A Home for Helena (The Lady P Chronicles Book 2) (4 page)

Mrs. Herne threw back her head and laughed loudly.

“How old do I look?” she asked finally.

“Oh well, maybe forty-five?” Helena hedged, trying to be diplomatic. She actually figured the woman for about a decade older.

“Right you are, Miss Helena. I stopped aging on my fifty-fifth birthday.” She smiled at Helena’s startled reaction. “You were trying to be kind, of course. To a young person, fifty years seems a long time. In reality, fifty is the best age. You know yourself well by then, and aren’t always trying to become someone else. And you don’t take things so seriously. Life is meant to be enjoyed, after all.” Her eyes twinkled at Helena. “After all, fifty is the new forty, or so they say.”

She took Helena's arm and pulled her into the shop. "I'm so glad you decided to come. Have a seat and I'll fetch you some tea."

Over tea, Mrs. Herne succeeded in drawing out the details of Helena's life, listening intently without comment until Helena mentioned the antique locket her mother—if the woman with her
was
her mother—had been wearing at the time of the accident in Florida. At that point, her face brightened.

"A locket? That could be a valuable clue to the date of the temporal glitch."

Helena unfastened the chain and reluctantly placed the necklace in the gypsy's hand. She was beginning to regret having come in the first place. Mrs. Herne could be a homicidal maniac for all Helena knew.

The woman looked at her and shook her head. Oops, Helena had forgotten about Mrs. Herne's uncanny ability to hear her thoughts.

"Sorry," she mumbled.

Mrs. Herne's attention returned to the locket, made of gold and inscribed with "Helena" in lovely script on the outside.

"We don't know that was my name," Helena volunteered. "It could be the name of the woman inside. But that's what the workers at Child Services decided to call me."

Mrs. Herne opened the locket, exposing tiny miniatures of a blond man and a flame-haired woman. "I suppose they could be your parents," she said with a glance at Helena's red-blonde hair.

"They could be," Helena agreed, "but the authorities assumed the woman killed in the accident was my mother. She was struck by a car, and somehow I ended up on the side of the road. In the grass." She sighed. "These days they could run a DNA test, but the technology hadn't evolved back then. In any case, I was always told that she was my mother, and that was all anyone
could
tell me."

Mrs. Herne smiled. "The thought that a couple who lived two hundred years ago might be your parents would never have occurred to them." She looked up from the locket to Helena's face. "I have a business associate who can likely track down the date this piece was made, if you can trust me with it overnight."

Helena frowned. "I'd rather not. Why can't we take it to him now?"

"Because his shop will be closed by the time we could get there."

"I really can't—" she started to say. That locket was the only clue she had to her family identity. She couldn't risk losing it.

Mrs. Herne let out a loud breath. "I have no intention of stealing it, you silly girl." She gave a half-hearted shrug. "But I do understand your concern." She dropped the necklace into Helena's hand. "Come back tomorrow, and we will visit my associate together. The locket will be crucial in determining the approximate date when the temporal glitch occurred."

Helena re-clasped the chain around her neck. Why not? She had nothing better to do, after all. "One thing," she added. "What exactly do you mean by a temporal glitch? Do you think I was born in some other time or something? How is that possible? It sounds like a bunch of malarkey, really."

"I'm sure it does," responded the gypsy. "A temporal glitch is a rare occurrence. Sometimes it is caused by misaligned planets, or even strong electrical storms that thrust their victims into temporal holes that leave them stranded somewhere in the spectrum of time. I've only encountered a handful of those, however, and it is fairly simple to return the victims, as long as they retain their memories. In your case, though…"

"…I was too young," Helena finished. "So my locket could help us determine the time. And then you can return me?" She asked, running her hand through her hair. "People really do travel through time? On purpose?"

"They do indeed. A sort of temporal holiday, as it were."

Helena stared down at her palms. It was all so overwhelming.

"Yes, it is," agreed Mrs. Herne. "I have an idea. Why don't you say with me tonight, since you have nowhere else to go. I can make a decent omelette for the two of us, and you'll need a good night's sleep after all of today's surprises."

