The Carriagemaker's Daughter

by Amy Lake

  “Lord ‘Wentin! Papa!” called Peter, then– “He waved!”

  Who waved? Helène never knew, for she refused to join Alice and Peter at the window. Eventually there came the sound of hoofbeats, first clearly heard, then receding slowly into the distance until they were finally, irrevocably gone.

  That evening, exhausted, Helène prepared early for bed, and it was by sheerest luck that she had not yet removed her day dress when the magistrate arrived, for her bedchamber door burst open, and two burly men of uncertain provenance and foul breath dragged her from her room, down the grand staircase, and through the front hall of Luton Court.

  At least the children were already asleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “Ahhh,” sighed Lord Sinclair, stretching his legs out onto a large ottoman, “my feet don’t want to see the inside of another pair of boots for days.”

  “Then we are agreed,” said Lord Quentin. His own legs were slung over the side of an armchair. Rufus, the earl’s ancient Irish setter, occasionally roused himself from his bed in front of the fire to sniff worriedly at Charles’s feet.

  The two friends sat in the Tavelstoke library, weary from the long ride and enjoying their second–or third–glass of Lord Quentin’s best port. It had been the custom for years, even while Jonathan’s first wife was alive, for Charles and Jonathan to make this trip at the end of the Luton houseparty. Their journey this year meant pleasant company as usual, but an uncomfortable ride. Temperatures were warm for early February, and with the amount of snow fallen, the roads had turned to slush.

  Slush kicked up from the horses’ hooves, slush falling from the branches above them– knee deep in slush, sometimes, when they dismounted for the necessaries. Both men had been thoroughly chilled by the time they reached the gates of Tavelstoke, and they had consumed several glasses of port in the effort to warm themselves.

  Perhaps the drink was the cause of his present, cheerless mood, thought Charles. It could hardly be anything else. He had always enjoyed these two weeks with Jonathan, two weeks where he and his friend counted themselves free from every social obligation. They would tramp for miles through the surrounding countryside, play game after game of bad chess, and sit up until all hours of the night drinking, with never a female to say them nay.

  It was one of the highlights of his year, so why did he feel so... bereft? This was what he wanted, freedom from every worry and claim upon his affections.

  He felt fine, actually. Altogether fine. He and the marquess would have a splendid time, and at the end he would make a brief trip to town and treat himself to the most beautiful courtesan in all of London. He would stay at the Tavelstoke townhome and be perfectly satisfied for days on end. Yes. That was clearly the plan.

  “A fetching chit, I should say,” commented Jonathan.

  “Your pardon?” Charles realized that his attention had been wandering.

  “Miss Phillips.”

  At the sound of her name, Lord Quentin’s careful logic collapsed into a hollow, dreadful pain. Miss Phillips. Miss Helène Phillips, whom he was not likely to see again until Luton Court’s next houseparty, and if Celia had her way, perhaps not even then. Charles imagined her lovely, smiling face as if she were standing in front of him and remembered the feel of her skin under his hands–

  He heard the delighted cries of Alice and Peter as they pelted their governess with snowballs, and Miss Phillips’s laughing response–

  Never to see her again.

  “Yes,” said the marquess. “I think she’d be perfect for you.” There was a short pause, then Jonathan added, “And a splendid countess.”

  * * * *

  “What in heaven’s name is all this ruckus?”

  Lady Detweiler threw open the door of her bedroom, snifter of brandy in hand. She and Lady Pamela had both heard the commotion, but Pam was faster to respond and had already thrown on her robe as she hastened toward the grand staircase. She motioned for Amanda to follow, and they reached the hallway’s end in time to see Helène Phillips being half carried, half dragged down the marble steps by two very large and scruffy-looking men. The men were sweating and swearing, lurching from side to side and banging into the balustrade as the governess struggled frantically against them. Helène’s cries were muffled under the beefy hand of the larger of the two men.

  Below they could see James barring the way to the front door. The footman’s fists were raised, and he was clearly prepared for a fight.

  “James, no!” cried Lady Pamela, charging down the staircase. She had recognized the two men holding Helène. Petrus and Torvin Emory! The two had a reputation in the village as rough trade indeed and would likely be armed with knives.

