what to do even if Henry did not. Everything
would be better once Aaron came home.

Henry gazed unseeing at the interior of
the sedan as it rocked and bumped along in the heavy traffic. He
kept the leather flap down, allowing the familiar sights of London
to pass him by unnoticed, his thumbs gently stroking the square of
parchment inside the muff.

They turned a sharp corner and the chair
jolted, causing the chairmen to shout a protest. Henry put out a
hand to steady himself, but was thrown hard against the padded
backboard. He righted himself and threw up the flap, craning
forward to scan the street.

They had almost collided with a large
handcart, which lay on its side, its load spilled onto the cobbles.
Henry joined in the abuse and yelled at the hapless carter
gathering up his belongings from the filthy road, ordering the way
be cleared so he could complete his journey. Henry was a busy man,
and could not tolerate delays.

* * *

Lambtons was
busy
, and in
order to keep out of the way of running feet, Helena found a
private corner in the kitchen parlor where to sit. The sounds of
raised voices, and the clashing of pots and clunk of cleavers on
wood filled the background. A cook shouted at a maid for dropping a
plate, a serving man relayed a customer’s orders, while the door to
the dining room swung open with a creak, then flapped back into
place with a rhythmic whoosh.

The kitchen parlour was where Mistress
Carstairs ruled her domain, a scrubbed wooden table on one side and
a potbellied stove the other. A narrow shelf circled the room above
head height, displaying a collection of blue and white Delph, sent
to the housekeeper by her Dutch son-in-law.

Helena joined them on cold afternoons,
warming her feet at the stove and chatting to Lubbock, who sipped
tea like a gentleman and gossiped to Mrs Carstars.

He reminded her of Benoit in some ways,
the cook at Loxsbeare, whose fastidious nature and vanity about his
appearance was the bane of the servants” hall.

Helena settled herself at the oak table,
her journal and a bowl of coffee beside her. The doors on either
side of the room stood open, the kitchen side revealing the cooks
bullying the serving men, while the other gave onto the clamour of
the dining areas. In a sudden flurry of movement, Lubbock scrambled
to his feet, bowing respectfully.

“
Mistress Woulfe, I thought I might find you here.” William
leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, his
black periwig arranged artistically over both shoulders.

“
Indeed,
you have found me, sir.” She tucked a hand beneath her chin. “With
my favorite gentleman at Lambtons.” She nodded her head toward
Lubbock, who hovered in the background.

William pressed both hands over his heart.
“And I came hot-foot from Wills, leaving my coffee untouched, in my
haste to be the first to bring you the news.”

“
How
thoughtful of you. And what news is this?”

“
King
James has issued a general pardon to all those who fought in the
Western Rebellion.”

“
Everyone?” Helena sprang to her feet, all traces of the
coquette gone. “All pardoned?”

William
’s eyes told her
no
. “Those who came over from Holland with
him are excluded, as are a few of the more prominent rebels. Sir
Jonathan Woulfe is still listed amongst the fugitives condemned to
death. Aaron Woulfe, however, is a free man.”

“
Thank
you, William. At least half your news is good.” Helena’s cheeks
grew warm, which she told herself was for Aaron’s sake, but the
feel of William’s eyes roving over her face and sliding down onto
her bodice made her quiver.
Did Father know he could not come home? Where
would he go now? For nothing would convince her he was
dead.

Lubbock made a mumbled excuse about having
duties to perform, and slipped away. Most likely, Helena imagined,
to inform the rest of the kitchen staff. She smiled as Mistress
Carstairs appeared at the door, only to be pushed back by the
retreating Lubbock.

William flicked up the back of his coat
and sat opposite her the table. “Is this coffee still hot?” he
asked a passing serving girl.

“
This
ten minutes, Master William.” Her face scarlet, the girl bobbed an
awkward curtsey and hurried away.

William
’s fingers brushed hers as he passed
her the cup. A sharp jolt ran through her, and when she looked up,
the sudden flare in his eyes showed he had felt it too.

She withdrew her hand with an inward sigh,
wondering why he created such mixed feelings. During his kinder
moments, William treated her with genuine affection, and it would
be churlish to rebuff him. Then he would make a frivolous joke at
someone else’s expense, talk disparagingly of an enamored lady in
Helena’s company, or lose a vast amount of money he had not earned
at a gaming table, and her heart would harden against
him.

They were still staring into each other’s
eyes when Celia arrived with Phebe hot on her heels.

“
Have
you heard about the Amnesty?” Celia asked, waving a hand at
Lubbock’s retreating back.

“
Yes.”
William and Helena replied simultaneously.

Celia clasped her hands together. “Isn’t
it wonderful? Aaron can come home.”

“
Why are
you sitting here in this horrid little room?” Phebe gaze flicked
around the parlour with distaste. “Do come into the salon, both of
you. There’s a lovely fire in there.” “I cannot wait to meet your
brother,” Celia said as they traversed the hall and took their
places on the settles, chaises and chairs around the welcoming
blaze.

“
I am
sure he will adore you, as I do,” Helena said, appreciative of
Celia”s enthusiasm for someone she had not met.

“
Do you
think he could stay here, at Lambtons?” Phebe asked, positioning
herself behind her brother’s chair, her long fingers caressing his
shoulders.

“
I
expect he would prefer his own establishment,” William said,
entering the room last, his gaze still on Helena.

Celia”s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, but,
suppose he insists you go and live with him?”

“
That
seems unlikely, at first at least.” Helena said, laughing. “In any
case I shall insist I remain…” she stopped short as the truth
occurred to her. As head of the family, Aaron could command her to
live where and how he wished and she would have no choice but to
obey. She wondered why this idea held no appeal, then pushed the
thought away.

“
Will
Aaron know about the pardon by now?” Helena asked.

William laughed. “No doubt all
the rebels in
The Hague
will crowd every available ship out of the harbor as we
speak.” He was still looking at her, and she revelled in his
appraising scrutiny, unable to tell if the thrill she felt was due
to her brother’s imminent return, or to William’s smile.

Robert and Alyce arrived to join in the
general celebration, speculating with their daughters as to where
Aaron might live.

“
I
insist we have the blue guest room prepared for him,” Alyce
announced. “At least, for when he first arrives.” She clasped her
hands together just like Celia. “How wonderful to have a real Rebel
in our midst. I shall be the toast of the district.”

Helena listened distractedly, hearing only
snippets of their conversation.