The Carriagemaker's Daughter (12 page)

“Indeed,” said Lady Detweiler. “I shall need it to fortify myself for the contemplation of those sausages.”

Eventually Jonathan left to prepare for a much-anticipated day of grouse hunting, leaving the two women with the breakfast salon to themselves. Lady Pam had been deep in thought for some time, choosing to ignore Lady Detweilers’s good-nature abuse of her brother.

Last night’s dream had continued to nag at her. The woman in the carriage…

“Out with it,” commanded Lady Detweiler.

“Hmm?”

“You are wool-gathering over something. A shocking new scandal?  Or is that too much to hope?”

“Amanda, do you remember the story about the Duke of Grentham’s eldest daughter?”

“The Duke of Grentham?”  Lady Detweiler sat back in her chair and sipped a third cup of coffee. “Ah, yes. Torrance. He disowned the girl, as I recall. Married a cit.”

“Exactly. What was her name?”

“Hmm.”  Amanda pursed her lips. “Something like... Oh, yes. Guenevieve. Quite a shocking choice, in my opinion.”

Lady Detweiler had idiosyncratic notions on the subject of Christian names. Pamela forged ahead. “Did you ever see her?”  

“Guenevieve Torrance?”  Amanda paused. “The old duke must have banished her a good twenty years ago.”

“At least,” agreed Pamela.

“Well, darling, I may be a tad bit older than you are, but that still makes me in the neighborhood of ten when dear Guenevieve gave up everything for
l’amour
.”

L’amour.
Pamela thought back to the old scandal. She had been very young, of course. If it hadn’t been for that day in Hyde Park–

“What happened to her, d’ you suppose?” mused Lady Detweiler.

“I believe she stayed in London,” said Lady Pamela. “For a few years, anyway.”

“Well, you seem to know a great deal about it.”  Amanda blew out a sigh and reached for the pot of marmalade. “I confess myself defeated in this case–simply too long ago. How mortifying. The duke’s chit and that... What was he, anyway?”

“I’m not sure. Some sort of tradesman.”

“Handsome beyond compare, I suppose.”

“Yes,” said Pamela. “I believe he was.”

* * * *

That day passed more slowly than usual for Helène. Lady Pamela did not visit, being required to consult with the staff regarding further holiday preparations. The custom at Luton Court, as with many noble houses, was to hold most of the holiday affairs
after
the new year, Christmas itself being fairly quiet and reserved for family. As the first week of January drew to its close the pace of household activities increased, along with the general level of noise. Various thumpings and bangings from the rooms below announced that the servants were preparing the largest ballroom for the traditional
bal d’hiver.
The marchioness had been in full cry for days, directing troops of servants in the placement of ever more decorations and the laying in of vast quantities of food. The Yule tree, which until Boxing Day had stood solitary and undecorated in the middle of the Great Hall, was now festooned with quantities of silver and gold netting, bits of tin cut into the shape of stars–

–and popped corn. The marchioness had the tree strung with ropes of this corn, a newly-fashionable import from the Americas. Showing more interest in the out-of-doors than Helène would have expected, Lady Sinclair had impatiently explained to Alice and Peter that the strands of popped corn would be later thrown out onto the snow for the birds. In the meantime–   

“You can eat it!” Peter confided to her.

“Surely not,” said Helène, fingering a small piece of the fluffy white stuff.

“You can!   ’Sgood!”

Helène had difficulty keeping Peter away from the tree after this, although he promised her he would only eat the bits of popped corn that “the birds don’t want.”

* * * *

“Miss Phiwips. Miss Phiwips, I’m
hungry
.”

“You just had breakfast!  Miss Phillips, he just ate!”

“Did not!”

“You did too!”

Not unexpectedly, with the ruckus of preparations for the houseparty and ball only a floor away, the children were having difficulty concentrating on their schoolwork. Helène’s mood was little better;  she felt fidgety and out-of-sorts. Nothing to do with Lord Quentin, of course–she’d banished any thoughts of
that
gentleman from her mind. But the morning dragged on, with the children quarreling at the least provocation, and eventually Helène gave in. Alice was allowed to set out her new collection of watercolors–a gift from Lady Pamela–and Peter happily occupied himself with his beloved wooden blocks.

