The Carriagemaker's Daughter (31 page)

But it seemed that the odious squire couldn’t manage the job himself. Those two revolting hooligans he had brought with him were really the outside of enough... .

“What is happening!”  A shrill cry came from behind the marchioness. “My heart–I cannot bear it!  Are we all to be murdered in our beds?”

Celia turned, and ventured a tipsy smile. Lady Harkins had arrived.

The entry hall erupted in a babel of speech.

 “There is some mistake,” Lady Pamela was saying. “You must wait until–”

“Well, like her ladyship says–”

“We’re ruffians!” crowed Torvin.

“Celia–”

“I knew she was a thief the moment I set eyes on her!  Why Lord Sinclair would ever hire such a–”

“I didn’t steal anything,” cried Helène. “I didn’t steal
anything
.”

Sir Malcolm swallowed, the discomfort growing in his gut. This was no scullery maid, he could see that now. Dressed fine as a lady, and friends to his lordship’s sister, by the looks of it. Damn Lady Sinclair for getting him into this. She had assured him that the marquess would approve his actions, but here was the sister, taking exception. It wasn’t his fault!  He was only doing what he was told!

What was he supposed to do now?

Squire Brigsby wasn’t entirely a fool. He understood that Lady Pamela was a power to be reckoned with on the Luton estates. But Lady Sinclair was the marquess’s wife. Surely she was the more important–

“Telford!  Where the devil is the blasted butler?”

“Just look at her, standing there pretty as you please!  I will be inspecting my own jewelry case, and if–”

“Celia, will you please explain–”

Difficult decisions were never Squire Brigsby’s strength. He swallowed again, and tried to think, but the ladies were arguing loudly and the footman looked as if he had designs on Sir Malcolm’s neck. It was too much to consider, all at once. He should leave immediately–yes, leave. The squire puffed out his chest, thinking to announce his departure, but as he did so, a button of his weskit popped and fell to the floor, rolling off into the darkness. He heard a snort of feminine laughter and felt anger surge.

So be it, thought Sir Malcolm. I am the magistrate of this township, and the Marchioness of Luton has accused this young woman of theft.

She is coming with me.

Lady Sinclair and Lady Harkins descended to the front hall, and the noise level rose another notch.

 “A crime has been committed,” declared Sir Malcolm. “It is my duty–”

“I didn’t take Lady Sinclair’s necklace,” said Helène, who had recovered her color and was protesting angrily. “I don’t know what you are talking about!”

“A criminal!  I knew it all along.”

“I can assure you that Miss Phillips would never–”

“It was missing from my jewelry box this morning. I’ve searched–”

“The only crime
I
see,” said Amanda, “is those breeches.”

The squire glared at Lady Detweiler and began backing toward the front door, one nervous eye on the footman. He motioned for Petrus and Torvin to follow with Helène.

“It’s the law,” he said. “You can’t stop me.”

“Leave her alone!” cried James. He moved toward the brothers, but there was a sudden flash of metal and a knife appeared in Petrus’s hand.

“James,” said Lady Pam. “No.”   If there was a fight, the person most likely to be injured was the footman himself.

“But, milady–”

Amanda stepped forward, glaring at Petrus. “Put that ridiculous thing down!” she said, motioning toward the knife.

Celia spoke again. “This is none of your affair, Lady Detweiler,” she cried. “Leave him to do his job.”

Lady Detweiler rounded on the marchioness. Her eyes flashed mayhem, and Lady Pamela clearly saw, for the first time, the blood of the French king that flowed in her friend’s veins.

“You do not tell me what I may or may not do,” said Amanda. “You do not tell
me
anything at all.”

* * * *

Petrus Emory had little tolerance for the gentry, especially the female gentry. Remembering the time that Lady Pamela had caught him with the fishmonger’s daughter, he scowled at her and Amanda. Interfering busybodies!   Always stickin’ their noses where they ain’t wanted. The girl’s clothing might be that of a lady, but she was only a governess, wasn’t she?  And a thief.

Bloody hell, thought Petrus. The stupid coves’ll be crownin’ the slut queen if this goes on. An’ I know where that’ll be going. Be going that we don’ get our pay, that’s where.

“Bunch’a gobs, the lot a’ ye,” said Petrus suddenly. He turned and, without warning, struck Lady Detweiler hard across her cheek. She crumpled soundlessly to the floor.

