The Carriagemaker's Daughter

by Amy Lake

  “Would you like to join me?” he asked. “The largest sled can hold two adults.”

  “Oh, no–”

  “Or, of course, you can try it alone.”

  Alone? “Perhaps... perhaps I might observe for a few minutes,” she allowed.

  “Miss Phiwips! Watch me!”

  Peter was climbing up the hill as fast as his feet would carry him, falling face first into the snow every few steps of the way. Alice followed at his heels. They dragged the two smaller sleds behind them and had soon reached, to Helène’s eyes, an appalling height.

  “Miss Phiwips!” rose the tiny cry. She saw the boy aim the sled downhill and fling himself on top as it started to move. Slowly at first, then gliding with increasing speed, until Peter was careening toward them at breakneck pace.

  Directly toward them– For a heartstopping moment Helène thought they would be bowled over. But the sled ploughed into the deeper drifts at the bottom of the hill, throwing a fountain of snow into the air and stopping so abruptly that Peter tumbled off. He shrieked with laughter and then jumped to his feet, hurrying to drag his sled out of Alice’s way. His sister hurtled down the slope even faster, having given her sled a tremendous push at the top, and the horses whinnied and stomped as gobbets of snow flew everywhere.

  “Come on, Aunt Pamela!”

  Helène was startled to see the marquess’s sister already half-way up the hill. Lady Pam pulled the larger sled through the tracks already made by the children and soon reached the top. She stood there with Alice and Peter, waving down at Helène and Lord Quentin, calling something the governess could not make out. Then, unlike the children, Pamela sat on the sled with her feet tucked to one side. Even at this distance she made an elegant, ladylike figure. Helène could see that Pam’s cap was still perched at a jaunty angle, the brilliant peacock’s feather brushing her forehead–

  “Aieeee!” Alice had given her aunt a push and the sled began its long descent. The track, Helène realized, was becoming faster each time, as the snow was packed down by the sled runners.

  “Aieeee!” continued the drawn-out cry. Lady Pamela’s speed was astonishing but, against all expectation, she reached the bottom of the slope in good order, barely a single golden curl out of place.

  “That,” said Pam, tromping happily over to Lord Quentin and Helène, “was exhilarating. But mind the trees.”

  “Indeed. Miss Phillips, if you please?” Lord Quentin had taken the sled’s rope from Lady Pamela. He held out his arm for Helène.

  “Oh, but I don’t think–” began Helène. Then–“What trees?”

  “That clump there, don’t you see?” Lady Pam pointed half way up the slope, ten yards or so to the side of the track.

  “But–”

  “Sleds,” explained Lord Quentin, “are very difficult to steer.”

  “Then how–?”

  “The trick is to get them pointed in the right direction. Don’t worry,” added his lordship, eyes twinkling, “I’m accounted an expert in the field.”

  She followed him up the slope as Alice and Peter shouted encouragement from above. The children were too impatient for the slow progress of the adults, however, and halfway to the top Helène was startled by a whoosh of snow as Peter flew by, followed seconds later by Alice. The governess turned to watch their descent and immediately felt Lord Quentin’s steadying hand at her waist.

  The governess looked up.

  “Be careful,” was all he said.

  The top of Crabtree Hill afforded a magnificent view to all sides. Luton Court lay below them to the east, the village with its various small cottages in the opposite direction, with the Lea a somewhat more distant ribbon of glitter. She picked out the burnished copper of the parish church’s steeple, and the roof of a larger dwelling nearby that she had not noticed before.

  “What’s that?” she asked Lord Quentin, pointing to the house.

  “The church?”

  “No, over to right– ”

  “Oh, that–” he said, with a dismissive flick of his hand. “That edifice is Noble Oaks Manor, the home of Squire Brigsby.” There was a pause. “And the charming Lady Brigsby.”

  His distaste was so obvious that Helène, who had never heard of the squire and his wife, was immediately curious. Was this another example of Lord Quentin’s arrogance toward members of any class lower than his own? Perhaps the Brigsbys were simply not haut ton enough for his lordship’s refined sensibilities. Despite never having met the couple in question, Helène found herself ready to argue the point.