At mid-morning there was a great commotion–horses whinnying, good-natured shouting and so forth–from the front courtyard. The children jumped up and ran to the windows.

“Oh!  Father’s going hunting,” said Alice. “Poor birds.”

“Papa never shoots any birds!” crowed Peter. “He misses!”

“I know
he
always misses, silly,” said Alice, “but one of the other gentlemen may hit something.”

Helène smiled at this bit of innocent chatter. She came over to the window–only to shoo the children away–and happened to catch a glimpse of the group below.

He
was unmistakable among the others, both in the broadness of his shoulders and the way he carried himself. She watched for a moment until, incredibly, he turned around and looked straight up at the nursery windows. He doffed his hat.

“Oh, look!” said Alice, waving madly. “He sees us!  Look, there’s Lord Quentin, Peter!  Hallo!  Hallo!”

“Lor’ Wentin’!  Lor’ Wentin’!” contributed Peter.

“Look, Miss Phillips, he sees us!”  But Helène, blushing miserably, was already in full retreat. The rest of the day passed without further incident, although later, the governess could scarce remember anything she or the children might have accomplished.

* * * *

Helène plopped down on her bed and sighed, thinking of the evening meal shortly to come. It was ironic, considering that she had been often hungry only months before, that she now anticipated the marquess’s table with something like dread. Five and six courses, night after night!  No wonder these people slept until noon. It was exhausting.

Of course, if she didn’t eat dinner with the family and guests she would have no reason to wear one of her beautiful new gowns. Helène opened the wardrobe and hesitated, wondering how long it would be before the marchioness stopped frowning at the sight of her. The nicer the garment, it seemed, the deeper the frown. Lord Quentin, on the other hand . . .

Bother Lady Sinclair. And bother Charles Quentin, what did she care what he thought?   Feeling rebellious, Helène selected a rose tabby with lace-trimmed sleeves and a simple beribboned waist. Lady Pamela had insisted the tabby was unexceptionable for a governess, but there was no ignoring the rather low neckline.
Tant pis!
   She would dress as she pleased.

* * * *  

Celia stood in the doorway to her husband’s rooms, her eyes showing the red cast of a recent bout of tears.

“Jonathan,” she began, and waited, but Lord Sinclair was reading his newspaper and showed no sign that he had heard her.

“
Jonathan
. Who is this new governess?  I must know.”

Her husband looked up, his expression mildly questioning. “The new governess?  Her name is Miss Helène Phillips, as I recall.”

Celia’s eyes widened in anger. “Don’t patronize me!  I’m not a fool!” she cried. “Who is she?  Some daughter of an old friend, you said?  I think not. She appeared at our door nearly in rags!”

“I should think you would have no more complaints about
that
,” said the marquess, returning his attention to the newspaper. “Her new clothing is quite respectable,” he added. “Charming, really.”

This last remark was ill-chosen. The marchioness stamped her foot.

“Charming!  Oh!” she said, and flounced out.

Jonathan sighed. Perhaps it had been a mistake to accede to Pam’s request that the governess join them at dinners. Celia’s jealousy, he could see, was in full cry. And he was not prepared to explain about Helène Phillips. At any rate, not yet.

* * * *

Lord Quentin, it seemed, had also taken special care in dressing that evening, and Helène tried not to stare. A neckcloth tied in the simplest of knots set off the fine black wool of his jacket, and his pantaloons, also black, showed his well-muscled thighs clearly. The pantaloons were secured with silver buckles of classical design; they glittered every time he moved or shifted his weight, and she found herself more aware than she liked of each small movement.

Helène reminded herself sternly that Charles Quentin was of no interest to her. None at all. Now he was saying something to Lucinda Blankenship, who laughed prettily in reply. Well, she is certainly welcome to him, thought Helène. She had spoken to Miss Blankenship on a few occasions and found her quick with a catty remark but otherwise lacking in wit.

He is laughing at me, thought Helène. I’m sure of it.

The dinner eventually provided some relief for her discomposure. She found herself seated to the left of the agonizingly shy Viscount Dreybridge, so that a great deal of effort was required on her part to further the conversation. It kept her mind occupied and out of more dangerous waters.