Torvin jumped up and down in excitement. Celia and Lady Harkins both screamed.

“Oh, now, I do say,” protested Sir Malcolm.

Lady Pamela tried to reach Amanda, only to be stopped by both Emorys. “Get back!” said Petrus furiously. “Or I’ll cuff ’er again.”  Giving Helène’s arm a vicious yank, he addressed Sir Malcolm.

“Come on then,” said Petrus. “You wanted the silly chit, you got ’er.”

Lord Quentin could not believe he had heard his friend correctly. What was Jonathan talking about?  Miss Phillips–his wife?

“But,” sputtered Charles, “but she’s a
governess
.”

“Ah, yes,” said Lord Sinclair. “Yes, she is, isn’t she?  One tends to forget. The fine deportment and all that, you know. Excellent French–”

“If you will recall, I am the future Earl of Tavelstoke. I cannot marry a... a chit of no breeding whatsoever.”  Lord Quentin almost flinched at his own words.
I sound so pompous,
he thought.

“–and such an elegant wardrobe. Superb taste. Can’t you imagine her at a fine London
soirée
?  Put a few duchesses to shame, I dare say.”

Her
wardrobe
?  Even Jonathan must realize that Lady Pamela had bought Miss Phillips every stitch of her present clothing, thought Lord Quentin. But the marquess’s words had released another flood of memory, and this time the pain was tinged with despair.

The future Countess of Tavelstoke. Marriage. It was inevitable–and sooner rather than later, given the state of his father’s health. The earl would love to see grandchildren, love to see the title fixed on a third generation before his death. It was common decency to oblige him if he could. Charles had assumed he would pick a likely girl from some year’s crop of
ton
debutantes, a decorative young miss of good family.

Someone it would not be a trial to face over the breakfast table each morning.

When I marry
, Lord Quentin thought
, I will need to spend time with my wife and my children
. His own father had never abandoned him to the care of nannies, and Charles would do no less.

But what, then, of Miss Helène Phillips?

* * * *

Petrus and Torvin dragged Helène out the door. She did not resist, judging it fruitless for now and a waste of her strength. A battered coach stood in the front drive, and behind it an even sorrier-looking hayrack. The two men motioned toward the rack, and Helène, sneezing, climbed onto the straw .

The men followed her into the rack, leering at Helène, but evidently Sir Malcolm drew the line at rape.

“If you touch her,” he warned Petrus, “you won’t get a penny.”

The squire produced a heavy wool blanket from the coach and threw it at Helène. Shivering, she drew it around herself and shrank into the straw. he It was perhaps a half-hour’s drive from Luton Court to the squire’s home. To the governess’s relief, the brothers took Sir Malcolm’s warning to heart;  Petrus glanced at Helène from time to time, and spat, but otherwise left her alone. When the hayrack and coach finally arrived at Noble Oaks Manor, the two men jumped out and approached the squire for their pay; they then disappeared without a word.

Helène stretched cramped legs and looked around her in the gloom, remembering Lady Detweiler’s comment about the Brigsby home. “Noble Oaks, my aunt Fanny,” Amanda had remarked. And indeed, what she could see of the place in the dark–a square brick building overgrown with ivy–was far from reassuring. She started to climb out of the rack.

“Malcolm!”

The squire’s wife had appeared on the front steps. “Malcolm!” she screeched again, “what do you think you are doing with
her
?”

James carried the unconscious Lady Detweiler to her rooms; Lady Pamela hurried alongside, torn between her worries for Amanda and Miss Phillips. Celia had disappeared along with Beatrice Harkins. It was a small favor, as Pam was not sure what she trusted herself to say to her sister-in-law.

A stolen necklace, indeed!  Lady Pam hadn’t believed the marchioness’s story for a moment; nor, she knew, had Amanda. She must send a groom to Tavelstoke with a message for her brother, but the first priority was to call for the doctor.

“James,” she began, but the footman was already out the door and on his way to the stables. At the moment there was nothing more to be done, and Pam turned her attention to Lady Detweiler.

Amanda’s right eye was swollen shut and her left cheek horribly bruised, the skin broken in one spot and seeping blood. Lady Pamela fought down a moment’s panic at the sight. “Amanda?” she whispered.

“Where’s the bleedin’ brandy?” was the faint reply.

