Lord St. Claire's Angel

by Donna Lea Simpson

Celestine still gazed down at the floor. She shook her head and said softly, “Oh, no. I do not claim that he is in love with me. It cannot be.” She looked up, and her gray eyes were sad, though her agitation was calmed. “What could a man like Lord St. Claire see in a poor, plain governess?”

  “Careful, my dear. That sounds like bitterness, or self-pity.”

  “I am bitter! And self-pitying!” she sobbed. “It is the outside of enough that a man I have fallen in love with has told me he loves me and asked me to marry him, and I cannot believe him or say yes! Does that not seem ludicrous? Bizarre? And yet I cannot believe him sincere. Everyone around me says it is impossible, and you all know him so much better than I.” Celestine sighed, put her teacup down and covered her face with her gnarled hands. “It is too much,” she said, her voice muffled.

  Emily was worried for her niece. Celestine had been through tragedy in her life, but she had always met it with equanimity. This affair had been harder on her, it seemed, than even the death of her father. Emily supposed that was because, no matter how sad, the death of her father had been long expected. But Celestine had probably never expected to fall in love. And for it to happen with a man so much above her social position!

  Celestine uncovered her face and a rueful smile lifted her lips. “I am not really bitter, just confused. He has kissed me. He has held me. He found me crying over my pain and he comforted me. He ordered a hot bath for me every morning, knowing it would cure some of my aches.” Her expression softened, as did her voice. “I would like to think he was in love with me.” Her tone was wistful, full of longing. “But I cannot believe it possible. I don’t know what this all means, but I have been mulling it over, and I can only believe the marriage proposal was spurred on by a sense of competition.”

  “Competition?” Emily was startled. It seemed an unlikely spur to a marriage proposal from a renowned rake.

  “I . . .” Celestine looked away. “I may have led him to believe that I had agreed to the offer from Mr. Foster, the offer of marriage that I told you about, and that I rejected. I believed it would end his pursuit of me.”

  “Instead it just made him want you the more, as you were someone else’s.” Emily mused for a minute. It didn’t seem quite right. St. Claire would not enter into a competition with a vicar! Betrothal to another beau usually ended his attentions to a particular girl. But what other explanation was there? Sometimes men were unaccountable; her own husband, Baxter, was a perfect example of that.

  “What say you to going with me to Yorkshire?”

  “Do I have any choice?” Bitterness clouded Celestine’s musical voice.

  Emily cursed Elizabeth’s clumsiness. Celestine felt backed into a corner, and nothing Emily could say would make her believe there was no threat of her losing her job if she did not comply. “There is always a choice. I know you still believe your job to be in danger. And I understand if you feel stubborn, loath to let Elizabeth treat you this way. But do not make the mistake of staying here to spite her. If you come with me, do it for the right reasons. You will not be running away, just avoiding a potentially embarrassing situation.”

  “And how does that differ from running away?”

  Emily shrugged.

  “Are you giving me the advice you wish you had given yourself before marrying Uncle Baxter? Should you have run away from him?”

  Emily gazed over at her niece. Celestine knew that she was separated, and knew some of the reasons, but not all. “The circumstances are considerably different, as you must know.”

  “But you were an impecunious maiden, and there was some family opposition to your marriage, is that not so?”

  “Yes, but we were in love.” Emily gazed off into the distance. “So in love. I fell in love the moment I saw him. He kissed me just moments after we met, you know.” Her cheeks grew rosy.

  “You never told me that, Aunt.” Celestine gazed at her in wonder. “How did that happen?”

  “He took me for a dairy maid, or a farmer’s daughter.” She chuckled, a throaty sound. “I was wading across a stream with my skirts pulled up and my feet bare, leading a great, ugly, stubborn beast of a horse. Baxter rode up on a handsome stallion and helped me up the other side, subduing my obstinate animal. Then he demanded a kiss as payment.” She stared at the wall, remembering the moment her future husband’s lips had first touched hers, the shock of awareness that that was it for her; it was love. She shook herself out of her memory to find Celestine watching her with a smile on her rose-pink lips.

