The Carriagemaker's Daughter (8 page)

“Mmph,” replied Jonathan, over a mouthful of bacon. Then–“I rather doubt it.”

Pam laughed. “Don’t tell me Celia is still cross over Lord Quentin’s early departure. Too dreary even for her!”

This comment on his wife’s petulant nature went unremarked by the marquess. “No, the latest crisis isn’t Charles, as a matter of fact. It’s the new governess.”

“Miss Fitzpatrick?”

“Celia sacked Miss Fitzpatrick weeks ago,” said her brother, reaching for another scone. “I insisted she be replaced before the holidays.”

“And the new governess is even prettier?”  The entire household was aware of Celia’s jealousy of attractive young women.

Jonathan laughed. “Not prettier. Dirtier.”

“Dirtier!”

“Yes. She showed up unexpectedly from London, standing on the front steps, practically in rags. Celia claimed she smelled like greasy chicken.”

Lady Pamela stared at him.

“Apparently, her attire has not improved in the meantime, and Celia has been complaining without interruption.”

A new governess–employed from where?  Town?  It’s fortunate that I arrived no later, thought Pamela. Between Jonathan and Celia, the poor woman might have ended up back out in the snow. But what was this about dirty clothing?   She cupped her chin in her hands and thought for a moment.

“Jonathan,” she said at last. Her brother looked up warily.

“Mmm?”

“Jonathan, what do you mean she showed up out of nowhere?  Didn’t you send the coach for her?”

“Mmm. The coach?”

“Yes, the coach. Where did she come from?  London?  Good heavens, Jonathan, don’t tell me she traveled on the
mail coach
.”

“Oh. Yes. Well, no. Many people have their own coaches these days, you know–”  

Pamela snorted. “I’m sure a governess has no such thing. Are you telling me this poor woman walked all the way to Luton from Cotter’s post?  In November?”

The marquess appeared flustered. “I really don’t think–”

“Oh, Jonathan.”  Pamela sighed. Her brother was a kind soul at heart, but sometimes incredibly obtuse. So accustomed was the marquess to a life of privilege that problems such as poverty and hunger simply failed to register. The steward and tenants of Luton Court had long since learned to broach any major requests for assistance through Lady Pamela. Although a generous landlord in his own, erratic way, Jonathan sometimes forgot that such creatures as tenants existed.

Pam stood up suddenly. “Where is she?”

“Where is who?”  asked Jonathan.

“The governess!”

“Ah. Well, you see, I’m not sure–”

Closing her eyes, Lady Pamela blew out a long puff of breath. “Oh, bother it all. Never mind. I’ll talk to Mrs. Tiggs myself.”  She left the room in a flurry of skirts.

* * * *

The marquess watched Lady Pamela leave. ’Twas a shame he hadn’t thought to send a coach, he now realized. But the letter from Miss Phillips announcing the time of her arrival had been delivered almost a fortnight ago, and he never seemed able to remember such details for long.

And it wouldn’t do for him to take a personal interest in the governess. Jonathan remained sitting at the table for some time, his ostensibly worried expression slowly replaced by a half smile. He had chosen his words with care. He knew his sister, and felt confident that Miss Helène Phillips would presently be in good hands.

* * * *

Pins in mouth, Helène was attempting to marshal her hair back into some sort of order when she heard a soft knock at her door. James?  she wondered. Or perhaps the maid, bringing a fresh set of linens. Jabbing the last hairpin in, and hoping everything would stay in place for at least the morning, she walked over to open the door.

“Miss Phillips?”

Aphrodite, come to life
, thought Helène. The woman standing in the doorway was dressed in a simple white morning gown of fine muslin. Her hair was a dazzling golden hue, and piled in thick ringlets on top of her head. She was smiling at Helène.

“Miss Phillips?” she repeated.

Helène realized that she had been staring in a most impolite manner. “Yes... Yes, my lady?”

“May I come in?” said the goddess.

“Oh. Oh, of course... my lady,” said Helène. “I’m afraid there is no chair.”

The woman looked around and laughed. “Pah. A nice enough room, I’m sure, but
not
for the governess. You’ll have to forgive Mrs. Tiggs, Miss Phillips. She was only acting  according to her previous instructions. Apparently the last two governesses used this room. I can’t imagine why... ”  She hesitated. “Well, perhaps I can. Let us say that the nursery at Luton Court is bothersomely close to the marquess and marchioness’s suite.”

