The Carriagemaker's Daughter

by Amy Lake

  * * * *

  Jeb Carnath, one of the Luton Court grooms, arrived at Tavelstoke that evening, shivering with cold and so exhausted from his ride that it was several minutes before Charles and Jonathan could make any sense of what the man was saying.

  “Lady Pamela,” gasped the groom, finally. “Lady Pamela says you must come back as soon as ever you can, milord, there’s awful trouble.”

  Lord Sinclair went white. He staggered and would have fallen if Charles had not reached out a steadying hand. “My children?” asked the marquess, his voice a whisper.

  “Oh, no, milord,” said Jeb, “there’s nothin’ wrong with Miss Alice or Master Peter. It’s Miss Helène what’s in a fix.”

  The groom only then remembered the note from Lady Pam. He fished in his pocket and handed it to the marquess, who frowned as he read the short lines. It took some time before Charles and Jonathan elicited the complete story–or as much as Jeb knew of it–and by the end of the tale Lord Quentin was ready to saddle Alcibiades and leave at once. Lord Sinclair, however, kept a cooler head.

  “It will do Miss Phillips no good if you freeze to death on the way to Luton,” said Jonathan with a huge yawn.

  “Every minute’s delay is a minute she is in the hands of that–that blithering jackass!”

  “Sir Malcolm may be a jackass,” said Jonathan, “but he’s passingly honest. She’ll come to no harm for another day.”

  The marquess turned to the young groom.

  “Jeb,” said Lord Sinclair, “get yourself something to eat and find a bed. Lord Quentin and I will be departing for Luton at dawn.”

  * * * *

  Lady Pamela fingered Helène’s sapphire ring, turning it over and over in her palm. She had gone to Helène’s chambers to assure herself that nothing of Petrus and Torvin’s presence lingered there. Pam felt responsible for the girl’s welfare, and as she sat quietly, pondering the current predicament, her attention was captured by Helène’s remarkable ring.

  The center stone was large and uncommonly brilliant, almost as if it shone with its own light. Pamela had felt a strange fascination with the ring from the moment she had first seen it, and she now succumbed to the temptation to try it on herself.

  ’Twas a perfect fit. She held her hand up, turning it this way and that and marveling at the flashes of dazzling blue light.

  It must be worth a small fortune, thought Pam. Enough to buy a modest cottage, perhaps, and live for some time. But Helène said that the ring belonged to the Duchess of Grentham, and not to her. Would she even be willing to sell it?

  Pam wondered if there currently was a Duchess of Grentham. Her man-of-affairs had instructions to contact her the moment the duke returned to London, but she had heard nothing as yet.

  The ring shouldn’t be left lying around, thought Pam. I’ll put it with my own jewelry for safe-keeping–

  “Milady?”

  Lady Pamela turned to see James standing in her doorway. She smiled.

  “Sir Malcolm has sent word that Lady Brigsby is quite ill, and Helène must be removed from Noble Oaks first thing on the morning.”

  James snorted, but said nothing.

  “I’d like you to fetch her. I’d go myself, but–” Pam hesitated, not wanting to mention the real reason, which was to make sure that the marchioness organized no interference.

  James seemed to understand. “Never you worry, milady,” he said, grinning. “I’ll make sure Miss Helène gets back safe ’nd sound. We’ll keep it all quiet like,” he added, with a wink.

  * * * *

  Helène sat on the four-posted bed and looked around her. A second-floor guestroom, not to be compared to the governess’s chambers at Luton Court, but reasonably clean–and a vast improvement over the cellar.

  She was not terribly happy to be there, nevertheless. The squire had been in a foul mood as he had shown Helène to her new accommodations, almost pushing her into the chamber.

  “Don’t get any ideas that you are a guest,” Sir Malcolm had snarled. “I may have the chance to send you on to London, yet. And I’m sure Petrus and Torvin would enjoy keeping you company on the way.”

  Helène had made no reply, wondering if this was bluff. If the squire was the shire magistrate, could Lady Pamela, or even the marquess, stop him from doing as he wished?

