by Amy Lake
Her voice slurred, and he could see that peculiar glitter to her eyes that–in Celia–signaled tipsiness.
“Lady Sinclair,” Charles had replied, his voice as cheerful and matter-of-fact as he could contrive. “You seem to have lost your way.”
“Mmm,” she responded, and stretched, cat-like. “I think not.”
The coverlet slipped from her shoulders and Lord Quentin caught sight of one rose-tipped breast. Celia’s breasts were, as he knew from experience, magnificent.
“I believe this is my bedchamber.” The words came out in a croak.
Celia smiled and hiccoughed softly. “Oh, I may be in the wrong bedchamber, my lord, but I assure you that this is very much the right bed.”
“Celia–”
“Don’t be such a spoilsport, Charles. You know Jonathan doesn’t care.” A hint of pain surfaced in her voice.
Lord Quentin decided to make an attempt at reason. “I’m sure he does,” he told Celia. “I know that Lord Sinclair cares very much.”
“Bosh,” said the lady. “Not a bit.” She tried, unsteadily, to rise, clutching the bedclothes around her. “Just a fast bit of tumble,” she purred. “Or two. Something to see you through the next few weeks.”
The bedclothes slipped from her hands, and Celia stood before Charles tipsy and hopeful, entirely naked. She was, he admitted, the most exciting, sensual creature he had seen in some time. Her skin glowed warmly in the candlelight, and her hair was slightly damp, as if she came fresh from her bath. Celia always smelled wonderful, Charles remembered. Newly bathed, a light sprinkling of perfume...
“Mmm,” she murmured, moving forward to put her arms around his neck. “I know just what you want.”
Seeing the bed behind her, Charles had a flash of memory, the memory of another woman who had been in his rooms today. In the present circumstances it was a distraction, as good a straw to grasp as any. He took the marchioness by the shoulders. “Celia,” he said slowly, “what happened to the new governess?”
She giggled and hiccoughed again. “Who?”
“Miss... Miss Phillips. Has she recovered?”
Celia frowned and sat back down on the bed. “Oh. Her. Well, you ought to know better than I! She was in your room.” The marchioness sniffed suspiciously. “Oh, heavens, don’t tell me she was lying on this coverlet!”
Seeing her distaste, Charles felt wicked inspiration strike. “I believe she was sick on it only twice.”
“Oh!” She glared at him. “Never mind that,” she said. “It’s a thick carpet, and I’ve no objection to the floor.”
“Celia. What happened to Miss Phillips?”
“Oh! A pox on the stupid chit! I don’t know what happened to her and I don’t care!” Her voice petulant, betraying impatience, Celia stood and tried to run her hands down his arms. To his amazement, Charles felt nothing.
“Mrs. Tiggs had James move her to her own room–”
“Well, there you have it, then. Mrs. Tiggs took care of her,” said Celia.
“–but has anyone checked on her since?”
She shrugged.
Charles felt suddenly weary, and fast losing the energy necessary to humor the marchioness. “I’ve had a long day, Lady Sinclair,” he said. “I think it is past time for you to leave.”
“Charles,” said the marchioness, “you think too much.”
“I dare say you are correct.”
Celia straightened up, yawned, and unexpectedly gave in. She laughed softly. “Oh, darling, very well. You win this time.” Grabbing her silk wrapper she fastened it swiftly around her waist. “There’ll be other nights, you know.”
“Hmm,” said Charles, and the marchioness–wobbling slightly–left.
* * * *
Helène found a rather nice woolen shawl in one of the drawers of the tallboy. It didn’t clash too dreadfully with the sarcanet, and she tried a number of ways of arranging it about her shoulders for best effect. A lace fichu tucked into the bodice would have helped even more, thought Helène. A small mirror above the wash basin revealed collarbones that jutted alarmingly from under her pale skin.