  Which they might not hesitate to use against a poor servant. Lady Pamela reached the bottom step, Amanda at her heels, and they sidestepped the thugs to stand at James’s side.

  Pam tried to give Helène a reassuring smile, but the governess’s eyes seemed not to focus, and her face had taken on an ashy hue. She was wedged tightly between the two men, continuing to struggle weakly against them.

  “It’s all right, Helène,” Lady Pamela told the governess. “I don’t understand what’s happened, but we’ll set it to rights.”

  The footman had not lowered his fists, and Pam gently touched his shoulder. “You’ve done very well, James,” she whispered. “Now, don’t worry. I will see to the matter.” He nodded, and Pam realized that for once there was no trace of uncertainty or confusion on the footman’s face. James, it seems, was a man to be counted on in a crisis.

  “Now,” said Lady Pamela to the Emory brothers, “what is the meaning of this?”

  Petrus and Torvin halted. Without relaxing their grip on Helène, they eyed Lady Pam uncertainly. Not quite stupid enough to attack the marquess’s sister, she decided. Petrus glanced to one side and only then did Pamela notice that there was someone else present, another man. He had been hiding, by the looks of it, standing in the shadow of a huge Kentia palm.

  “Eh,” snarled Petrus, “scullery slut, y’ said. Weren’t to be no gentry coves.”

  “No gentry coves!” echoed his brother.

  The third man seemed to shrink against the palm. “I paid you! Do your jobs!” Lady Pamela immediately recognized the frightened, nasal bleat of Malcolm Brigsby.

  What was the squire doing at Luton? As Pam’s eyes adjusted to the dim light of the entry hall she saw that it was indeed Sir Malcolm, the identification confirmed by his short stature and a pair of breeches that were, predictably, several sizes too small.

  “Gracious, an overstuffed sausage,” murmured Lady Detweiler, snorting her distaste.

  “Sausage?” said Torvin, looking around.

  Sir Malcolm coughed nervously.

  “Helène,” said Pam, giving the girl a worried glance, “give me a moment to talk to

  these... people.” Miss Phillips’s face was drained of all color and Pam realized, with horror, that the governess’s wrists were manacled.

  This was outrageous.

  “Sir Malcolm, explain yourself immediately,” ordered Lady Pamela. She was uncomfortably aware that she was dressed only in a silk wrapper, and that the Emory brothers were leering at her. “Are these ruffians at your hire?”

  “Well–”

  “Ruffians she calls us!” said Petrus. He seemed pleased.

  “You see–”

  “Ruffians!” said Torvin.

  “Not enough wit between the two of them for even a single ruffian, I should think,” commented Amanda, sotto voce.

  Lady Pamela’s attention was fixed on the squire. “This young lady is governess to Lord Sinclair’s children,” she informed him. “I insist that she be unhanded at once.”

  Sir Malcolm’s face was beet red and his forehead shone with perspiration. “Ah, well, I don’t know about that,” he said to Pam. “I was told–”

  This was unbelievable. Who did the little mushroom think he was talking to? “Do not argue with me!” Pamela said, stam
ping her foot. “You have no right to be in this house. Release Miss Phillips and get out at once!”

  There was a moment’s silence, and Sir Malcolm seemed to be weakening. Then–

  “I asked... asked him to come.”

  The marchioness’s voice, unsteady with drink, floated down from the staircase. All eyes turned to see Lady Sinclair at the balustrade. She was flushed and, against all previous habit, disheveled.

  “Celia,” said Lady Pam, “what in heaven’s name is going on here?”

  “I sent for Sir Malcolm’s services as a magistrate,” said the marchioness. “In the absence of the marquess, of course.” Celia held up a piece of jewelry, large green stones flashing along a gold chain. She pointed a shaky finger at Helène. “This woman stole... stole my emerald necklace. I found it hidden behind some books in the nursery.”

  Helène’s head jerked up, outrage evident in every line of her body.

  “What!” cried Lady Pamela.

  “Yes,” said Amanda. “I just bet you did.”

  * * * *

  Lady Sinclair had been waiting for this moment, planning for it–but now that she saw the harsh facts before her, the governess manacled before her eyes, doubts arose in force. What had she done? That spineless Sir Malcolm! And those two dreadful men he had brought with him, of all the nerve to bring such riffraff inside her home.