"Well…," Helena began. Mrs. Herne really was a stranger, after all.

Mrs. Herne rolled her eyes. "The guest bedroom has a key," she offered. "Just in case you're worried about me being an axe-murderer."

Helena chuckled at the thought of the affable gypsy brandishing an axe. "All right. Fine. And thank you," she added, feeling rather ungrateful.

But she did lock her door that night. One could never be completely sure about people, not these days.

B
y noon the next day
, Helena and Mrs. Herne had determined a plan of action. Mrs. Herne and her associate judged the locket to have been created in the late 1780's, at the renowned jeweler, Rundell & Bridge, the miniatures painted sometime later.

"So if I was born around 1790, I should be the age I am now in 1817," mused Helena. "And that is where I should go to find out where I came from."

"Yes. And how fortunate that my good friend Lady Pendleton will be there to assist you!" Mrs. Herne exclaimed. "I happen to know that she was in Town that year. Truly, my dear, you could not have a better person to help you with your investigations."

"Mrs. Pendleton."

"A time traveling friend of mine. From the Regency."

Mrs. Herne paid little attention to Helena's qualms. Seating herself at a small writing-desk, she pulled out paper and pen and began making a list of things for Helena to do to prepare for the journey, including the best choice of safe places to "appear", preferably not in the middle of a busy street where she could be run over by a vehicle, as had happened with her own mother.

Not a very reassuring thought.

"There is an element of danger," Mrs. Herne said absently. "But that's true whether you stay or go. Stay and you may get flattened by a lorry, or a plane might fall on you. Go, and you may just find out what you've wanted to know all your life. C'est la vie."

Easy enough to say for a woman who seemed to be immortal.

By the time she left Mrs. Herne's and checked into a hotel—the agency, alas, having no room for her after all—her head was spinning. Was she really considering making an attempt to travel through time? To beg assistance from some time-traveling woman called Lady Pendleton who didn't know her from Adam? But then, Mrs. Herne was pretty much an enigma too. Was she a fool to trust either one of them? Perhaps, but it wasn’t like she had to jump off a cliff or otherwise risk her life to do it. All she had to do was to clasp a certain gold-flecked black stone tightly in her hands and concentrate on thinking about where she wanted to travel.

“But you must truly wish it,” Mrs. Herne cautioned. “Reflect on your desire to be reunited with your true family and live the life you were meant to live.”

And how to return if things didn’t work out in the nineteenth century?

Mrs. Herne waved her hand in the air. "Simple. It's the same procedure. If you should lose the stone, though, Agatha will help you. Lady Pendleton. Or you can drop by my shop on Gracechurch Street. But you might not find me there right away. I believe I was traveling a great deal that summer. You have a better chance with Lady Pendleton. She knows the drill.”

And what if she couldn’t find Lady Pendleton?

“Oh well, you’re a bright girl. Smart, educated, and used to getting around on your own. Keep your wits about you and learn from your surroundings. You’ll be fine.”

Would she? Helena recalled Claire Fraser being branded a witch in
Outlander
and briefly wondered if they burned witches at the stake in the early 1800's. Or had they been planning to dunk her, before Jamie came to the rescue?

Mrs. Herne was frowning. “That was a work of fiction, nothing more. That Gabaldon woman never time-traveled herself or she would know how it's
really
done."

It was eerie how easily the gypsy lady read her thoughts.

“If this is where you belong, you’ll adapt. In time.”

Helena didn’t like the sound of “if.”

But in the end, she couldn’t resist. The past was pulling at her, drawing her, and she finally let it take her into its mysterious lair.

P
eople can't really
travel through time. And if they could, the world would be really screwed up, with people going back and changing things without understanding the consequences. Except that Jamie and Claire had tried and failed to prevent the tragedy at Culloden. So maybe it doesn't really the work that way. The whole time-space continuum couldn't be as simple as that, or the world would have self-destructed long ago.

“More coffee?”

The waitress paused next to her with the coffeepot poised above her cup.

Helena caught her breath. Goodness! She was actually thinking as though time travel and
Outlander
were real. Had she lost her mind?

