The Carriagemaker's Daughter (6 page)

If Lord Quentin occasionally wondered how Miss Helène Phillips was faring in the nursery he did not admit it to himself. Jonathan never mentioned the girl, and had quickly changed the subject with a bored wave of his hand, the one time Charles had asked about her.

“Mmm, yes. I’m sure she is doing quite well, quite well, I’m sure . . .”

Charles had seen the governess a few times in passing, and the glances she bestowed upon him on these occasions were decidedly cool. The nervy chit. Miss Phillips was dressed as poorly as ever, and Lord Quentin felt that she showed far less embarrassment about this than she ought.

On the day before he was to leave for Tavelstoke, Lord Quentin’s morning ride took him farther afield than he had intended, and it was well past noon before he and Alcibiades were once again in sight of the house. Snow had been falling off and on for most of the week, but there had been little wind, so that Luton Court and its surroundings now lay spread out below him like a Christmas fantasy. Luton was not the equal of Tavelstoke in the restraint or refinement of its architecture, of course. The numerous balconies and bay windows of the main hall–combined with copious amounts of iron-work scrolling–suggested, if anything, a rather baroque sensibility. Still, at times like this, one sensed what the builder must have had in mind. The estate looked marvelous, gleaming in a blanket of snow.

Sunny or not, the winter’s chill had crept through the thick wool of his cloak, and Charles found himself anticipating a good fire and a glass of warmed brandy. He clucked at Alcibiades. Removing his feet from these cold boots would be worth braving yet another episode of Celia’s pique when she learned that he still planned to leave on the morrow.

As they approached the stables Charles heard all manner of odd noises from beyond the larger paddock–squeals and shrieks, and other... thudding sounds that he couldn’t identify. Leaving the stallion in the care of a senior groom, Charles rounded the corner to find two small, snow-covered children and one equally snow-covered adult, in the middle of some kind of altercation.

What was this?

“Miss Helène!  Watch out!”  A child’s voice–

A snowball, launched by the smaller of the two children, landed squarely in the middle of the adult’s back. A woman, Lord Quentin now realized. A burst of feminine laughter rang out as she turned and released a missile of her own. More shrieking and whooping from the children, but Charles’s attention was now diverted. The hood of the woman’s cape had fallen back, revealing the slightly disheveled figure of Miss Helène Phillips.

Alice and Peter. The governess. Of course.

Thud. Giggles erupted from the direction of the two children, and Charles looked down at the front of his fine, many-caped riding coat in shock. He had been hit by a
snowball
.

Afterwards, Lord Quentin could never explain why he became so angry. Snowball fights were a regular feature of his own youth, and these were Jonathan’s children, after all; he had known them from infancy. Only last summer he had played swing-the-monkey with Peter until his arms ached, launching the boy again and again into the river and getting drenched for his troubles.

Undoubtedly, his reaction would have been different if the children had been the only participants. But the sight of the governess raised his ire.
She
was involved, and how dare she–

“Oh!  My lord!” said Miss Phillips, pushing a tangle of curls back from her face and dropping him a brief, snowy curtsey. Her nose was red from the cold, and Lord Quentin had the impression she was hiding a smile. The two children had rushed up and were peeping out at him from behind her skirts, still giggling.

“Lord ’Wentin,” said the smaller child, only now recognizable as Peter– “Lord ’Wentin, come have a snowball fight with us!  It’s fun!”

That was quite enough.

“Peter–” began the governess.

“Your father has not employed Miss Phillips for the purposes of fun,” said Charles.

Good grief. Had he truly uttered something so rudely pompous?  The words hung in the cold air for a moment’s shocked silence. The governess frowned, and Charles, despite his inner chagrin, gave her a quelling look. Alice and Peter stared at him, their eyes wide and anxious. Lord Quentin found this reaction even more annoying. He wasn’t an ogre. Children adored him!

“I’m quite sure Lord Sinclair would have no objection to his children stretching their legs,” said Miss Phillips, finding her voice. “They’ve spent the entire morning indoors.”  Her tone was unrepentant, and Lord Quentin became convinced that the governess was laughing at him. This was unacceptable.

“You know nothing of the matter,
mademoiselle
,” he said.

