The Carriagemaker's Daughter

by Amy Lake

  “I suppose the earl would not appreciate another female of questionable background as the Countess of Tavelstoke,” she commented to Amanda.

  “Quite right,” replied Amanda, “and that, my dear girl, is why you must set Charles straight on the matter. Your own breeding is equal to his own by anyone’s standards, and at least your mother never–”

  The door flew open and they looked up to see Lady Pamela, hands on hips.

  “What,” she said, “are the two of you doing? The marchioness is foxed, she’s already had one dance with Charles, and would have taken a second had I not practically wrestled the poor man from her grasp. He’s a marvelous dancer, by the way,”–this was addressed to Helène–“but I can’t follow him everywhere. And now Jonathan has disappeared into the card room and won’t come out until dawn.”

  Lady Pamela flopped into the nearest armchair with a martyred sigh.

  “Poor babe,” said Lady Detweiler. “Have some brandy.”

  “Yes, well–” Pamela reached for the glass and then stopped, seeming to focus on the governess’s appearance for the first time since she had entered the room. Her forehead wrinkled.

  “What on earth,” she asked Helène, “have you done to your gown?”

  * * * *

  A number of gentlemen had now abandoned dancing for the cardroom, and the marquess, of course, was among them. Lord Quentin thought that gambling large sums of money on the luck of the draw was an especially pointless way to lose one’s shirt, but in this he was in disagreement with most of his breed. Vingt-et-un, chemin de fer, even the new fad of whist–Charles sighed, wondering how much his friend had already lost. Jonathan had little head for cards even when he wasn’t drunk, and it was fortunate he could afford to lose frequently.

  Charles’s thoughts returned once more to Miss Phillips, and his–as yet–fruitless wait for her reappearance in the ballroom. Had she retreated instead to her chambers? Charles’s single desire was to seek the girl out and apologize, but if she was to return while he searched elsewhere–

  The sound of female laughter interrupted Lord Quentin’s thoughts. Lady Sinclair was deep in conversation with Mrs. Henley-Jones and the squire’s wife, two women who were among the worst gossips in Bedfordshire. She gestured widely, to more shrieks of laughter, and Lord Quentin grimaced. The marchioness was often tipsy, but he had never seen her as intoxicated as she was tonight. He could almost predict the scene soon to come; Celia taking a pet over an imagined slight, her voice climbing higher . . .

  Damn Jonathan for abandoning the ballroom–and his wife–for a game of loo.

  Of course, it might be even worse than a fit of pique. He had seen a few of the younger men looking speculatively in Celia’s direction during the last hour or so, and this boded very ill indeed. If the marchioness could be trusted to confine her intimacies to one lusting mooncalf at a time–

  No. There was no help for it. Still fretting over Miss Phillips, Lord Quentin felt compelled to intervene with Celia before there was real scandal. Whatever he might think about the marchioness, he would not allow Jonathan to be embarrassed in such a public way.

  A burst of masculine laughter drew Charles’s attention, and he noted that Terrence Farley had now joined the marchioness’s group. He looks, thought Lord Quentin with disgust, like a stag in rut. Bedding your host’s wife in private is one thing, but to advertise one’s intentions so brazenly...

  He could delay no longer, decided Charles, thinking to take Celia back to her rooms, tuck her into bed, and say a quiet good-night. If past experience with other inebriated females was any indication, she would be asleep within minutes.

  So be it. Lord Quentin strode confidently toward the group and was greeted with bills and coos from Mrs. Henley-Jones and the idiotic Brigsby woman. The marchioness was watching him with hooded eyes; undaunted, he smiled widely.

  “Lady Sinclair, if I might have a moment of your time?”

  The marchioness needed no other convincing. Leaving Farley without a glance back, she attached herself smoothly to Lord Quentin’s arm.

  “Charles,” said Celia, her voice low and inviting, “I trust that at least now I will have your undivided attention.”

  * * * *

  With Lady Pam’s arrival the second decanter of brandy began to disappear at some speed.