“Are you en-enjoying your s-stay at Luton, Miss Phillips?” attempted the viscount. Kind eyes blinked owlishly from behind a pair of alarmingly thick spectacles. The viscount and viscountess–his cheerful but equally shy wife–were favorites of Helène, as they seemed oblivious of her low consequence and would often talk to her, if haltingly. The pair were newly married and, although they had no family as yet, the viscount had strong opinions on child-rearing which he could sometimes be coaxed to voice.

“I–I quite believe,” he told Helène, “that children should be allowed free discovery of the world around them. Let them–let them discover that they must wear shoes, for example, by bruising their toes. Or learn their maths by counting the apples fallen from a tree.”

“How should they learn to read?” asked Helène, genuinely curious.

The viscount hesitated. “Perhaps,” he allowed, “one might employ books. But–but it seems to me that a stick, used to draw in the dirt–”

He halted in confusion. Helène smiled and, taking pity on his lordship, launched into an  extended description of Alice and Peter’s daily schedule. This brought them in good order all the way through to the fish.

But as she spoke, Helène’s mind occasionally wandered, followed by her gaze. Whenever, by merest chance, her eyes met Lord Quentin’s he looked... amused. So be it, thought Helène, feeling indignant. She’d done nothing to be ashamed of, and if he thought that she was
amusing
, that was just too bad. Helène acknowledged her naiveté in many things, but she wasn’t stupid, and she wasn’t about to be some fancy lord’s bit of fun. Lord Quentin could take his rugged, handsome face, and those deep brown eyes, and his broad shoulders, and– 

And take them somewhere else. She wasn’t interested.

He was seated next to the marchioness, of course. Lady Sinclair seemed to laugh delightedly at Lord Quentin’s every remark, and it was beginning to grate on Helène’s nerves.

“Miss?”  The footman interrupted her thoughts, proffering a dessert tureen of
blanc mange
.

“A small portion, thank you.”

“Yes, miss.”

Her eyes glanced up again of their own accord, and she saw that he was still watching her. She blushed. Lady Sinclair was eyeing them both–she said a few words to Lord Quentin and then turned away. The marchioness did not look pleased.

* * * *

After dinner, the gentlemen were left to their port, and Helène followed the other ladies into the drawing room. It was her habit to remain there only briefly, for politeness, and then retire for the evening, although Lady Pam had asked her more than once to stay.

“I believe Amanda and I are in danger of boring each other senseless. We are in urgent need of fresh topics of conversation.”

“Indeed,” added Lady Detweiler, “It would be a mercy to have someone new to talk to. If Celia mentions her close family connection to the Duke of Bucchleigh one more time... ”

Helène demurred. “The marchioness looks daggers at me every time I remain more than a few minutes.”

Amanda snorted. “I dare say she’s worried you might start speaking in French.”

“Ah.
Certainement pas
.”

But this evening was to be different. Lady Sinclair had never sought Helène’s company in the drawing room, but tonight she approached the governess almost immediately, wearing a small, tight smile.

“Miss Phillips, I’ve been anxious to have a word with you.”

“Your ladyship?”

“Yes. Well–”

 Perhaps it was Jonathan’s remark, or the number of times that Lord Quentin had glanced in Helène’s direction during that meal. Perhaps it was only the wine. Whatever the reason, Celia’s instincts, generally excellent in social niceties, now led her into murky waters.

“That is a beautiful gown you are wearing, Miss Phillips,” the marchioness said.

Helène stiffened and resisted the impulse to glance downwards. The neckline of the rose tabby showed more
décolletage
than anything she had worn before; even so, it was no lower than that of any other woman in the room. Including Lady Harkins.

Well, perhaps Lady Sinclair’s intentions were benign. Helène smiled tentatively and said,  “Thank you, my lady. You are most kind to notice.”

“Indeed,” said Celia. “One might almost say your wardrobe is
fashionable
. Quite fine, in fact, for a governess.”

“I must thank Lady Pamela for the loan of her
modiste
,” said Helène. “Madame Gaultier has remarkable taste.”   Despite the compliment, she was uneasy at Lady Sinclair’s attention. Something in the tone of her voice... Helène noticed that Lady Pamela and Lady Detweiler had ended their conversation with Lucinda Blankenship and were turning their attention to the marchioness.

“Ah, yes. Lady Pamela is too kind.”  Celia’s eyes glittered. “But my dear, I’m truly afraid that–in this one instance, you understand–she may have led you astray.”