by Amy Lake
She curtsied and turned to leave, her mind leaping to the evening ahead. The ball! No one would dare object to her presence if she had Alice and Peter in tow. But ’twould be for less than an hour, Helène reminded herself. She could wear the grey silk gown, perhaps with a bit of ribbon threaded through her hair. Her blush deepened. Charles Quentin might see her, thought Helène, even if only for a moment.
“And Miss Phillips... ”
The governess had turned to leave; she faced Lord Sinclair once again.
“James will then take Alice and Peter to Mrs. Hawkins. You are to remain at the ball.”
Helène stared at him. “But–Lord Sinclair–”
“This is my express wish.”
Helène did not dare to argue. He doesn’t mean it, she told herself. He can’t really mean it. She was convinced that Lord Sinclair had barely noted her existence before today, after all. And what would the marchioness say?
Lord Sinclair cocked one eyebrow.
“As you say, my lord.” said Helène.
Alice and Peter seemed unsurprised at the news.
“You’ll need time to dress,” said the girl, looking at Helène with wise, seven-year-old eyes. “So you needn’t bother with us. I can dress myself, and Nanny will tend to Peter.”
* * * *
Helène stood before the mirror in her bedroom, regarding her appearance with a critical eye. Her auburn hair was set off by the deep, shimmering grey of the silk gown. She had initially objected to the color, but Lady Pamela and Madame Gaultier had insisted. They were right, of course.
Scalloped lace trimmed the neckline and sleeves and set off the smoothness of her skin to advantage. Otherwise the gown was free of ornament, calling attention only to the woman wearing it. Any misgivings she had originally felt about attending the bal d’hiver were fading, and if she could only stop this pounding in her chest–
“Miss?”
Helène looked up to see Lady Pamela’s maid standing there, holding a long string of pearls.
“Milady said as I’m t’ help you with your hair,” said Jeannie.
“Oh, I don’t think... ” Helène was a bit confused by the girl’s arrival. She’d had no chance to consult with Lady Pamela over the marquess’s command that she attend the ball.
“Milady said I’m t’ do your hair,” repeated the maid. She looked mulish, and Helène realized that she must have instructions not to be refused.
“Well,” said Helène, “I suppose.” Even a lowly governess knew of Jeannie’s reputation as a hairdresser; she could see the girl eyeing the coiffe she had attempted on her own with what looked perilously close to pity.
“Hmm,” said the maid. “I think ’twould be best if you sat down.”
With a few deft movements the girl loosened every strand and ringlet of Helène’s hair and started over. She brushed out the auburn curls with confident strokes, and then piled them atop the governess’s head, managing to secure the whole arrangement with a few, well-placed pins. Unlike Helène’s own attempts, the maid’s arrangement felt as if it might stay in place. Jeannie fussed for a few more moments, and then–
“My goodness,” said Helène. Deep auburn curls framed her face, with a few wispy tendrils softening the strong lines of her cheekbones. The difference was astounding and, magically, there was now a strand of pearls interwoven within the shining tresses. “My goodness. Thank you.”
“Hmm,” said Jeannie, standing back from the governess and examining her handiwork with a practiced eye. “ ’Twill do very nicely, I think.”
After the maid disappeared, Helène was left to pace nervously, wondering how long it would be before she could seek out the children, and what she might do to quiet the beating of her own heart. ’Twould be mortifying if a fit of apoplexy prevented Miss Helène Phillips–a nineteen-year-old governess–from attending the Grand Winter Ball.
Thump. Thump. Helène’s pacing carried her over to the small washstand and there, at the side of the basin-and-ewer, was the ring. It flashed blue fire in the candlelight; she picked it up and turned it over in her fingers.
Her grandmother’s ring. Given to her by her father, but far too late, only hours before his own death. He must have known she would have pawned it, as she had pawned all of her aunt’s jewelry–
Papa. You need the medicine.
Ach, you daft-witted gel, I’ll be dead soon enough without the leeches havin’ their hand in it–
It was a gorgeous piece, the huge sapphire brilliant in its clarity and color and set in an ornate band of gold. The stone told of a family that needed nothing from its members other than loyalty, nothing from the outside world beyond its admiration. An old family, proud...
