The Carriagemaker's Daughter (27 page)

Jonathan was never clear as to which of the several marquesses of the past two centuries had built the folly, but whoever it was had not cared overmuch for subtlety. The ersatz Pantheon was enormous. It had been built of brick and concrete, like the Roman original, and sat solitary and majestic in the middle of a snow-covered meadow. The portico, with its distinctive triangular pediment and Corinthian-topped columns, presented an oddly welcoming face.

“Good gracious,” added the governess.

Charles grinned at her. “ ’Tis some forty feet high.”

“Good gracious–” she caught herself and stopped. “That’s nearly a third of the original!  But why build it here where no one can see?”

 “I believe that was rather the point. The marquess says that his grandfather would take unsuspecting guests out for a ‘day at the lake,’ and then bring them here, feigning surprise. On occasion the more gullible could be convinced that it was really Roman, and that they had just stumbled upon a major archeological find.”

Miss Phillips laughed. “Oh, no!  How disappointing to discover the truth!”

“The truth is evidently not so romantic,” replied Lord Quentin. “Jonathan claims that there are still a few ladies from one summer’s houseparty who are in no hurry to believe it.”

“I can almost see why.”

The dome loomed ever higher as they approached the portico, and Lord Quentin kept a sharp eye on the governess, who had now tipped her head so far back that she was in some danger of falling off Ha’penny. He found his heart again racing at the prospect of time spent alone with the enchanting Miss Phillips, sheltered under the coffered dome of a fanciful Roman ruin.

You are nearly thirty years old, he reminded himself. Stop behaving like a cub of seventeen about to steal a kiss from the milkmaid. Dismounting from Alcibiades, he reached up to assist Miss Phillips, his hands firmly around her waist.

“Oh,” said Miss Phillips and blushed. She stepped quickly away from him, only to find herself backing into deeper snow.

“Careful,” he said, extending his hand. “Come, ’twill be dry inside.”   The governess hesitated. She is shy, thought Charles. Shy and vulnerable. A sudden, brazen confidence overtook him, a conviction that he was master of this situation. The naive young governess and an earl-to-be... Lord Quentin flashed Miss Phillips a charming, boyish grin. Her blush deepened and she returned the smile.

She smiled at him–   Charles’s heart slammed into his rib cage, and several moments passed before he was again in control of his breathing.

No, he realized, with chagrin. Not master of the situation at all.

* * * *

Helène had forgotten that she was determined to be cross and distant with Lord Quentin. She studied the enormous bronze doors of the folly, recognizing that they were exact replicas–albeit at a third the size–of  the doors of the real Pantheon. Heavy, as well;  Lord Quentin took a firm grip and pulled one open wide enough for them to enter. Their steps echoed against the polished marble floor as they walked to the center of the structure. The rotunda stretched in front of them, the dome above, the sky visible through the oculus in its center.

“We’re much farther north, of course,” commented Lord Quentin. “But in Rome, one sees a perfect circle of light against the ceiling.”

Incredible. “ ‘Angelic, and not of human design,’ ” whispered Helène. She was overwhelmed by the emotion of seeing even this one tiny piece of her dreams. To visit the Pantheon of Rome, or the ruins of Athens, the cathedrals of Paris...

Lord Quentin looked at her curiously.

“Quoting Michelangelo?” he said. “Your education continues to be most unaccountable.”

Indeed. “For a carriagemaker’s daughter?”  retorted Helène, her voice sharper than she intended.

“Truthfully?  Yes. But I’ve known many a duke’s daughter–”

Helène started; Lord Quentin seemed not to notice.

“–with far less learning. I don’t understand–”

“As a girl I spent many days walking about London,” Helène said hurriedly, hoping to deflect the subject onto a safer path. “I visited St. Paul’s Cathedral often... . I would hide in the chapels. I can’t explain it, really. I guess I was enthralled by the idea of great buildings. Their size, and their beauty–”

She paused, but Charles’s attention had been caught by her first words. “You were about in the city
alone
?” he asked. “Now that ’tis a folly. What could your father have been thinking?”

His voice had grown concerned, but Helène only shrugged.

“That may be true for the Quality,” she told him. “ ’Tis not so for the rabble.”

