A Home for Helena (The Lady P Chronicles Book 2) (5 page)

“You don't have to knock the house down. We are not deaf here, you know.”

She frowned as she inspected Helena's appearance. Helena's mouth went dry as she tried to find the words to explain her presence. How to begin without seeming to be a lunatic?

“If you are here to apply for the position of upstairs maid, you are most unsuitably dressed, girl.”

Helena swallowed. “I-I-uh-I've come to see Lady Pendleton. Mrs. Herne sent me. She thought Her Ladyship might be willing to help me.”

The woman's mouth fell open. “Mrs. Herne? Ethelberta Herne? From Gracechurch Street? How did you happen to meet
her?”

Helena felt a sudden release of tension. “In London. At the sandwich shop across from
the street from the Museum of London.” She peered beyond the woman into the elegant foyer. “May I sit down while I wait to see Lady Pendleton? I'm feeling a bit faint.” Her thoughts were jumbled and she had the beginnings of a headache. Caffeine withdrawal. She hadn't had her usual java before setting off on this wild, impulsive journey.

Suddenly all concern, the woman opened the door and waved her into the foyer.

“Of course, my dear. Do come in. I am Lady Pendleton."

Helena grinned. "I knew you weren't the housekeeper," she said triumphantly as she followed Her Ladyship down the hall to a lovely receiving room with sage green walls decorated with paintings. It reminded her of the gallery at Osterley Park, although it was much smaller.

"No indeed," her hostess said with a wide grin. "I don't usually answer the door, but the fact is, I am all alone here after I gave the servants the day off." She gave Helena a speculative look. "It's a holiday, you know. They all wished to see the dedication of the new bridge. Although I believe the real attraction was the carnival in the park."

She waved Helena to an armchair covered in bottle-green velvet.

"I would offer you a cup of tea, but I couldn't begin to manage Mrs. Hunt's stove. I can offer a glass of sherry, however. You do drink sherry, do you not, Miss-uh—?”

“Lloyd,” Helena responded. “Helena Lloyd. And yes, a glass of sherry would be most welcome, Lady Pendleton." And while she waited: "I suppose you did not wish to see the dedication yourself, my lady?"

Her Ladyship shrugged as she finished pouring the sherry into two glasses. "A bridge is a bridge. And as much as I enjoy the privilege of having servants cook my food and launder my clothing, there are times when I long for a bit of solitude. I wonder if you can relate to that, Miss Lloyd?"

Helena could. "There's nothing like a quiet evening with a book and a cup of hot chocolate," she offered.

"With marshmallows," Lady Pendleton agreed as she seated herself on a pale yellow settee and set her glass down on the table nearby.

"Yes." Did marshmallows exist in the nineteenth century?

“Miss Lloyd, let us get to the point. Where have you come from and why has Ethelberta sent you here? I detect an American accent, but I sense that it is more than that."

Helena pushed her shoulders back. "You are correct, my lady. I am American and I have come from the twenty-first century in search of my family. My true family. You see, I believe it is quite possible that I was born in this time period and somehow transported to the future."

“
I
was
a baby when my mother—or the woman I’ve always
thought
was my mother—was killed in a car accident in Tampa. That’s in Florida,” Helena added as an afterthought.

“Yes, yes, I am familiar with Florida…,” said Lady Pendleton in a sharp tone. “Do go on, my dear. I am anxious to know how you came into contact with Ethelberta
there,
of all places.”

“Oh it wasn’t there,” explained Helena. “It wasn’t until recently that I met her, in London. I had just left my position as a nanny and was trying to decide what to do next when this woman—a gypsy lady—approached me in a sandwich shop. What she said to me was quite intriguing, so I bought her some food and we had a most interesting chat.”

“Yes, that sounds like her,” said Lady Pendleton, pursuing her lips. “No doubt she purported to have left her reticule at home.”

Helena grinned. “You
do
know her!”

“I do indeed,” said Lady Pendleton, shaking her head. “Do continue. What did she say to you?”

Helena's gaze clouded. "It was so uncanny how she seemed to know what I was thinking. At first I thought it must be a trick—you know how these con artists who claim to be mind readers are just really good at interpreting non-verbal cues."

