The image of Celestine as she appeared the previous evening rose up in his mind. It wasn't quite true she had no attractions. He remembered glancing up at the staircase and seeing her, radiant in rose silk, her hair gleaming in the light from the chandelier. She had gazed down at him, an unreadable look on her oval face.
In that moment he had forgotten anything but that he had kissed those full lips and they were delicious. He had felt that soft, feminine body and found it arousing. He had touched her soul one night in a dark church and found it unbearably beautiful.
There was a simple beauty in her lack of pretension and her honest gaze. She didn't simper or smirk or flirt or giggle like other women did in his presence. Was that why he couldn't stop thinking about her? Or was he just piqued because she hadn't responded to his lovemaking as other women did? And what was he going to do about it?
Celestine kept to herself the next few days, avoiding the house party as much as possible. She concentrated all her attention on keeping her job, voluntarily taking on extra work like caring for Bertie while his nursemaid was pressed into service fetching and carrying for the guests.
She was sitting in the schoolroom with Bertie on her lap when Lady Grishelda tapped lightly on the door and asked to join her.
"Please do," Celestine cried. Except for her aunt, she had spoken to no one for days, and she realized she had become spoiled by the company of Justin, Lady Grishelda, and Emily. It would be lonely when they all left again.
"Where are the little girls?" Lady Grishelda said, sitting in a chair opposite Celestine and tucking her lavender skirts around her legs.
"The Misses Stimson longed to go skating, and they wished to take Lottie and Gwen with them. Elise accompanied them to look after their needs. I have Bertie to take care of right now, so I couldn't join them."
The other woman gazed critically at the little boy, who was snuggled on Celestine's lap, his head on her chest, fast asleep. "Ugly little brutes, aren't they? Boy children, I mean."
Celestine gazed at her in shocked silence.
"Oh, I know women are supposed to dote on the little monsters, but I am not much of one for children, beyond feeling they should be clothed and fed and educated properly, of course. You appear to like them, though. Am I right?"
"Yes. Sometimes I feel Lottie and Gwen are my own, and then I realize I will likely never have the opportunity to have children. It saddens me sometimes."
"But surely what you are doing is better? You are your own woman, independent, making your own way, beholden to no one."
Celestine gazed over at the plainly dressed young woman in front of her, and then laughed softly. "Ah, yes. The women's freedom movement." She looked down tenderly at Bertie's fuzzy head resting on her bosom and held his hand in hers, rubbing the tender skin with her thumb. His hand flexed and curled around her finger, and he sighed sleepily, adjusting himself on her lap.
He was a warm little bundle, fragrant from his bath, with that particular "baby" smell. Celestine rubbed her lips over his satiny-soft hair. She caught Lady Grishelda's curious gaze on her again, and said, "I would give up in a moment whatever independence I have for a man I love, a home, and children."
"But right now you are controlled by no man. You make your own way and your own decisions!" The young woman's gaze was incredulous, her pale-blue eyes wide in disbelief.
"You believe that?" Celestine said, thinking about Mr. Knight's attack, Justin's rescue, and her precarious position at Ladymead. "I don't really, you know. I was lucky to get this position. The marquess is a good man, the marchioness a fair woman, and the working conditions better than many governesses could hope for. But still, my employment could be terminated at any time for anything, even their whims. And if they dismissed me without a reference, I would find it difficult to get another job. I'll never starve; I am luckier than most, for I have an aunt who would take me in. But I do want to earn my keep, and I want to work with children. So much for making my own decisions. That is their extent."
Lady Grishelda was speechless for a moment. Then she colored faintly. "I . . . I'm afraid you must have had a bit of a hard time after the dinner party the other evening."
Celestine glanced at her curiously. "How did you know?"
"My mother spent a good half hour pouring a lovely helping of vitriol in the marchioness's ear about your impudence in dressing in silk when you should have known your station."
Celestine remembered Lady van Hoffen's whispered conference with Lady St. Claire and the venomous glances darted her way. The marchioness had said as much when she berated Celestine for her presumption. And she remembered something else, too.
"I think perhaps," she said, slowly, "you did not approve, either, my lady. I saw how you gazed at me when I came down the stairs. Pardon me if I am too bold, but I was curious to know what you were thinking."
Lady Grishelda plucked at the worn fabric of the chair arm and gazed into the hearth, now containing only embers of the fire that was there. "I must admit, I was shocked. I thought we had a kinship, you and I." She looked into Celestine's eyes with honesty and forthrightness.
"I thought you more sensible than to want silks and satins and jewels. I thought we had in common our belief that marriage, as an institution, is designed for men by men, and that you would not lower yourself to dress frivolously for the purpose of attracting notice." She lifted her square chin at that. "I am sorry if I am too blunt."
"No, I invited your honesty."
A tiny smile lifted the corners of the woman's thin lips. "Many people claim to respect honesty, but few do, in reality."
"That is true." Celestine stared pensively into the fireplace, at the flickering coals that still radiated waves of warmth. She cuddled Bertie to her. "And I think it is a fair question, why I dressed myself in silks and jewels this once. I am plain. I have always been plain, and I have arthritis as an affliction. Also, my life until a year ago was devoted to my father."