  She was still locked in, of course. Helène began to pace around the room. She examined the window, noting that it was a long drop to the ground, with no ledge or other means of climbing down conveniently at hand.

  But, as at Luton, the snow was very deep. One might jump.

  And then? She unfolded the three, crisp ten-pound notes Lady Pamela had pressed into her hand earlier that day and stared at them, thinking hard.

  “Use them to keep the squire’s wife happy,” Pam had said. “It should be enough for a day or two–until Jonathan returns and this is all sorted out. I’ve told Alice and Peter you’ll be home before they know it.”

  Helène sighed unhappily. Home. She had said nothing to Lady Pamela, but Luton Court was not home, and she could never, ever go back there. She would miss the children dreadfully, of course, but–

  I have no home, thought Helène. Perhaps it is time I find one.

  She closed her eyes, seeing a scrap of paper with its three short lines of address–

  Benjamin Torrance

  27 Emmet Street

  Charlottesville, Virginia

  Aunt Matilde’s handwriting. Helène recalled the days spent with her aunt as she lay dying, and heard her own voice, protesting Matilde’s wishes.

  “I can’t leave England.”

  “I know you wish to stay with your father. But the man is your cousin. He can help you.”

  Helène had memorized the address, not leaving the paper around for her father to discover, to ask questions, perhaps to insist that his daughter do as her aunt had asked.

  And then, a year later, Nathaniel Phillips’s death as well. But not before arrangements had been made for Helène to become a governess, her father insisting to his daughter that this was Aunt Matilde’s dying wish. And so she had arrived at Luton Court, in Bedfordshire. Only to fall in love with a man who would not marry her, and who insulted her, and who had gone away.

  She would never see him again.

  The guestroom boasted a small writing table. Helène sat down and, finding a few pieces of paper and the necessary implements, began to compose a letter.

  My dear Lady Pamela–

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Charles and Lord Sinclair had spoken little for most of the day. They rode hard, stopping only twice for food and to give the horses a rest. Alcibiades and Pendragon–the marquess’s gelding–were lively and game, but even the strongest animal had limits, and it would do no good to run them into the ground miles short of their goal.

  The groom had explained the circumstances of Miss Phillips’s arrest, but Jonathan appeared unperturbed by the theft of the marchioness’s necklace. He doesn’t believe Helène stole it anymore than I do, thought Charles, but this left the question of who did take it, or if the necklace had really been stolen at all. That last was an awkward thought.

  Would Lady Sinclair really have fabricated such a grave accusation? For what purpose? Lady Pamela had told him that Celia was out to ruin Helène socially–but an arrest. That was a far more serious matter. Charles found himself bitterly angry with the marchioness, and he nursed that feeling, perhaps as a shield against his own guilt.

  I left her there, thought Charles. I left her alone, at the mercy of Celia Sinclair.

  * * * *

  Helène wrapped the blanket firmly around her shoulders, took a deep breath, and jumped. She landed awkwardly, up to her hips in the snow, and pitched forward onto her face.

  Mmph. After a moment’s floundering she was able to stand up. Brushing snow from her face and neck, Helène struggled away from the house as quickly as she could, thinking that anyone who looked out the window would have no difficulty in discovering what
had happened to their prisoner.

  She headed in the direction of a nearby copse of trees, sinking deep into the snow with each step and hoping that it would be easier going once she was in the shelter of the woods. The months at Luton had given her a tolerable knowledge of the local countryside, and Helène knew that Cotter’s post was less than a mile away.

  The mail coach stopped there each day on its way to London, and with any luck Helène would be on the coach before the squire or Lady Brigsby noticed she had escaped. She didn’t want to think about what might happen if they did notice. She was feeling guilty enough about taking Lady Pamela’s money, about deserting Alice and Peter, and about leaving the marquess’s employment without a word of goodbye.