  An empty decanter of sherry in the marchioness’s suite was testimony to Lady Sinclair’s current state, and she wished for another glass even now. She’d only thought to cause gossip, she’d never intended–

  Celia hiccoughed, and swayed. Speaking of gossip, where the devil was Beatrice? The marchioness had assumed Lady Harkins would be up as long as there was still wine and les petits aliments to be had. She was counting on Beatrice to carry the story to London. The marchioness, even when sober, had spared little thought to the potentially serious consequences of an accusation of theft. Her intention was only... was only . . .

  Celia was suddenly confused, unsure of why it had seemed necessary to ruin the reputation of Helène Phillips. Something about speaking French, and Charles Quentin’s interest in the girl, and her own husband–

  Lady Sinclair felt her resolve waver, the tears start to her eyes. Then she saw Helène standing below, dressed in a day gown of fine cambric, her jaw set in defiance. Showing not an ounce of shame... Celia’s back straightened. She was a marchioness! The girl was a nobody, plaguing her without end in her own home. It was insupportable, and she’d been given no choice, really, the girl must go.

  But it seemed that the odious squire couldn’t manage the job himself. Those two revolting hooligans he had brought with him were really the outside of enough... .

  “What is happening!” A shrill cry came from behind the marchioness. “My heart–I cannot bear it! Are we all to be murdered in our beds?”

  Celia turned, and ventured a tipsy smile. Lady Harkins had arrived.

  The entry hall erupted in a babel of speech.

  “There is some mistake,” Lady Pamela was saying. “You must wait until–”

  “Well, like her ladyship says–”

  “We’re ruffians!” crowed Torvin.

  “Celia–”

  “I knew she was a thief the moment I set eyes on her! Why Lord Sinclair would ever hire such a–”

  “I didn’t steal anything,” cried Helène. “I didn’t steal anything.”

  Sir Malcolm swallowed, the discomfort growing in his gut. This was no scullery maid, he could see that now. Dressed fine as a lady, and friends to his lordship’s sister, by the looks of it. Damn Lady Sinclair for getting him into this. She had assured him that the marquess would approve his actions, but here was the sister, taking exception. It wasn’t his fault! He was only doing what he was told!

  What was he supposed to do now?

  Squire Brigsby wasn’t entirely a fool. He understood that Lady Pamela was a power to be reckoned with on the Luton estates. But Lady Sinclair was the marquess’s wife. Surely she was the more important–

  “Telford! Where the devil is the blasted butler?”

  “Just look at her, standing there pretty as you please! I will be inspecting my own jewelry case, and if–”

  “Celia, will you please explain–”

  Difficult decisions were never Squire Brigsby’s strength. He swallowed again, and tried to think, but the ladies were arguing loudly and the footman looked as if he had designs on Sir Malcolm’s neck. It was too much to consider, all at once. He should leave immediately–yes, leave. The squire puffed out his chest, thinking to announce his departure, but as he did so, a button of his weskit popped and fell to the floor, rolling off into the darkness. He heard a snort of feminine laughter and felt anger surge.

  So be it, thought Sir Malcolm. I am the magistrate of this township, and the Marchioness of Luton has accused this young woman of theft.

  She is coming with me.

  Lady Sinclair and Lady Harkins descended to the front hall, and the noise level rose another notch.

  “A crime has been committed,” declared Sir Malcolm. “It is my duty–”

  “I didn’t take Lady Sinclair’s necklace,” said Helène, who had recovered her color and was protesting angrily. “I don’t know what you are talking about!”

  “A criminal! I knew it all along.”

  “I can assure you that Miss Phillips would never–”

  “It was missing from my jewelry box this morning. I’ve searched–”

  “The only crime I see,” said Amanda, “is those breeches.”

  The squire glared at Lady Detweiler and began backing toward the front door, one nervous eye on the footman. He motioned for Petrus and Torvin to follow with Helène.

  “It’s the law,” he said. “You can’t stop me.”

  “Leave her alone!” cried James. He moved toward the brothers, but there was a sudden flash of metal and a knife appeared in Petrus’s hand.