  “Tell me,” she asked her niece. She leaned forward in her chair and gazed into Celestine’s eyes, the thick gray color of them like slate. “How did it feel when St. Claire kissed you?”

  Celestine’s expression became misty and abstracted. “It was . . . I felt like a fire had been started in my heart. I felt like it was spring all of a sudden, and there must be a thousand flowers around me. I wanted to dance and cry and sing . . . I felt . . . I wanted it to never stop.”

  Emily watched her shrewdly. “And how did he act?”

  “The first time? Like a practiced rogue. But then . . .” Celestine told her aunt about him holding her as she wept, and cradling her while she slept in his arms, and about her impression that he had been murmuring that he would take care of her always.

  “Is that so?” Emily pursed her lips and her fine, arched brows drew down. She made a decision in that moment that she hoped she would not live to regret. She was going to possibly irk a few people, and perhaps alienate a lifelong friend. “Is that so? Celestine, we must go. I think it is for the best if we leave the day after tomorrow, very early in the morning. Surely you see the wisdom of this?”

  Celestine nodded, her pale, freckled face downcast. “I think you may be right, Aunt. I think I need to get away from him or I will be tempted to actions I may regret later.”

  • • •

  She was just nervous, Celestine thought, as she listened to the excited chatter of Gus and Lottie behind the makeshift puppet stage the next afternoon. Somehow it had been arranged that all the company would be there, in the drawing room, to see the puppet play, and more from the village. Miss Hay, the village schoolmistress, had been asked to bring her class.

  It was a rare treat for the children, with cakes and sweets in the dining room to look forward to after. Very generous of Lady Langlow, Celestine had thought with some surprise, but the additional people had made a fun Christmas project into a much bigger event. A week before Gus had been dragooned into playing the part of Prince Aurelius, while Lottie was to play Princess Calista. Gwen was going to make appropriate animal noises—dogs, cats, and sheep—and Celestine was left to play all the other parts.

  Until St. Claire insisted on playing the part of the ugly girl, Hepzibah. She refused to think that was why she was more nervous, but it sure didn’t help! She peeked out from behind the stage at the rows of seats. The children were filing in at that moment, their faces bright with anticipation, some of them hopping on one foot and one little boy pulling the braids of a girl in line in front of him. They chattered and giggled, eyes big and round as they examined the puppet theater, which, thanks to Gus’s startling artistic ability, was quite beautiful.

  Miss Hay lined them up to sit on the floor in front of the stage, and the adults drifted in, in groups and singly. Lady Grishelda was watching Miss Hay and the children, but the Stimsons were giggling together as they sat with a young man who had come to visit for the day from the next village. He was the squire’s eldest son and had been smitten by both girls equally when he had come for the Christmas party. He was nice-looking in a florid, beefy way. Both girls competed for his attention, laughing and touching his arm.

  St. Claire darted behind the stage. His blue eyes shone with glee and he rubbed his hands together. He was impossibly handsome in buff breeches and a dark blue, perfectly fitted jacket with gold buttons. “I cannot believe how much I am looking forward to this!” He grabbed the puppet of Hepzibah and fitted it over his large ha
nd, then gestured with it and squawked, “And me too! I’m going to catch me that handsome Prince Aurelius if I have to hunt him down with my little bow and arrow!”

  Lottie giggled and was shushed by her infinitely superior brother, Gus. Celestine swallowed hard and tried to ignore St. Claire’s closeness. She felt a little faint, even more so because it was her responsibility to go out and announce the play. It had not seemed such a big chore when it was just going to be Lord and Lady Langlow and maybe a couple of the others. Now she was terrified.

  The chatter from the other side of the stage reached a crescendo and then calmed. Celestine heard the footmen close the door. Everyone must be there. It was time. She stepped out from behind the stage, hands clasped behind her back, and faced the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, and children too, of course.” She smiled down at the rows of shining clean faces turned up to her. One little boy was scratching at a scab on his hand and one girl looked frightened, like she wasn’t quite sure what to make of the stage and what was about to happen.

