by Amy Lake
Celia’s eyes widened in anger. “Don’t patronize me! I’m not a fool!” she cried. “Who is she? Some daughter of an old friend, you said? I think not. She appeared at our door nearly in rags!”
“I should think you would have no more complaints about that,” said the marquess, returning his attention to the newspaper. “Her new clothing is quite respectable,” he added. “Charming, really.”
This last remark was ill-chosen. The marchioness stamped her foot.
“Charming! Oh!” she said, and flounced out.
Jonathan sighed. Perhaps it had been a mistake to accede to Pam’s request that the governess join them at dinners. Celia’s jealousy, he could see, was in full cry. And he was not prepared to explain about Helène Phillips. At any rate, not yet.
* * * *
Lord Quentin, it seemed, had also taken special care in dressing that evening, and Helène tried not to stare. A neckcloth tied in the simplest of knots set off the fine black wool of his jacket, and his pantaloons, also black, showed his well-muscled thighs clearly. The pantaloons were secured with silver buckles of classical design; they glittered every time he moved or shifted his weight, and she found herself more aware than she liked of each small movement.
Helène reminded herself sternly that Charles Quentin was of no interest to her. None at all. Now he was saying something to Lucinda Blankenship, who laughed prettily in reply. Well, she is certainly welcome to him, thought Helène. She had spoken to Miss Blankenship on a few occasions and found her quick with a catty remark but otherwise lacking in wit.
He is laughing at me, thought Helène. I’m sure of it.
The dinner eventually provided some relief for her discomposure. She found herself seated to the left of the agonizingly shy Viscount Dreybridge, so that a great deal of effort was required on her part to further the conversation. It kept her mind occupied and out of more dangerous waters.
“Are you en-enjoying your s-stay at Luton, Miss Phillips?” attempted the viscount. Kind eyes blinked owlishly from behind a pair of alarmingly thick spectacles. The viscount and viscountess–his cheerful but equally shy wife–were favorites of Helène, as they seemed oblivious of her low consequence and would often talk to her, if haltingly. The pair were newly married and, although they had no family as yet, the viscount had strong opinions on child-rearing which he could sometimes be coaxed to voice.
“I–I quite believe,” he told Helène, “that children should be allowed free discovery of the world around them. Let them–let them discover that they must wear shoes, for example, by bruising their toes. Or learn their maths by counting the apples fallen from a tree.”
“How should they learn to read?” asked Helène, genuinely curious.
The viscount hesitated. “Perhaps,” he allowed, “one might employ books. But–but it seems to me that a stick, used to draw in the dirt–”
He halted in confusion. Helène smiled and, taking pity on his lordship, launched into an extended description of Alice and Peter’s daily schedule. This brought them in good order all the way through to the fish.
But as she spoke, Helène’s mind occasionally wandered, followed by her gaze. Whenever, by merest chance, her eyes met Lord Quentin’s he looked... amused. So be it, thought Helène, feeling indignant. She’d done nothing to be ashamed of, and if he thought that she was amusing, that was just too bad. Helène acknowledged her naiveté in many things, but she wasn’t stupid, and she wasn’t about to be some fancy lord’s bit of fun. Lord Quentin could take his rugged, handsome face, and those deep brown eyes, and his broad shoulders, and–
And take them somewhere else. She wasn’t interested.
He was seated next to the marchioness, of course. Lady Sinclair seemed to laugh delightedly at Lord Quentin’s every remark, and it was beginning to grate on Helène’s nerves.
“Miss?” The footman interrupted her thoughts, proffering a dessert tureen of blanc mange.
“A small portion, thank you.”
“Yes, miss.”
Her eyes glanced up again of their own accord, and she saw that he was still watching her. She blushed. Lady Sinclair was eyeing them both–she said a few words to Lord Quentin and then turned away. The marchioness did not look pleased.
