Duking Days Revolution Excerpt
Chapter One
London, April 1688
Helena sat at the bureau in her closet, fingering the sheet of parchment brought by messenger that morning.
Spring had finally come to London, and amongst the usual chants of the street hawkers outside, came the seasonal calls of flower sellers. The slam of a door and the sound of uneven, descending steps were followed by her maid’s distinctive voice hailing one of the hawkers.
Helena smiled. Chloe missed their native Devon with its soft, green hills and open spaces, a few early blooms in the house would be welcome after a gray and miserable winter.
Guy, Helena’s husband of less than two years, had arranged this room especially for her. A turkey rug softened the polished wood floor and green silk-covered walls fitted with pewter candleholders provided an intimate atmosphere. In the long winter evenings, Helena imagined she inhabited her own world there.
Her gaze drifted to a painting on the wall, a wedding gift her half-brother, Tobias had commissioned for her. It depicted the square tower of Exeter’s north gate from the city side, its arched gatehouse stood open to reveal the cobbled street beyond. A steep hill dipped down between rows of irregular, tightly packed houses, then up again to the Weare Cliffs. Halfway up the hill and to the left, stood Loxsbeare Manor, Helena’s childhood home, on a route she had once traveled every day of her life.
Guy employed an artisan to frame the picture for her. The gilt scrollwork was rather heavy for her taste, but she had welcomed the gesture with pleasure. The painting reminded her of a happier time, when Loxsbeare used to be her family home. The estate was seized after her father, Sir Jonathan Woulfe, joined Monmouth’s rebellion three years previously. Lord Miles Blanden, their erstwhile friend and neighbour, betrayed them to the authorities and claimed the estate for himself.
Sometimes, Helena’s grief was no more than a fleeting shadow across an ordinary day. At others, to have lost most of her family so abruptly engulfed her with a choking sadness, her former life became a place and time she preferred not to visit too often.
With an effort, she brought her attention back to Aaron’s letter; the words scrawled on the page in her brother’s exuberant hand filled her will foreboding.
‘We are confident the army officers shall refuse to obey the orders of their Catholic commanders. This cannot be prescribed as mutiny, for their promotion is illegal, them not having taken the Test. This will leave the way open for us to join Prince William when he invades England.’
A mutiny in the army, and an invasion. How could Aaron talk of treason so lightly? In her view, he had lived in The Hague for too long, consorting with exiled rebel friends, none of whom with anything better to do than plot the downfall of King James the Second.
Staring at the paper as if it might burst into flames, she bit her lip wondering what she should do. She dared not show it to her husband. Guy would insist she cease such seditious correspondence, but after three years separation from Aaron, she refused to face the prospect of losing contact with him completely.
Those awful weeks after the rebel defeat at the battle of Sedgemoor came back to her; of nights filled with recurring dreams where he lay dead in a field somewhere. Then the indescribable joy when Tobias brought her news that Aaron lived. Since then, his letters sustained her. She would not deny him now.
Re-folding the letter, Helena thrust it to the back of a drawer, her hand brushing the leather-bound journal in which she had painstakingly recorded the rebellion’s progress.rebellion. She weighed the small volume in one hand, its leather fastening soft now from much handling.
How headstrong she was that summer, chasing into Somerset after her men folk disguised as a merchant’s niece, and with no more than her father’s manservant for an escort.
Her return with the body of her uncle Edmund was a bitter disappointment, only to discover her mother had been killed when the soldiers came to Loxsbeare. Of her missing father, there had been no news, not then or now.
A knock on the door made her jump, dragging her thoughts back to the present. On her command to enter, her manservant handed her a folded square of parchment.
Helena rose slowly as she skimmed Adella’s handwriting.
...Celia has begun her labor earlier than expected and your
presence is urgently required ...
“Summon a hackney, Glover.” Nodding, he turned to go. “No, wait. A sedan would be quicker.”