Lady Pendleton leaned in closer. "She knew what you were thinking, did she? Fascinating. Fortunately, she's never been able to read
mine.
Go on, Miss Lloyd."

Helena described her first encounter with Mrs. Herne and her decision to follow up the conversation at Gracechurch Street.

“I had nowhere else to go," she explained. "I was forced to leave my last position because the children’s father was constantly trying to seduce me. His wife turned a blind eye for awhile, but I-I—well, I’m not that sort of person. Even if I were attracted to him, which I'm not. But he was wealthy and apparently not used to being turned down, because he's been stalking me. I was seriously considering returning to the States, but it would deplete my savings… and I really don't have anywhere to go once I got there.” She stared down at her hands. "And I really wanted to stay in England. It's like something's been drawing me here all my life."

“Hmm.” Lady Pendleton's lip curled. “Some things never change, not even in the so-called 'enlightened' times of the twenty-first century."

She tilted her head to the side. "So you've always felt drawn to England. But coming to live there was not the answer you were seeking?"

Helena wrinkled her forehead. "No. Yes. Well, there were times when I felt
close
to it, when I rummaged through antique shops and touched certain objects, like the portrait."

She gave a brief explanation of the portrait she'd found in the antique shop in Covent Garden. "I wish I'd thought to bring it with me. I was in such a blasted hurry… at least I have the locket, and that's only because I wear it all the time."

Lady Pendleton sighed. "You have a great deal to learn, my dear Helena. Young ladies do not swear, you know." Then she brightened. "You have a locket?"

"I do, yes," Helena said, her pulse racing. "Mrs. Herne thought it might be a clue to finding my real parents." She unclasped it from around her neck. "I guess I forgot about it in all the excitement."

“My mother—the woman who was with me when the accident happened—had this in her pocket. That doesn't mean it's mine. After all, she could have stolen it."

She opened the locket to reveal the painted miniatures inside.

“An antiques expert dated it to be from the late 1780's, from a jeweler called Rundell & Bridge. Of course, there’s nothing suggesting Helena was
my
name. But that’s the name given to me by Children’s Services, before I went into foster care.”

She handed over the necklace to Lady Pendleton, who shook her head in sympathy. "I am familiar with the concept. That could not have been a pleasant experience, my dear."

Reaching into her pocket, Lady Pendleton pulled out a quizzing glass and studied the figures in the locket.

“The man reminds me of someone, but the name escapes me. The woman is quite lovely, but I can’t say I’ve ever seen her before." She locked eyes with Helena. "There is a very good chance we can discover the identity of these people, Miss Lloyd. The quality of the locket indicates an affluent family, possibly a noble one. But it might take time, particularly if they do not frequent London society."

Helena's hands trembled and she felt a bit lightheaded. “It is incredibly kind of you, my lady.”

Lady Pendleton waved her thanks away. “Save your gratitude for the day you and your family are reunited. In the meantime, we have a great deal to do.”

She frowned as she surveyed Helena’s tawdry gown. “Visit the modiste, of course. I cannot possibly chaperone a young lady in society dressed as you are. But first we shall have to come up with a socially-acceptable background for you, one that can be used to explain your absence from your family once your true identity is discovered. We must do that now, before the servants return from their holiday. You know how servants gossip, my dear. Even mine are susceptible, and they are the most loyal servants around.”

It was decided that Helena would be the daughter of one of Lady Pendleton’s school friends—“because no one will remember that far back in the past”—who married an American and sent her daughter to London to seek a husband.

When Helena balked at that last, Lady Pendleton insisted that no mother worth her salt would send her daughter to a virtual stranger for any other reason. “It’s true that you are older than the usual debutante, but you are still youthful in appearance and pretty enough to attract gentlemen, particularly when we make it known that you are an heiress.”

“An heiress?” Helena thought she must have heard incorrectly. “Absolutely not! I did not come here to find a husband, and I will certainly not make up stuff to get one!”

Lady Pendleton sighed. “No, of course not. I forgot that ladies of the future were so—independent. There is so much more for women to do there; no doubt that is why I feel drawn to visit the future so often. Still,” she said, turning to Helena, shoulders set, “you must become accustomed to the fact that there is little for ladies to do here outside of marriage. If you decide to remain here, of course.”