  Her letter to Lady Pamela was sitting on the guestroom writing table, and Helène hoped that Sir Malcolm would be honest enough to send it on its way. She had been in tears last night as she wrote, as she apologized for taking Lady Pamela’s thirty pounds, even as she promised its eventual return. She wept as she sent her love to Alice and Peter and told them she would never forget them, as she tried to explain–

  Her behavior was, on the face of it, inexcusable. But, after examining every other possibility, over and over throughout the long hours of the night, Helène had unhappily concluded that she had no choice.

  She had been accused of a serious theft. False as the accusation was, Sir Malcolm had told her that he could send her on to London at a moment’s notice. And once in town–

  Helène knew entirely too much about the justice to be expected from the London courts for those not of the haut ton. She would drown there, disappear utterly, and not even the marquess would be able to fish her back out.

  Yesterday, Lady Pamela had tried to reassure Helène that every difficulty would vanish upon the return of Lord Sinclair, but the governess remained unconvinced. Who would the marquess be more likely to believe? His own wife–or Miss Helène Phillips, the penniless daughter of a carriagemaker?

  * * * *

  Lady Pamela paced up and down the entry hall, hoping that Celia would sleep, as she often did, until the mid-afternoon, and worrying that James was late in returning from Noble Oaks Manor. That morning had produced a maddening series of delays in sending the coach for Helène.

  First, a winter’s fog had rolled in off the Lea, so thick that one could hardly see the stables from the house. James was eager to go, but Pamela had insisted he wait until the fog lifted and the danger of running into something, or running off the road entirely, was past.

  Then, one of the carriage traces snapped before the coach had gotten beyond the drive, and repairs were complicated by the cold. Finally James had left, and Lady Pamela had started counting the minutes.

  Too many minutes, by now. What could have happened to them?

  * * * *

  Helène was exhausted and lost. The fog seemed to be getting thicker by the minute, and she was no longer sure which direction she had come from, or in which direction the road lay. Each step was an effort. Twice now her shoes had remained behind as she dragged her feet forward, and she lost precious minutes digging them out.

  She had no coat, and the blanket that she had taken from the guestroom–I am a thief, thought Helène miserably–was little help in keeping her feet warm. Her hands were numb, and her nose dripped.

  Worst of all, however, was the resurgence of self-doubt.

  Last night, when she was locked into a room, Sir Malcolm’s threats still ringing in her ears, running away had seemed like the only solution to her present difficulties. But this morning fatigue and hunger had taken their toll. Helène worried that she would walk around in circles until she froze, and returning to Luton Court was beginning to sound attractive.

  What could she do in London, after all? Helène tried to fight off the doubt and stay focused on her plan. She was to find cheap lodgings in London–a task easily accomplished, as she knew those parts of the city well–then seek out a ship bound for the Americas.

  D’ you think thirty pounds will buy you passage? scoffed a little voice.

  Well, no–but Helène had heard of people signing marques of indenture, in return for passage overseas. If she could only get to the Colonies, surely she could find her cousin–

  Hoofbeats in the distance, becoming louder. Helène was immediately cheered, knowing that if she could find the horse–without being seen herself, of course–she would find a road. She picked up her skirts and tried to run but immediately lost her right shoe. Swearing, she bent down to dig it out of the snow as the hoofbeats sounded closer, then faded away.

  Bother it all. But she had a good idea of the sound’s direction, and now better hopes of finding the road.

  Lady Pamela was arranging flowers in the entry hall–anything to pass the time–when she heard a firm rap at the front doors.

  “Telford?” called Pam.

  She was annoyed with the butler for not consulting her before he followed Celia’s instructions to admit Sir Malcolm and the Emory brothers on the night of Helène’s arrest. And then to conveniently disappear, leaving James alone to assist the ladies–!

  Telford had been avoiding her ever since, and was nowhere in sight. Pam sighed and went to open the door herself.

  A man stood there. A tall and very handsome man, nearly as blond as Pamela. He was perhaps thirty years of age, clean-shaven, and with cropped hair. Pam’s eyes took in the broad shoulders, the firm jaw, and the clear, deep blue eyes. Goodness. The man’s riding coat was a simple affair, without capes, and his boots looked well-worn. Not a gentleman’s dress–

  The man gave her a crooked smile, and Pam’s knees, unexpectedly, turned to water.