  Concentrate on the children, she thought. That might help. “Today, we are going on a journey to a forest—an enchanted forest, in a land of magic.” She scanned the faces of the children, their pink cheeks and round eyes signaling their excitement. “Do you all believe in magic?” She watched the children nod and she lowered her voice to a whisper, almost. “You will meet a prince there, a very handsome prince who longs for love! And you will meet his family. There is a princess in the story, too, and this is where the magic comes in, for the princess is very special. You see, all the animals speak to her, in a language only she understands. I hope you enjoy our little play!”

  She curtseyed and ducked behind the curtain.

  “Bravo, bellisima,” St. Claire said in an intimate tone, smiling into her gray eyes with his bright blue ones. He glanced around and, seeing that Gus was helping Lottie get up on the stool behind the puppet stage so she could hold up her Princess Calista puppet, continued. “That is what they say in Italy, you know. We could attend the theater there if you marry me. You would adore it. You could translate for me; my Italian is abysmal.”

  She flushed and turned away, angry that he would continue his nonsense knowing how nervous she must be. What did he think he was doing? She was confused beyond rational thought by his continued pursuit of her in the face of rejection and his brother’s disapproval. Her Aunt Emily was right; she must get away until he left for London. But still, the notion of leaving him caused an ache in her breast, a searing pain like she had never experienced before.

  She slipped the gaudily dressed Queen Parlia puppet on her hand and motioned for the others to come close, then signaled the footmen, stationed on either side of the puppet theater, to pull the curtains.

  The play started. St. Claire’s words, a little garbled sometimes when Lottie forgot where she was, tumbled forth, with Gwen’s bleating and mewing coming at ill-timed intervals. The children laughed at Hepzibah’s machinations to steal Aurelius away, and Celestine heard Caroline Stimson sigh over the prince’s speech about true love, and waiting forever until you found it.

  Once they were caught up in it, Celestine found it a little easier to forget that St. Claire was so close, close enough occasionally for his breath to touch the back of her neck and his muscular thigh to brush hers. He mugged outrageously, improvising new and even sillier lines for Hepzibah, lines that had the audience, even the adults, roaring with laughter. It was a success, and all because of him!

  It was a poignant reminder of the bright fieriness of St. Claire’s star. Even if he was serious about marrying her, which she did not admit for a moment, he deserved a wife who could move comfortably among the other members of his social class. He was witty and brilliant and social. She was intelligent enough to match him any day, but quiet and introspective, awkward in elevated company.

  They were winding down to the end. Aurelius and Calista had found each other, and plighted their troth. Except for the occasional “It’s your turn, stupid” from Gus when Lottie missed her cue, the end was touching and sweet, with St. Claire adding loud, rude kissing noises to their final embrace, sending the audience back into gales of laughter among the sweet sentiments. The puppets bowed and Celestine nodded for the footmen to draw the curtains.

  Applause burst out, spontaneous and hearty.

  “We are a success, my love,” St. Claire whispered, grabbing her hand and pulling her out to the front of the stage, while he called to Gus, Lottie and Gwen to follow.

  They circled to the front, all except Gwen, Celestine blushingly aware of his strong hand holding hers. Lady Langlow saw it too and frowned, digging her elbow into her husband’s ribs. Emily watched her niece and her importunate suitor thoughtfully from her seat, and applauded with the rest.

  The children jumped to their feet, led by Gus and his sisters, and headed for the dining room in a tumultuous tumble. Celestine pulled her hand out of St. Claire’s and fled, to retreat to the quiet sanctuary of her room and the packing she had still to do. It was the last time she would see him and she paused at the door, glancing back. He was watching her go with sadness in his beautiful eyes. Her own eyes filled with tears and she hurried away before he could see the pain she was feeling, the utter loneliness of knowing they would be apart forever.

