The Carriagemaker's Daughter (7 page)

“Oh!  Well, there’s no need to run, my dear,” said Lady Sinclair, with a light laugh. “I’m  in search of fresh reading material, not you.”

“Afraid the books might escape?” said Charles, with a pointed glance at the locked door.

“Pah!”  Celia’s mouth turned down in a pout. “Charles, I can’t see the problem. It’s not as if Jonathan pays the slightest attention to anything I do–”

Lord Quentin wished that just
once
Jonathan would listen to his advice concerning women. “I’m sure that the marquess–” he began, but Celia waved her hand in furious dismissal.

“I don’t want to hear about the marquess,” she cried. “Not tonight.”

Drink, and the lateness of the hour, had combined to make her rather cross. Charles was annoyed himself, not the least with Jonathan. Lady Sinclair was a beautiful woman, and–as he well knew–a delicious bed partner. How long did the marquess expect him to act the saint?

Still, the rules of the game must be followed;  honor and loyalty to one’s friends, and even consideration for the lady in question, who was no doubt once again drunk. Charles summoned self-control. There was really only one way to convince Celia that he was not interested. A cruel way, perhaps–

“Please excuse me, my lady,” he said. “I find that I’ve lost all interest in present company.”

It was a lie as he spoke it. Nevertheless, the words hung in the air, certain to infuriate, and the marchioness responded in kind.

“Not interested!  What humbug!  Who do you think you’re looking for Charles?  A milk-and-water miss who’ll take your money and do her duty in bed?   I’m the only woman who appreciates you for exactly what you have to give.” 

 Lady Sinclair edged toward Lord Quentin as she spoke; she now stood only inches from him and raised her arms to wrap around his neck. Charles braced himself, hardly breathing, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing him react. There was enough truth in the marchioness’s words to make him uncomfortable. He had never met a woman who entered into the spirit of a physical relationship more enthusiastically than Celia Sinclair. He’d often thought that marriage to the type of schoolroom female she had just described would be nigh unsupportable.

He  was not currently considering marriage, of course. A lifetime of feminine protests and shocked glances, sharing a bed with a wife who flinched at his every touch. It had never struck Charles as a situation to be much sought after.

He studied Celia’s face, seeing the doubt and uncertainty that belied her outwardly brazen manner. Lady Sinclair had traded on her charms all her life. She knew no other path of communication with the opposite sex, and was, in consequence, ever vulnerable to them. One could almost feel sorry–

The marchioness frowned. An unpleasant thought had apparently just occurred to her.

“Unless you’re having a bit on the side, ” said Celia, her voice becoming petulant. “I know you, Charles, you’re never long without company.”   She paused, obviously running through the list of possible candidates in her mind. “Who
is
it?  Lucinda Blankenship wouldn’t dare cross me–”

“As you say.” 

Lady Sinclair gasped suddenly and stepped back from him. Charles started to straighten his neckcloth, thought better of it.

 “Oh!  It’s that governess, isn’t it!” cried Celia, pointing a shaking finger somewhere in the direction of his chest. “You’ve taken that... that
girl
to your bed!”  Her voice rose to a screech. “Well I won’t have it Charles, do you hear me?  I simply won’t have it!  I’ll sack her at once!”

For a moment, Charles was too stunned to reply. The governess!  Why had the marchioness picked Helène Phillips, of all people, as the object of her jealousy?  He was both stung by the accusation that he would bed a chit of that class–there were rules about such behavior, as well–and outraged that Celia would threaten to dismiss her on his account. His anger grew. He was tired; tired and ashamed of the temptation he still felt each time he looked at Celia. The woman was married to his best friend, and this was enough–

“I’ve no interest in some dirty little nobody,” he drawled, the only response he could think of that might divert Celia’s attention from the unfortunate Miss Phillips. Charles forced himself to keep his voice low and calm. “But I’ve also no interest in you.”  He moved toward the door.

“I’ll discharge her without reference!  I can promise you of it!”

“Go right ahead,” Lord Quentin shot back. “And also explain it to Jonathan, if you will. I could hardly care less.”   He twisted the key in the lock, opened the door and left, shutting it firmly behind him.