“Helène–” 

“Father was often occupied,” she continued, ignoring his interruption, “and my aunt had a crippled leg. She was unable to accompany me.”  She did not mention that Matilde had  protested nevertheless, and at some length. Helène had disliked upsetting her aunt, but she had not been able to bear confinement for long. The city, for all its dangers and filth, could give at least the illusion of freedom.

“I’m sorry,” said Lord Quentin. “I didn’t know.”

Another shrug. “It was a lifetime ago.”  Helène walked over to one of the smaller columns of the rotunda wall, running a gloved hand along the smooth fluting of marble. The folly was much smaller than the original, and she supposed it was considerably less imposing; still, she seemed to feel something of the magic and aura of the ancient Roman temple itself.

“I’ve often wondered what it would feel like to walk through the real Pantheon,” she told Lord Quentin. “Or any ancient building–”

“And to think about the people who’ve walked in the same place, seeing the same things, thousands of years before?”

Helène gazed around her at the ornamented brick of the rotunda interior, the precise lines of the coffered ceiling above.

“Yes,” she said, “Yes. That’s exactly it.” 

* * * *

“That’s exactly it.” 
Miss Phillips’s face, had she known it, was alight with that same dreamy, enraptured look that Lord Quentin had seen once before, during their discussion in the library. He found himself engulfed by longing, drawn to her, unable to resist. Just one kiss. One kiss, one caress, a single touch of his hand against her breast...

She brushed her hand once more along the fluting of the column and Charles felt the soft caress on his own skin. He was unaware that he had moved toward the governess, or that she had moved toward him. They stood apart, then not apart, barely touching, and then they were pressed together with implosive force, Charles’s one hand at her waist, one against the back of her head as he crushed her lips to his own.

He could feel the whole of her body pressed against his, and he was engulfed by passion within seconds, brought back to logical thought only when Miss Phillips sagged in his arms, her legs no longer able to hold her upright. Charles held her against his chest and scanned the interior of the building.

As with the real Pantheon, there was a niche opposite the portico entrance, flanked by marble columns and topped with a relieving arch; unlike the real building, it held a large garden seat. He carried the governess to the bench, thankful it was wood and not iron, and held her in his lap. Their kisses deepened until Lord Quentin no longer felt the cold.

“Helène,” he murmured. Her answer was muffled against the wool of his coat.

 If only the folly was a little warmer. If only he had thought to bring a number of blankets along.

Of course, the little voice pointed out, that might have made your intentions rather less obscure.

But I never intended to make love to her!  Charles protested. Not today!

The little voice was unconvinced.

* * * *

Helène tried to remind herself that she was angry with Lord Quentin, very angry indeed. He had insulted her in as many ways as possible, offering her
carte blanche
, speaking to her as if she was some low-caste lightskirt out on the streets–

But I could spend my days like this. Days and nights, engulfed in his arms, feeling like this.

* * * *

The marchioness, perched in her sitting room window, happened to be watching as Charles and Helène returned to the house. They walked slowly from the stables, seeming to barely acknowledge one another’s existence, but Celia immediately sensed the change between them. A new intimacy, thought the marchioness. Surely Charles could not have bedded her in the cold!

Rivals in love were nothing new to Lady Sinclair, but losing was. And to lose to a governess–

Bad enough that Jonathan had brought the girl into the house under odd circumstances, and without a satisfactory explanation. Celia had abandoned any notion that the marquess had hired the girl for improper reasons, but the situation was most peculiar, and to be shown up by some girl from the streets, with her French, and fine gowns, and dancing, and Lord only knew what else.

It was unsupportable. And then, another blow, to see Charles’s interest in her–

Botheration. Celia rummaged through the contents of her wardrobe, becoming more annoyed by the second. She should have thrown every last one of these dresses out ages ago. It was shocking–she had not a single decent day gown to wear. And until they returned to town . . .

It had been a frustrating houseparty, to say the least. Lord Burgess would have been easy pickings, as would that Blankenship boy. But she had been so convinced that Charles would come around, that he could no more refuse the offer of a woman’s body than he could refuse to breathe.

