The Carriagemaker's Daughter (26 page)

“Your best!”  said Lady Pamela, exasperated.

“Yes, indeed. Besides, I rather thought Celia would keep him occupied.”  Lord Sinclair paused, fork in air, and sent his sister a wounded look. “Can I help it that he insisted on asking the girl for a waltz?”

Pam stared at him. Celia–keep Lord Quentin occupied?  What fresh nonsense was this? 

“Jonathan,” she said, carefully. “You cannot understand what you are saying.”

“My dear sister, I assure you–”

“Celia is your wife. You cannot have intended to throw her at another man!”

Lord Sinclair set his fork down on the plate and waved for the footman to take it away. His expression was hard, his tone abruptly serious. “Pamela. This is neither the time nor place for this discussion. Lady Sinclair’s activities are none of your affair.” 

It was as much of a set-down as he had ever offered, and Lady Pamela was both astonished and more than a little pleased. Perhaps the marquess wasn’t as indifferent to his wife as he had recently appeared. But if so, why not pay her the attention she craved?  Ignoring Celia was asking for trouble, and Jonathan must know it.

“But–” she began.

“Milord?”  Telford had entered the breakfast room without brother or sister noticing; the butler held out a silver tray with the morning’s post. Lord Sinclair handed one of the envelopes to Pam and, as was their custom of long-standing, conversation ceased while the marquess read his mail.

Lady Pamela slit open her own envelope with impatience, the precise hand of its address marking it as a letter from her man-of-affairs.

My lady,
wrote Mr. Witherspoon,

Regarding the person of interest. He does, in fact, exist and

is the acknowledged heir, being the third brother’s only son.

He is presently somewhere in the Americas–

Bother!  Of all the ill luck.

–although sources expect him back in England at almost

any month. Does my lady wish to be kept informed

of further developments?

Yes, thought Pam. My lady most certainly does. Forgetting the argument with the marquess, along with the rest of her breakfast, she rose from the table.

“Hmm?” said Jonathan.

“ ’Tis nothing,” replied Lady Pam. She hurried to her rooms to pen a reply, and Lord Sinclair, immersed in some interesting correspondence of his own, only noticed her absence several minutes later.

* * * *

Two days after the
bal d’hiver
, Helène received a message of her own. The envelope must have been slipped beneath the door in the early hours of the morning; it was the first thing she saw upon awakening and she regarded it from the distance of her bed in all the anticipation with which one might regard an uncoiling snake.

A letter?  This boded no good.

The address gave her only a small clue to the writer; a man’s fist, she decided, and her mind leaped immediately and painfully to Lord Quentin. Helène placed the envelope on her nightstand, imagining that it felt hot to her touch, or that she could hear the soft susurration of skin against skin. She sat on the bed and brushed out her hair, determinedly counting the strokes.

Ten, twenty, thirty–

And what if it
was
from Lord Quentin?  What could he possibly have to say that would interest her?  She had thrown herself into the children’s studies ever since the morning after the ball, spending most of her waking hours in the nursery.
He
had not approached her there, and she had strictly avoided the library.

Forty, fifty, sixty–

Helène glanced at the fire. Burn it, she told herself, but after a moment’s reflection it was clear that she could no more destroy even a
possible
letter from Lord Quentin than she could swim to the moon. It would be, in fact, only a matter of seconds before she tore the thing open... .

Seventy. Eighty.

Helène forced herself to complete one hundred strokes, then slit open the envelope and laid the sheet of heavy cream vellum on the bedspread. Three short lines of a vigorous, scrawling hand–

The stables at nine o’clock tomorrow.

I should like to show you the Pantheon

–and apologize.

 
–Q.

Helène stared at the note, wondering what to make of it. Did he really wish to apologize?

And what did he mean by the
Pantheon
?

No, she thought. I could never forget what he said to me out on the terrace. Helène sat at her writing desk to pen a refusal, but even as she wrote she knew that the paper would soon be crumpled and tossed into the fire. She was going on that ride with Lord Charles Quentin. She was going to change her mind.