"I have heard about your loss. I'm sorry," Lady Grishelda murmured. "How difficult caring for your father must have been for you, not having your freedom or any ability to plan for your future."
"I loved him, and I would do it all over again exactly the same way." Her lips curved up in a smile and her gray eyes were glazed as she stared back into the past. She laid her cheek against the little boy's downy head. "My father was the sweetest, dearest man who ever lived. He wanted so much for me to have a Season and a chance at marriage, but I refused. We could have afforded it, barely. Aunt Emily would have sponsored me. But Papa would not have been able to go with me and I could not leave him alone with only servants to look after him."
Lady Grishelda said nothing, but eyed her curiously. Celestine caught the glance and continued. "You're wondering what that had to do with my dressing inappropriately two evenings ago. You see, it was a first for me, and I could not resist. You have made the choice to eschew beautiful silks and jewels. For me the choice was made by life. When Aunt Emily coaxed me to wear that dress, one of her own cut down to my size, I could have said no. Perhaps I should have said no; it nearly cost me my job. But I wanted to know, just once, what it felt like to walk down the stairs in a lovely gown and join the company at dinner under the glittering chandeliers at a beautifully set dining table."
Looking down at her hands, Lady Grishelda murmured, "And it was spoiled for you by my mother's ill-natured gossip and my reproving glare. I am so sorry, Miss Simons. I had no right . . ."
"Please." Celestine hushed her. "That one moment was worth it. I didn't lose my job, and everything is still the way it was."
"I think perhaps freedom is a much more complicated issue than I perceived," Lady Grishelda said.
Nodding, Celestine said, "In a perfect world, women and men would be free to use their talents and abilities without the strictures of their place in society or their sex to bind them, but we live in an imperfect world. I, for one, can only do the best with what I have been given."
Silence fell between the two women, each one lost in her own thoughts. The schoolroom clock tapped out the seconds, and the embers in the grate crackled and moved as coal disintegrated into ash.
"Will you call me Celestine, instead of Miss Simons? I feel we are friends, if that is not too presumptuous."
Lady Grishelda looked up with shining eyes. "I would be honored, Celestine. But only if you call me May."
"May?"
"My middle name. I hate my name," she said, frowning. "It was a family name that I am forced to use. May is the name my mother chose, and what she calls me when she remembers to talk to me at all."
Celestine heard the anguish behind the words, but felt the area too painful to probe.
The young woman brightened a moment later, though, and said, "I hear you sing. I wish you had stayed long enough the other night so we could have heard you. I adore good singing, though my own voice is more like that of a frog than a bird, I am afraid."
"I will be singing a solo in the Christmas pageant on Friday night at the church. I hope you will come."
"Aren't you nervous to perform in front of everyone like that?"
Celestine considered the question, her head to one side as she absently smoothed Bertie's hair. "Not really. Oh, if I think about it, yes, I am nervous. But I know when I start to sing all of that will leave me. I'll be fine."
"I look forward to it, Celestine. I really do."
The two young women smiled across at each other, a bond forged, a friendship made, a bargain sealed.
Fourteen
His very presence must be repugnant to her, Justin thought bitterly, but he could not help that. He had promised something and a gentleman always kept his word. He tapped on the door of the schoolroom and entered, finding her with her head bent over as she worked on something at the table. She glanced up and paused, seeing him.
"Lord St. Claire! I . . . what can I do for you?"
"I finished the play, Miss Simons," he said, his voice stiff and formal. "I felt you might need it to make any changes you see fit, and to make and design your puppets accordingly."
"Oh, I am done the puppets, my lord," she said, her cheeks pinkening as she moved away from the table so he could see past her.
He glanced, then looked again and chuckled despite his awkwardness near her. Papier-mâché puppet heads clearly recognizable as Aurelius, Reginald, Parlia, Calista, and the ugly girl, Hepzibah, were lined up on the table. Aurelius had crisp brown hair and blue eyes, while Calista was a stunning blond with violet eyes. The ugly girl who was being betrothed to Prince Aurelius was hook-nosed and snaggletoothed and had a wart on her nose. The clothes for Aurelius and his queen, laid out in front of each puppet head, were very regal, fit for forest royalty in shades of green and brown. Scraps of lace adorned the queen's dress.
"Very good, Miss Simons. I only hope the play is up to the standards of the players." He handed her the sheaf of papers and turned to go. He turned back before he got to the door but did not meet her gaze. "The, uh, Calista puppet, though—she should have gray eyes. And, uh, brown hair. Very long brown hair, silky and beautiful. And freckles." His voice was husky, and he cleared his throat. "I find I have a certain fondness for large gray eyes and freckles."
"I wish you would let me help you, my dear," Emily said to her niece, as the governess got ready in her aunt's chamber.
"Hmm? Help me?" Celestine turned around in front of the cheval glass, examining her lavender dress, making sure it was absolutely tidy.
"Yes, help you. Financially. So you won't have to stay a governess forever. You could even have a long-delayed London Season, if you wished," Emily answered in frustration.