Everything her father, in his final, bitter years, had professed to hate. Helène slipped the ring on, thinking–just this one time.
Sell this ring if you must t’ keep you from the poorhouse. That much they owe you. Her father’s last words had been bitter with the sober knowledge that he had not provided more for her.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A governess is well advised to avoid grand society affairs of whatever kind.
“Miss Phillips! Oh, Miss Phillips, you look beautiful.” Alice clapped her hands together in delight, and the look on Peter’s face was enough to make Helène feel like a princess.
“Thank you,” she told them, glad for their innocent, uncomplicated enthusiasm. “Alice, your dress is very pretty. And Peter, you look exceedingly handsome tonight.” The children beamed. Peter was still in short pants, of course, but proudly sporting a small neckcloth tied “just like Papa.” Alice wore a simple adaptation of a lady’s evening gown, with a rustling, white cambric overskirt and a fichu of lace at the neckline. They were both quite charming; a tribute, Helène knew, to Lady Pamela’s efforts entirely. The marchioness had declared herself too busy to be bothered with children’s clothing.
“Now come along. Your father will want to us to be early, so we can choose a good spot.”
Thankfully, the marquess had not insisted that Alice and Peter join him and Lady Sinclair in the reception line. Helène’s idea was to pick some out-of-the way nook where the three of them could watch as the various lords and ladies of the party made their entrance. The bal d’hiver at Luton was not only for the houseguests, she had discovered; the local gentry were invited as well.
“ ’Twill be,” announced Peter, in his chirping, little-boy voice, “a sad crush indeed!”
Helène shepherded the children down the long hallway to the grand staircase, and from there to the ballroom. She focused her attention on Alice and Peter, resisting the impulse to scan the crowd for... a familiar face. She was the governess with her charges, and that was all. None of the guests presented any special interest to her.
* * * *
Lord Charles Quentin entered the ballroom and began circling its perimeter, searching for the one young lady he most wanted to see.
The marquess himself had insisted that Miss Phillips attend the ball. Jonathan had offered no explanation for this decision to Lord Quentin, nor had he mentioned anything about the incident in the library. This was discomfiting. It was possible that Celia, for reasons of her own, had said nothing to her husband. The marquess was notoriously absent-minded, of course... .
Charles would still have preferred the chance to set matters straight with his friend. But could he? What else might Lord Sinclair know?
He had gone to the marquess’s study two evenings past, intending to clear the air. The two men had sat drinking brandy far into the night, and Lord Quentin had been about to broach the subject of Miss Phillips when the marquess spoke first.
“The children adore their governess,” said Jonathan. “Corky little chit.”
The comment had appeared from nowhere. Charles sat up and stared at him, wondering what to say.
“Ah. Yes–”
“I’ve insisted she attend the ball. It won’t do, old man, won’t do at all.”
Charles sat up eve
n straighter. It won’t do? Could Jonathan mean his offer of carte blanche to Miss Phillips? If so, why had he not mentioned it before now? A sudden, chilling prospect sprang to Charles’s mind: Jonathan challenging him to a duel over the governess. He himself would delope, of course, but the marquess was such a terrible shot that he might actually hit something, possibly even Lord Quentin.
“Mmm?” offered Charles, still trying to frame an appropriate response. He had wanted to clear the air, after all–
Jonathan looked up owlishly, as if unsure of what they had been discussing.
“Miss Phillips?” prompted Lord Quentin.
“Ah, yes. Well,” said Lord Sinclair, “I think it’s time she went out a bit in society.”
* * * *
The ballroom at Luton Court was, as Jonathan fondly described it, “of singular and curious formation.” The product of some previous marquess’s scheme of Modern Architecture, the room was square, not overly large, and flanked on all four sides by a colonnade which opened, to the east, onto the terrace of the formal gardens. As the dancers tended to remain within the center area, the portion of the ballroom beyond the columns was the site of constant moving to and fro, and free for assemblages of gossiping mamas and young men who’d had too much to drink.