Helena fretted all the way to Saffron Hill, frustrated at every cart, packhorse, and carriage impeding them. Celia was her closest friend, her confidant through those first days in London, when Helena wept at night over her lost family. The Devereux’s eldest daughter had married Ralf Maurice, a goldsmith like her Guy. Their friendship enduring to the point she fulfilled a role Helena had always craved. That of a sister.
Helena chewed the base of her thumb. Couldn’t these chairmen run any faster?
At Celia’s house, Helena pushed past the startled footman who opened the door and ran up the stairs. A timid maid pressed herself against the wall as Helena sailed toward the figure of Adella at the end of the corridor. Celia’s mother looked stricken, her face drained under the layer of paint. No longer the flirtatious beauty, she was merely a worried parent.
“I’m so glad you are here, Helena.” Adella divested her of cloak, which the maid bore away. “Celia has been asking for you.”
The atmosphere inside Celia’s room was hot and cloying, the single curtain obscuring the closed window. With Adella’s views on noxious London air, Helena expected this, but the prone and immobile figure in the bed filled her with foreboding. She stepped forward to take her friend’s limp hand in her shaking one, looking into clouded eyes displaying no recognition. Celia keened in a continual, low monotone, the mound of her swollen belly thrusting the bedclothes obscenely upward.
“She seems unaware of what is happening to her.” Adella kept her voice low. “There is no respite to the pain. We’ve tried to coax her into the birthing chair, but she resists us. Worse, the child does not seem to be moving.”
Helena threw the intimidating contraption a brief, uneasy scrutiny. It seemed to crouch in a corner accusingly. “What should we do?”
Adella chewed her lip. “I’m at my wit’s end, so I’ve sent for the chirgeon.”
A servant sidled into the room with a pile of linen, followed by another with a pitcher of water. Adella stared at them in bewilderment, apparently unable to give them directions.
“Leave those things,” Helena dismissed them, closing the door. Perching gingerly on the side of the bed, she changed the damp cloth on Celia’s brow. It had no obvious effect, but gave her something to do to help fight down the panic which clutched at her chest.
A sharp tap came on the door. Adella’s younger daughter hovered on the threshold. She looked remarkably like her mother, tall and slender with Adella’s expressive eyes. “The chirgeon is here, Mother.” She caught sight of Helena and murmured a polite greeting.
Helena offered no more than a sympathetic smile before Adella waved the girl out of the room. “It wouldn’t be appropriate for her to stay. Phebe is unmarried and I don’t want her here witnessing...” She broke off, flapping a hand in Celia’s direction.
A sallow faced man sidled into the room, followed by an elderly woman in a plain gown, who waddled to the bed and began palpating Celia’s belly. Her examination complete, she whispered something to the doctor, who nodded, identical looks of dismay on their faces.
Helena wanted to scream at them. It shouldn’t be happening this way. Where are the gossips, the card games, and the wine? There should be laughter and celebration. Celia should be tired, but happy, not still and white. And that awful moaning tore at Helena’s heart. She glanced at Adella for some sort of an explanation, but the former siren of Lambtons Inn looked suddenly old and defeated.
Helena’s restless fingers soothed the damp hair back from her friend’s clammy forehead. Her pillow was soaked and Celia’s nightgown clung wetly to her shoulders.
The midwife lifted the unresisting head to tease a few drops of liquid from a brown bottle through Celia’s lips. “It will speed up the pains, so it may be over quicker.” The woman’s rough voice answered Helena’s unspoken enquiry. She prayed she was right.
Minutes dragged into an hour and Celia’s groans grew progressively louder. Her level of consciousness increased a little, but she still appeared to hover between semi-wakefulness and delirium. And then, Helena was brusquely shoved aside and in a brief interval of frantic activity, Celia delivered a stillborn son.
The midwife showed the grey form to Adella, who clamped her lips into a thin line to give a brief, anguished nod. With swift, capable movements, the woman wrapped the bundle in a linen cloth, laying it on a table. “A searcher may be summoned.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “The death may be recorded as natural.”
