The Carriagemaker's Daughter

by Amy Lake

  If only Jonathan–

  Lady Sinclair shook her head, unwilling to travel again down that particular path. Jonathan was who he was. Her husband, whom she cared for despite everything. Lord Sinclair was a good man, and she willed the belief that he loved her still, but she could see that he would stand in support of this governess, and that Charles was infatuated with the girl as well. It was all too much for Celia’s fragile pride. She needed to feel wanted again, she must feel wanted again.

  Steps in the hallway outside–

  The sound of a man’s voice, a soft female laugh. Celia felt a stab of anger as she realized that Lord Quentin was accompanying the governess to her room. Fah! Everyone treated the chit like she was the blessed answer to prayer. Alice and Peter adored her, her sister-in-law treated her like a bosom beau–and Lord Quentin wanted her as his mistress. Lady Sinclair felt growing outrage at the whole situation. It was one thing to be without amusing company. But to be stuck with the darling, simpering Miss Phillips, immured together in the country, bored senseless until the marquess could be persuaded to take them to London–

  Celia slammed the door of the wardrobe shut and began to pace. Oh, her poor nerves–where was that stupid maid, anyway? She felt another headache coming on, and Aggie knew she would need one of Cook’s tisanes.

  Where was that benighted decanter of sherry? It seemed to disappear each time she left the room, she’d accused the maid more than once–

  Ah. The marchioness, in a moment of inspired recollection, found a second decanter she had hidden in the back of the wardrobe. She poured herself a large glass and, sighing with pleasure, sank into the chaise lounge.

  Once in London she would rid herself of the entire difficulty, decided Celia. ’Twill be the work of a day. Like Lady Pamela, the marchioness had great respect for town gossip. The tiniest piece of misbehavior could, with little effort, be amplified until the chit couldn’t find employment as a scullery maid, let alone as a governess.

  The gossip would need to be chosen carefully, of course. She could claim the girl was Lord Quentin’s lover but, as Charles had warned her, that particular scandal might reflect poorly on the marchioness herself.

  Celia’s expression grew thoughtful. Something at the back of her mind, something she should have remembered... She saw Charles and the governess once more gliding through the steps of the waltz, the sapphire ring glittering on the girl’s hand as they swept past.

  The ring. Of course. Stolen, she had suggested to Beatrice Harkins. Now, ’twould be delightful if that were true, but–

  Celia shrugged. With a bit of patience, the sapphire ring itself would not be needed for the gossip she had in mind.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Snow and more snow. Helène looked out her bedroom window at the drifts piled high atop the knotted plantings of the kitchen garden, at the mounded shapes seen dimly in that strange half-light of a night snowfall.

  She had seen plenty of the stuff in London, of course, though never so clean and... fluffy. There was nothing picturesque about the city in winter. Helène remembered plowing through the grey slush of some revolting alleyway, her hands chapped and bleeding, her feet numb with the cold–

  Carrying a packet of medicine for her father. ’Twas good for the liver, the leech had claimed, though Helène sometimes wondered if the bitter powders were what had killed him. At least he had been more comfortable toward the end.

  Don’t be a clunch, gel. Back you go an’ take the money. Don’t make no mind for me, not now.

  She sighed, hugging the robe closely around her, wondering whether sleep would continue to elude her for the remainder of the night. Flakes of snow sparkled in the candlelight from her window and Helène imagined she could make out the faint glimmer of the Lea in the distance. Luton Court was so beautiful in the winter... . And every other time of year as well, no doubt. She wondered what Tavelstoke Manor was like. Lord Quentin had spoken little of his own home, which she understood to be not far away.

  Lord Quentin, she reminded herself, generally has interests more pressing than mere conversation.

  Helène sighed again. There seemed to be no end to this argument, and she was bitterly tired of it, wanting nothing more than to settle back into her quiet life with Alice and Peter, to wake each morning free of the pounding misery of an impossible love.

  Ha! said a voice. ’Tis misery indeed! Tell him you are a duke’s granddaughter.