* * * *

Helène stood on the front steps of Noble Oaks Manor, waiting in the cold as Lady Brigsby berated her husband.

“I won’t have her in the house!” declared the squire’s wife.

“Come now, Edith,” said Sir Malcolm, “’twas the marchioness’s express direction. The girl stole a necklace, and I
am
the magistrate–”

“Pah!” said Lady Brigsby.

What were they planning to do with her?  wondered Helène. She remembered a fragment of conversation from her father–

“There are no true gaols in the countryside,” Mr. Phillips had said. “The nobs take their turn plaguing the likes of us.”

So. It seemed that Sir Malcolm Brigsby was the local magistrate, and she would be held in his home on the charge of theft. Helène felt somewhat reassured. Lady Pamela would surely inquire after her, and the house could hardly be as bad as what she had heard of London prisons.

“She’ll be put in the cellar room, like the rest of them,” Sir Malcolm was saying.

The cellar?

“Well... I suppose–” said his wife.

“Don’t worry, my love,” said Sir Malcolm. “I’ll send her on to town straightaway.”

* * * *

Lady Sinclair allowed Aggie to help her out of her gown and then sent the girl off with a curt word. The evening’s arrangements had dissolved into fiasco, and Celia was sure someone else must be to blame.

Her head ached so abominably she could hardly think– 

How dare that upstart Sir Malcolm bring such men into Luton Court!  Celia realized that she had thought nothing about
how
Miss Phillips was to be arrested; only that Beatrice Harkins hear of it. And why did they take the girl away?  Surely the marchioness could not have expected anyone to take her complaint so seriously. ’Twas only a necklace, after all, nothing more than a trifle.

And how could she have known that either Pamela or Lady Detweiler would put themselves to real trouble on Helène’s behalf, let alone stand up to those thugs!  The girl was a governess, for heaven’s sake. Little more than a
servant
.

But now there had been a fuss, and Amanda Detweiler–
Lady
Amanda Detweiler, of the Clairveax-Detweiler clan–had been injured. Even badly injured, perhaps, and this was scandal-broth of a far different flavor. Her own name, Celia knew, would not fare well when stacked against that of Amanda and Lady Pamela Sinclair. Eyebrows would be raised, and although Miss Phillips would assuredly still be ruined, the marchioness’s reputation would suffer as well.

Jonathan will be furious, thought Celia. Tears came once again, and she sat on the floor at the foot of her bed, burying her head in her hands. Oh, Jonathan, what have I done?  She could not bear to think of it, didn’t wish to think of anything at all–

More sherry. She must have another drink or there would be no sleep at all this night.

* * * *

Charles and Jonathan, both staggering slightly from the combined effects of exhaustion and drink, found their beds sometime after midnight. There had been no more talk of governesses or marriage, and Lord Quentin was beginning to think that he might be able to find an approximation of contentment in the next weeks at Tavelstoke.

Women, thought Charles fuzzily, as sleep claimed him, were only a pleasant
divertissement
in the life of a true gentleman. Really, how could one think otherwise?   Apart for the need of an heir, females were hardly a necessity. Now, as to the more important things in life . . .

Despite his fatigue Lord Quentin tossed restlessly through much of the night, dreaming of Miss Helène Phillips as he had first seen her; dirty, ragged, desperate with hunger and the cold. There was nothing in his mind’s figure of her that suggested a lady. Nothing at all.

* * * *

The doctor arrived within the hour, and clucked at the sight of Lady Detweiler’s eye and the broken skin of her cheek. Amanda showed signs of a fever; Doctor Howorth cleaned the wound and prescribed a dose of willow-bark powders, promising to return first thing the next morning.

It was now the middle of the night and, worried as she was about Helène, Lady Pamela would not ask a groom to attempt the journey to Tavelstoke before morning. She spent the wakeful hours at Amanda’s bedside, composing one message after another to the marquess and discarding each one as unlikely to provoke her brother to the needed haste. Celia’s involvement complicated matters, as Pam could see no tactful way of informing Jonathan that his wife was the author of the trumped-up charge of theft. Lady Pamela would have preferred that Charles Quentin hear nothing about a stolen necklace, or discover that Helène had been arrested, but in the end she decided that there was no help for it.

My dearest brother, wrote Pam -

Miss Phillips has been arrested by Malcolm Brigsby–