Lord Quentin had first met Celia Sinclair–Celia Penrose, as she was then–in the Luton Court ballroom. The festivities on that occasion had continued very late, and as the strains of the last waltz faded he had led the young, widowed baroness into one of the darker corners of the colonnade. Or had Celia taken him? That evening was confused in Charles’s mind, although the hours later spent in the lady’s bedroom were an uncomfortably vivid memory.
But it was not the marchioness that he searched for now. A slender chit, with shining auburn hair–
Lord Quentin turned, and there she was.
Helène Phillips stood quietly at the edge of the west colonnade, a lovely young woman elegantly clad in an elegant grey silk gown, her hair arranged in a cascade of ringlets, pearls glistening through the curls. An excited, bouncing child held on to each of her hands. Lord Wentin! Lord Wentin!”
Miss Phillips looked his way and gravely nodded her head; in that breathless moment Charles wanted to believe that she was a lady, wanted to believe that he would spend his life with her.
Offer her marriage, he heard Lady Pamela’s voice saying. Impossible. Never. But perhaps a waltz... . He moved to join the governess and her charges, making his way with some difficulty through the throngs of people beginning to fill the ballroom.
“Miss Phillips,” said Lord Quentin. He bent over her hand. “You look quite lovely this evening.”
“Thank you, my lord.” The governess sketched a graceful curtsey. She held his eyes, her countenance serene, and Charles felt for a moment that her presence in this ballroom was the most natural thing in the world, that it was he himself who was out of place.
“Isn’t she beautiful?” Alice was saying. “I think Miss Phillips is the most beautiful lady of everybody.”
“You are entirely correct, Miss Alice,” he told the girl, and had the satisfaction of seeing Miss Phillips blush.
“Charles!” sounded a cry from the ballroom entrance. Was there the briefest flicker of protest in the governess’s eyes? Lord Quentin didn’t need to turn around to know that he was being hailed by Celia Sinclair. He would do well to placate the marchioness. But first–
“May I have the honor of the next waltz, mademoiselle?”
That flicker again. Charles held her gaze, the challenge in his words clear, daring her to accept him.
“Certainement, monseigneur,” she answered. Lord Quentin bowed and turned around quickly, lest she see evidence of the grin now threatening to spread over his face.
The waltz? Good heavens.
Helène dragged her attention back to Alice and Peter, and they managed to find a protected spot in which to watch as the ballroom filled with people. There were two enormous potted trees nearby; Peter was looking up at them in fascination.
“Oranges?” he said, pointing at the fruit. Helène frowned.
“Miss Phillips, look! There’s Papa!”
Alice wanted to run to her father immediately. Helène allowed this, seeing that the marchioness’s attention was still focused on Lord Quentin. The marquess smiled as he went down on one knee to greet his daughter.
So he does love his children, thought Helène. Why do the fathers of the ton pretend this stupid indifference?
Peter had followed his sister; Helène hung back, and was surprised when the marquess’s next words were addressed to her.
“Miss Phillips, may I introduce Sir Alexander Northham?” said Lord Sinclair. Her employer was looking his most inscrutably genial. “Sir Alex, our governess, Miss Helène Phillips.”
Helène found herself being presented to a young man of remarkably pleasing appearance. Fair haired, Sir Alexander had twinkling blue eyes, and Helène suspected that his smile had weakened many a young lady’s knees. He was smiling at her now, apparently unconcerned that his host had just introduced him to the lowliest female in the ballroom.
“Enchanté,” said Sir Alexander Northham, and Helène stifled the impulse to giggle. She heard the first strains of the orchestra and realized a quadrille was about to begin.
“If I may?” The young man held out his hand. Helène turned in consternation to Lord Sinclair. What was she to say? She couldn’t dance! Alice and Peter–
“Ah. Splendid, splendid,” the marquess replied. “The children can remain here with me.”
“But–”
“Now, Miss Phillips,” admonished Lord Sinclair, his eyebrows raised, “I assure you that I can manage a creditable job of watching over Alice and Peter. I am their father, after all.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Helène. She turned to Sir Alexander, and they glided out onto the floor.
