The Carriagemaker's Daughter (2 page)

“Ah. The governess.”

“And you are–?” asked Helène.

“A house guest.”

 After this meager exchange, nothing further was said. The stallion trotted on, his stride fluid and steady, as the twilight became night and a light snowfall began. She watched the flakes descend, dusting the horse’s mane and glinting like bits of silver fire in the moonlight. Any sound from the surrounding woods was muffled and heavy in the snowfall. Soon the horse and its rider seemed the extent of Helène’s world, everything else unreal. Despite the renewed gnawings of hunger she felt comfortable and... and safe.

Papa. Papa, wake up.

I’ve brought the doctor. Papa–

Helène’s head came up with a jerk and she realized she had dozed off.
Good heavens,
she thought, sitting up a little straighter.
I hope I wasn’t asleep for long.
The road had narrowed, and the muddy ruts were smoothed over with a good layer of gravel. A regular planting of trees lined the sides–columnar beech from the look of it, although in the fading moonlight of a winter’s evening she couldn’t be sure.
It must be very pretty here in the summer,
thought Helène, muzzily.
I wonder what the gardens are like at Luton Court. Will there be any statues?
  She thought of a statue she had seen once of the Greek Apollo–quite shockingly naked–in another garden, another place. Strange to think of a man’s body as beautiful. Helène’s eyes began to close again.
His arms are so strong...

Wake up, she told herself, straightening again and taking a deep breath. Wake up. You don’t want this... person to think you are the type of woman who falls asleep in the arms of any stranger she happens to meet. Indeed not.

Mayhap we are poor, her father had told her, more than once, but the Phillips have always been respectable.

A bit of wishful thinking, perhaps, these days.

Their silent journey continued, the horse’s stride never faltering, the man seeming to take no notice of her at all. Although she was content for the most part to be ignored, Helène began to contemplate the appearance she would soon present to the marquess and marchioness, and she decided to risk voicing one complaint. She turned to look up into a strong, craggy face. The man raised his eyebrows.

Faint heart ne’er won fair maiden,
Helène could hear her father saying. ’Twas not the most logical adage for her current situation, but it would have to do. She took a deep breath.

“Your animal has destroyed my portmanteau,” she told the man, her voice firm. “I’m sure my things are ruined.”

“Your clothing?”  His voice sounded skeptical.

“Yes, my
clothing
!”

“Clothing of the sort that you are wearing now?”

Helène narrowed her eyes. Was the man short of wit?  “What other kind of clothing would you suppose?” she asked him.

“
Mademoiselle
, I must say that if the contents of your bag are similar to the costume you are wearing at present, it can hardly be much of a loss.” 

The tone of his voice betrayed amusement, but Helène was in no mood to be teased. Well!  she fumed. This was the outside of enough. Run down in the middle of a public road, accosted, her baggage ruined–and now insulted. Helène’s temper, never under the best of control, flared, and she tossed her head at him.

“Sir, I will thank you to put me down at once!”

“Certainly.”

A twitch on the reins, the horse stopped–and Helène found herself lifted to the ground.

“Good evening to you,
mademoiselle
, it was a pleasure to have been of some service.”

Her mouth agape, she stared at the rider in speechless fury as he rode off at a smart trot, and without a glance behind. He was out of sight around a curve in the road before she realized he still had her portmanteau.

“Oh!  Of all the despicable, odious,
pig
-headed–!”   She stomped after him, only to discover–as she rounded the curve herself–that Luton Court stood in front of her, lights burning from every window, and the front entrance not fifty yards away.

* * * *

Surely Harrison has arrived with the luggage by now, thought Lord Quentin, anticipating the pleasures of a hot bath and fresh clothing. He dismounted wearily from Alcibiades and tossed the reins to the waiting groom. The stallion snorted and stomped but Charles ignored him. He was gazing back in the direction from which he had come, watching, through the heavy snowfall, for a small figure to appear.

“Will you be wantin’ this... item, milord?” said the man, and Charles turned to see the governess’s portmanteau in his hands. The groom looked bemused, and Lord Quentin could only imagine what he thought of the torn and muddy bag.