It would have to do. She sat on the bed and finished the last of the cheese scones, sighing in contentment. Her stomach felt reasonably full for the first time in... months, anyway. Perhaps being the employee of a great house wouldn’t be so bad. Helène wondered how old the Sinclair children were, and what the family expected of a governess. Her father, of course, had been no help with these details.
* * * *
“But I cannot leave you!” Helène protested. “Bedfordshire is two days journey from the city!”
“A day and a half, m’ love, a day and a half,” said her father, a flicker of his usual bonhomie in evidence through the devastation of his illness. ’Twas your Aunt Matilde’s dyin’ wish, as you know well.”
“Father, I know nothing of being a governess.”
“ ’Twas arranged long ago. Now, run along– ” Her father began to cough, and Helène helped him sit up in the bed. When the spasm was over, he spoke again, gently–
“You know I never meant for you t’ be servant t’ some miserable toff. Tears me up inside, it does. But I’m near t’ gone–”
“Father–”
“Ach, did I raise you t’ be a ninny? I’m dyin’, and in London you’ll be set a whore–or you’ll starve.”
At the memory of his voice, tears started to Helène’s eyes. Her father was capable of speaking with a refined accent, learned–so Aunt Matilde said–during the years her mother was alive, but during times of stress, and then sickness, his speech returned to its hardscrabble roots.
Did I raise you t’ be a ninny?
Nathaniel Phillips had worked hard, and fought to give his daughter everything he could, and they had made do quite nicely–father, daughter, and aunt–until the last years had brought a double calamity. First, Matilde’s consumption had taken much of their money, and then, this past year, her father’s own illness had finished the rest. Helène’s aunt had originally spoken of a situation with the Marquess of Luton not long before her death, and later it had seemed a wonderful idea; a chance, even, to send a bit of extra money back to her father in London. But Helène had been unable to leave him in town, sick and alone, and it was not until Mr. Phillips was clearly dying, and the last few pounds of their savings nearly gone, that she had summoned the nerve to write Lord Sinclair.
’Twas arranged long ago–
She had thought her father’s words no more than the fantasy of a sick man but, to Helène’s surprise, her request for a position was accepted almost immediately. So here she was, a governess in Bedfordshire. But where were her charges? And why had no-one enquired about her presence?
And why would a marquess have been willing to hire an impoverished and inexperienced young female, sight unseen? The arrangement was most odd. She supposed it was not impossible that Aunt Matilde had maintained some friendships among the ton, still–
Helène shook her head, banishing these worries for the moment. “Well begun is half done,” she murmured to herself, echoing one of Mr. Phillips’s favorite maxims, and thinking that there was no more time to waste on questions or regrets. She would perform her duties at Luton as best she was able. What else could she do?
Taking a deep breath, Helène reached once more into the soggy portmanteau and fished out a small book. It was a well-used, dog-eared volume, bound modestly in red buckram and inscribed with gold lettering:
Conduct and Deportment for the Modern Governess
by Miss E. A. Chaldecott
Helène had found Miss Chaldecott’s manual in one of London’s many second-hand book sellers the day before she left for Bedfordshire. At a shilling and six pence it was almost beyond her means, but she had raided a long-hoarded stash of pennies and made the purchase, eager for any guidance in her new profession.
She wondered who Miss Chaldecott was, and whether she had been a governess herself. Surely if the thing had been published
it must contain reliable information. Helène turned to the first chapter hoping, if nothing else, for brevity. She was not disappointed.
“The position of governess in the well-born household is quite straightforward and of two-fold disposition,” wrote Miss Chaldecott. “First, you are to instruct the children according to the wishes of their parents. Secondly, you are to keep the children from the eye and ear of these same parents, and to attract as little notice as possible yourself.”
Perfect, thought Helène. “Attract as little notice as possible–” There was nothing she would like better. She read for a few more minutes. Miss Chaldecott seemed to have no high opinion of the basic common sense, not to mention the morals, of the average governess.
“A governess who finds herself in an incommodious condition must expect to be thrown out at once, without reference.”
