by Amy Lake
“I understand your meaning,” she told him, “but–”
“And you’ve suffered nothing of it,” continued Lord Quentin. “Your former circumstances are never spoken of, and you are accepted everywhere.”
“Don’t be a fool. It would be a very different matter for Helène.”
“I suppose you have the right of it. But–being a mistress... cared for, protected... . It isn’t the worst life in the world, is it? ”
“No,” she answered him, slowly. “It isn’t the worst life in the world.”
They were silent for several moments. Lord Quentin sighed. “Do not concern yourself with Miss Phillips’ reputation,” he told Lady Pamela.
She again narrowed her eyes.
“I will speak again to the marchioness,” he added. “I’m quite sure I can convince her that the consequences to this particular piece of gossip will not be to her liking.”
* * * *
After this interview Pamela sought out Lady Detweiler, and the two of them hurried to Helène’s room. They found the governess sitting on her bed and staring forlornly at the door of her wardrobe.
“My brown merino has been lost,” she said. “But I cannot take any of your beautiful gowns with me–”
“Helène–”
“I don’t suppose anyone would object if I took a single walking dress... ” The girl’s voice trailed off.
Pamela and Amanda exchanged glances.
“Helène,” said Lady Pam. “Listen to me. I have not spoken to Jonathan as yet, but let me assure you that nothing will come of this. You will not be dismissed. I give you my word.”
The governess looked up at them. A trace of anger sparked as she said, “I’m afraid Lady Sinclair was clear on that point.”
“You must trust me. Lady Sinclair will be overruled,” insisted Pamela. She hesitated, then added–“and I did speak to Lord Quentin just now.”
Helène stood up and walked to the window. She turned to face the two other women.
“And–?”
“He has repeated his offer of carte blanche,” said Lady Pam.
Helène flushed. She didn’t need to hear the words, as she had already seen the truth in Lady Pamela’s face. He would not offer marriage. She would not accept anything else.
“Helène,” began Lady Pam.
“Please,” said the governess. “I don’t want to hear any more.”
“I believe he does care for you, however. Do you care for him?”
Lady Detweiler raised an eyebrow. She had remained uncharacteristically silent during the present discussion, and Pam could feel her frustration. Amanda tended to think of men as temporary amusements. Marriage had never figured into her plans.
“I... I thought perhaps I did,” began Helène. “But–”
Lady Pamela sighed. She could not see her way to encouraging a nineteen-year old maiden to accept an offer of carte blanche.
“This is all stuff and nonsense. Tell him,” said Lady Detweiler. “Or I will.”
“Amanda–”
“Oh, no!” exclaimed Helène. The governess looked at Lady Detweiler. “You wouldn’t!”
“Don’t be too sure. Now, child,” said Amanda, “our dear Lady Pamela is the soul of tactfulness, which is why you really need me here. This is not a game. Celia did not much take to you from the beginning. If Charles Quentin had bedded her–”
“Amanda.”
“–but as it happens, he did not. And I believe the marchioness prefers the excuse that his attentions are focused elsewhere, rather than believe that he has no interest in her. So she now truly dislikes you and would not be adverse to seeing your reputation in tatters.”
Helène looked shocked. “Is this true? But why–?”
“Jonathan will resist dismissing you, I am sure. But Celia may eventually convince him that his children should not be taught by the subject of such gossip. One way or the other, it will be difficult to find further offers of employment from the worthy matrons of the ton. Now, Pamela will hire you as a companion–”
Helène turned her attention to Lady Pam, who nodded.
“–and if London society continues as devoid of intelligent conversation as it has been this past year, I may fight her for you. So you needn’t starve. Nevertheless–”
Amanda stopped. She glanced at Lady Pamela, who shrugged. “Nevertheless. Lord Quentin is handsome, intelligent, and wealthy. You are young and beautiful, and, as it happens, the granddaughter of a great duke. Is this–” Lady Detweiler made a sweeping gesture–“is this all you want from your life?”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Celia claimed the headache and remained abed for the rest of that day, so Lady Pamela decided it was safe to put off her interview with Jonathan until the morning. She had long considered it impossible to obtain sensible conversation from her brother in the evening; he tired easily, and his head for spirits was appalling.
