The Carriagemaker's Daughter (17 page)

“To
better
myself!”   Helène’s voice rose, her fury suddenly complete. She could feel the guests–and Lady Sinclair, certainly–turning to look at Lord Quentin and herself. Disaster loomed, inexorable and hungry.

“Miss Phillips!  Miss Phillips!”

Alice and Peter appeared at her side, tugging on her cape. Lady Pamela was close at their heels and Lady Detweiler–Helène noticed, from the corner of her eye–had engaged the viscountess and Lady Harkins in animated conversation.

“Miss Phillips!  Aunt Pamela said we can help cut the tree!” 

“Cut the tree?”   Helène was all at sea for a moment. What tree?

Lord Quentin proved faster to respond. He looked at the children and frowned. “I’m sure your father will let you watch us, but–”

“Sorry,” interjected Lady Pamela, moving quickly to Helène’s side. She sent a speaking look to Lord Quentin. “Best I could think of on the spur of the moment. Now, Alice–” She turned her attention to the girl. “Please explain to Peter that when I said help
cut
the tree, what I meant was–”

“But, Aunt Pamela!”

“You
said
–!”

“Alice. Peter.”   Helène’s voice was soft. The children immediately stopped arguing and turned their attention to her. Lord Quentin chuckled.

“How do you
do
that?” asked Lady Pamela.

“When the gentlemen are ready to cut the tree, you may watch, but only if you are standing next to me and holding my hand.”

“Yes, Miss Phillips,” chorused Alice and Peter.

“Now, come along. The fire has made me quite thirsty, and I shall need you to help me find some hot chocolate.”  Helène left Lady Pamela with Lord Quentin and, one child in each hand, walked away without a backward glance.

“Lord Quentin, a word with you if I may,” said Pamela Sinclair.

* * * *

The gentlemen had selected a well-formed pine not too far from the clearing and were now rallying to the cause, bearing axes and a two-man timber saw. Men and their traditions!    However much she may have reassured Helène, Lady Pamela had always worried that the St. Raymond’s Day tree-cutting was an affair ripe for disaster. Amanda was quite correct about the amount of spirits that were generally consumed. But the marquess had undergone a long apprenticeship during their father’s day, and her brother was generally trustworthy in matters of straightforward labor. This year, as it happened, they also had the Viscount Dreybridge, who was a dab hand with an axe. The viscount and Lord Quentin had remained more sober than some of the rest and Jonathan now set them to work.

“Alice!  Peter!  Come to mama, darlings.”

The voice, against all expectation, was that of Lady Sinclair. She stood as close to the working group of men as she dared, with her rabbit’s fur muff in one hand and champagne in the other, and called for the children.

“Good heavens. What is Celia going on about now?” was Amanda’s comment. “Is she trying to add ‘maternal’ to her list of talents?”

“I should say so,” said Lady Pamela.

“I don’t think she’s that good an actress.”

“She does try with them, you know,” added Pam. “And I suppose she’s noticed that Charles is fond of children.” 

It was true. Alice and Peter, with the unerring instinct of the young, had discovered that Lord Quentin  was the one gentleman of the party with a gift for play. He’d been flat on his back making snow-angels with them earlier, and his coat still sported the evidence.

“If Celia thought the children were the key to Charles’s affection, I dare say she’d be down in the snow herself,” said Lady Detweiler. “Did you decide to tell him, by the way?”

“Mmm?”

“Don’t be coy,” said Amanda. “Did you tell Lord Quentin that he’s been making free with the granddaughter of a duke?”

Lady Pam sighed. She’d known for weeks that Charles found the governess attractive, but something else had happened between the two of them today.

“No,” she told Lady Detweiler. “And I don’t think I can–” 

“Oh, for pity’s sake, why not!”

Lady Pam considered this. “For one thing, Helène specifically asked me not to.”

“Pish-posh. She can hardly be twenty–what does she know?”

“Nineteen, I believe. But for some people nineteen is as good as thirty. Perhaps she would prefer to be loved for herself.”

“Idealistic nonsense. What on earth would it mean?  No one is ever loved for themselves. Their looks, their money, their connections, yes, but–”

Pamela laughed. The subject of true love never failed as a source of skeptical comment from Amanda.

“So, what was it?” asked Amanda.

“What was what?”