  “Can–can I help you?” she managed.

  “I certainly hope you can,” he replied. His voice was deep and strong, with a slight twang that Lady Pamela could not immediately place. “I’m looking for Miss Helène Phillips.”

  “Miss... ah, Miss Phillips?” She took a deep breath, mentally kicking herself for reacting like a moonstruck girl. Handsome or not, this was only a man. But why was he looking for the governess?

  “Yes. A young lady of about twenty, I believe.” Seeing Pam’s confusion he added, “Miss Phillips is my cousin.”

  Lady Pamela felt the stirrings of alarm. Something was wrong here. Helène’s Aunt Matilde had been childless, and she had no uncles, no family at all on her father’s side–

  His cousin, the man had said? Lady Pamela’s eyes opened wide as she realized who this young man must be.

  “You are the Duke of Grentham, sir?” she asked him.

  The man grinned again. “Mmm, yes.” he replied. “So they say.”

  “Your grace,” said Pam, dropping into a curtsey. “I am Pamela Sinclair, sister to the Marquess of Luton.”

  The duke was silent for a moment; Lady Pamela saw that he was staring curiously at her right hand. What was he looking at?

  “Benjamin Torrance, at your service, ma’am,” said the man at last. He removed his hat and swept her a wide bow. “Now, have I come to the right place? Is my cousin at home?”

  “Ah, well... hmm. Not at present, I’m afraid,” said Lady Pam, beckoning him to enter. “But please, do come in. I’ll ring for tea.” Good grief, this was a pickle! Pam’s mind raced through a number of possible explanations she might offer for Helène’s absence, but she saw no easy way of telling the Duke of Grentham that his cousin had recently enjoyed the hospitality of their local magistrate.

  “But she is living here?” asked the man. He had not moved from the doorway. “I understood that Lord Sinclair had employed Miss Phillips as a governess.”

  “Yes, yes, indeed,” Lady Pam answered. If only James would return with Helène! Lord Torrance was standing there like a rock, and if he couldn’t be convinced to sit down and take tea she was going to have the devil’s own time stalling. “I must thank you for responding so quickly to my inquiries,” she added, wondering why her man of affairs had not informed her that the duke had returned from
the colonies.

  “Your inquiries?”

  At that moment, to Lady Pamela’s relief, she heard the clatter of a carriage rounding the drive. Thank goodness.

  “Here’s your cousin, now,” she told Lord Torrance brightly. Smiling, the duke strode toward the coach with Lady Pam at his heels.

  * * * *

  Charles and Jonathan took a final, short rest before crossing the Lea. Traces of fog still lingered next to the river, but Luton Court was only a few miles distant now, with the squire’s home not far beyond that. Lord Sinclair wanted to stop at Luton to speak with Lady Pamela, but Charles said he would press on to Noble Oaks Manor.

  “Are you sure, old man?” asked Jonathan. “Won’t take a minute to talk to m’ sister.”

  “I’m sure,” said Charles grimly. He spurred Alcibiades.

  * * * *

  “She was gone, milady! She was gone!”

  James had at first been close to incoherent. Lady Pamela and the duke–who had quickly grasped that the footman had been sent to retrieve Miss Phillips from... somewhere–managed to sit him down in the small parlour and were now plying him with a soothing glass of brandy.

  “I got there quick just like you says. The squire, he went up to the room, but Miss Helène wasn’t there!”

  “Miss Helène?” said the duke. “You mean Miss Phillips?”

  James looked at Lord Torrance in confusion–no one had told him who this strange man was–and repeated, “She weren’t there!”

  “Well, perhaps she was somewhere else in the house,” said the duke, impatiently. He is assuming, Lady Pam realized, that Helène was a guest at Sir Malcolm’s house, free to walk about at will.

  “The squire says the door was still locked,” said James. “He says she must’ a jumped out the window!”

  “Jumped out–! What?” exclaimed Lord Torrance.