“Of what matter?” came her retort. “I know nothing of my own profession?”

“Apparently you do not!”  Charles, provoked, now decided that it was time to put this headstrong young woman firmly in her place. “This is Luton Court, not the local London middens, and these are the children of a marquess. I should report this questionable behavior to Lord Sinclair.”

Alice started to cry. Miss Phillips–who had narrowed her eyes at his peremptory words–bent down to comfort the girl.

“Hush, sweetheart. It’s all right.”

“But–  He said–”

“Take Peter in and warm up. I’m sure Mrs. Tiggs will have fresh scones and raspberry jam for you, if you ask please.”

The sniffling stopped.

“Come on, Peter,” said Alice, and the two children–chins thrust into the air, refusing to look in Charles’s direction–ran off toward the house. The governess’s watchful gaze remained on them until they reached the kitchen doorstep; then she rounded on Lord Quentin with blazing eyes.

“You can’t possibly be that much of a prig!” she said. “Alice is but seven years old!  Peter is five!  Should they have no time whatsoever to play?”

Charles, who had just begun to consider that one or two things he had said might have been a bit unfair, felt the renewed flare of anger.

“Whether they play or not is hardly your decision,” he told her. “As the marquess’s friend, I can assure you that Lord Sinclair would want to be consulted–”

To his surprise, the governess looked suddenly uneasy.

“Lord Sinclair has not yet spoken to me concerning his children,” she said slowly. “Nor has Lady Sinclair. I am carrying on as I think best.” 

“Not spoken to you–?”  Lord Quentin stopped himself. That was indeed odd. Jonathan had never doted on his children–tending toward the same cool detachment with which he recently favored his wife–but it was not like him to ignore their care in the hands of a new governess.

And as for Celia... Charles had heard the marchioness say on several occasions that young children made her nervous. She had tried, he knew, to make some approach to Alice and Peter, but with little success. They seemed to sense the marchioness’s discomfort, and had yet to welcome their stepmother into their lives. Lady Sinclair had probably thought her husband should be the one to sort out a new governess. Why had he not?

“The marquess is a very busy man,” he told Miss Phillips, trying to think of some excuse that might make sense. “He will no doubt consult with you as his schedule permits. In the meantime–”

“In the meantime, I shall do as I see best for the children. And what I think best is none of your affair.” 

Lord Quentin looked down his nose at her, glaring. He had little previous experience with governesses, but he was the heir to an earldom, and she was–she was nobody.

“I think you will find that I can make it my business in short order,” he told Miss Phillips. “And that the Marquess of Luton will be a great deal more interested in my opinion of the matter than your own. So I would suggest–”

He stopped abruptly, unable to believe his eyes. The girl, with a defiant expression, had stomped her foot, and started to walk away. No one in Charles’s experience had ever dared walk away from him while he was still speaking.

“Miss Phillips, I am not through–” 

“Lord Quentin.”  The governess stopped, turning to address him. He caught a flash of green, angry eyes. “Lord Quentin, I’d like to ask a favor of you.”

A favor!  Charles forced himself to rein in his anger and ignore those eyes. Lud, but the girl could be beautiful. He cocked an eyebrow at the governess, saying nothing.

 “When you speak with Lord Sinclair concerning my... position, please tell him that both his children are marvelously bright and making an excellent start to their studies. Peter’s maths are perhaps a bit weak, but he’s very young and I’ve no doubt he will come right along. Alice will be speaking French like a
parisienne
within the year.”

“Miss Phillips–”

“And they have both been very lonely. If he wishes to dismiss me it would be best for the children if I were replaced as soon as possible.”  The governess turned on her heel and left.

* * * *

What an insufferable man!  Helène, fuming, tramped through the snow and back into the house. Make it his business!  Well, he had certainly done
that
, hadn’t he, the pompous, condescending... jackass!  She cursed Lord Quentin
sotto voce
all the way to the nursery, trying to drown out the little voice carrying an undercurrent of stark fear.

If the marquess dismissed her she had no place to go.

* * * *

“I wish you’d stay, old man,” Jonathan told Charles. “Celia has been on about it for days. She’ll be devastated if you leave before Christmas.”