  “I’ve never seen a woman so bosky,” Pamela said. “Men, yes–Jonathan still casts up his accounts regularly–but not a woman.”

  “Nonsense,” said Amanda, “Don’t you remember Viscountess Kelley?”

  “Viscountess Kelley,” retorted Lady Pam, “had reason. Her husband preferred her clothes to his own.”

  “I can’t imagine why. She had the most abominable taste in evening gowns.”

  “Heavens, you’re right. Do you remember that chartreuse satin–?”

  They went on in this vein for some time, Helène contributing little. She was thinking, unhappily, about Lord Quentin dancing with a drunken Lady Sinclair. Oh, why had she left the ball?

  Because, came an impatient little voice, he insulted you dreadfully. But the governess had by now finished her second glass of brandy, and this argument was wearing thin. She loved Lord Quentin. ’Twas unfortunate but true. And Helène believed that he cared for her... in some way. Wasn’t that enough? What was her dignity against a life of happiness and love?

  Or if not a lifetime, at least a few years.

  Amanda and Lady Pamela had moved on to a spirited discussion of “that odious Squire Brigsby” before Helène plucked up enough courage to interrupt. Her voice, when it came, sounded strained and forlorn.

  “Do you think I should accept Lord Quentin’s carte blanche?”

  Conversation stopped abruptly. Lady Detweiler frowned. Lady Pamela took a sip of brandy and blew out a deep breath. She seemed about to speak, when–

  “No,” said Amanda. “I do not.”

  Both Helène and Pamela looked up at her in surprise. “But–”

  “I believe Lord Quentin should marry you. Et donc alors, I believe that you should tell him the truth.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  A governess must grant that the ways of a great house and its inhabitants are beyond her question.

  As Lord Quentin half expected, Lady Sinclair managed only a few wobbly steps down the ground floor hallway before becoming ill. Fortunately, a large potted palm stood directly before them; he held her hand and offered soothing words until Celia had emptied her stomach. All attempts at seduction now left her, and they continued at a somewhat slower pace up the grand staircase and to the marchioness’s rooms, where Charles hoped to find her abigail waiting.

  No such luck. He considered the situation at some length while helping Celia to wash and undress. Would the marquess look in on his wife later? Would Mrs. Tiggs still be awake? Like most men of his class Charles was no stranger to extremes of inebriation, and he knew that someone should remain with Lady Sinclair until all danger of further sickness had passed.

  “Oh, Charles,” whimpered Celia.

  But that person was not going to be him.

  He rang for a footman, and presently James scratched on the door.

  “Milord?” said the footman, not batting an eye to find Lord Quentin in the marchioness’s suite. Charles was afraid that the young man’s understanding would be inadequate to the task before him, but as soon as he caught sight of Lady Sinclair, bedraggled and moaning on the bed, James hurried to the washstand and found a cloth to dip in the cool water of the basin. He sat on the bed next to marchioness and gently dabbed her forehead.

  “Everything is spinning about horribly,” moaned Celia. “Make it stop.”

  “Open your eyes a bit, milady,” said the footman, “You know it always spins worse if you keep your eyes closed.”

  James, it seemed, was no stranger to Lady Sinclair’s present circumstance. The footman turned to Lord Quentin. “She’ll be fine, milord,” he said. “I’ll ring for Aggie and we’ll keep her quiet ’til she falls as
leep.”

  “She should be watched –”

  “Don’t you worry, milord. Aggie’ll stay with milady all night. More’n likely t’ get sick another time or two,” added the imperturbable footman. Charles noted that he already had a basin placed strategically close to the bed.

  * * * *

  Helène opened the door and peered out. The brandy, combined with the evening’s varied excitements, had caught up with the governess, but in her case the major consequence was simple exhaustion. She was too tired to worry about anyone who might be offended at the sight of a young woman in dirty shoes and a torn grey silk gown. Yawning, she trudged along the hallway to her own room.