  But Helène had already considered this. And if he then did not offer marriage? Lord Quentin’s behavior toward her–the strength of his hunger for physical intimacy, the growing need she saw in his eyes–had convinced the governess that her body was that gentleman’s single goal. It was not likely that Lord Quentin would ever intend more than carte blanche. Duke’s granddaughter or no, her father’s name was hardly incentive, and there must be plenty of young, eager misses with no such blot to their name.

  Then accept the offer that he can make. Live with him and be happy.

  This was the more difficult argument to ignore. To spend your days with the man you loved...

  Helène’s face flushed as she considered those days... and nights. Even if it lasted no more than a year or two, what more could any woman hope for? And perhaps she might have a child by him. A bit of him to keep for all time, a part of Lord Quentin to love forever.

  But at the thought of a child, Helène knew what her final answer must be. It didn’t matter what Charles Quentin might settle on her, it didn’t matter if she could live in comfort for the rest of her life, she would not inflict the disgrace of bastardy on her own child. Unfair as it was to an innocent babe, it was the way things were, and ’twould not change.

  Never disagree with bread on the table, her father had always said. Never argue with what is.

  So be it. A weight fell from Helène’s shoulders and, feeling suddenly drowsy, she crawled back into bed and fell immediately asleep.

  * * * *

  Lord Quentin’s night was less restful. An auburn-haired beauty haunted his dreams, and he woke time and time again, heart racing, arms clutching the air, only to have his thoughts turn immediately to the memory of his interlude with Miss Phillips in the folly. The bewitching Miss Phillips. Helène. Her happiness at seeing that ingenious replica of old Rome had charmed him, the sound of her voice had delighted him, and the curves of her body...

  I must have her. I will have her.

  The girl had been close to surrender, Charles knew. So close. If it had only been a bit warmer, if he had thought to bring blankets–

  –if he had not seen the tiny spark of fear in her eyes.

  What could Miss Phillips be afraid of? Did she fear that he would tire of her and cast her out, that she would die of hunger or cold on some miserable back alleyway of London?

  Much as he had tried to reassure her, Charles could not deny these were reasonable concerns. His years on the Spanish peninsula had given him an appreciation for the necessities of life that most of his class lacked. There was nothing missish in worrying about hunger. Hunger could bring strong men to their knees, and Lord Quentin recalled once more Miss Phillips’s gaunt figure when she first arrived at Luton Court, the feel of each rib under his hands.

  His promises had failed to convince her, thought Charles. She still anticipates being abandoned to the streets.

  Charles threw back his bedding. He stood up and began pacing about the room, combing his fingers through his hair in agitation, his breath forming small clouds in the freezing air of his bedchamber. Cold and hungry. No. It was impossible, he could not stand to think of the governess on her own, without his protection. Not for a single hour, a single day.

  Damnation. She must be made to face reason. Perhaps he could convince the marquess to dismiss her–

  You are a bloody-minded bastard. The little voice condemned him, and Lord Quentin was at once ashamed. Of course he would do nothing of the kind. But Charles could think of no other leverage he might use against the stubborn Miss Helène Ph
illips, no reason he could give her to live with him beyond the usual arguments one made to one’s prospective mistress.

  A life of luxury and ease, gowns and jewelry, a furnished home in a respectable yet out-of-the-way part of town–

  There was travel, of course. Charles’s upbringing had made him as comfortable on the Continent as in England itself, even with the complications caused by the war. Fortunately that was over now, and Rome–a city which seemed to particularly intrigue the governess–was a favorite of his as well. They could rent a villa on the Ligurian coast, where he knew several likely situations, and visit Florence and Pisa as well. Perhaps somewhere near La Spezia . . .

  Lord Quentin’s mind was soon immersed in a gratifying daydream. He pictured the two of them fleeing the drab cold of London winters for a sun-washed villa in the south. The blue of the Mediterranean sparkling below them, the heady scents of coastal flowers perfuming the air–a few servants at their disposal, but otherwise alone. Alone to spend his days showing Miss Phillips the glories of a country where love was its own excuse, where no one spent a moment’s worry on such stupidities as whether this chattering young miss or that received vouchers to Almack’s. No one, in fact, would think twice about the young woman at his side, or treat her as anything other than...