The next morning she dressed hurriedly and went down to breakfast. The marquess was sitting alone, as usual, his plate piled high with food.
“Jonathan, I must speak to you,” she began. Lord Sinclair stopped his attack on a rasher of bacon and looked up. Something flickered in his eyes, too briefly for Pam to identify, followed by an odd moment, a sense of communication between them. As if he knew something . . .
“Pah.” The marquess waved an airy hand, and the moment was over. “If you are here to ask me to dismiss the governess,” he told Pam, “I’ve already told Lady Sinclair that it is out of the question. Miss Phillips stays.”
Pamela, frowning, sat down. “Dismiss her? Of course not! I’d come to ask you to allow her to stay, as a matter of fact. Alice and Peter–”
“Well, there you have it, then,” said Jonathan. “The difficulty is resolved. Now, Celia has decided that we must have orange trees in the ballroom–”
“Jonathan, please listen to–” Pam broke off. “Orange trees?”
“Complete with hanging fruit. She has become quite insistent on the matter.”
“I doubt even Lady Sinclair can convince the hothouse trees to set ripe fruit in January.”
“The fruit is to be tied on. Can you,” said the marquess, “please convince her to see reason?”
* * * *
Several more bleak, sunless days passed. The snow continued, the drifts piling so high around the house that the coal boys–as Helène was told–began daring each other to jump into them from the windows of the servants’ attic. The marquess had expressly forbidden this, and Helène kept a careful eye on Peter. She continued her duties in the schoolroom, cheerful and unworried for the sake of the children, and waited for a summons to Lord Sinclair’s study. She was still convinced it would come, no matter what the assurances from Lady Pamela. Perhaps he only waited to dismiss her until the houseparty had broken up.
Or had Lady Sinclair said nothing? Helène occasionally wondered if Charles Quentin had, indeed, managed to silence her; and if so, what had been the price of his success. The guests seemed to treat her much as before. Lady Harkins harrumphed at the sight of her, of course, but the attitude of the others ranged only between common partiality and indifference.
She was careful to avoid Lord Quentin, who, to Helène’s surprise, persisted in his attempts to speak with her. On one occasion he had showed up at the door to her room just as she was dressing for breakfast. Helène had refused him, furious.
“Are you mad?” she had hissed. “I wouldn’t let you in if the Prince himself came marching down that hall. Now go away!”
His hand had remained firmly on the door frame. “Don’t be such a goose,” he said, flashing his charming, knee-weakening smile. “We have matters to discuss, and you can’t hide in your room forever.”
“Don’t be so sure!” Ignoring the smile, she closed the door–narrowly avoiding his lordship’s toes–and collapsed onto her bed with a sigh.
Wasn’t she in enough trouble already? The man was cork-brained to continue pestering her with Lady Sinclair prac
tically within earshot.
Fortunately, the evening of the bal d’hiver–the great Winter Ball of Luton Court–was drawing closer. Perhaps the marchioness would soon be too busy to pay further attention to Lord Quentin or Helène.
* * * *
From the windows of the solarium Charles watched Miss Phillips as she returned from her morning walk. The governess leaned down to brush snow from her skirt and a long tendril of hair escaped from its pins. Lord Quentin’s breath caught in his throat.
The girl stood up just as Lord Cantingham passed by on his way to the stables. He gave Miss Phillips a friendly wave, and Charles was glad to see this evidence of her continued good reputation. It seemed that his second talk with the marchioness had accomplished its purpose.
Celia had been drunk the night she discovered Charles and Helène in the library, and in no mood for sensible discussion upon his return. He had endured her tears and threats for over an hour, and could do little to mollify her. But on the following day–
“Think about it,” he had told Lady Sinclair, catching her at afternoon tea. “You’ve made no secret of your own interests–”–this was as much honesty as he dared with her– “–and you’ll look a fool. Out-flanked by a mere governess!”