Indeed, thought Lord Quentin, with an inward sigh. He had yet to decide if the marquess was so wrapped up in current estate matters that he didn’t notice his wife’s growing flirtatiousness, or saw it and remained indifferent. The two had once been much in love, he knew. Had the glow had faded so quickly from their relationship? 

Perhaps Celia had carried her games too far.

“Branscomb has sent me a list of improvements needed over the next year,” Charles informed his friend. “Some of them should really be in place before the coldest months. Indeed, they should have been done well before now.”

“Another few weeks can make no difference, surely.”

“Unless ’tis your cottage missing a piece of its roof.”

“Mmm.”  Jonathan nodded, but Lord Quentin knew he was unconvinced. Cottages?  Roofs? Luton’s roof did not leak, why should anyone else’s do so?  Charles did not believe that Lord Sinclair was completely wanting in intelligence–he had managed to survive Oxford after all–but he was stolid and unimaginative in his thinking. Latin had provided fewer problems for the marquess than literature and its confusion of fictional characters.

“I’ll be back shortly after Boxing Day,” he told Jonathan. “Father saw to the servants’ gifts personally, and I’ll do no less.”

Tradition and duty were two aspects of a nobleman’s life that Lord Sinclair comprehended very well. “Of course,” he said, surrendering the point with grace. “Celia and I will look forward to your return.”

“Ah. Yes,” said Lord Quentin. He left the library shortly afterward, not realizing until much later that he had never mentioned anything to Jonathan about the governess.

* * * *

Helène relaxed back into her bed with a contented sigh, all thoughts of a certain high-handed lord forgotten for the moment. She looked at the supper tray, realizing that she had–oh, the wonder of it all–left a bit of meat pastry uneaten. Three meals that day, and tomorrow, too, no doubt!  An entire wax candle at her disposal, and a warm, clean bed.

All that I lack, thought Helène, is a book. I’m not complaining. But with an entire candle, and without Papa to see to in the middle of the night, when he came home roaring and jug-bitten from the Cook’s Goose–

Helène took a slow breath, her pleasant mood threatening to evaporate. Her poor father. Her poor, charming but often imprudent father. Convinced to the last that he could once again, someday, be a “Purveyor of Fine Équipage” to the mighty of the
ton
. Even as he sickened, and they marched down to their last few pounds and bits of jewelry to sell.

Nathaniel Phillips had been a puzzle to many who knew him. Orphaned as a boy, raised by a country parson and his good wife to have fair manners and a share of book learning, he had eventually been apprenticed to a carriagemaker in London. Years of providing fine carriages to people who were no better in wit than himself, but who would barely deign to touch his hand, had left him untouched until her mother died. Then the bitterness had surfaced, and in force– 

No. She didn’t want to think about Papa right now. If she was to be thrown out into the snow tomorrow she could still enjoy tonight. A nice, long book was all that was missing, and Helène was determined to find one. The library, according to Alice and Peter, was almost directly beneath her own room, two floors away, and if she used the back staircase it should be easy to slip in and out unseen. Helène felt convinced that the fine lords and ladies of the house would now be doing–well, whatever it was that they did in the evening. Playing cards, perhaps. Or gambling large sums of money on trifles. Surely not reading.

* * * *

The Luton Court library struck Lord Quentin as the most unexpected part of the marquess’s estate. There were times one could swear Jonathan didn’t have two thoughts in his head, but with regard to books Charles could detect no fault in his friend’s judgment. The collection of medieval illuminated manuscripts, for example, was marvelous. All under lock and key, of course. Charles’s interest this evening was in something more prosaic, something to lull him to sleep.

The slightest breath of a draught stirred the fire, and Lord Quentin looked around to see– 

The devil take it. Lady Sinclair, still dressed in her evening gown–thank heavens–but with hair
déshabillé
, closed the library door. She set the lock and stood eyeing him without a word.

Silence. It seemed to stretch on forever.

“Good evening,” said Lord Quentin
en fin
. He made no move to approach the marchioness and suddenly felt quite tired of the whole situation. Had the marchioness expected to find him here?  Was she dipping deep yet again?   “I was about to retire, so I shall leave you in peace.”