An incommodious condition? Helène could hazard a guess as to the meaning, but since she had no expectation of attracting male notice, she read quickly on.
“You may hope to have few friends, if any. The common servants are below your touch, and the family, above it.”
Few friends... It seemed to be a dreary occupation, but, considering her life during the past few months, dreary might be a step in the right direction. Sighing, Helène laid the book on her nightstand. If she was to accomplish any of Miss Chaldecott’s directives, it would be necessary to find the children. Gathering the shawl from the tallboy around her shoulders, she determined to find the housekeeper–Mrs. Tiggs?–and ask for help.
Helène heard, just then, a soft scratching at her door. She pulled it open and found herself looking into the friendly, open face of a burly young man.
“Miss... Miss Phillips?” He seemed confused.
Helène recognized his odd costume–a silverish jacket and sky-blue breeches–as house livery. A footman, she supposed, having little first-hand experience of servants in a great household.
“Yes?” She smiled back at him, and was rewarded with a great, ear-splitting grin.
“Hmm, Miss Phillips, I’m James.”
“How do you do?” said Helène, hoping that the footman could give her some assistance. “Am I being summoned?”
“Miss?” James was clearly confused.
“Yes, well... how can I help you?”
“Help me?”
A more straightforward approach was needed, decided Helène. “James,” she said, “why are you here?”
This produced the desired effect. “Ah, yes, miss. I’m t’ take you t’ Miss Alice and Master Peter,” said the footman, adding, “If you please?”
The children. Well enough, then.
“Excellent,” she told James. “I’m entirely at your disposal.”
“Miss?”
“That’s fine, James,” said Helène. She pulled the shawl tightly around her shoulders. “Lead on.”
James headed off down a narrow corridor, dimly lit with tallow candles. Helène watched carefully for small details in their surroundings, in hopes of being able to find her way back to her bedchamber. Her bedchamber... Helène realized that she had no idea of how she had arrived in that room in the first place. How strange. Well, there was no help for it now, since James surely didn’t know.
After making several turns, and descending a narrow staircase, they arrived in a carpeted hallway that seemed more familiar. A tall, dark-haired man turned the corner a few steps in front of them, and stopped for a moment, staring at Helène. Memory flooded back and, blushing hotly, she found herself rooted to the spot.
The man on horseback. The man who had stranded her in the snow–
His eyes flicked dismissively over her dress as he passed by James and Helène without a word. How rude–! Her chin went up of its own accord, and she resisted a sudden, childish impulse to turn around and stick out her tongue.
James remained oblivious. “Here you are, Miss Phillips,” he said, as they approached a double door of polished beech. The footman smiled cheerfully, relieved, she suspected, to have successfully accomplished his task.
“Thank you very much,” she told him, “This is the nursery, I assume?”
“Oh, yes, miss,” said James–and the door burst open.
“Is she here? Is she here, James? Is this her? Oh, please, miss, are you our new governess?”
Two shining, eager faces looked up at Helène as if she was the long-awaited answer to prayer; one small girl, perhaps six or seven years of age, with blond ringlets falling almost to her waist, and a somewhat younger boy with a smudge of dirt on his nose. Both children were bouncing with excitement.
“She’s beautiful!” said the little boy. Helène found herself much charmed. At least a child could be counted on to look past outward trappings–
“It is her, isn’t it, James! It is!” said the girl.
“This is Miss Phillips,” said James. “Miss Alice, Master Peter, say your howdos.”
“How do you do, Miss Phillips!” came the duet.
“I am quite well, thank you,” said Helène. “And I am very glad to meet you–” She happened to glance at the footman and saw that James looked worried.
“I’m . . I’m sorry, miss,” he said, “but I wasn’t told anything else–”
“We’ll be just fine, James,” said Helène. “You may leave. The children can show me around the nursery.”
“Oh, yes please, Miss Phillips!”
And so, bouncing and chattering happily, they did.