* * * *
After dinner, the gentlemen were left to their port, and Helène followed the other ladies into the drawing room. It was her habit to remain there only briefly, for politeness, and then retire for the evening, although Lady Pam had asked her more than once to stay.
“I believe Amanda and I are in danger of boring each other senseless. We are in urgent need of fresh topics of conversation.”
“Indeed,” added Lady Detweiler, “It would be a mercy to have someone new to talk to. If Celia mentions her close family connection to the Duke of Bucchleigh one more time... ”
Helène demurred. “The marchioness looks daggers at me every time I remain more than a few minutes.”
Amanda snorted. “I dare say she’s worried you might start speaking in French.”
“Ah. Certainement pas.”
But this evening was to be different. Lady Sinclair had never sought Helène’s company in the drawing room, but tonight she approached the governess almost immediately, wearing a small, tight smile.
“Miss Phillips, I’ve been anxious to have a word with you.”
“Your ladyship?”
“Yes. Well–”
Perhaps it was Jonathan’s remark, or the number of times that Lord Quentin had glanced in Helène’s direction during that meal. Perhaps it was only the wine. Whatever the reason, Celia’s instincts, generally excellent in social niceties, now led her into murky waters.
“That is a beautiful gown you are wearing, Miss Phillips,” the marchioness said.
Helène stiffened and resisted the impulse to glance downwards. The neckline of the rose tabby showed more décolletage than anything she had worn before; even so, it was no lower than that of any other woman in the room. Including Lady Harkins.
Well, perhaps Lady Sinclair’s intentions were benign. Helène smiled tentatively and said, “Thank you, my lady. You are most kind to notice.”
“Indeed,” said Celia. “One might almost say your wardrobe is fashionable. Quite fine, in fact, for a governess.”
“I must thank Lady Pamela for the loan of her modiste,” said Helène. “Madame Gaultier has remarkable taste.” Despite the compliment, she was uneasy at Lady Sinclair’s attention. Something in the tone of her voice... Helène noticed that Lady Pamela and Lady Detweiler had ended their conversation with Lucinda Blankenship and were turning their attention to the marchioness.
“Ah, yes. Lady Pamela is too kind.” Celia’s eyes glittered. “But my dear, I’m truly afraid that–in this one instance, you understand–she may have led you astray.”
Helène was confused. “My lady?”
“That neckline, you see,” explained the marchioness. “Quite unremarkable for a woman of higher class, of course. But for you... Well, I’m sure you understand what I mean.”
“I’m afraid I do not,” declared Helène. “Pray enlighten me.”
“It looks... rather whorish.”
Silence descended on the room in an eyeblink and was just as quickly broken.
“Celia–”
“Lady Sinclair–”
“Chit deserves it, I daresay. These governesses nowadays–”
Even Lady Dreybridge attempted to say a few, nervous words. Lady Pamela had moved to Helène’s side and was telling her something that she couldn’t hear. That buzzing sound again. Helène grabbed a deep breath and held on, refusing to faint for the likes of Celia Sinclair. Other people were still talking, but she didn’t–
“Pray excuse me,” she said, finding her voice and looking directly at the marchioness. “I’m afraid I do not find the present company entirely to my liking.”
Celia hissed, Lady Harkins gasped. “Of all the impertinent–!”
“Miss Phillips, allow me to acco
mpany you,” urged Lady Pamela, the words low and soothing. “Lady Detweiler and I–”
“I’m quite all right,” she said to Pam, knowing she sounded ungracious, knowing it wasn’t Lady Pamela’s fault.
I am not interested in your help. I have no use for any of you, for your world, for your notions of Quality–
The buzzing returned. Helène fought it and managed to make her way out of the room. At the doorway she paused, and looked at the marchioness. Lady Sinclair stared back at her, a smile half-seen at the corner of her mouth.
“Please inform Mrs. Tiggs, ” said Helène, “that from now on I shall require my meals be brought to my room.”