  “Well, I can imagine that country gentry may not be up to the standards of elegance you require,” she began, but Lord Quentin interrupted at once.

  “The squire and his lady could be no worse associates if they dressed in sacking,” he told her. “And you would find them no better company in cloth-of-gold. Now. I shall sit first, on the back of the sled, and hold you exactly so–”

  “Ah... mmm. I suppose–”

  Helène sat down gingerly, as directed. She found herself immediately blushing red, for it was remarkable how intimate the arrangement seemed. Out here in plain sight of Lady Pamela and the children below, swathed in layers of wool, she could feel the heat of Lord Quentin’s chest and his thighs, as if his body was pressed to hers within the warm comfort of a bed. Her bottom seemed nestled shockingly close to–

  “Lean back,” Lord Quentin said gruffly.

  Lean back? Slowly, Helène relaxed until she felt his breath warm against the top of her head.

  “Now, do not move,” he told her. “Are you ready?”

  “Oh, I’m not sure–” She tried to turn around.

  “Sit still! Here we go–”

  Lord Quentin managed a push, and they were at once gliding headlong down the slope, faster and faster, the only sound the whisper of sled runners against the snow. Trees flashed by at both sides, and she saw the tiny figures of Lady Pam, Alice, and Peter, shouting and waving miles below.

  It was thrilling. Helène felt the wind cold against her face and thought that not even flying could feel this free. It seemed impossible that they would ever stop, they would glide and glide until they fell off the edge of the world. She laughed out loud–

  “Hang on!” Lord Quentin shouted, and he pulled, hard, on the rope attached to the right side of the sled. Helène felt a sudden lurch, a change of direction–and more trees flashed by to their left, very close. She paid little attention, heard herself yelling into the wind and wondered what she might be saying.

  Faster and faster–

  “Ooof!” said Lord Quentin, as the sled, thrown from the previous tracks by their near encounter with the trees, burrowed itself headfirst into a drift. Helène pitched to one side as the sled tipped, and a white fountain erupted around them. She and Lord Quentin tumbled from the sled in a tangle of arms and legs, and were immediately covered by the cascade of snow. After a moment’s dazed silence Helène, as delighted as any child at this outcome, began to giggle. After one glance at the sophisticated and aristocratic Lord Quentin, who was trying to extricate one of his boots from a foot of snow, the giggles turned into helpless laughter.

  He grinned at her.

  “Miss Phillips! Miss Phillips!” That was Alice. The governess began brushing snow from, seemingly, every square inch of her clothing, as Lady Pamela and the children ran forward.

  “Are you all right?” Lady Pamela. “I seem to recall warning you about the trees.”

  “Didn’t get a proper start,” said Lord Quentin, gasping as melted snow began to drip down his neck. “My aim was off.”

  Pam looked at him, nodding. “Indeed,” she said, and helped the governess to her feet.

  * * * *

  That afternoon remained ever afterwards in Helène’s memory as one of the happiest of her life. They climbed to the top of Crabtree Hill time after time, the track becoming smoother and their descents faster. She doubled with Alice or Peter, sometimes with Lady Pam–and again with Lord Quentin. Only when t
he children’s clothing had become thoroughly soaked with melted snow did any of them entertain thoughts of returning home.

  “Oh, no, Miss Phillips! We aren’t cold at all!”

  “Mind your governess,” said Lord Quentin, and that was the end of it. Lady Pamela had the foresight to bring blankets, and each child was bundled from head to toe before being thrown up onto a horse.

  “Mmph!” complained Peter. “I can’t breath!”

  “Try,” said his aunt, “and you may live long enough for hot chocolate.”

  They began the trek home as the sun touched the horizon and the evening’s chill began to descend. Alcibiades led the way, and Helène found it hard to take her eyes from the stallion’s rider. Tonight. Tonight. Tonight. The insistent drumbeat had begun to invade Helène’s every thought, and she wondered if Lord Quentin could hear it, too.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  It bears repeating: a governess takes no interest in men.