  Than his wife.

  Yes, absolutely. Lord Quentin smiled to himself, the sheer rightness of this solution presenting itself full paid. Miss Phillips would be received as his wife and they could remain in Italy for the best part of the year. ’Twas perfect. He would need to spend much of the spring and early summer at Tavelstoke, of course, but perhaps Helène could remain in Italy for his return.

  Charles closed his eyes for a moment. No. It was impossible. He could never last a week without her. Circumstances were bad enough now, but once she belonged to him, when he knew that it was only miles separating him from the delights of their bed–

  No, his mistress must always accompany him to England. It was settled. Lord Quentin climbed back into the icy sheets of his bed and lay there until the dawn, planning his next moves against the redoubtable Miss Helène Phillips.

  * * * *

  Alice frowned in concentration, her chalk poised above the slate.

  “I can’t do this!” she wailed. “I’m a girl!”

  Helène’s eyes widened. A girl? “Nonsense,” she told Alice. “You are as capable of maths as anyone else. Subtraction is no more difficult than sums. It only takes practice.”

  “Papa says Lady Celia can’t add two plus two! He says ladies don’t need maths!”

  The governess made a mental note to strangle Lord Sinclair the next time he poked his head into the nursery. “Ladies may not,” she replied, “but little girls do. Now the five is bigger than the three, so remember how we borrow–”

  “Miss Phiwips! I need to visit the prinnie!”

  There was a burst of laughter from the doorway, and Helène turned to see Lady Pamela, outfitted for a late morning’s ride in a tailored habit of charcoal grey. The governess was reminded of the first time she had seen the marquess’s sister. The goddess Aphrodite, Helène had thought then, with that perfect face and the crown of white-gold hair.

  “Run along, quickly,” she told Peter, and then, to Lady Pamela–“If you have come to tempt us with visions of fresh air and snow, you will get no argument from me.”

  “I have just now realized,” said Lady Pam, “that we have allowed a serious deficiency in your training to go unremarked.”

  Helène rolled her eyes. Lady Pamela’s last complaint of a ‘serious deficiency’ had involved the governess’s lack of experience in taffy-making. Alice was now giving the two adults her full attention, all attempts at subtraction forgotten.

  “Sledding, my dear,” said Pam. “With all the snow last night, Crabtree Hill is begging for attention.”

  Sledding? Helène knew what a sled was, of course. She had seen a drawing of the strange contraptions in a London shop-window; sleds topped with rosy-cheeked boys, girls with their pigtails flying–

  “Oh, please, may we, Miss Phillips?” begged Alice. The girl pushed her chair back and began to jump up and down. Her eyes were shining.

  “I’m sure the children will enjoy–” began Helène.

  “I’m sure they will, too,” interrupted Lady Pam. “but ’tis good sport for everyone. Put on your riding costume. We’ll take the horses.”

  * * * *

  They made their way down to the stables to find Jennings fitting Ha’penny and Duchesse, Lady Pamela’s mare, with a curious sort of harness. Helène eventually realized that the device was fashioned to allow the horse to drag a sled without tipping the front end up into the air. Alice and Peter were obviously no strangers to this arrangement. They ran in and out of the stables and generally made a nuisance of themselves until Jennings set them to work pitching hay.

  “Don’ ye be fergetting the ponies,” said the groom. The children nodded, delighted by this responsibility and were well-occupied as the adults finished preparations.

  A soft nicker– Helène turned to see Alcibiades being led from his stall by one of the grooms.

  “I’ve asked Charles to join us,” said Lady Pamela, holding out her last carrot to Duchesse. She did not meet the governess’s eyes. “I tried to convince Lady Detweiler–”

  Helène snorted.

  “–but she has declared sleds to be the work of the devil.”

  “I believe Amanda thinks winter itself is of hellish instigation,” interjected a deep male voice. “But one still assumes Lucifer cannot abide snow.”