* * * *
“What a magnificent creature,” said Lady Detweiler. Her eyes were on Sir Alex as he and the governess walked through the first steps of the quadrille.
“Too young, I should imagine,” said Lady Pamela. “He would bore you to tears.”
“Boring?–hmm. The boy’s quite wealthy, they say.”
“They,” said Pam, “are correct. His father left India at a highly propitious moment, and old Northham was a pinch-penny. Never wasted a grot.” She watched Helène execute the steps of the chaîne Anglaise with polished grace. Clearly the governess had not been spinning tales when she said she could dance.
Glory, but it was warm in the ballroom; even with the dancing just begun, and in the middle of winter. Pam raised her fan, indecisive. Was it too early to take a turn in the garden?
“Put that silly thing down,” said Lady Detweiler. “You’ll catch your death of cold from the draught. D’ you suppose Miss Phillips’s attentions will be turned by the handsome Alex?”
Lady Pamela had asked herself the same question. Sir Alexander was charming and kind–ideal, in a way, for Helène. She had seen her brother making the introductions and marveled at Jonathan’s sudden display of amiable good sense. But why? Why should the marquess suddenly champion Miss Phillips? He’d all but ignored her for weeks.
Perhaps Helène’s fate waited for her apart from Lord Quentin. And I was so sure those two would suit! thought Pam, in unspoken protest. The sparks flying between Charles and the governess were certainly not in her imagination. Besides, Alexander Northham was still a puppy, and Lord Quentin... Lord Quentin was a man.
“I thought perhaps it was true love between them.”
Amanda seemed to know that she was talking about Charles and Helène. She shook her head at Pam. “Sometimes I think you are still fifteen,” said Lady Detweiler.
True love. Pah, thought Lady Pamela. I must stop this ridiculous obsession with what I know so little about. ’Tis hard enough to recognize, and even if one could find it, how could one ever be persuaded to believe it would remain?
* * * *
&n
bsp; “Papa,” Peter asked, “why doesn’t Lady Celia like Miss Phillips?”
“Oh, Peter, be quiet,” said his sister.
The marquess turned mild, questioning eyes on his son. It was not in his nature to dispute the obvious.
“Is it because she’s the prettiest?” said Peter.
“Do hush!” said Alice.
“I think that Miss Phillips may remind your stepmama of what it was like to be much younger,” said Lord Sinclair.
This made no sense to the children, to whom all adults were of much the same age. But they said nothing more about the marchioness.
* * * *
“So, my dear,” Celia was saying, “how is your young bride-to-be this evening?”
“Miss Phillips is not–” Charles stopped himself and shrugged. Lady Sinclair brushed her hand along his arm, laughing, and he realized that although the dancing had barely started she was already quite tipsy. He admired her resilience; even after the blow of seeing Charles with the governess, Celia was evidently in high spirits. But, as he knew well, the marchioness was at her most predatory when imbibing. Lord Quentin could only imagine what she might be up to by midnight.
“Mmm, Charles,” the lady purred. “Do as you please, of course, but save the waltzes for me.” She leaned into him suggestively and Lord Quentin flushed, hoping that Jonathan was not looking their way. Lady Sinclair’s ball dress was finely made–sea-green satin, cap sleeves edged with lace, rows of tucking and lace along the hem–but it pushed the limits of propriety, as usual. At his current angle he could see nearly everything of her breasts that there was to see.
Lord Quentin took a deep breath and turned his gaze elsewhere. All of the waltzes, had the woman said?
“I shall be happy to attend you later in the evening,” he told Celia, “but I’ve promised the first waltz to Miss Phillips.”
The marchioness’s eyes glittered. “Oh, very well.” She waved one gloved hand in the air. “Enjoy your time with the little slut. I shouldn’t imagine she can even dance.” She turned on her heel and walked away, leaving Charles frustrated and fuming. Celia calling Miss Phillips a slut? That was rich. But a gentleman was not allowed to throttle a woman in a ballroom, he reminded himself. No matter how much he might wish to do so.