“Yes–well, no.”  Charles was about to tell him to give it to the housekeeper with directions to hold it for the new governess, who would be arriving very shortly. But it had been a long, cold day, and he was tired, and he doubted if he could summon coherent instructions for the portmanteau.

“Oh, just give it here,” he said to the man. Charles dropped the bag on the steps, where it landed with a muddy squelch. The chit ought to see it there, he thought. And it would avoid any awkward explanations to Mrs. Tiggs.

“Very good, milord,” said the groom, carefully paying no further attention to the bag. He led Alcibiades away and Charles took one last look down the Sinclair’s long front drive. Ah, yes. There she was now. He turned and bounded up the staircase to the house.

* * * *

By the time Helène reached the steps of Sinclair Court she was as cold as before and much angrier. Left without help or transportation–twice!–by the high-and-mighty Sinclairs and now their high-and-mighty houseguest!  Pah!  Helène conveniently chose to forget that the rider had obviously known she was only yards away from Luton Court when he let her down. The Quality!  They were anything but, in her mind.

She trudged up the steps, thinking dark thoughts about gentlemen on horseback, and rapped smartly on an enormous double door. To her surprise, it swung back at once, and an imposing white-haired man stepped out, staring down his nose as if he had detected a noxious odor.

“Kitchen help applies to Mrs. Tiggs,” said the man, pointing somewhere off to her left. He started to close the door.

Tired as she was, Helène stood her ground. “I am Helène Phillips, the governess,” she told the butler. “And you are–?”   She almost laughed at the man’s reaction to that little piece of impudence. For a moment he looked too flustered to speak.

“Ah, yes,” he said finally, recovering. “Miss... Phillips.”  He intoned the words as if her name was painful to his throat. “Come this way please. I assume your luggage follows you?”

Her luggage. Blast and damn, thought Helène. The man had said he was a house guest of the Sinclairs, but she’d seen no sign of her portmanteau. What could she tell the butler?   Pardon me, but one of your guests rode off with my bag?  She murmured a vague agreement, hoping that the missing item would soon appear. The butler, who offered nothing more in the way of conversation, was already walking off at a brisk pace, and Helène had some difficulty scrambling to catch up.

What is wrong with me? she wondered. I feel so weak.   

They made their silent way through an enormous entrance hall, complete with potted palms twice her height and bust after bust of English literary figures. There was Marlowe, and Edmund Spenser... Goodness, what a disagreeable expression on
his
face. Helène was only half aware that she had stopped to look at the poet, and when she glanced around the butler was nearly out of sight. She hurried after him. The entrance hall seemed to stretch on forever. Her legs felt leaden, and twice she stumbled over marble that was polished smooth as glass.

Finally, just as Helène thought she could walk no further, they came to a grand staircase, also of marble and adorned with wrought iron balusters. The butler started up without a glance back. Helène followed him, her heart pounding, each step swimming before her eyes in a sea of exhaustion. Halfway up the staircase she paused to catch her breath.

“Come along, Miss Phillips,” commanded the butler.

“Yes–”

A long gallery, well-lit by candles and richly carpeted, greeted her at the top of the staircase. Under less trying circumstances the carpet might have impressed Helène with its plush elegance, but it was no easier to walk on than the marble had been. The butler, now yards ahead,  had stopped before a set of double doors. This, to Helène’s relief, was their destination.

The butler knocked, loudly, and a petulant voice responded with a complaint that Helène did not catch. They entered the perfumed and dimly lit room, and Helène saw a woman lying on a velvet chaise lounge in front of the fireplace, clasping a compress to her forehead.

“Your ladyship,” said the butler.

“Who is this, Telford?” asked the lady, glancing at Helène with a
moue
of distaste. “I don’t interview the scullery girls, you silly man. Take her to Mrs. Tiggs.”

“Miss Phillips, milady,” said the butler. “The governess.”  He turned on his heel and walked out. The woman looked up at her in surprise. She was a small woman and very pretty, Helène supposed, if you happened to be partial to soft brown hair and a pouting, rosebud mouth. The marchioness–for Helène couldn’t see how this woman could be anybody other than Lady Sinclair–sat up and frowned. She gave a sigh of disgust.