Self-interest was the best approach with Celia, to whom being publicly spurned would be the greatest of humiliations. There had since been no hint of gossip. Now, as for his seesawing relationship with Miss Helène Phillips...
Charles closed his eyes. No other woman had ever affected him in this way. She amused and exasperated and intrigued him all at the same time, and he desired her so much–
He desired her so much that every morning he woke up and felt his heart beating with cold pain because Miss Helène Phillips was not lying in his arms. It would be no hardship, thought Charles, no hardship to see her in his bed each day, her long auburn hair spread out in waves over the pillow, the smooth skin of her breast turned up to his waiting mouth–
They would spend part of each year in travel. Rome was first on the list, of course, but he was sure that Helène would enjoy Athens, as well. And the islands of the Peloponesus, Miletus, perhaps even Crete.
He had seen many of these places on his own, but to visit Rome with someone you love, someone who was intelligent and thoughtful–
Someone you love? The small voice professed shock. Charles ignored the comment, but another followed on its heels.
And how, nagged the little voice, would the Countess of Tavelstoke occupy herself during all of this pleasant to and fro-ing with one’s mistress? And one’s children, as well–where might they be?
Lord Quentin frowned. He was fond of children of every age and had imagined himself the father of a large brood. Unlike some of his class, Charles planned to take an active part in their day-to-day lives. But with a mistress occupying so much of his time . . .
Offer her marriage.
No. No, there must be some other answer. Marriage to Miss Helène Phillips would never do.
* * * *
Helène would have been happy to never leave her rooms or the nursery again, but Alice and Peter needed fresh air as much as ever, and she refused to make them suffer for her own peace of mind. They usually spent an hour or more of each afternoon outside, adding to the children’s “snow castle” behind the main stables. By now the castle was an elaborate structure, and even Lady Detweiler occasionally braved the elements to admire the latest addition. Viscount Dreybridge was a frequent visitor, effusive in his comments about the children’s grasp of engineering and architecture. Crenelated walls surrounded a snowy keep, their turrets washed down with buckets of icy water until they sparkled in the sun. The structure even boasted a donjon–Peter’s favorite–dug deep into the snow beneath the “great hall.”
Lord Quentin, despite Helène’s unspoken protests, had volunteered as a castle-builder on several occasions, and was the children’s favorite for his skill in the intricacies of design. Blocks of ice now encased one of the main walls–Lord Quentin’s idea, of course–and it was Lord Quentin who had engineered a trip to the Lea with several footmen to demonstrate the proper technique used in cutting these blocks from the river. Whenever he joined them, his thick brown hair tousled in the wind, his eyes twinkling with good fun, Helène would declare it time to return to the nursery. But, as ill luck would have it, either Alice or Peter would just then require Lord Quentin’s help with some bit of the structure, and it was one thing after another until Helène admitted defeat.
She was always polite to him for the children’s sake, and on these occasions Lord Quentin never attempted private conversation. All to the better, the governess reminded herself.
He was wonderful with Alice and Peter. Seeing him on his back making angels, or grabbing Peter in one arm to fling him, giggling delightedly, into a snow drift–well, one would never imagine his behavior only weeks ago when hit by a snowball, nor guess what a proud and overbearing man Lord Quentin really was.
* * * *
The morning of the ball dawned sunny and cold. Helène was determined to ignore the evening’s festivities, and had resisted all attempts by Lady Pamela to convince her otherwise.
“The marchioness,” said Lady Pam, “will be so occupied in fawning over the male guests that she will never notice that you are there.”
Helène was not so sure. “Even without Lady Sinclair glaring at me,” she told Pamela, “I would dread it.”
“Why?” Suddenly Lady Pam stood up, putting one elegant hand melodramatically against her forehead. “Oh! What an idiot I’ve been! Can you dance?”