“I’ll go.” Helena made for the door, her gaze lingering for a moment on the tiny, wrapped form lying so still on the table. The chirgeon unfolded himself from a chair on the landing, an enquiring look on his haughty features. “I need to speak to Master Maurice.”
Of course, sir.” Helena’s hackles rose. “But first, tell me if your patient will live?”
She searched his eyes, but they were empty. He gave a tiny shrug and held his hands towards her, palm upwards. “I’m afraid I’ll have to relinquish my responsibility to God.”
“And if she dies, will you give your fee to God too?” His pale eyes blinked in confusion, but without a trace of embarrassment. Helena flung away from him to descend the stairs, not caring if he followed her or not. Pausing only to waylay a houseboy and send him to fetch the searcher, she opened the salon door where Ralf waited. A hopeful expression leapt into his face when he saw the chirgeon.
Helena stood aside to let the chirgeon enter, fighting her distress as she listened to the man tell Ralf his son had not lived long enough to draw breath.
“Mistress Maurice has not been damaged by the birth, sir.” He delivered his opinion with well-practiced gravity. “It progressed almost normally in its final stages. I’m confident there will be other children.”
Ralf’s face crumpled and his cheeks were wet with tears. “How do I tell her she cannot have this one?”
Helena reached a tentative hand to grasp his arm. “Her mother will do it, Ralf.” Her voice rose to a painful squeak and he gave her a look of such gratitude, Helena’s own eyes filled. If ever a man was meant to be a father, it was sweet, gentle Ralf.
The chirgeon continued to offer empty condolences and unable to listen any more, Helena retreated to the hall. She instructed a servant to hail a sedan, and then grabbed her cloak from the footman and left.
Slumped in a corner with the flaps secured, the sedan bumped and swayed on its way back to King Street. A sense of shame overcame her for not being present when Celia received the worst news given to any woman.
That night she spent in her husband’s arms, his quiet sympathy a comfort, when he could be pragmatic about so many things. “You must return tomorrow,” he whispered against her hair. “To explain to them why you left.”
“I know.” She chewed her bottom lip. But for now, she just wanted to snuggle gratefully into his embrace.
* * *
Helena was shown into the darkened room where Celia lay, the following morning, prompting Helena to speak in whispers. No longer a confinement chamber, it had become a sickroom, with the cradle removed and a nurse in attendance. Celia lay propped on white pillows reflecting the pallor of her face. Her skin was bloodless, her eyes red rimmed and puffy from crying.
Adella appeared more her usual self in a green taffeta gown, with her face lightly painted. She had even carmined her lips, although telltale blue shadows remained beneath her eyes.
Words of regret and love welled up on Helena’s lips, but the resignation in her friend’s eyes rendered her unable to speak. Celia had always been the girlish, smiling one, who saw virtue in everyone and laughed at her own frailty. But just then, she looked all of her twenty-two years.
“I was barely aware of the actual birth.” Celia’s voice was thin and soft. “And I am young. The chirgeon says I can have other children.”
“I’m so sorry I ran away.” Her guilt made her prattle. “Don’t tell me it doesn’t matter, Celia. I have to explain, I could not bear it you see, because, because...”
“Because you are with child,” Celia finished for her. “I guessed as much.” One hand reached toward her across the coverlet.
Helena turned her hand over to grasp the slightly clammy one in hers. “It’s still early yet.”
Celia gave the slightest of nods, her reddened lids fluttering closed, which brought the hovering nurse hurrying forward to insist her patient be left to rest.
Helena dashed tears from her cheeks and followed Adella into the corridor. “She will recover?”
Adella pulled the door closed gently. “There is no fever, so we are all hopeful.”
“But her baby?” Helena’s eyes filled again.
“It doesn’t have to be this way. The chirgeon assures us there will be more children. God has his reasons for taking this one.”
Helena narrowed her eyes. “Is that what you really believe?”
Adella shrugged. “Perhaps not. But life is cruel, and it might comfort my Celia.”