  “James,” said Lady Pam. “No.” If there was a fight, the person most likely to be injured was the footman himself.

  “But, milady–”

  Amanda stepped forward, glaring at Petrus. “Put that ridiculous thing down!” she said, motioning toward the knife.

  Celia spoke again. “This is none of your affair, Lady Detweiler,” she cried. “Leave him to do his job.”

  Lady Detweiler rounded on the marchioness. Her eyes flashed mayhem, and Lady Pamela clearly saw, for the first time, the blood of the French king that flowed in her friend’s veins.

  “You do not tell me what I may or may not do,” said Amanda. “You do not tell me anything at all.”

  * * * *

  Petrus Emory had little tolerance for the gentry, especially the female gentry. Remembering the time that Lady Pamela had caught him with the fishmonger’s daughter, he scowled at her and Amanda. Interfering busybodies! Always stickin’ their noses where they ain’t wanted. The girl’s clothing might be that of a lady, but she was only a governess, wasn’t she? And a thief.

  Bloody hell, thought Petrus. The stupid coves’ll be crownin’ the slut queen if this goes on. An’ I know where that’ll be going. Be going that we don’ get our pay, that’s where.

  “Bunch’a gobs, the lot a’ ye,” said Petrus suddenly. He turned and, without warning, struck Lady Detweiler hard across her cheek. She crumpled soundlessly to the floor.

  Torvin jumped up and down in excitement. Celia and Lady Harkins both screamed.

  “Oh, now, I do say,” protested Sir Malcolm.

  Lady Pamela tried to reach Amanda, only to be stopped by both Emorys. “Get back!” said Petrus furiously. “Or I’ll cuff ’er again.” Giving Helène’s arm a vicious yank, he addressed Sir Malcolm.

  “Come on then,” said Petrus. “You wanted the silly chit, you got ’er.”

  Lord Quentin could not believe he had heard his friend correctly. What was Jonathan talking about? Miss Phillips–his wife?

  “But,” sputtered Charles, “but she’s a governes
s.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Lord Sinclair. “Yes, she is, isn’t she? One tends to forget. The fine deportment and all that, you know. Excellent French–”

  “If you will recall, I am the future Earl of Tavelstoke. I cannot marry a... a chit of no breeding whatsoever.” Lord Quentin almost flinched at his own words. I sound so pompous, he thought.

  “–and such an elegant wardrobe. Superb taste. Can’t you imagine her at a fine London soirée? Put a few duchesses to shame, I dare say.”

  Her wardrobe? Even Jonathan must realize that Lady Pamela had bought Miss Phillips every stitch of her present clothing, thought Lord Quentin. But the marquess’s words had released another flood of memory, and this time the pain was tinged with despair.

  The future Countess of Tavelstoke. Marriage. It was inevitable–and sooner rather than later, given the state of his father’s health. The earl would love to see grandchildren, love to see the title fixed on a third generation before his death. It was common decency to oblige him if he could. Charles had assumed he would pick a likely girl from some year’s crop of ton debutantes, a decorative young miss of good family.

  Someone it would not be a trial to face over the breakfast table each morning.

  When I marry, Lord Quentin thought, I will need to spend time with my wife and my children. His own father had never abandoned him to the care of nannies, and Charles would do no less.

  But what, then, of Miss Helène Phillips?

  * * * *

  Petrus and Torvin dragged Helène out the door. She did not resist, judging it fruitless for now and a waste of her strength. A battered coach stood in the front drive, and behind it an even sorrier-looking hayrack. The two men motioned toward the rack, and Helène, sneezing, climbed onto the straw .

  The men followed her into the rack, leering at Helène, but evidently Sir Malcolm drew the line at rape.

  “If you touch her,” he warned Petrus, “you won’t get a penny.”

  The squire produced a heavy wool blanket from the coach and threw it at Helène. Shivering, she drew it around herself and shrank into the straw. he It was perhaps a half-hour’s drive from Luton Court to the squire’s home. To the governess’s relief, the brothers took Sir Malcolm’s warning to heart; Petrus glanced at Helène from time to time, and spat, but otherwise left her alone. When the hayrack and coach finally arrived at Noble Oaks Manor, the two men jumped out and approached the squire for their pay; they then disappeared without a word.