"Yes, please." It would be her fourth cup, but massive doses of caffeine had certainly worked to clear her head during college all-nighters. And a clear head was just what she needed right now.

“Scotch whisky for me."

Helena froze as her former employer—the loathsome Richard—slid into the chair opposite and grinned at her.

“I had the devil of a time trying to find you, my dear. The agency claimed to have no knowledge of your whereabouts, so I had to go to the trouble of hiring a detective bloke to find you."

Helena's mouth fell open. "You're stalking me?" Her body tensed. Who did he think he was—God's gift to nannies? What he needed was a good ass-kicking!

Leaning across the bar table, he reached out and stroked her arm. Which she quickly pulled away.

"Now, now, Helena, there's no need to be coy. I admit it was a bit of a tricky situation while you were still living with us, but really, my dear, you should have contacted me sooner. I could have set you up at a finer hotel than this one. The Ritz, perhaps? I could even get you the Royal Suite, which comes with a butler and a Rolls Royce. And a chauffeur, of course, if you don't fancy driving on the left side of the road.” His grin was pure saccharine.

She glared at him. “I'm. Not. Interested. Go back to your wife, Mr. Earskine.”

“You Americans are so puritanical,” he said as he set his clasped hands on the table surface. “Lucille and I have gone our separate ways for years now. A modern marriage, you know.”

Helena felt a sour taste in her mouth. His youngest daughter was only two years old!

The attractive blonde barista set his drink down in front of him. “Ah, thank you, my dear,” he said, with an appreciative smile that was instantly returned. Helena stood up.

“Now, now, don’t be jealous, Helena. Can’t a man appreciate a pretty girl without his inamorata feeling betrayed?”

He sprung out of his chair and tried to take her into his arms. She wrenched away.

“Don't touch me! I’m
not
your inamorata! Go. Away!”

A couple at a nearby table glanced at them with interest. Tricky Dickie narrowed his eyes.

“Keep your voice down, Helena. We are attracting attention. Let’s go upstairs to your room and discuss it in private.”

Helena was beyond caring. “No!” she said clearly and firmly. “I’m going up to my room, Mr. Earskine. Alone. And if you follow me, I’m calling the police.”

There was a gasp from someone in the coffee bar, and suddenly another man—the manager, she guessed—appeared.

“May I be of service, Miss Lloyd? Is this gentleman accosting you?” He was shorter than Richard Earskine, but was solid and had an air of authority that gave Helena a sense of relief.

“He’s no gentleman, and yes, he is accosting me,” Helena stated, nostrils flaring. “He’s been following me around everywhere I go, even though I’ve told him repeatedly to get lost. He won’t take no for an answer, and I’m getting damned tired of it!”

“Helena!” He turned to the hotel manager and shook his head. “I apologize for my wife’s language. She's American, you see, and—“

“I’m not your wife, you bloody creep!”

Helena looked at the hotel manager with over-bright eyes. “Look, I’m going to my room and I’d appreciate it if you would make sure he does not follow me. Can you do that for me? Or I swear I will call the police!”

“I don’t know exactly what is going on here, but I can promise you that this man will not follow you to your room, Miss Lloyd.” He shrugged toward the elevators and put a firm hand on Richard Earskine’s shoulder as he bulldozed him toward the hotel entrance.

“But you don’t understand—” Helena heard him protest as he was escorted out of the hotel.

She collapsed against the back of the tiny elevator as the doors closed. She’d escaped him for now, but she knew he’d be back. He was a man used to winning. Power. Dominance. She’d seen it more than once in her foster home days. She’d fought off such predators before, as a child, and was not about to stop now.

But this man was not in his right mind. He was determined to stalk her, and suddenly London was not a safe place for her. In fact, 1817 was looking more appealing all the time.

At the very least, an adventure to a time long past. At the very best, she would be reunited with her family and have a home at last.

It sounded incredible. It
was
incredible. But what harm was there in trying? It wasn’t like she had anything to lose.

Did she?

“
M
ove away from her
, you blackguard! The girl is clearly unwell and in need of assistance.”

“I'll assist 'er well enough!” came a boastful voice, accompanied by the approval of a handful of other drunken sots in the crowd.