“I am Helène Phillips, ma’am,” said  Helène meekly, common sense prevailing over her irritation, at least for the moment.

“Such a headache, you have no idea,” said Lady Sinclair, lying back on the chaise with another sigh. “Well, this is all very inconvenient. You were to come today, you say?  I don’t remember any such thing.”

“Lady Sinclair, I’m sure you must have received my letter–”

“And what in heaven’s name are you wearing?” added the woman, glancing again in Helène’s direction and sniffing audibly. “This is quite, quite unacceptable. You must change into decent clothing at once. What will people say?   Why on earth we must have a new governess only weeks before Christmas I will never understand, and I’m really much too busy to be bothered–”

She continued in that vein for some time, and Helène heard her out in silence, wondering what she might be able to do about her clothing. She possessed a rose sarcanet that was marginally more fashionable than the brown wool, but it was hardly winter wear. And this was assuming she found her portmanteau, and assuming her clothing hadn’t been trampled into rags under the hooves of that brute stallion.

“Oh, never mind,” said the woman, with another martyred sigh. “Mrs. Tiggs can sort you out.”

“The children–?”

“Go and ask Mrs. Tiggs. I’m sure Alice and Peter are around somewhere.”

Lady Sinclair closed her eyes and waved Helène away. Helène stood there for a moment, debating whether this was the appropriate time to discuss the terms of her service with the Sinclair family.

“ ’
Tis best to begin as you mean to go on,
” her father had often told her, one of the few pieces of good advice he had had to give. If this was the marchioness’s usual attitude toward her employees, Helène doubted that her own temper would survive unnoticed for long.

But you’ve never been a governess before, she reminded herself. Perhaps this is how they are always treated.

She stood for a few more moments, wavering, then turned and left the room. The woman did not glance up and Helène shut the door behind her with just a tiny bit more force than necessary. What now?  The long upstairs corridor seemed to stretch on forever, punctuated with one closed door after another, and the butler was nowhere in sight.

What an odd house this was. Helène, deciding she was going to have to find the redoubtable Mrs. Tiggs on her own, started to retrace her steps.

“I trust you found your luggage,” came a newly familiar voice.

She whirled around to see the man from that afternoon standing behind her, his eyebrows cocked in question. Helène  resisted the impulse to step back and catch her breath. It was the first time she had seen him out of his riding cape, and although he was only somewhat above medium height, he was powerful in build. Broad shoulders, muscular thighs tautly encased in fine breechcloth–

“Mmm. My luggage?” said Helène.

His thighs are really none of your business, she reminded herself. She concentrated for a moment on his face. The man was not handsome in a conventional way. His nose was long and had a slight crook to it, as if it had been broken, and his face was... it was very . . .

Rugged, Helène decided. His clothing was of the finest quality, but the man didn’t really look like a fashionable London gentleman. He looked less tame. His thick brown hair was of medium length and arranged carelessly, with several locks falling over his forehead. She could find no fault with his eyes, however. They were a deep brown and–

Helène blinked. She had been staring, she was sure of it. How mortifying. Was the man speaking to her?

“I beg your pardon?”

“Yes–did you find your portmanteau?  I left it on the front steps.”

“The front steps!”

“You couldn’t possibly have missed seeing it.”  The man shrugged. “Well, never mind–it  will turn up eventually. The thing is hardly likely to be stolen.”

She was dirty, and exhausted, and suddenly very annoyed.

“Well, I
did
miss seeing it,” Helène told him. “Apparently I was lucky to even be allowed to set foot on the sainted front steps, and my chances of finding anyone to help me find a place to
sleep
in this house, let alone find my poor, trampled portmanteau–”

Helène stopped to catch her breath. She had lost her temper again, she thought miserably. The second time today.

The man shrugged again. “As you say. But would you have preferred explaining to Mrs. Tiggs how I ended up with the thing?”

Mrs. Tiggs again.

“I would have preferred that you hadn’t taken it in the first place!”

“
Taken
it–”

“Lord Quentin!” interrupted a high, breathy voice from the doorway.