I must confront him, Helène told herself. I refuse to spend my days hidden away, afraid to set foot outside the nursery door. This is his fault, not mine!

Let him face me and apologize. Let him see, once and for all, that I do not care.

* * * *

Lord Quentin was carefully combing a few last burrs from Alcibiades’s coat, confounded as always by what the stallion managed to pick up in the dead of winter, when he heard Miss Phillips’s soft, musical voice calling out to the groom.

“Mr. Jennings?”

“Good morning, miss,” answered Jennings. “Milord’s asked for Ha’penny to be saddled for you. Won’t be but a trice.”

“Thank you,” answered the governess, and Lord Quentin grinned. It appeared that the stubborn Miss Phillips did intend to ride with him and had not arrived at the stables merely to ring a peal over his head. As Helène came into view he saw that she was dressed in the wine-red habit that he had found so pleasing before. Charles’s eyes took in every detail, noting appreciatively that the governess’s lithe curves were only partly obscured by the added protection of a redingote.

Lord Quentin took a deep breath and sternly reminded himself that his mission today was one of apology.
Today
he would make no disreputable suggestions to the governess and do nothing to frighten her away. It was difficult... .

And suddenly she was there, standing directly before him with eyes flashing green fire, challenging his resolve. Charles fought to control his racing heart. Helène Phillips was beautiful, intelligent, and full of spirit–and very desirable.

Lord Quentin concentrated on putting the final touches to Alcibiades’s coat, his body keenly aware of the nearness of hers.

“The Pantheon, my lord?”  The governess cocked her head to one side, her expression dubious and wary.

“Ah. Ah, yes,” managed Charles.

“ ’Tis far from here?”

“A quarter hour’s ride, perhaps.”

“A long way’s ride for an apology.”  The words were spoken softly, her eyes never wavering from his.

“Miss Phillips,” said Charles, reaching out–

The governess turned away, shifting her attention to Alcibiades. The set of her shoulders spoke eloquently of her distrust, even if he could not see her face.

“Miss Phillips, I apologize abjectly here and now. My behavior was inexcusable–”

A shrug of those elegant shoulders.

“–but if you will give me the chance . . .”  Charles trailed off, wondering if she would now go–or stay.

The girl murmured softly to the stallion and stroked the blaze on his forehead. The horse nickered and sent a look to Charles as if to say, why has this delightful human not accompanied us in the past?

Faithless beast.

“I assume we are talking about a folly of some sort,” said Helène finally. “In miniature, no doubt–though I hope it’s more than the size of a henhouse.”

“A bit more,” said Lord Quentin. He was trying not to grin. She would stay!

“Well, then, I shall... I shall accompany you. You have managed to pique my curiosity.”

Ha’penny was brought round and he threw her up into the saddle. The feel of her waist under his hands threatened to break Lord Quentin’s composure; he quickly turned away to mount Alcibiades.

* * * *

For her part, Helène was far from sure why she was even here. How could she forget the humiliating words Lord Quentin had said to her at the ball?  How could she have agreed to ride out with him?  She should have refused his company, apology or no.

So the little voice had argued for most of that morning. But Helène–sitting on her bed, close to tears, her heart faltering under the grip of a giant fist that was trying to squeeze out every last drop of blood–had found herself unable to bear the thought of never seeing Lord Charles Quentin again. In the end, she had negotiated a settlement with the little voice.

She would ride with him this morning. Even a folly Pantheon, so she insisted, was worth the blow to her pride. And really, it would hardly matter. Lord Quentin would disappear, like the other houseguests, when the party broke up in another week’s time. She would continue to refuse his
carte blanche
, he would leave, and that would be the end of it. A morning’s ride could hardly affect the inevitable outcome of their association.

Refuse his
carte blanche
. She would refuse it. She would.