  The slow scrape of a door being cautiously opened caught her attention. She stopped, momentarily confused as to the source of the sound. Bother. She would much prefer to reach the sanctuary of her bedchamber without the need for uncomfortable explanations–

  Creak.

  Another soft scrape, answered by the whisper of a sharply indrawn breath and a muttered imprecation of some sort. Helène turned around to see Charles Quentin standing in the doorway of Lady Sinclair’s bedroom. Of course. He seemed about to say something, but the governess turned her back on him and continued on without a word. She wouldn’t let him have the satisfaction of seeing her in distress. She didn’t want to see him at all.

  * * * *

  Damnation! thought Charles. If he could only explain.

  But the stunned look on Miss Phillips’s face had made things entirely clear; there would be no talking to her tonight. And after what had happened earlier on the terrace...

  Don’t be a fool. How much can you possibly think your low-class virginity is worth?

  Lord Quentin grimaced, hoping he would not continue to hear those words replayed in his mind indefinitely. How could he have said something so patently offensive? It was only that the chit was so provoking and infuriating and...

  ... and arousing. Charles normally thought of himself as a master of the chase, but he had never before played the game under the influence of strong emotion and flooding desire. And now it looked as if his advances had been checked.

  Well, ’twas not to be helped. Lord Quentin was not given to regrets when regrets would do no good, and, perversely, he felt a surge of renewed hope. A good argument, hurtful words, a slap in the face–it all sounded like the opportunity for an impassioned scene of reconciliation. At least Miss Phillips could no longer pretend there was nothing out of the ordinary between them.

  A few days for emotions to cool, and then he would find the right setting for his apology. In fact, thought Charles... Ah, yes. I have the exact spot in mind.

  * * * *

  Lady Pamela stared at her brother across the breakfast table. She could hardly believe her ears.

  “What!” exclaimed Pam. “A ‘nice, quiet Winter Ball!’ Is that what you would call it?”

  “I won fifty guineas from Lord Burgess at loo,” said Jonathan, grinning smugly. All of Bedfordshire would soon be aware of the marquess’s winnings, thought Pamela; it happened so seldom that it was real news.

  “Cards–pah! Are you aware,” she said to her brother, “that Miss Phillips left the ballroom in tears? Or that Amanda was so worried that she actually went outside to look for her?”

  “Good heavens,” said Lord Sinclair. He was clearly startled by this intelligence, but it didn’t seem to affect his appetite. Another thick slice of ham had vanished as they conversed, followed by several links of sausage.

  “I suppose,” said the marquess, “that you will now tell me that Charles is at fault. Well, I did my best–”

  “Your best!” said Lady Pamela, exasperated.

  “Yes, indeed. Besides, I rather thought Celia would keep him occupied.” Lord Sinclair paused, fork in air, and sent his sister a wounded look. “Can I help it that he insisted on asking the girl for a waltz?”

  Pam stared at him. Celia–keep Lord Quentin occupied? What fresh nonsense was this?

  “Jonathan,” she said, carefully. “You cannot understand what you are saying.”

  “My dear sister, I assure you–”

  “Celia is your wife. You cannot have intended to throw her at another man!”

  Lord Sinclair set his fork down on the plate and waved for the footman to take it away. His expression was hard, his tone abruptly serious. “Pamela. This is neither the time nor place for this discussion. Lady Sinclair’s activities are none of your affair.”

  It was as much of a set-down as he had ever offered, and Lady Pamela was both astonished and more than a little pleased. Perhaps the marquess wasn’t as indifferent to his wife as he had recently appeared. But if so, why not pay her the attention she craved? Ignoring Celia was asking for trouble, and Jonathan must know it.

  “But–” she began.

  “Milord?” Telford had entered the breakfast room without brother or sister noticing; the butler held out a silver tray with the morning’s post. Lord Sinclair handed one of the envelopes to Pam and, as was their custom of long-standing, conversation ceased while the marquess read his mail.

  Lady Pamela slit open her own envelope with impatience, the precise hand of its address marking it as a letter from her man-of-affairs.