“The nursery?”   Helène brightened, thinking that at last someone was taking interest in the children. But who was she?

“Yes. Of course that’s where you will stay as well. Not
in
the nursery, you understand.”  The lady smiled. “There are some very nice rooms next door. Quite convenient, but you will still have some privacy. Alice and Peter are well-behaved children, I dare say, but you’ll not want them in your pocket every hour of the day.”

Alice and Peter. How well did this person know the children?  Who was she?   Helène was about to ask when the woman noticed her portmanteau.

“Is this your bag?” she asked, sounding dubious.

“Ah, yes, Lady... ”    Helène trailed off.

“Oh, I beg your pardon!”  The woman gave a another throaty, musical laugh. “It’s the fault of Luton, I’m afraid. Every time I’m here for more than a day I become as hare-brained as my brother.”  The woman held out her hand. “I’m Pamela Sinclair, the marquess’s sister.” 

“My lady.”   Helène dropped what she hoped was a serviceable curtsey.

“Oh, posh,” said Lady Pamela. “You’re the governess, not a scullery girl. I have high hopes for you, by the way. Sensible conversation, that sort of thing. Now come along and I’ll show you to your rooms.”

Helène hesitated.

“Oh, and leave the bag here, I should think. One of the footmen can collect it later.” 

* * * *

Lady Pamela awoke sometime in the uncounted middle hours of the night, the dream so vivid that for a moment she thought herself back in London. She felt for the candle on her nightstand, but it had guttered out.

How odd, thought Pam. How very odd.

The old marchioness and her daughter were riding through Hyde Park. Pamela was a child of–seven or eight?–and she was in high alt to be allowed a carriage ride during the fashionable hours of the afternoon. It was a glorious day in the late spring, leafy green, the smells of London for once left behind. Pamela was restless. She wanted to jump down from the carriage and run through the daffodils, chasing butterflies. She wanted to climb a tree. Her mother rarely allowed such things.

“Oh, look, Mama, isn’t it beautiful?”  Pamela pointed–

A woman and a man in a carriage, painted gaily, silver and cream. Pamela had never seen these two people before. The man was handsome, his eyes sparkling with merriment. The woman was impossibly beautiful, red hair piled on her head in thick, shining curls. She inclined her head toward his, her hand resting on his shoulder, and Pamela heard the sound of male laughter. As the silver and cream carriage approached, the old marchioness hissed in anger–

The child Pamela wanted to talk to them. It was the most important thing in the world, to be able to talk to them. The adult Pamela remembered that she was dreaming. She turned to her mother, to remonstrate, even as the child looked again toward the red-haired woman in the carriage . . .

The dream collapsed in a swirl of green and silver. The woman was Helène Phillips.

CHAPTER SIX

The governess must be dressed well enough to be a credit to her employers, but in no wise well enough to be mistaken for one of them.

“Miss Phillips!  Miss Phillips!” 

Two small children ran across the room, both trying to jump into her arms at the same time. Helène heard soft laughter, and realized that Lady Pamela was already in the nursery. Alice and Peter adored their aunt, and for the last several weeks–ever since Lady Pam had arrived at Luton for the holidays–she had spent nearly as much time with them as had Helène herself.

“Careful, you two,” said Helène, smiling down at Alice and Peter. “You wouldn’t want to give your aunt the impression that I’m not teaching you manners.”

“Indeed,” said Lady Pamela, with another laugh. “I should be required to give your governess a severe scold if that were the case.”

“Oh, no, Miss Phillips!” they chorused. The two sat down at the small study tables, doing their best to appear angelic. Alice was the tidy one, her blond hair held neatly behind her ears with a ribbon, her pinafore starched and clean. Peter, on the other hand, could never stay in proper order for long. Already this morning he had managed to acquire several smudges on the front of his shirt and one on his nose. 

“We’re ready for our schoolwork, Miss Phillips!”

In Peter’s case, her name sounded more like “Miss Phiwips” but then, Peter was only five and a half. His pronunciation drove seven-year-old Alice half crazy with frustration. She was forever trying to correct her younger brother, even though Helène had carefully explained about the stages of growing up, and how different children learned proper pronunciation at different ages.