* * * *

Lord Quentin hoped that their departure had gone unnoticed by any of the other guests. The rules for a Bedfordshire houseparty were relaxed compared to those of town, and it was accepted that a gentleman and lady might ride out together of a morning, but he did not care to push the point too far. At least ’twas a pleasant morning, and Miss Phillips seemed suitably impressed by the scenic qualities of their route. A cobalt blue sky rose above the brilliant white of the snow, and the temperature–which had hovered below freezing for much of the early part of January–was now warm enough that they were comfortable, but not so warm that the lanes had turned to muddy slush.

First skirting the wooded hills that made up a substantial portion of the marquess’s property, Charles led them into a wide valley run through with the river Lea. Water sparkled in the distance and quail darted in and out among the sheltering trees. As they neared the river a loud rustling sounded from the bushes to one side, followed by a series of sharp cracks.

“Oh!”

 A huge buck bounded across their path in a flurry of snow, no more than three or four yards away. Miss Phillips was enthralled; Alcibiades and Ha’penny both disdained to take notice.

Her seat had much improved since the first lesson with Lady Pam, noted Lord Quentin. Nervous riders made for nervous mounts, but Ha’penny was clearly at ease, and Miss Phillips handled the reins with the light touch the mare deserved. Charles had thought to watch the governess closely, as one did a novice, but his attention seemed continually diverted by the sight of the snugly tailored wool of her costume. Searching for something to distract his thoughts, Lord Quentin decided to pay the governess a compliment.

“For a inexperienced rider,” he said, “you have a natural rapport with horses.”

“They are marvelous animals. My father always–”  She broke off.

“Yes?”  He encouraged her with a smile.

Helène regarded him levelly, as if considering whether or not to continue. “My father,” she said, after a moment. “My father knew everything there was to know about horses.”

“But you did not ride.”

“No.”  A longer hesitation, then–“He was a carriagemaker.”

“Ah.”

“Father loved horses,” added the governess. “ ‘Twas all he talked about. I think he would have happily bred them for a living, but that... that wasn’t possible.”

“So he built carriages for them.”

“Designed and built. Yes. He wanted each animal to have the best.”

They rode on in silence for several minutes. It was, of course, no more than what Charles might have expected, and it was perhaps to his credit that Miss Phillips’s father even had
an occupation, or indeed, that she knew a father at all. Still, the reality of her background was a jolt, and Lord Quentin realized that he had begun to think of Miss Helène Phillips as a young woman of quality. But with a family in trade, the father
selling
carriages to members of Charles’s own class... .

Something nagged at his memory. Phillips. A carriagemaker. Lord Quentin did not recall the name, but he and the earl had spent little time in England before these last five years, and the governess had told him that her father had since passed away. A carriagemaker . . .

A sudden gasp of pleasure brought Lord Quentin back to the here and now.

“It’s
magnificent
,” breathed Miss Phillips. They had reached the top of a small hill, and she was staring in delight at the sweep of terrain before them. “And how extraordinary that the lake be so perfectly situated.”

Lord Quentin smiled, wondering if he should tell her that the landscape, although every bit as beautiful as she said, was the product of merely human design. The far end of the valley had once been mostly swamp, but at some point an earthen dam had been contrived, with the result that the river widened into a lake. Groves of birch and willow had been planted at its edge; their empty branches now reflected white and cream against both ice and quiet water.

“It is quite... unusual,” he allowed.

“But where is the folly?”   Miss Phillips twisted around in the saddle, looking for the promised Pantheon.

“It is a scenic spot for Roman ruins,” he twitted her, “but hardly authentic. The real Pantheon is nowhere near water.”

“Yes, of course, but–”  The governess looked dubious, and Charles wondered if she thought he had lured her here with false promises.

“Oh, ye of little faith. The pride of Rome ’tis just over there behind that group of trees. Watch the ice at the edge, now–” 

He led them along the eastern shore of the lake to a large copse of pine. Beneath the sheltering trees the drifts were not so deep, and in the clearings Charles caught sight of a few snow crocuses braving the late January thaw.

“Dear heavens,” said Miss Phillips. She clapped her hands in delight, like a child, and Charles leaned quickly to catch the reins as she dropped them.

A much larger clearing had opened before them and there it was, the ancient dome arching improbably into the blue of an English sky.