Helena was alarmed enough by the threat in their voices to open her eyes and force herself to wake up from the nightmare. It didn't work. Squeezing her eyes shut, she slowly opened them again, and found herself being examined by a pair of eyes encased in a rounded face framed by a black bonnet.

“The gel's a trollop!” “Wot's she doin' 'ere on the ground?” “Lookit 'ow she's dressed!”

Helena tried to sit up and get her bearings, but the unfamiliar tightness of the corset she was wearing made it difficult to breathe. She heard a faraway voice apologizing for having to lace her so tightly because of the “too-small size of the gown.” Corset? Gown? Suddenly Helena's memory came rushing back to her, and she dropped back to the ground, instinctively clutching the pendant she wore on a chain around her neck.

“Where am I?” she demanded. “What year is it?” “Who are you?” This last to the older woman dressed in black who was bending over her. This couldn't really be happening. Even as she'd followed Mrs. Herne's instructions, she'd still had doubts that it would work. Time travel? It was just too bizarre.

“I am Sister Ignatia from the Church of the True Savior.” The woman swatted at the leering faces of the thugs that surrounded them. “Begone, you debauched sinners, or the Lord Himself will come down from heaven and smite you!”

At that precise moment, church bells began to ring from all sides, and a bomb went off somewhere, startling their would-be attackers, who dashed off in all directions.

“W-What happened?” Helena turned wide eyes to Sister Ignatia. “How did you do that?”

The older woman folded her hands and looked up at the heavens before giving Helena a secret smile. “I did nothing, my dear. It was all the Lord's doing.” She clucked her tongue. “There's some who might call it mere coincidence, but I say it's all the Lord's timing. 'Dost thou know the balancing of the clouds, the wondrous works of him which is perfect in knowledge?'”

Well, if it wasn't the Lord's doing, it was damned lucky
was Helena's irreverent thought. After meeting up with a mysterious gypsy and being told a cockamamie story about being snatched out of her own time, she wasn't ready to discount the possibility.

Accepting Sister Ignatia's outstretched hand, Helena sat up and eyeballed her surroundings.

Mrs. Herne had chosen Hyde Park as a landing point; specifically, a wooded area just east of the Serpentine. It appeared, however, that whatever mechanism powered the time travel magic was slightly off-kilter, because it appeared she hadn’t landed in Hyde Park at all, but on the pavement just outside the fence. Directly across the street—was that Knightsbridge Street?—was a massive black gate, beyond which she could see dapper gentlemen smoking cigars and horses being led around a paddock. Behind the paddock was an enormous building with two arched passages lined with horse stalls. The curved letters on the building spelled
Tattersall’s.
The name she recognized, but the building no longer existed in the London she knew.

Her mouth went dry and she pinched herself to make sure she wasn't dreaming. Had she
really
traveled back in time nearly two centuries? Shaking all over, she gave the funereal preacher lady a glazed look.

“What day is it? Why are all the bells ringing? Was that a-a b-bomb?”

Sister Ignatia eyed her critically. “Did you hit your head, my dear? Perhaps I should take you back to the mission and have Brother Jeremiah look at you.”

Helena shook her head and pushed herself up from the ground. “I-I'm fine. Just a little startled, I think.”

“Nevertheless, your wits are still addled, for you speak strangely. You must surely know that the entire city is celebrating the dedication of the Waterloo Bridge.”

“Waterloo Bridge?”

An image came to mind of sleek concrete spans and long lanes of cars and buses zipping along above while tourist boats passed underneath.

“Yes, of course. It's been two years, you know. Since the War ended. You do remember the War, do you not?”

Helena's mind raced back. The War with the French. Napoleon was defeated for the last time in 1815. It must be… “1817. June 18th,” she added with more certainty. “The old bridge.”

Sister Ignatia shook her head. “Your wits
are
addled, my dear. This is a
new
bridge they are celebrating.” She helped Helena to a standing position. “Brother Jeremiah is skilled with herbal remedies. He will be able to help you.”

“No, no, I'm fine, truly I am, Sister. Just a little—disoriented, I think. I meant to be in Hyde Park, but everything seems—different, somehow.”