* * * *
What a dreadful costume, thought Charles, watching the two children disappear with the young woman into the nursery. What could Jonathan have been thinking, to have hired such a drab for a governess? That dress is even more unfortunate than the dirty sack she was wearing yesterday. She’s entirely too thin–
Lord Quentin stopped himself, realizing that a woman who’d apparently not had enough to eat for months could hardly be expected to have money for clothes. Frowning, he wondered whether Celia would attempt some contrivance to dismiss her. But, what was it Mrs. Tiggs had said about the two previous governesses?
–pretty and young, and as near t’ quality as makes some people nervous, if you get my meanin’–
Perhaps the marchioness would actually welcome a female so little able to steal the attention from herself.
Still, someone in Miss Phillips’s position was expected to be of respectable family–the younger daughter of some country squire, perhaps–and the girl clearly did not qualify on that account. Good breeding was more than elegant cheekbones, or long, auburn hair and jade-green eyes...
Bother it all, where was he? Charles found that he had walked straight past the door to his own rooms while in contemplation of the various shortcomings of the dowdy and unsatisfactory Miss Helène Phillips.
CHAPTER FOUR
The week at Luton passed quickly for Charles, with evenings reserved for various amusements and the days spent closeted with the marquess in his study. Jonathan had little feel for the practical matters of country life, and this past year had been a bad one for both the barley crop and the lambs, leaving the marquess even more distracted than usual by matters of business.
’Twould have been better, Charles thought, if the marquess would tend to his wife and let the steward worry over the sheep. But Jonathan wished to keep much of the work in his own hands, and frequently sought Lord Quentin’s advice on the running of the Luton estate. This was not an aspect of their relationship that Charles always enjoyed, and he rued even more the absence of Jonathan’s sister, Lady Pamela. Superior to Lord Sinclair in wit, Pam could always be counted upon to sway her brother in matters of common sense.
He dealt with Celia by the simple expedient of retiring immediately after each night’s entertainment–and locking his door. Lady Sinclair pouted prettily during the day, and bided her time. Charles knew that he had not heard the last from the Marchioness of Luton.
If Lord Quentin occasionally wondered how Miss Helène Phillips was faring in the nursery he did n
ot admit it to himself. Jonathan never mentioned the girl, and had quickly changed the subject with a bored wave of his hand, the one time Charles had asked about her.
“Mmm, yes. I’m sure she is doing quite well, quite well, I’m sure . . .”
Charles had seen the governess a few times in passing, and the glances she bestowed upon him on these occasions were decidedly cool. The nervy chit. Miss Phillips was dressed as poorly as ever, and Lord Quentin felt that she showed far less embarrassment about this than she ought.
On the day before he was to leave for Tavelstoke, Lord Quentin’s morning ride took him farther afield than he had intended, and it was well past noon before he and Alcibiades were once again in sight of the house. Snow had been falling off and on for most of the week, but there had been little wind, so that Luton Court and its surroundings now lay spread out below him like a Christmas fantasy. Luton was not the equal of Tavelstoke in the restraint or refinement of its architecture, of course. The numerous balconies and bay windows of the main hall–combined with copious amounts of iron-work scrolling–suggested, if anything, a rather baroque sensibility. Still, at times like this, one sensed what the builder must have had in mind. The estate looked marvelous, gleaming in a blanket of snow.
Sunny or not, the winter’s chill had crept through the thick wool of his cloak, and Charles found himself anticipating a good fire and a glass of warmed brandy. He clucked at Alcibiades. Removing his feet from these cold boots would be worth braving yet another episode of Celia’s pique when she learned that he still planned to leave on the morrow.
As they approached the stables Charles heard all manner of odd noises from beyond the larger paddock–squeals and shrieks, and other... thudding sounds that he couldn’t identify. Leaving the stallion in the care of a senior groom, Charles rounded the corner to find two small, snow-covered children and one equally snow-covered adult, in the middle of some kind of altercation.