  The knock, when it came, was so soft that Helène wasn’t sure she had heard it. The governess stood with her back to the window and stared at the door of her bedchamber. She was willing the sound to come again, both afraid to move and afraid not to.

  Then, a whispered “Helène?” as the door cracked open of its own accord. Lord Quentin was inside the room in an instant, his arms around her in the next. Helène looked up into his strong, craggy face and felt the breath catch in her throat. His eyes were the deepest brown she had ever seen, and the warmth of his smile penetrated even to her toes.

  His mouth–

  Lord Quentin bent down to kiss her, his arms crushing Helène against his chest until her feet left the floor. She was at once at sea, sensations pounding against her like waves, tossed and buffeted until coherent thought was lost. She thought she heard him sigh, softly, thought she felt a hand gently stroking her cheek.

  Abruptly, impossibly, he broke off the embrace. “Excuse me,” he said to the governess, and swiftly crossed the floor to throw the bolt on her bedchamber door. In that moment of respite Helène’s reason reasserted itself and she lifted her chin, shooting him a look of admonition as he returned.

  “You said–” began Helène.

  Lord Quentin laughed and tried to catch her up into his arms. She backed away, feeling like very small prey indeed.

  “What did I say?”

  “You said we had things to discuss.”

  “Yes. I did, didn’t I?” He had captured one hand and turned it upwards, stroking the palm with his fingers. Helène’s toes curled into hard little knots. She forced a swallow and began again.

  “I’ve no doubt you could bed me without further ado,” she told the startled lord. “But I would prefer to have certain things made clear first.”

  “Ah.” Lord Quentin’s smile widened to a grin as–without further ado, indeed–he picked Helène up and tossed her onto the duvet. She squeaked in outrage, afraid to make any more noise. “I will make everything perfectly clear on the instant. But it will be much more comfortable doing so in your bed.”

  “My lord!”

  “Charles.”

  “Lord Quentin,” said Helène severely, propping herself up on her elbows. “I cannot think we will accomplish much talking in my bed.”

  “I can assure you I have no intention of doing so.” But a look at the governess’s expression changed his mind. He took a deep breath and extended his hand to her. “Very well,” he said. “We shall talk.”

  Helène knelt on the small rug in front of the fire, drinking in the solid, relentlessly male presence of Lord Quentin at her side. It was comforting, somehow, even if she knew she was unlikely to see him again after tonight. Her hair, unpinned, cascaded to her waist and she felt his hand fingering its length. The touch was mesmerizing, addictive; Helène felt that she could happily sit there for hours if only he would not stop the soft caress.

  Talk–pah! She had been the one to insist they discuss the situation, but Helène could think of nothing, after all, that she might be willing to say.

  Would it be so impossible to marry me?

  But some questions, if you must ask them, were not worth the answer.

  “I am leaving for Tavelstoke in two days,” said Lord Quentin. Helène nodded, unable to meet his eyes. “You can give Lord Sinclair your notice tomorrow and I shall return for you in a month’s time. It will give me a chance to make the necessary arrangements.”

  “Why?” said Helène.

  He hesitated. “Why wait a month? I suppose it isn’t necessary. Alice and Peter have survived nicely without a governess before. I’m sure–”

  “No,” said Helène. “Why me? You have your pick of the available ton females, I should imagine. What makes you think that I should suit as your mistress?”

  “Ah. Well . . .”

  Lord Quentin seemed to be having difficulty framing the response to this question and Helène felt herself blushing. You are a little peagoose, scolded the voice. What did you expect? A declaration of undying love?

  “I can’t quite explain it,” he said finally, sounding honestly perplexed. “You are beautiful and kind and... desirable, of course. I feel we would rub together very well.”

  His eyes held hers, and she could see her own regrets mirrored there, genuine and profound. He might marry me, thought Helène. He really might, but only if I told him. She took a deep breath, knowing that her decision had been made.