  Chapter Eighteen

  In the cold early dawn Emily, Dodo and Celestine trundled off in the carriage with the Sedgely crest, down the sloping road, over icy ruts and through the village. Faint light glowed in the windows and smoke curled from chimneys in homes where the man of the house was already out doing his duty to his family, and where the women were tending to their household chores. Emily thought that if her life had gone in a different direction, she would have been one of those women, married to a respectable but poor farmer or solicitor or shopkeeper. Instead she had met and married a distant, titled relation with whom she had fallen deeply in love, and was now separated from for complex and varied reasons.

  There was silence in the cozy, dim confines of the elegant traveling vehicle, made warmer by heated bricks buried in straw at their feet. Maybe, Emily thought, the other two were lost in their own contemplation, as she was. Or maybe they were just recovering from the scramble of leaving after a quick breakfast in the half-light of early morning.

  The eldest lady of the three, Lady Dodo Delafont, yawned behind a gloved hand and eyed the uncurtained window with distaste. She preferred never to see the cruder side of nature, and especially not that early in the morning, but in deference to her niece-by-marriage, who enjoyed the scenery, she left the curtains drawn back. She was nominally Emily’s companion, though she chose to live with her out of affection and not any need to have a place to stay. She was wealthy in her own right.

  But when her nephew separated from his wife, and Dodo’s sister-in-law, the dowager Marchioness of Sedgely, demanded that Emily leave the country estate of the marquess, Dodo had offered to go to Yorkshire with her. Over two years ago they had removed to the Yorkshire estate that Baxter Delafont had deeded to his wife free and clear in the separation settlement. It was the house where Baxter and Emily had first met and it was precious to Emily for that reason.

  “Whyever must all journeys begin so early in the morning?” Dodo asked, stifling another yawn.

  It was an unanswerable question, and so the three continued gazing out their respective windows at the wintry landscape, the first glimmers of silvery morning light casting long shadows from the snow-coated fells into the valley, the shadows shortening as the day advanced. Emily glanced over at her niece from time to time, wondering if she was doing the right thing. She was interfering insufferably in what was essentially a private affair between Celestine and Lord St. Claire.

  But it didn’t seem to her that there had been any real end to things between them. She had seen the tension on Celestine’s face after the puppet show the previous day, and how her niece had fled with one heartbreaking glance back at her love. St. Claire had watched her leave the room with
unaccountably bleak eyes, and she just could not leave it that they would creep away.

  Whatever would become of the two?

  For her part, as the carriage trundled along marking off the miles, Celestine was replaying every word, every look, every caress that had occurred between her and the man she had come to adore. How had it happened? How had she fallen in love with a man so far above her touch as Lord St. Claire Richmond? It had taken place, she supposed, in imperceptible degrees, stealing over her like age, one moment at a time.

  But it would not do. He could not possibly love her, not really. She had dismissed the competitive angle as unlikely, in light of Emily’s doubt of that as a motive for offering for her. So perhaps his offer of marriage had been genuine. But surely what he felt for her was lust at worst, pity at best. Lust she could not understand, since he had at his disposal the voluptuous Lady van Hoffen, who cast him amorous glances whenever he entered a room. Surely any man with eyes in his head would prefer the beautiful and experienced widow to a plain, arthritic spinster?

  So it must be pity. He was capable of great affection, she believed, having observed him with the children, whom he genuinely loved. And he had been so gentle and caring toward her. He was a man with a large, untapped well of softer feelings: sympathy, compassion, pity. He had spoken of taking care of her for the rest of her life, and so perhaps his offer of marriage was real, and inspired by concern for her deteriorating health. Certainly that hypothesis was borne out by his solicitousness in ordering her a hot bath every morning.

  Could a marriage based on pity thrive? She gazed out the window at the harsh landscape and contemplated. At first, he would be all compassion for her affliction. It would be such a delicious feeling to be cared for by a man like St. Claire, especially since her love was real, based on his good qualities and sweetness of character.

  But he was like a bright star on the horizon, dimming every other person when he was in the room. Women and men alike were drawn to him, to his energy and wit and fire. And all of that would be hers? Impossible. She could never match his boundless energy, nor his blazing fire, and her wit seemed feeble compared to his brightness. It would be like trying to hold quicksilver, making a marriage with a man like that.