Amanda threw up her hands. “How can we gossip if you won’t pay attention?  What
did
you tell the illustrious Lord Quentin?”

“That if he was the cause of Helène’s dismissal, I should have Jonathan call him out.”

That was too much even for Lady Detweiler. She snorted. “D’ you want your brother killed?  Besides, wouldn’t the marquess be the one who had dismissed her?”

“Mmm,” said Lady Pam. “That’s a point. But Lord Quentin assured me that there was no mischief afoot.”

Amanda groaned. “I shall despair of you yet. She’s a woman. He’s a man. Of course there will be mischief.”

* * * *

As the men prepared to make the final, uphill cut on the St. Raymond’s Day tree, Lord Sinclair rounded up the more inebriated and instructed them to stay out of harm’s way. The marchioness kept Alice and Peter at her side, and the best Helène could do was to stay as close to Lady Sinclair as she dared.

“
Evoe!
” shouted the marquess, an ancient Luton battle cry. An ear-splitting report rattled the ground and bounced off the nearby hills, and the tree–slowly, as if sinking through water– began to lay itself down on the hill. Helène watched in mixed trepidation and awe. She had never seen anything so large... fall. The tree continued its descent for what seemed like minutes, tearing branches from neighboring trees with a
crack crack
crack
. Then came a thunderous crash that she felt through her feet, and finally, abruptly, silence. Peter, entranced by the huge cloud of snow flung into the air by the tree’s impact, slipped from Lady Sinclair’s grasp and dashed forward. But the pine, although horizontal, was not at rest. It shifted slightly and began to roll.

“Peter!” cried Helène. She ran forward to grab his arm, and caught it–

–too late. The boy fell, his feet slipped under the trunk, and down they went in the snow. Helène tried to cover Peter’s body with hers. Above them echoed the terrific noise of a branch splintering  as the tree continued to shift... then, again, silence.

* * * *

Lord Quentin was wielding the final cuts of the axe and did not see Peter run forward, turning around only at Helène’s cry. The boy and the governess went down in a flurry of snow and breaking tree limbs as the tree continued to roll–only another few inches, but it seemed to take an eternity. He could see a small foot . . .

Why had she let go of the child’s hand?   Lord Sinclair was already on his knees in the snow, digging, and in the next moment Charles and the viscount were at his side. The party was a babble of confusion. The men worked furiously, with Alice crying in the background, Lady Pamela comforting her, Celia wailing some complaint–

A second foot appeared, then the green wool of a woman’s cape.

“Take care,” said the marquess. “There may be broken bones.”

“Papa!”  Peter’s face appeared from under the cape, followed by an arm. He was scratched but otherwise unhurt and Lord Sinclair lifted him gently away from the tree. Lady Detweiler retrieved the boy, and the men returned to Helène, who was still motionless in the snow. Her breathing was regular, however, and there was no obvious injury. Charles carefully felt the back of her neck.

“Miss Phillips,” said Jonathan. “Miss Phillips, you must wake up.”

“Mmm,” came the murmur. Her eyes fluttered open, and she stared at nothing in particular.

“Cold,” she said, eyes threatening to close.

“
Miss Phillips
,” said the marquess. “We will assist you directly, but we must know if you can move your legs.”

This had some effect. Another second’s silence, then Helène struggled to sit up in the snow.

“Do not move,” commanded the marquess.

“I am quite fine,” she told him, coming to her senses. “And yes, I can move my legs–and feel them, too. They are very cold. Now if one of you gentlemen would be so kind–”

She extended her hand. It was at this moment–he couldn’t have explained the impulse, he only knew that the scare had left him angry and shaken–that Lord Quentin lost his temper.

“You harebrained little fool!  You could have been killed!  What were you about, not keeping a good hand on the boy?”

Helène hesitated. The marquess, who knew what had happened, and who wished to have a word with his wife before discussing the matter with anyone else, sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He shrugged at Helène.

“You’re quite right, my lord,” said Helène. “It was very foolish.”

This stopped the tirade. “Indeed,” muttered Charles, and he stalked away.

* * * *

Lord Sinclair had an extended, private conversation with his son while the rest of the men sawed off the remaining branches and then roped the tree to a team of horses. The head groomsman was in charge of walking the team to the village, dragging the pine behind them through the snow, while the rest of the party prepared for the evening’s ride in a hayrack. Peter had objected loudly and at length to missing this portion of the day’s entertainment. In the end, Helène and Pamela tucked him and Alice snugly into the hay, covered them with a pile of blankets, and watched for the three or four minutes it took before both children were soundly asleep.