* * * *
“Oh look, maman. It’s the pretty carriage... ”
Pamela turned toward the marchioness with a child’s trusting eyes. Something pretty– surely her mother would like that. The phaeton was a warm cream, the wheels picked out in silver. Fit for a princess, thought Pamela, who was staring at the red-haired beauty sitting atop, laughing, head inclined gracefully to the man at her side.
How she would like to ride in a phaeton!
The man said something to the woman. She smiled and touched his arm.
“Pamela. Come here.”
Pam skipped after a butterfly, pretending that she hadn’t heard her mother’s call. Daffodils underfoot, the scent of French lilac in the air–
“Hello, child.”
It was her. The lady and the man had dismounted from their phaeton and were walking barefoot through the long meadow grass, hand in hand.
Barefoot!
Pamela stared goggle-eyed at them, and was about to speak–
“You’re Helène,” she said.
The woman shook her head. “No,” she said. “I’m not Helène.”
“But–”
“Pamela.” Her mother’s voice again. “Come here at once!”
“But maman!” Pamela cried. “It’s Helène!”
The red-haired woman had something to tell her. She was sure of it.
* * * *
The candle was just guttering at her bedside when Lady Pamela awoke. She lit another candle and sat in bed for a long while, thinking. Eventually she got up, throwing a wrapper over her nightgown.
It was time to have a talk with Helène Phillips.
CHAPTER NINE
Once upon a time–
–there was a rich and powerful duke who had two beautiful daughters. The younger daughter, of sweet and caring disposition, had contracted a disease in childhood and one leg was crippled as a result. She walked with only the slightest of limps, but her parents were ashamed of her nonetheless, and did not allow her to participate in society. Having no sons, the duke and his duchess fixed all their hopes on the elder, who, strong-spirited and independent, was yet expected to marry into high station, in accordance with her parents’ wishes.
One day a new carriage arrived at the duke’s town home. Cream and silver, it was the most beautiful carriage in all of London, and it was to carry the older daughter that night to the first ball of her coming-out season. The duke escorted the girl outside to show her this marvelous equipage, feeling all the pride of a man who is able to provide every luxury for his family.
“You will be the belle of the season,” he told his daughter. “No one will outshine you and you shall have any gentleman you wish.”
“It’s very beautiful, Father,” replied the girl, dutifully. But she was looking at something other than the plush cushions or the velvet drapes. The carriagemaker wished to see at firsthand the pleasure of his customers in a task so finely accomplished. He stood next to the cream and silver coach, one hand gently stroking the bright paint. He was tall and handsome, and the duke’s daughter saw past his plain clothes to the warmth and admiration in his eyes.
* * * *
The governess had been bewildered by Pam’s appearance at her door in the middle of the night and then frightened by Lady Pamela’s first question.
Who are you? Pam had asked without preamble. Who is your mother?
She was insistent, and eventually, sighing, Helène gave in. The story she told Lady Pamela was both extraordinary and heartbreaking.
“That young man... he was your father?” Lady Pamela asked. She was sitting cross-legged at the end of Helène’s bed, her feet tucked under the duvet.
“Yes. He was a master carriagemaker. The best workmanship, the finest materials... My father used to insist that the patron’s horses be brought to him, that only if he could see the team could he design a proper carriage ‘as a harmonious whole.’ But he worked little in the last year.”
“He’s no longer alive?”
“No.” Helène hesitated. “He died shortly before I accepted the position at Luton.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Lady Pam. She frowned. “And your mother had already passed away?”
“My mother... my mother died many years ago. When I was still a small child.”
“Good heavens. Did you live alone? Was there no other family to turn to?”
“There was my aunt–”
When the duke discovered that his daughter had developed a tendre for the carriagemaker he was at first amused. The idea that she could be serious in her fondness for the young man never entered His Grace’s head, and he merely forbade her from ever speaking or writing to him again. When they ran off together, in the cream and silver carriage, the duke forbade her name being mentioned in his presence. When his younger daughter continued to insist on it, he sent the girl away, at barely fifteen years of age, to one of his minor country estates.