Helène had to laugh. “As it happens, yes,” she said. “My aunt, despite her leg, was a good instructor, and my father grew rather skilled himself. But it doesn’t signify. Who would ask me?”
“Well, Jonathan, for one,” said Pamela. “He seems to be the last person Celia would care about. And then there’s Viscount Dreybridge, Lord Cantingham... Oh, and Lucinda Blankenship’s brother has finally arrived. Robert, Rupert–something like that. He’s quite nice, strange to say.”
And Lord Quentin? But it was a name that remained unspoken by both.
“I appreciate the kind thoughts,” Helène told Lady Pamela, “but, no. And I’m terribly sorry about the grey silk.”
This was the evening gown that Madame Gaultier had made up for the ball. Helène had tried it on more often than she wished to admit; tried it on and waltzed around her bedroom with her hands resting lightly on the arms of an imaginary gentleman with deep brown hair.
“Pah,” said Pamela. “I don’t care a ha’penny about the gown. ’Tis your happiness–”
“Then don’t ask me to attend.”
Lady Pam sighed. “Very well,” she told the governess, “I won’t.”
Helène now sat quietly in the nursery schoolroom as Alice and Peter practiced their letters, thinking about how very happy she was not to be attending the Luton Court bal d’hiver. Such nonsense, really. All the fine ladies bedecked in their finest jewelry, the men in buckled breeches, everyone whirling about the dance floor of the largest ballroom, drinking champagne and eating inordinate amounts of food.
Helène had never been to such a ball. She had always imagined they might be rather... wonderful.
There came a scratch at the door.
“Miss Helène?”
“Hello, James,” she said, as Peter attached himself, as usual, to the footman’s coattails. The young man looked nervous. “Ah, Miss Helène?”
“Yes, James?” She smiled in encouragement but did not attempt to prompt him further, having learned that patience was the only answer. The footman was not terribly clever in remembering complicated instructions, but he was kind, dutiful–and persistent.
“Ah. Lord Sinclair, that is, the marquess–” James stopped and took a deep breath. “Lord Jonathan Sinclair requests your presence in his study,” he finished in a rush, and stood beaming at her.
Helène’s mind went momentarily blank. Lord Sinclair? In his stu
dy? It had been days now, days since the incident in the library. She had been waiting for this summons, knowing it would come. Still, she was not prepared. The governess rose slowly to her feet and looked down at Alice and Peter. The children seemed unperturbed.
“James can stay with us while you talk to Father,” said Alice, barely looking up from her slate. “Don’t worry, I promise we’ll be good.”
* * * *
“Ah. Miss Phillips.”
Helène had only once before entered the marquess’s study, at the time of their first interview. She advanced slowly, marveling again that Lord Sinclair could accomplish any work whatsoever in such magnificent surroundings. Huge, heavy tapestries hung on the wall behind his desk and the floor to ceiling windows showed snow-capped hills in the distance. The desk itself was ornately carved and polished to a mirror finish, but it held surprisingly few papers.
“My lord?”
The marquess looked up, his expression kind, but with an odd edge, as if he was guarding something, something he should have told her all along... Helène blinked, wondering at her thoughts. Lord Sinclair said nothing for several more, slow seconds, and Helène, not knowing that she stared, decided that there was something familiar about his face. Lady Pamela, she realized. It is Lady Pamela’s face, re-told in the planes and rough edges of the male. A handsome face, clean-shaven, with his sister’s aquamarine eyes, and Pam’s white-gold hair seen here in a darker, ruddier hue.
“Mmm,” said Lord Sinclair. “Ah. Yes, well the Winter Ball is tonight, you know... ”
Helène, half expecting instant dismissal, was at sea. The ball? What was this?
“ ’Tis very exciting for the children. You will accompany Alice and Peter–”
“Ah. Yes, of course, my lord.” Helène blushed furiously. She should have realized that she would be responsible for the children! But they were so young, surely it would be too late–
“–but they are to stay no more than three-quarters of an hour.”
The governess nodded. “Very well, my lord.”