  My lady, wrote Mr. Witherspoon,

  Regarding the person of interest. He does, in fact, exist and

  is the acknowledged heir, being the third brother’s only son.

  He is presently somewhere in the Americas–

  Bother! Of all the ill luck.

  –although sources expect him back in England at almost

  any month. Does my lady wish to be kept informed

  of further developments?

  Yes, thought Pam. My lady most certainly does. Forgetting the argument with the marquess, along with the rest of her breakfast, she rose from the table.

  “Hmm?” said Jonathan.

  “ ’Tis nothing,” replied Lady Pam. She hurried to her rooms to pen a reply, and Lord Sinclair, immersed in some interesting correspondence of his own, only noticed her absence several minutes later.

  * * * *

  Two days after the bal d’hiver, Helène received a message of her own. The envelope must have been slipped beneath the door in the early hours of the morning; it was the first thing she saw upon awakening and she regarded it from the distance of her bed in all the anticipation with which one might regard an uncoiling snake.

  A letter? This boded no good.

  The address gave her only a small clue to the writer; a man’s fist, she decided, and her mind leaped immediately and painfully to Lord Quentin. Helène placed the envelope on her nightstand, imagining that it felt hot to her touch, or that she could hear the soft susurration of skin against skin. She sat on the bed and brushed out her hair, determinedly counting the strokes.

  Ten, twenty, thirty–

  And what if it was from Lord Quentin? What could he possibly have to say that would interest her? She had thrown herself into the children’s studies ever since the morning after the ball, spending most of her waking hours in the nursery. He had not approached her there, and she had strictly avoided the library.

  Forty, fifty, sixty–

  Helène glanced at the fire. Burn it, she told herself, but after a moment’s reflection it was clear that she could no more destroy even a possible letter from Lord Quentin than she could swim to the moon. It would be, in fact, only a matter of seconds before she tore the thing open... .

  Seventy. Eighty.

  Helène forced herself to complete one hundred strokes, then slit open the envelope and laid the sheet of heavy cream vellum on the bedspread. Three short lines of a vigorous, scrawling hand–

  The stables at nine o’clock tomorrow.

  I should like to show you the Pantheon

  –and apologize.

  –Q.

  Helène stared at the note, wondering what to make of it. Did he really wish to apologize?

  And what did he mean by the Pantheon?


  No, she thought. I could never forget what he said to me out on the terrace. Helène sat at her writing desk to pen a refusal, but even as she wrote she knew that the paper would soon be crumpled and tossed into the fire. She was going on that ride with Lord Charles Quentin. She was going to change her mind.

  I must confront him, Helène told herself. I refuse to spend my days hidden away, afraid to set foot outside the nursery door. This is his fault, not mine!

  Let him face me and apologize. Let him see, once and for all, that I do not care.

  * * * *

  Lord Quentin was carefully combing a few last burrs from Alcibiades’s coat, confounded as always by what the stallion managed to pick up in the dead of winter, when he heard Miss Phillips’s soft, musical voice calling out to the groom.

  “Mr. Jennings?”

  “Good morning, miss,” answered Jennings. “Milord’s asked for Ha’penny to be saddled for you. Won’t be but a trice.”

  “Thank you,” answered the governess, and Lord Quentin grinned. It appeared that the stubborn Miss Phillips did intend to ride with him and had not arrived at the stables merely to ring a peal over his head. As Helène came into view he saw that she was dressed in the wine-red habit that he had found so pleasing before. Charles’s eyes took in every detail, noting appreciatively that the governess’s lithe curves were only partly obscured by the added protection of a redingote.

  Lord Quentin took a deep breath and sternly reminded himself that his mission today was one of apology. Today he would make no disreputable suggestions to the governess and do nothing to frighten her away. It was difficult... .

  And suddenly she was there, standing directly before him with eyes flashing green fire, challenging his resolve. Charles fought to control his racing heart. Helène Phillips was beautiful, intelligent, and full of spirit–and very desirable.