The other guests crowded after them into the racks. Lady Sinclair and Lord Quentin sat together, and although it was difficult to see much in the dark–the torches being reserved for the benefit of horses and driver–Helène caught occasional snatches of their conversation. It was more than she wished to hear. The marchioness had, by this time, imbibed a very large quantity of champagne, and she was a giggly, affectionate drunk.

“Tonight,” she thought she heard Lady Sinclair whisper.

But Helène didn’t catch Lord Quentin’s reply.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The governess can expect immediate dismissal for any of the following indiscretions…

Charles paced back and forth in his bedroom, trying to convince himself that his current state of nervous agitation was in no way his own fault. Two wives under one roof–wasn’t that the ancient symbol for disaster?  And even if neither of
these
two women was actually married to him–

Blast and damn. A man wasn’t meant to live like a monk, whatever the monks might think about it. It was unnatural. But the woman he wanted...

The woman he wanted had just turned down his offer to make her his mistress. He could still hardly believe it. A blasted governess!   And he was the heir to the Earl of Tavelstoke!  She was really too low-born for him in the first place, he didn’t know why he had even
considered
offering her
carte blanche
.

No. No, it had been a mistake from the first. He had any number of ladies–baronesses, countesses, the odd duchess–willing to dance to the tunes he played. He’d had no complaints, he could have his pick–

You don’t want your pick of the current crop of bored
ton
wives, said the little voice. You want Miss Helène Phillips, impoverished cit, currently employed as governess by the Marquess of Luton.

More fool you.

Footsteps sounded in the corridor outside. Lord Quentin stared at the bedroom door, knowing that at any moment Celia Sinclair could waltz right in. She had done her best to tease him in the hayrack, going so far as to attempt to unbutton his trews, whispering outrageous suggestions in his ear at the same time. It had left him feeling unsettled.

“Relax,” Celia had murmured. “I’m only trying to get warm.”

“Celia. Please.”

A certain amount of such carryings-on was expected, of course; in the black of a January night it was difficult for anyone to see whose hands went where. People crammed into the racks for warmth after an afternoon of brandy and mulled wine–it was almost traditional, really, for some bit of scandalous behavior that was forgotten on the morrow. The marquess was nowhere near and the blankets were a camouflage–

“Mmm,” said Celia.

–but he was aware of a certain auburn-haired chit, sitting next to Alice and Peter in the back of the rack.

Aware that she could hear them, if she wished. And Lord Quentin suspected that Miss Phillips was, indeed, listening.

“I believe he’s offered her
carte blanche
.” 

Lady Pamela warmed her feet in front of the bedroom fire. The hayracks had been snug enough, with all those blankets, but it had been a cold night. Her toes still felt numb.

 “Has she accepted?” asked Lady Detweiler, who was warming up in her own way, sipping brandy from an enormous snifter.

“I think not.”

“Smart girl.
Carte blanche
for a duke’s granddaughter?  He should marry her.”

“I rather imagine he thinks it’s a generous offer for a governess.”

“All the more reason you should tell him the truth before he makes a bigger fool of himself,” retorted Lady Detweiler. “He must be absolutely smitten. Celia was practically inside his trousers tonight. Why else would he put her off?”

Lady Pamela sighed. “Well, she is married–”

Amanda snorted.

“–and Jonathan is his best friend. Charles Quentin has rather definite ideas about honorable behavior.”

“I’ve never known a man whose sense of honor trumped his breeches.”

This earned her a snort of laughter from Lady Pamela. “You are,” she told Amanda, “the one truly cynical woman of my acquaintance.”

“Absolument.”

 All things considered, thought Pam, it had been a pleasant day, although she felt a chill when she thought about the accident. In her mind’s eye she could still see Peter running toward the fallen tree, Helène trying to catch him. Pamela knew as well as her brother did that Lady Sinclair had had the charge of Peter when he slipped away, and she was furious with Celia for allowing Miss Phillips to take the blame. She had tried to talk to Helène afterwards, but the governess was adamant that–as far as
she
was concerned–there was nothing to discuss.