The Rebel’s Daughter (41 page)

“
So the
Irish never had a chance to join the rising?” Henry reddened,
swaying slightly. “That was three weeks before Sedgemoor. If the
ship had reached Ireland as planned…”

Helena placed a restraining hand on his
arm. “There’s no point to this, Henry. It’s over and done
with.”

“
There
might have been a different outcome, but for Fletcher,” Henry
snarled.

“
Would
you excuse me?” Helena threw Samuel a hard look, surprised at his
insensitivity, and drew Henry away to a quiet corner of the room.
He was so volatile lately, and now he had evidently consumed more
than his customary amount of wine. Where had this strange anger
come from? Since they arrived in London Henry had been the first to
put aside his animosity for what had happened.

“
And if
Argyll hadn’t been captured, and if Lord Delamere had acted as he
promised.” She lowered her voice to what she hoped was a soothing
tone. “And if Gray’s cavalry had been better schooled.” She stroked
a strand of hair away from his forehead. “It’s over Henry, we have
to get on with our lives.”

Henry turned cold eyes on her. “Unless the
Prince of Orange invades England, and brings our brother with
him.”

“
Hush,
that’s Rebel talk!” She shook his arm but he shrugged her off and
with a low groan made his way toward the table were the jugs of
wine were laid out.

“
What’s
wrong with Henry?” Deborah asked, replacing her parents at Helena’s
side.

Helena shook her head. Whatever it was,
she didn’t think it was the fate of Fletcher.

“
How are
you liking London, Deb?” Helena appraised her green silk gown with
its yellow échelles that complimented her red-brown hair, and made
an effort to stop worrying about Henry, and Blanden, and enjoy the
gathering.

“
I
wanted to talk about the wedding,” Deborah said.

“
It’s
not until early November,” Helena replied, her gaze still on Henry,
who was now flirting with a neighbor’s daughter, making her
blush.

Deborah frowned. “Oh no, I did not mean
your wedding, Helena.” Catching herself, she flushed. “Although, I
offer my congratulations, of course. No, I was referring to
Susannah’s. Has Father not told you?” Her face took on a look of
mock innocence.

“
Has
father not told her what?” Samuel said, returning.

“
Susannah is to marry?” Helena looked at Debs, and then back
at Samuel, who nodded. “Why did no one tell me? Do I know the
fortunate young man?”

“
You do,
my dear, and he is not such a young man either,” Samuel chuckled.
“It is Nathan Bayle.”

Helena opened her mouth in a silent “o”.
The Ffoyles had been in London nearly a month, yet no one, not even
gossipy Debs, had mentioned one word about it.

“
I think
it’s a perfect match,” Henry interjected, staggering back into the
circle, the blushing girl at his side. He gave a loud hiccough,
then sniggered, as if his bad manners were a huge joke.

Helena turned on him. “You
knew?”

Henry shrugged. “As our family’s former
servant, Bayle wrote to me out of respect.”

“
Yet you
saw no reason to mention it to me?” Her voice trembled a
little.

Henry frowned, as if confused. “It was not
my news to give, but as Samuel has made it public, or rather Debs
has, I can freely offer my congratulations.”

Suppressing a sharp remark, Helena turned
to Samuel. “I’m delighted for Susannah. Do give her, and Bayle, my
congratulations.”

Samuel
’s steady gaze told Helena he was not
fooled by her feigned poise. “I knew her heart had been inclined
that way for some time, did not you?”

Helena was about to reply she had had no
idea, when an image swam into her head of Nathan and Samuel poring
over a pile of ledgers.

“
He is
somewhat older than her.” Samuel twirled a glass by its stem.
“Which gave me cause for concern at the outset.” He glanced
pointedly at his son, who looked away. “However, Nathan Bayle is a
fine man, and an excellent agent, so the situation suits
everyone.”

Helena listened to the Ffoyle
trio’s excited chatter without really listening. On the one hand
she was happy for Bayle and Susannah, yet at the same time
resentful she had been overlooked. Then another feeling, closer to
guilt, that after his devotion all her life and during those days
in Weston in particular, she had consigned Nathan Bayle to a time
and place she tried not to visit too often.
Henry had kept secrets from her too, but
then had she not kept the truth of Tobias Lumm from him as well?
She still had not come to a decision about Lord Blanden. Days had
passed and she had heard no word from him, but knew it was only a
respite. She would have to make a decision soon. Feeling sorry for
herself, she subjected Henry to her bad temper in the carriage all
the way back to Lambtons. He mostly ignored her, as he dozed
tipsily in a corner.

* * *

A sharp wind
blew between the buildings as
Helena stepped onto the street outside Lambtons. Passersby barely
paused to acknowledge acquaintances, who hurried between carriages
and houses, grimly hanging on to flapping cloaks and lifting hats.
The food peddlers and hawkers had left early, most likely searching
for warmer alleys and more sheltered squares.

The guard to whom Helena presented herself
at the Palace Gate had given her pass no more than a cursory
glance. “This way, Mistress,” he indicated the path that ran
alongside a wall. “I was instructed to show you into the Privy
Garden.”

He halted beside a wooden door, indicating
she must go through. He did not follow, but let the door close
behind her with a thump. Helena allowed her hood to fall back on
her shoulders as she was enveloped in the relative peace and still
quiet of the garden, where rows of classical statues draped in
Roman robes occupied individual plinths in a patchwork of lawn. She
wandered the pathways between them, examining the blank, serene
faces of mythical gods and goddesses, imagining their blind eyes
gazing into the distance to a place where grapes and olives grew
beneath a burning sun.

Fat pigeons strutted across the roofs
above her, the air heavy with the scent of late summer flowers. She
imagined the Royal family walking in the rooms behind the windows
above her.