“Oh!” cried Celia, “Oh!”   Other words seemed to escape her. She picked up a porcelain vase from the mantle and threw it at the door, where it shattered. She stomped angrily across the room, and then also left, slamming the door.

* * * *

Helène heard the library door close a second time, and let out a deep, shaky breath. Perhaps her heart would stop pounding in a few minutes, and she might dare to leave her hiding place. There had been plenty of room behind one of the floor-length velvet drapes that covered the library windows, although she had been shaking so much she was sure that Lord Quentin or the marchioness would notice.

Stupid. Why had she bothered to hide in the first place?  It might have been a bit awkward, of course–meeting Lord Sinclair, or one of his guests at such a late hour–but a bit of awkwardness would have been far preferable to the scene she had just overheard.

Some dirty little nobody. Tears threatened, and she dashed them away in annoyance. One more arrogant, self-important lord and his odious lady. And to be threatened with dismissal twice in one day!  The position of governess seemed a great deal less secure than one might have imagined, and Helène wondered if either Lord Quentin or Lady Sinclair would really take their complaints to the marquess. Surely if she was to be insulted on such a regular basis Helène would never survive, for her temper would break and she would tell these people just what she thought of them.

Some dirty little nobody. She didn’t care what a man like that thought. She just didn’t care.

* * * *

Late in the afternoon of the next day Lord Quentin rode through the gates of Tavelstoke, and for the first time allowed himself a sigh of relief. It had been a long, cold ride, and he was very glad to be home. Alcibiades, who only minutes earlier had been showing signs of fatigue, was now almost prancing in anticipation of warm stables and a double measure of oats.

“Hang on, old friend,” Charles told him. “Stevens will have you fixed up in a trice.”  The stallion nickered softly in reply.

The house loomed in front of him, the brickwork and slate roof luminous in the rays of the setting sun. Tavelstoke Manor, large and formally laid out as it was, was a welcome refuge after the week at Luton Court. His spirits lifted, as always, at the sight of the tall, sash windows framed with a tracery of honeysuckle vine. Charles had spent almost nothing of his childhood here; still, it was home.

Unfortunately, ’twas often a quiet home now, even with the three score servants needed to maintain the estate and its grounds. The old earl had ever disliked traveling, and, being fond of the London entertainments, these days rarely left town. Charles missed his father; despite having almost no interests whatsoever in common, they rubbed along together quite well. He was almost equally fond of his stepmother, knowing that Susannah had saved the earl from a lifetime of melancholy after the desertion, and later death, of his mother.

It would be a lonely Christmas indeed without them.

You needn’t stay here long, a niggling voice reminded Lord Quentin. The marquess expected him back shortly after Christmas, and this time for an extended stay. Charles sighed. Luton Court was acclaimed for its winter house parties, and they often lasted near to February. An entire month under the same roof as Celia Sinclair?  It was an alarming thought, but Lord Quentin decided he would worry about it later. The steps of Tavelstoke Manor now rose immediately before him, and he threw the reins to the waiting stable boy. Alcibiades was led off and Charles barely managed to find his own rooms, and remove his boots, before falling into bed, soundly asleep.

There would be other, more restless nights in the weeks to come, nights when the image of Celia Sinclair would take up residence behind his eyelids. And he would find little relief when, on occasion, the marchioness faded from his mind, only to be replaced with the likeness of another woman, a slender chit with auburn hair and green eyes.

CHAPTER FIVE

The morning light streaming into the bedroom windows assured Lady Pamela that she was now at Luton Court, and no longer in the sooty pall of London. The winter light in town never streams anywhere, Pam thought to herself. It limps along, if one is lucky. She pulled on a silk wrapper and opened the doors to her small balcony, feeling invigorated, as usual, by the country air. Even the
contretemps
with the coach yesterday–a trace had snapped and caused a horrible tangle that had taken ages to sort out–was fading quickly from memory. Luton Court at Christmas was warmth and security, one unchanging tradition in an occasionally tumultuous life.