At least, not the offer of
her
body. Celia thought back to the year before her second marriage, to the young men she had entertained in that London townhouse. None of them had been as passionate, as fierce, as purely commanding as Charles Quentin. He had engulfed her with raw, insistent need, and for a time Celia had exulted in the glorious experience of being claimed.

None of the others had taken the emptiness away.

That awful feeling, thought Celia. That awful feeling of being alone in the world and responsible for one’s own fate. Young men were so foolish, thinking she wanted to be the aggressor, when she was simply playing the only hand she had ever been dealt. But when Charles had bedded her . . .

The marchioness sighed. When Charles had bedded her there had been no doubt as to who was in control.

If only Jonathan–

Lady Sinclair shook her head, unwilling to travel again down that particular path. Jonathan was who he was. Her husband, whom she cared for despite everything. Lord Sinclair was a good man, and she willed the belief that he loved her still, but she could see that he would stand in support of this governess, and that Charles was infatuated with the girl as well. It was all too much for Celia’s fragile pride. She needed to feel wanted again, she
must
feel wanted again.

Steps in the hallway outside–

The sound of a man’s voice, a soft female laugh. Celia felt a stab of anger as she realized that Lord Quentin was accompanying the governess to her room. Fah!  Everyone treated the chit like she was the blessed answer to prayer. Alice and Peter adored her, her sister-in-law treated her like a bosom beau–and Lord Quentin wanted her as his mistress. Lady Sinclair felt growing outrage at the whole situation. It was one thing to be without amusing company. But to be stuck with the darling, simpering Miss Phillips, immured together in the country, bored senseless until the marquess could be persuaded to take them to London– 

Celia slammed the door of the wardrobe shut and began to pace. Oh, her poor nerves–where was that stupid maid, anyway?  She felt another headache coming on, and Aggie
knew
she would need one of Cook’s tisanes.

Where was that benighted decanter of sherry?  It seemed to disappear each time she left the room, she’d accused the maid more than once–

Ah. The marchioness, in a moment of inspired recollection, found a second decanter she had hidden in the back of the wardrobe. She poured herself a large glass and, sighing with pleasure, sank into the chaise lounge.

Once in London she would rid herself of the entire difficulty, decided Celia. ’Twill be the work of a day. Like Lady Pamela, the marchioness had great respect for town gossip. The tiniest piece of misbehavior could, with little effort, be amplified until the chit couldn’t find employment as a scullery maid, let alone as a governess.

The gossip would need to be chosen carefully, of course. She could claim the girl was Lord Quentin’s lover but, as Charles had warned her, that particular scandal might reflect poorly on the marchioness herself.

Celia’s expression grew thoughtful. Something at the back of her mind, something she should have remembered... She saw Charles and the governess once more gliding through the steps of the waltz, the sapphire ring glittering on the girl’s hand as they swept past.

The ring. Of course. Stolen, she had suggested to Beatrice Harkins. Now, ’twould be delightful if that were true, but–

Celia shrugged. With a bit of patience, the sapphire ring itself would not be needed for the gossip she had in mind.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Snow and more snow. Helène looked out her bedroom window at the drifts piled high atop the knotted plantings of the kitchen garden, at the mounded shapes seen dimly in that strange half-light of a night snowfall.

She had seen plenty of the stuff in London, of course, though never so clean and... fluffy. There was nothing picturesque about the city in winter. Helène remembered plowing through the grey slush of some revolting alleyway, her hands chapped and bleeding, her feet numb with the cold–

Carrying a packet of medicine for her father. ’Twas good for the liver, the leech had claimed, though Helène sometimes wondered if the bitter powders were what had killed him. At least he had been more comfortable toward the end.

Don’t be a clunch, gel. Back you go an’ take the money. Don’t make no mind for me, not now.

 She sighed, hugging the robe closely around her, wondering whether sleep would continue to elude her for the remainder of the night. Flakes of snow sparkled in the candlelight from her window and Helène imagined she could make out the faint glimmer of the Lea in the distance. Luton Court was so beautiful in the winter... . And every other time of year as well, no doubt. She wondered what Tavelstoke Manor was like. Lord Quentin had spoken little of his own home, which she understood to be not far away.