Sister Ignatia's brow lifted. “Hyde Park is just beyond that fence behind you, my dear. If I may say so, you could have chosen a better place for—whatever you meant to do. There are always a few disreputable folk hanging about Tattersall's, you know. Looking for a handout or an opportunity to pick the pocket of a fine gentleman or two.”

"The horse market. I thought that was in Newmarket.” It certainly was in the twenty-first century.

Her rescuer's eyes narrowed. “Fresh from the country, are you? Listen, my dear, girls like you are easy prey for the flesh-peddlers.” She took Helena's arm. “Come with me to the mission house and we'll find you a position as a servant in a respectable household.”

Helena pulled away. “Thank you, Sister, but I have—an appointment."

With a time-traveling lady who lived on Grosvenor Square. Who will no doubt slam the door in my face when she hears the preposterous story I have to tell her.

Grosvenor Square. Helena scanned the area. Hmm. She knew where it
should
be, but the scene in front of her bore little resemblance to the twenty-first century one she knew.

“Can you point me in the direction of Grosvenor Square?”

The woman looked her up and down. “Forgive me, my dear, but you don't look quite ready for a position at a home in one of
those
houses. Perhaps we can find you a more suitable frock at the mission.”

Helena looked down at her crimson gown and grimaced. The red and gold striped, low-necked gown she'd found in a costume shop appeared gaudy and ostentatious to her now, among all the somberly-dressed onlookers. Shades of brown and gray prevailed, sprinkled with blacks and a few young ladies wearing pastels. Practically all wore shawls and bonnets in spite of the warm summer weather, and nearly every eye was focused on her. Certainly there were no other exposed bosoms anywhere in sight.

Having never liked being the center of attention, she wished she could drop down to the center of the earth.

I just have to get to Grosvenor Square.
Everything will be fine once I find Lady Pendleton. I hope.

“Grosvenor Square. Is it that way?” She pointed to the left.

Sister Ignatia pursed her lips. “Heed my words, girl. There's nothing for you there but sin and degradation leading to perdition. Brother Jeremiah and I can offer you the lasting salvation of the True Savior…”

“Thank you, Sister, but I do have an appointment, and I mustn't be late. Thanks so much for your help.” Helena started off, but felt a hand on her arm.

“Grosvenor Square is in the opposite direction,” said Sister Ignatia. “And if you must persist on this course of action, please take my shawl to cover yourself.” She threw the black wool garment over Helena's shoulders. “And if you should find yourself in difficulties, you may always count on those of us at the mission to help.” She thrust a tract in Helena's hand. “Do hurry,” she whispered into Helena's ear, as she indicated a group of grubby-looking men eyeing her with interest.

Not again!

Mrs. Herne had warned her that ladies who walked the streets alone were fair game to any men who came along. She hadn't believed that the short distance between Hyde Park Corner and Grosvenor Square would prove to be quite so hazardous. It was a respectable neighborhood, after all. Not like St. Giles or Whitechapel, which she knew had been populated by all sorts of gangsters and criminals at the time.

Number 42 Grosvenor Square
.

Two gray horses pulling an open carriage nearly trampled her as she raced across the street, followed by some rude expletives.
In her frenzy to get to safety, she stepped in a pile of horse manure. Two young girls watching her giggled until an older lady in gray—their governess?—shushed them and herded them off in another direction.

Helena drew the shawl tightly around her, wishing she could hide herself behind it. Ladies turned their backs to her, while the gentlemen—and she used the term only because of their refined dress—eyed her with open interest. She ignored them and hurried down the street as fast as she could without running. Somehow she felt that running would have them all after her like a bear chasing its prey. She'd been warned about bears growing up in Florida, but never had to follow that piece of advice. Until now, that is.

She didn't have far to go to reach Grosvenor Square. Its appearance had altered over the years as well, but it was easily recognized as a neat little park squeezed in among tall elegant buildings. No cars parked at the curb, of course; instead, a crested carriage pulled away from one residence and rolled away toward Brook Street. A handful of maids—nursemaids?—dressed in gray with crisp white aprons strolled about the park while their charges frolicked among the hedges. An entirely peaceful scene. No predatory scumbags to watch out for. So she relaxed and took her time as she strolled around the square in search of Number 42.