“But he’s saying it wrong!” Alice would wail.

“Someday Peter will say it correctly,” Helène replied. “We just have to be patient.”

“But Miss
Phillips
!”

Under direct attack Alice would argue the same point indefinitely. Fortunately, she responded well to re-direction. “Come now, show me your new drawings,” Helène would say, and she would be diverted at once.

“Miss Phiwips!  I made drawings too!”

And so it went. November had given way to December, and now the Christmas holidays to the new year. As she fell into bed every night, Helène wondered how two small children could be so exhausting. Miss Chaldecott was silent on this point, as she was with regard to such difficulties as ‘What to do when the paint pot spills all over the carpet’ and ‘How many times a five-year-old boy might reasonably need to visit the privy closet in the course of a single afternoon.’   Helène still consulted the handbook from time to time, but she now entertained doubts that Miss E. A. Chaldecott had ever met an actual child.

It was of little matter. However poorly she might have been prepared for it at the beginning, Helène enjoyed her work as a governess and began to consider herself a modest success at the task. The children were well-mannered and agreeable. They rewarded Helène’s efforts with cheerful affection, and she had grown enormously fond of them both.

The continued absence of direction from Lord Sinclair was her only real concern. He had requested a single interview with Helène since her arrival, a brief exchange in which he had stared at her intently and asked only if she needed any additional supplies for the children’s education. He had since visited the nursery on a few occasions, and Helène was given to understand from Alice and Peter that their father was a somewhat distant, albeit stable and comforting, presence in their lives.

It was often so in the
ton
, of course. And at least Lady Pamela could be counted upon to spend time with her niece and nephew. Helène counted it a stroke of luck that the marquess had such a sister.

“Peter, come here for a moment, please.”  

An apron with several deep pockets had proved to be an essential part of a governess’s wardrobe. She pulled a small square of linen from one of the pockets now, and wiped the smudge from Peter’s nose.

“Umph,” he declared, screwing up his eyes and trying to wriggle away.

“The nose is much better. I suppose the shirt will have to wait.”  She set the boy down and went to gather materials for the morning lesson.

The Sinclairs’ “schoolroom” was attached to the nursery suite and had proved to be an inexperienced teacher’s dream; warm and airy, and stocked with every provision imaginable. Books, art supplies, and lesson slates were all neatly arranged and marked according to the abilities of each child. Whatever the problem had been with the previous two young women, thought Helène, it hadn’t been that they were incompetent. With the schoolbooks as a guide, and two children eager to be helpful, she had managed to make a creditable start as a governess.

Maths and their letters in the morning, before tea. French after lunch–

“I can see that you will be admirably busy,” Lady Pamela was saying. “I shall return for tea. Behave yourself for Miss Phillips, children, if you please.”

“Yes, Aunt Pamela!”

Helène set Peter to practice drawing his letters while Alice, as usual, was content to read, and the nursery was, for a time, blessedly quiet. She spread the skirts of her new, fern-green cambric day gown and sat down at the teacher’s desk, content to watch the children at their tasks. Her small charges were slowly returning to the discipline of day-to-day schoolwork after the holiday just past. Helène herself had played only a small part in the festivities, for Christmas was a private, family affair at Luton Court. Alice and Peter had been Helène’s only responsibility as far as gifts were concerned, and both were delighted with what she had contrived to make for them; their name in illuminated script, flowing with golds and scarlet and deep blue inks, on a fine sheet of parchment. The parchment and inks had been rooted out from among the schoolroom supplies.

“Oh, Miss Phillips!” Alice had said, her eyes brimming with tears. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen!”

That was gift enough for Helène.

* * * *

Alice and Peter were not the only cause of Helène’s current satisfaction. Her situation had been generally much improved since Lady Pamela’s arrival, and not only in the matter of her new rooms, which were spacious and well-appointed. Lady Pam had insisted that she be allowed to dine with the family and guests, and that the library and stables be open to her.

The marquess’s sister had also declared, to Helène’s blushing embarrassment, that a governess must be properly clothed. The battered portmanteau was dragged to the middens, along with every scrap of clothing it had once held, as she took on the task of providing Helène with a new wardrobe. Lady Pam was energetic, competent, and armed with a comprehensive knowledge of the latest London fashions. She ignored the governess’s every protest, using the Christmas holidays as an excuse.