Helena felt a slight heaviness in her stomach. “I don’t know. It all depends…” Would she find her family? Would they accept her? Would she like them? Could she adapt to their way of living? Would the charm Mrs. Herne gave her to return even work? Helena suddenly felt very tired.

It must have shown in her eyes, because Lady Pendleton patted her hands and smiled sympathetically.

“What am I thinking, to grill you so relentlessly so soon after the ordeal of the journey through time? I am always exceedingly tired that first day. You need to rest, my dear. As soon as the servants return, I’ll have them prepare a bath for you. In the meantime, you may rest in my bedchamber.”

She guided Helena up the stairs, where she helped her out of her clothing and into a lavender silk nightgown. “That color looks well on you. I shall remember to inform Madame Fouchier when we visit her shop tomorrow. Although I think you would look well in apple-green. Maybe even pumpkin?”

“Pumpkin? Oh no! I look dreadful in orange!” Helena protested. “Why not blue… or pink?”

Lady Pendleton shook her head. “Oh dear me no, not with those green eyes!”

They argued good-naturedly until Lady Pendleton pulled the covers over her. “Rest, my dear. When you awake, the servants will be returned and I’ll have a tray sent up to you. And this"—she said retrieving the red gown from a chair—“will be relegated to the rag bag.”

Too tired to protest, Helena curled up on her side and was asleep almost before her hostess closed the door behind her.

H
elena awoke
to an unfamiliar room and the hand of a stranger gently shaking her shoulder. About her own age, the young woman wore a gray-striped uniform and had a white mobcap over her light brown curls.

“Time to wake, miss. Cook has sent up a cold supper.” At Helena’s startled expression, she added, “I’m Izzy Peters. Lady Pendleton's abigail.”

Helena took a deep breath as her memory returned. This
was not a dream. She really
had
traveled back in time to the nineteenth century.

“What time is it, Izzy?” It was still daylight, but Helena knew that in summer it was daylight until nearly ten in London.

“Around half-past eight, miss. Her Ladyship checked on you mid-afternoon and said you was sleepin’ real sound-like. She thought you’d be hungry when you woke and ordered a cold collation as soon as Cook came through the door.”

Her Ladyship. Lady Pendleton. She pushed the covers back and pulled her legs around until she was in a sitting position.

“That is—very kind of her. I
am
hungry enough to eat a horse.”

Izzy’s eyes widened. “Ma’am, we don’t serve horse meat here. Her Ladyship would never allow it, being as fond of horses as she is.”

Helena chuckled. “It’s just an expression, Izzy.”

The maid lowered her eyes. “Yes, miss.” But it was clear that she didn’t get the point. Maybe because people
did
eat horse meat in Regency England?

Izzy set the tray on a small table in front of a yellow-striped wingback chair. “Shall I pour the tea for you, miss?”

“Yes, thank you, Izzy.”

She studied Izzy’s thin figure as she fussed with the items on the tray. “Is Izzy your real name? Or is it Isabelle?”

Izzy grinned. “No, ma’am. My baptismal name is Isolde. Cream or sugar?

“Yes, please. Both.”

Helena padded over to the chair and sat down to inspect her meal, which consisted of a plate of neatly-presented ham and cheese, rolls and butter, and a small dish of jam.

“It looks lovely,” she said, as she broke one of the rolls to make a sandwich. “So… your mother was a reader. Do you have a brother called Tristan, then?”

Izzy watched with interest as Helena placed the ham and cheese between the two pieces of buttered bread and lifted it to her mouth.

“Yes, miss. He’s an under-gardener. My mum has been Her Ladyship’s housekeeper since before I was born. Mr. Peters, the butler, is my pa. Her Ladyship insists that
all
of her servants learn to read. Even lets us read books from her own library.”

“How very generous of her.” Helena made a note to ask Lady Pendleton about this. She vaguely recalled that servants in this era tended to have only a rudimentary knowledge of their letters. Allowing them to make use of her own personal library seemed over the top.

“She is the best mistress, no doubt. So kind-hearted and generous, with off-days for the staff and all. Picks up strays regularly, she does."

Strays like Helena?

"I've never met an American," Izzy continued. “People talk different, eat different, maybe even dress different.” She glanced at Helena’s night apparel, obviously recognizing it as belonging to her mistress. It's too bad your trunks were washed overboard in a storm."