There was a slight smell of smoke, but not like the automobile exhaust ever-present in modern cities. From cooking, perhaps, because there wasn't much need for heat on this warm summer day. The overwhelming odor, however, was horse manure, even in this posh neighborhood. Not only was it rampant on the street, but there was stench coming from the bottom of the shoe that had been immersed in the stuff only minutes ago when she crossed the street. Her stomach clenched as she reflected on the godawful impression she'd be giving of herself upon meeting Lady Pendleton. Providing she ever got to meet the countess. Frankly, it was more likely the butler would slam the door in her face within the first five seconds of opening it.

And then what would she do? No money, no home, no clothes but the seemingly indecent ones on her back. Well, she did have Sister Ignatia's tract. Her fingers closed around it protectively. If nothing else, the Church of the True Savior could get her a job as a servant, she thought with a giggle. And the seemingly immortal Mrs. Herne might or might not be on Gracechurch Street. In any case, Helena had the stone and could return whenever she wished to.

But no, she wasn't about to give up. Not so soon. And not with Tricky Dickie waiting to pounce on her in the twenty-first century. She'd summoned up enough nerve to travel back in time, and now that she was here, she was determined to succeed in her mission. With or without the highfalutin' Lady Pendleton.

Helena Lloyd wasn't a coward. She was a survivor. Before landing in Mrs. Lloyd's home, she'd survived four different foster homes, fought off would-be molesters and bullies, slept in closets, fed scraps from the table, and been tormented by foster siblings. She'd been prepared for more of the same when her caseworker had brought her to Mrs. Lloyd's modest home on the outskirts of Tampa at the age of twelve. “She's an older lady,” the caseworker had cautioned her. “Lonely—never had children and her husband died last year—and she's always wanted a child to love. I think you'll do fine here.”

Helena had been disappointed before, so she had maintained her distance for awhile after settling into the pretty bedroom Mrs. Lloyd had prepared for her. It was by far the prettiest she'd ever seen. Mrs. Lloyd had picked out white wallpaper speckled with pink flowers and bows, and the furniture—a twin bed with a pink bedspread, a nightstand, and a dresser with mirror—was all freshly painted in white. “I found them at a thrift shop,” Mrs. Lloyd had confessed to her later. She visited thrift shops nearly every week and was quite proud of the bargains she found.

“They were so pretty and I knew you weren't a little girl any longer, not at twelve years old, but I couldn't resist. I love pink.” It was true. Mrs. Lloyd had been in her mid-fifties at the time and had a pink bedroom too. Helena grew to love pink just as much—and Mrs. Lloyd as well—and when Mrs. Lloyd adopted her and her name changed from Helena Smith to Helena Lloyd, she finally had a family. A mother who loved her. For awhile, at least, until Mrs. Lloyd had gone to her reward and left her alone again.

Number 42 proved to be a four-story brick building with four white-trimmed windows on each side of the grand entrance. Like every other house on the square, it was very close to the street, surrounded by a black wrought-iron fence. If Lady Pendleton owned the entire building, she must be a wealthy lady indeed. Most such buildings in modern London had been divided into flats that were sold for millions of pounds, and the price seemed to increase almost daily. Nobody she knew even aspired to live in such lofty residences. They were for trust-fund babies or CEO's, celebrities or select members of the aristocracy—like the Earskines.

Lifting her chin and thrusting her chest forward, she gave the doorknocker a resounding rap.

Nothing happened, so after a few seconds had passed, she did it again. Nothing.

Scowling, she abandoned the doorknocker and pounded as hard as she could on the heavy wooden door. In a house as grand as this one, there had to be someone at home. Servants, at least. Were they all hard of hearing?

Suddenly the door swept open, revealing a tall woman with white-blonde hair and an irate expression on her face. In a very gaudy gown—bright orange dotted with plum-colored ribbons. The housekeeper? Surely not! Helena was temporarily struck dumb.