  Lord Quentin emerged from Alcibiades’s stall and was in front of them, sporting a smile that threatened to turn Helène’s knees to water. Why did men always appear to such advantage out-of-doors? The governess was sure that her own curls had already begun their untidy escape from the tyranny of hairpins, but Lord Quentin was turned out to a trice, his thick brown hair held neatly back by a ribbon. The effect, especially when added to the wool muffler wrapped around his lordship’s neck, was to make him look startlingly young, almost boyish.

  Did he just wink at her? Helène flushed, and thought she must say something. Something sensible and collected.

  “Ah,” she managed. “Yes, well–”

  “Charles, be a darling and see to Ha’penny’s cinch,” broke in Lady Pamela, to Helène’s relief. “I’m going to organize another sled.”

  She left, and Lord Quentin was at Helène’s side in two long strides. He cupped her chin with his hand and bent down to kiss her. A few breathless moments went by before the governess, blushing even more furiously, summoned the strength to push him away.

  “Someone will see us!”

  His smile widened, and Helène felt herself trapped, rooted to the spot, unable to move from the hunger she saw in his eyes.

  “If that is all that bothers you, ma petite,” said Lord Quentin, “I will take you someplace where no-one will see anything at all.” He moved forward again to take her in his arms. She tried to step away but found herself backed against Ha’penny. The mare snorted and sidled away, and Helène would have lost her balance if Lord Quentin’s arm had not steadied her. His hands went around her waist, the muscles of his forearms like a band of iron.

  “Please, don’t,” said Helène.

  “I will agree,” said Lord Quentin, “for now. But you must see we have much to discuss. ”

  The governess looked up at him, confused. Things to discuss?

  Carte blanche again, you little fool. He’s leaving in a matter of days–

  Helène sighed. It was quite true. The houseparty was breaking up and Lord Quentin would be gone before the week’s end. She might not see him again for another year. Or perhaps never, for who could predict what might happen before next Christmas? It was impossible to contemplate, and she found herself weakening, ready to agree to whatever he might have in mind.

  “Tonight, in your rooms,” said Lord Quentin. He was watching her face carefully.

&n
bsp; Waiting, thought Helène. Waiting for some sign.

  Never to see him again... Helène found herself nodding. “Tonight,” she agreed, although for a moment she was not sure if she had spoken aloud. Only the look she saw on Lord Quentin’s face confirmed that she had uttered that one word. It hung in the air between them.

  Tonight.

  * * * *

  Alcibiades was persuaded to accept the sled harness, although his demeanor clearly expressed disdain for the entire arrangement. He bucked and shimmied, forcing Lord Quentin to say a sharp word in his ear.

  “Alcibiades! Stop this at once!”

  The stallion’s head jerked up, his nostrils flared–and the horse was obedient from that moment forward. Helène smiled privately, struck by the contrast between Lord Quentin and the horrid dandies of London, who cursed their mounts and used the whip against them at every opportunity. Her father had enjoyed that same understanding of horses.

  Jennings helped her onto Ha’penny and the small group rode off with sleds trailing behind. Alice sat in front of Lord Quentin on Alcibiades, and Peter rode with Lady Pam. The sun shone almost warmly on Helène’s back, and she began to relax, realizing how comfortable she felt in present company.

  Lord Quentin was apparently no stranger to the day’s activities; his running commentary on youthful sledding adventures with the marquess produced paroxysms of giggles in the children. Helène felt a twinge of anxiety, knowing that once Alice started to laugh it might not end until she had fallen off the horse, but Lord Quentin kept a steady hold on the girl.

  “Miss Phillips! Look!”

  Alice pointed at the hill looming in front of them. Good heavens, were they planning to sled down that? Surely it’s too high, thought Helène. It looks like a mountain.

  She had herself climbed the other side of Crabtree Hill only weeks before, but the view from this angle was alarming. The slope rose in front of them, smooth, unmarked–and steep.

  They dismounted, settled the horses, and began to organize the sleds. Helène turned and caught Lord Quentin watching her, his eyes alight with mischief.