  “I am aware that you... compliment me with this offer, Lord Quentin,” said Helène. It was no compliment to a respectable female, of course, but she could not say the real word between them, could not give that truth a name. “However... ” She hesitated. “I will not go to London with you. I will not be your mistress.”

  With these words, time froze. Charles Quentin sat there, smiling at her still, having yet to register her reply. She tried to imagine how she would feel on the morning he left Luton Court. She thought to the years ahead, years spent alone, without him–

  Something had been stretched within her, tighter and tighter, and in that moment it snapped. Steeling herself, feeling a hot blush color her cheeks, Helène spoke again, abruptly.

  “As for tonight–”

  Charles stared at Miss Phillips, his mind racing, certain of what she had said but in no wise able to understand why she would have said it. He had been so sure that the governess would agree to his carte blanche. And now–had he heard aright? She would not be his mistress, but would invite him to her bed for the night?

  Miss Phillips was looking at him curiously and Lord Quentin assumed that his face had turned a rather alarming shade of red.

  “Tonight?” he hissed, “What on God’s good earth are you talking about?”

  “Have I not made myself clear?” she responded, a little tartly. “I am willing to be... intimate with you for the night. But I will not be your mistress.”

  “Why?” he finally asked her. “Why would you want to... do that? What would be the point?”

  The governess shook her head, apparently exasperated. “Surely it is obvious that I am not indifferent to you,” she said. “But I will not risk getting with child.”

  Charles was at sea. Pregnancy was a hazard of these circumstances, certainly, but the complication was rarely discussed between a gentleman and his mistress. There were certain ways to avoid it–Lord Quentin frowned at the thought–but he had assumed...

  “With child?” he managed.

  “Well, I heard people talk. In London, you know. On the street. The ladies–”

  “The ladies on the street?” His voice sputtered, and rose to such a pitch that the governess looked up in alarm.

  “Hush,” she told him. “You’ll have Lady Sinclair at my door again.”

  “You spoke to the ladies on the street?” he hissed. The conversation was spinning out of Charles’s control.

  “No, of course I didn’t speak to them. But several of the... ah... ”

  “Prostitutes?” suggested Lord Quentin.

  Miss Phill
ips nodded. “Yes, several of... them seemed to spend a great deal of time on the sidewalk below my bedroom window. I could hear their conversations– ”

  Charles groaned.

  “And it was obvious that they were all concerned with this... issue. I just thought that–”

  She faltered, but Lord Quentin felt sudden enlightenment. He lifted one eyebrow and fixed the governess with what he hoped was a schoolmaster-ish eye.

  “Let me guess. You’ve somehow assumed that a woman is unlikely to get with child–the first time?”

  “Exactly.” The girl sighed, relieved that no further elaboration of the subject would be necessary.

  “I see.” Lord Quentin was caught between desire and laughter. He was loathe to pursue the topic further; still, Helène deserved the truth.

  “ ’Tis no less likely the first time than any other,” he told her. “If you understood the... arrangement of the endeavor, you would know this to be true.”

  “Oh.” She rose to her feet, looking confused.

  He stood as well, and caught her hand before she could back away. Some unknown pain flickered in her eyes, and Charles saw clearly that Helène was passing from his reach for all time, saw her inexorably slipping away.

  How had it happened? He had been so sure–

  “I would love to live with you in your beautiful world,” said Miss Phillips. “But I could not live with myself.”

  * * * *

  Helène did not sleep for the rest of that night. She kept to the nursery the next day, and for several days after that, and saw nothing of Charles Quentin. The houseparty was nearly over, and with the exception of Lord Quentin and Lady Harkins–who Amanda claimed would manage to stay until she was booted out the door–most of the other fine lords and ladies were preparing their return to London. Each morning the children ran excitedly to the schoolroom windows when the general clatter and commotion of horses announced another departure.

  One morning the departing guest was Lord Quentin, setting out for Tavelstoke in the company of the marquess.