“
Good
day, Mistress Woulfe,” a voice drawled from behind her.

Helena swung round, her face relaxing into
a smile as she bobbed a curtsey. “Thank you for agreeing to see
me.”

John Evelyn, Keeper of the Privy Seal,
immaculate in unrelieved black smiled down at her. Still slender
and upright for a man in his sixties, he held a japanned cane in
one delicate, almost feminine hand.

“
I was
intrigued by your note,” he said, stepping closer. “I hope you do
not mind the location of our meeting. I assumed you might
appreciate privacy.”

Helena relaxed. “Thank you for your
understanding, sir.”

“
Shall
we walk?” He extended an arm and with her hand on his sleeve, he
guided her along a gravel pathway. “I confess I’m not entirely
ignorant of the reason for your visit.”

Helena stiffened, her gaze on her feet. If he
knew about Blanden already, maybe it was too late?

“
I presume you wish to discuss the
petition, which a certain person has lodged with his
Majesty.”

“
Are -
are you familiar with my situation, sir?”

“
I am,
Mistress Woulfe. Sir Christopher Wren is a close friend, and has a
great fondness for your brother; Henry isn’t he?”

Helena nodded, relieved.

“
This -
person seeks to obtain the remainder of your father’s possessions
in Exeter. Specifically, the property and business interests signed
over to Master Ffoyle before the Rebellion.” He studied a late
flowering rosebush as if fascinated, before murmuring, “Have I
summarized his expectations correctly?”

“
You
have, sir. Is there any possibility his Majesty might refuse his
demand?” Helena risked a quick glance at his averted face,
expecting ridicule. Why would the King refuse to grant one of his
own Royal Commissioners what amounted to a traitor’s
possessions?

A gust of wind swept through the garden,
swirling the leaves into a colourful whirlwind. A louvre banged
shut on an upper floor.

“
Tell
me, how is that other brother of yours, Master Aaron
Woulfe?”

She whipped her head round and met his
gaze, suddenly fearful. Relieved to see he was smiling. “London is
a village, my dear. Secrets don’t thrive here.”

“
It was stupid of me to imagine otherwise.”
Helena relaxed a little. “He’s in The Hague, sir, with…” she
trailed off as a man in a black cloak, a wicked looking sword at
his waist, approached.

Evelyn paused beside a sundial as the man
drew near, and tapped the podium with his cane. “This was King
Charles” favorite item in the garden, you know.”

“
I-It’s
very beautiful.” The plain marble column struck her as quite
unremarkable. Her eyes followed the figure, who nodded to Evelyn
but strode on without stopping.

“
Lord
Rochester knocked it over once with a somewhat colourful
expletive.” Evelyn gave a light laugh. “He was drunk, of course.
That fellow was always drunk. His Majesty was incensed, as I
recall.” He lowered his voice. “I believe Aaron Woulfe has plans in
respect of the Prince of Orange?” His gaze held hers for long
seconds before he gave a slow nod. “Ah! Don’t answer that, I can
see by your countenance that my source was accurate.”

Bile rose in Helena’s throat, and the
question she did not want to ask burst from her. “Is Aaron putting
himself in danger, sir?”

He spread his delicate hands outwards, but
did not reply, the answer in his heavy-lidded eyes as they held
hers.

Helena pushed herself away from the
sundial with a small cry. As if she didn’t have enough to worry
about.

“
You
look unwell, my dear.” Evelyn took her elbow. “Come, sit. I cannot
have you falling into a faint, I’m far too old and frail to catch
you.” He gave a brittle laugh and guided her to a bench.

Helena fought dizziness, while her
companion occupied the seat beside her, allowing her time to
recover.

Her breathing slowed, and she recalled
that during his lifetime, this man had seen a king beheaded outside
the Banqueting Hall, not far from where they sat. He had endured
the Commonwealth, was befriended by Charles the Second, remained in
the city by choice during the terrible plague of sixty-five, and
even witnessed the conflagration that had destroyed so much of it
the year after.

Evelyn was known to abhor the religion of
the current king, yet remained a loyal servant. Had Helena’s own
family been as wise as this man and put aside their prejudices, how
different their lives would have been. Feeling more in control,
Helena twisted on the bench so she could see Evelyn’s face. “What
should I do to protect my brother?”

Evelyn stroked his chin. “I admit His
Majesty’s favoritism of Catholics is a cause for concern. My
position here, and indeed that of many Anglicans, is at
risk.”

“
I
understand, sir.” She folded trembling hands in her lap and stared
off angrily. Why did Aaron have to be such a principled
fool?

“
I knew
Monmouth, you know, Mistress Woulfe.”

“
Yes.
You told me at the Twelfth Night party at Lambtons.” Helena watched
as courtiers wandered the paths and talked together, an occasional
high-pitched laugh floating across the garden.

He turned to her in surprise. “I
did?”

She nodded. “Master Evelyn, who are those
people?” The group listened intently to a gesticulating man in a
pale brown wig and elaborate suit, as if what he said was of
paramount importance. Two footmen stood a little way off, while
another liveried man held two small dogs on leads.

Evelyn followed her gaze. “Ah, that, my
dear, is King James. Our second Sovereign of that name.”

The King. The man whose army had killed
her uncle, the reason her father could not come home, and an
indirect cause of her mother’s death. He was why Aaron was still
abroad and not here, safe.

Her jaw tightened, and she forced herself
not to grind her teeth, remembering with a wry smile her father’s
warning that she didn’t want to end up with a wooden
set.

“
The
lady beside him is Queen Mary Beatrice.” Evelyn whispered “Do you
think her beautiful?”

Helena
’s looked at the tall, dark woman,
evidently a foreigner, whose hand rested possessively on her
husband’s arm. “Indeed, although her silks, furs and jewels make a
significant contribution to that beauty.”