Her niece was the most infuriating person on earth. Thanks to a brilliant marriage many years ago and a separation settlement with an ample allowance from her husband, Baxter Delafont, Marquess of Sedgeley, Emily had more money than she knew what to do with. And shut away in self-imposed exile in Yorkshire, she had very little to spend it on. Her gowns were several years out of date and she had not bought anything for herself for quite a while.
She would have loved to spend some of her bounty on her niece. But Celestine had never been willing to accept more than the smallest trumpery gifts. Emily wanted to make her independent—settle some money on her, give her a dowry—but the girl refused. She watched her fuss over her plain lavender gown and simple heart locket, her only adornment, getting ready for the Christmas pageant concert at the church that evening.
Celestine was a serious woman, even as she had been a serious, steady girl. She needed some fun in her life. Instead, from the time she was sixteen she had nursed her seriously ill father. After his death, she had immediately taken on the job of governess to the St. Claire children.
And yet, under that serious, calm, intelligent facade, Emily had always sensed a wild, passionate side that came out only when Celestine sang. Then one could hear the longing, the untamed turbulence of her soul, keening in high, lovely tones sad enough to make an angel weep. Celestine was an example of what happened when a strong character set all its effort on taming and subduing the ferocious desire and tremulous longing of a wild heart.
Was she imagining things? Was Celestine's outward serenity a reflection of inner tranquility? She thought not, but her niece was reticent and Emily was loath to pry. Sometimes all a woman had was her inner life.
Beyond her one momentous admission that she had fallen in love with Justin St. Claire, Celestine had said nothing. She had retired that night without another word to anyone, and Emily had left her in peace to recover from her fractured heart as best she could. No one else could help you. Emily knew that from bitter personal experience over the last five years of separation from a husband she had loved always.
She watched in concern the stiffness of Celestine's movements. "Are the hot baths no longer helping, my dear?"
"I ... I am no longer taking the baths."
"What? Why not?" Emily, angry, rose from her chair to stand in front of her niece. "Do you want to be crippled? Those baths are the only thing that will get you through the rest of the winter in comfort. My dear, you were improving! Why would you stop taking them?"
Celestine colored and fiddled with the locket. "I did not cancel them. Lady St. Claire did."
"Why? Was she not the one who instigated them in the first place?"
Celestine turned away, but Emily took her shoulder and turned her around, searching her expression for clues.
"I . . . no, apparently neither Lord nor Lady St. Claire ordered the hot bath every morning."
"Then who?" Emily's elegant brows arched in puzzlement.
"It was Lord Justin St. Claire."
Emily was stunned. She knew Justin, knew him well. He was a nice enough fellow, witty and handsome, but a care-for-nothing sort, the epitome of a tonnish rake. He was elegant and lazy and charming. He was also without scruples or morals as far as women were concerned, only kept from seduction of innocents by his lack of desire for marriage and horror of being shunned in society, or at least so she had always deemed him.
Yet he had ordered a plain spinster governess in his brother's employ was to have a hot bath every morning to ease her arthritic joints. It seemed unlikely, and she questioned Celestine closely, but the maid had informed her of the fact in the presence of the marchioness. The brothers were both occasionally referred to as Lord St. Claire, and so Celestine had assumed the older brother was meant—natural enough, since it was his house and his authority to order the servants around.
Emily sat back down in her chair by the fireplace as Celestine prepared to go to the church before everyone else. This required some thought. Anytime someone did something completely out of character, it required thought. Justin St. Claire, bothering about the comfort of a governess? It definitely needed contemplation.
"Not that way, Dooley!" Justin ripped another cravat from his neck and flung it on the floor. He grabbed one and tried it himself but failed,
and finally resigned himself to his valet's competent ministrations.
"I suppose that will have to do," he said finally, fastening a ruby stickpin in the folds and surveying his reflection in his mirror. He caught the grimace on his man's face. "I know I've been a bear, Dooley. My apologies, old man."
"Not necessary, my lord." He picked up Justin's hat, gloves, and stick and handed them to him, then retired to pick up the half dozen spoiled cravats on the floor.
"Yes, it is necessary. You know, there is a saying no man is a hero to his valet. I suppose that is true, for at the end of the day we are all just men, and we have our moods and our fits and our weaknesses. A valet sees them all, perhaps more than even a wife. I am sorry if I have been impossible lately, Dooley."
He turned to glance at the thin, colorless man behind him as he pulled on his gloves. Dooley straightened.
"May I say, my lord, it has always been a pleasure to serve you. You are normally the most equable of men, but each man is fallible." A ghost of a smile flitted across his bony visage. "My Bessy has to put up with my frightful moods, and is marvelous sweet about it, sir."
For the first time Justin gazed at Dooley and saw a man—a tired, thin, aging man who provided for his small family by being valet to a spoiled aristocrat. Dooley was a husband and a father, and yet year after year Justin pulled him away from London and his wife and children at Christmas so he could be dressed and pampered in his accustomed luxury.
It would not do.
"Dooley," he said, casually, "I think you should start training a younger man for your job. A likely young 'un who is looking to step up."
Dooley looked startled and then alarmed. "S-sir? Have I said something to offend? If so, I b-b . . ."
Lord St.Claire's Angel Page 16