Why do I feel so lonely?
  Pam asked herself, and then stopped, a
frisson
of shock traveling the length of her spine.
Lonely?  I’m here at Luton, with family and friends–of course I don’t feel lonely.
She looked out at the distant hills, covered in gleaming caps of snow. The holidays had been magical for the children of the country household. Pamela remembered waking to the hush of an early Christmas morning, creeping downstairs to see the huge linen-draped tables that had appeared overnight, as if by magic, in the grand entrance hall. Tables of gifts and of every kind of food and drink, including one entirely devoted to spun-sugar candies, covered the marble floor. She remembered the thrill of anticipation, a happiness almost too great to be endured.

Things seemed different as an adult. Oh, Jonathan was glad enough to see her, Lady Pamela supposed. Even Celia had managed a smile or two of greeting, followed almost immediately by complaints about the lateness of the hour. Pam and Amanda’s arrival had been delayed well into the evening as a result of their carriage mishap, and Celia, as they were shortly to discover, was still in high dudgeon over Lord Quentin’s departure earlier that day.

“He’s gone,” Lady Detweiler had told her, wandering into Pamela’s sitting room last night, one hand cradling a huge snifter of brandy. At Luton less than an hour, Amanda had wasted no time in securing the latest
on dits
from her maid. “Left for Tavelstock just this morning.”

“Who’s gone?”  Pam had been supervising the unpacking of several trunks of clothing; her attention was currently diverted by the sight of a rip in the hem of a fine watered silk.

“Charles Quentin, you goose, who else?”

Lady Pam yawned and set the dress aside. Her own stitching was as fine as any abigail’s; she’d repair the small tear tomorrow herself. “Jonathan said that he would need to be spending some time at the estate. The old earl, you know.”

“Yes, well yawn all you may, I don’t see any likely candidates in the remaining lot.”

“Likely candidates?  What about Lord Burgess?  He’s had a
tendre
for you for ages, you know.”

Jeremy Burgess and Lady Detweiler enjoyed a mutual loathing. It was an old joke, and Amanda sputtered. “Pah. We are not talking about me. As you know full well. And as for Lord Burgess–”

“Well, I think we should. Now, Viscount Dreybridge is no longer available, but–”

“Fustian. How long will he be gone, d’ you think?”

“Viscount Dreybridge?  He’s still here.”

“You,” said Amanda, “are being deliberately obtuse. Well, never mind. Lord Quentin will be back on the new year, although dawn tomorrow  wouldn’t be soon enough for your dear sister-in-law. Let’s hope she hasn’t scared him off permanently.”

“Charles should be able to handle Celia.”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?  What is it about men, anyway?  Even the intelligent ones seem to lose all power of reason at the sight of a plump pair of breasts.”

“I don’t know what it is,” sighed Pam. “I wish I did.”

Lady Pamela now shut the balcony doors, and returned to the dressing room to complete her morning’s
toilette
. Amanda wouldn’t be out of bed for another hour, at least. This would be a good chance to find her brother and catch up on the family news.

* * * *

Helène tramped back to the house through a bright carpet of new-fallen snow. She had woken up early that day, feeling a sudden urge to explore her new home. She had seen almost nothing of the larger grounds of the estate since her arrival, and a morning of good exercise had proved exactly the thing to raise her spirits.

Bright sunlight pierced the cold morning sky, and the crisp air was pleasant enough if you’d spent the past hour climbing to the top of the nearest  hill. The grounds of Luton had stretched like a glittering wonderland below her, the Lea River a crystalline ribbon running to the north of the main gardens. A thick woods of pine nearby had looked particularly inviting, and she planned to explore it later that week.

Helène brushed at her skirt, which showed the evidence of a recent encounter with knee-high snowdrifts. Her mood, which had fallen precipitously after the scene she had overheard in the library two nights before, was now almost cheerful. If she was fated to be a governess, there were surely worse places to be.

 But the hour or so out in the fresh air had flown by, and Alice and Peter would soon be ready for schoolwork. Helène kicked up flurries of snow with each footstep as she hurried along. She should have just enough time to return to her room and exchange the heavy cloak for a shawl before meeting the children in the nursery.

* * * *

Lady Pamela found her brother tucking into an enormous plate of cheese scones and bacon.

“Good morning,” said Lady Pamela to the marquess. They were both early risers, and often had the breakfast table to themselves.