The carriagemaker’s business thrived. The ton, even while they condemned His Grace’s child as unworthy of her name, flocked to buy her husband’s wares. ’Twas the latest fashion, to drive a coach built by the man who married the daughter of a duke. The carriagemaker and his bride moved into a new home, comfortable and with a pleasant prospect, and they lived in great happiness for some time. But the duke’s daughter could not quite forget her parents, nor–after the birth of her own daughter–cease to wish that her mother and father could someday hold their first grandchild in their arms.
Helène faltered over these last few words. “My mother never told me any of this, of course,” she told Lady Pam. “I don’t even remember her. But my aunt lived with my parents almost from the start–”
“The younger sister?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm,” said Pamela. She was still mulling over something Helène had mentioned earlier. The Duke of Grentham had no sons?
The duke’s younger daughter was, in her own way, as strong willed and persistent as her sister. Now in the country, free of her father’s interference–and with plenty of time on her hands–she sent a message to the carriagemaker and his wife. A correspondence began and soon a plot was hatched between them. The sisters would meet in town and, babe in arms, go together to see the duke and duchess.
Their father would certainly be reconciled, thought the sisters. For who could resist the sight of a rosy-cheeked baby girl...
The duke was enraged. The duchess cried and begged him to stop, but he listened to no one. He threw his daughters out of the house and followed them down the front steps and into the rain, berating them furiously as the sisters tried to return to their carriage. That same cream and silver coach–! At the sight of it, the duke’s anger took a ferocious, violent turn. There was an edged iron bar sitting discretely to the side of the front door, placed there for the convenience of any guest needing to scrape bits of the London street muck from his shoes. The duke picked it up–
“Dear Lord,” breathed Lady Pamela.
–and advanced toward the carriage. By the time he was through, and had collapsed panting, head in hands, on the curb, the beautiful coach had been smashed to bits. Leaving the horses with the groom, the two sisters walked home in the pouring rain; slowly, with Matilde’s limp, and Guenevieve sheltering the babe with her cloak. The carriagemaker’s wife took ill with the grippe a few
days later, and weakened by sleeplessness and her sorrow, she died within the fortnight.
Neither of the sisters ever saw their father or mother again.
Pamela and Helène sat in silence for several minutes. The fire had burned low and Lady Pamela prodded it back to life. She was thinking about the red-haired woman she had seen that day in Hyde Park. Lady Guenevieve Torrance. Guenevieve Torrance Phillips. Helène’s mother.
Ironically, it had been the old marchioness who had ensured that her daughter would remember the couple in the cream and silver carriage. Exquisite as Helène’s mother had been, Pamela would no doubt have quickly lost interest and returned to the pursuit of butterflies. But the Marchioness had hissed cold fury–
“Pamela, return here at once!”
“But maman!”
“At once!”
Embarrassed, Pamela returned to the carriage. But as she walked away, the red-haired lady winked at her. It was as if she knew.
“And your aunt, I suppose, taught you French–”
“–and Latin. Apparently, my grandfather had felt some guilt that Matilde was unable to participate in society, and tried to make it up to her with a fine education. Until she ran away, she had the tutors one might expect of a duke’s son.”
“And Matilde lived with you until she died?”
“Yes. About a year ago. My father’s business was not what it once was, but we were comfortable enough until then. I think my aunt kept Papa in check. But as her illness worsened, what he didn’t spend on her medicine began to go for ale. And then he became ill himself, of course.”
“How did you hear of the position at Luton Court?”
“I’m... not entirely sure. Aunt Matilde mentioned it first, and later my father said that it was her dying wish... ” Helène faltered. “I was surprised when the marquess offered me the position. Could my aunt have known him?”
Lady Pamela was wondering the same. But she now turned her attention to another, smaller mystery.
