by Amy Lake
THE CARRIAGEMAKER’S DAUGHTER
Amy Lake
CHAPTER ONE
The position of governess is a respectable one for a young lady with an impeccable reputation and few expectations.
Helène let her portmanteau drop to the snow at the side of the road and sighed, rubbing her arm. It was not that the bag was heavy–her belongings were pitifully few–but the two miles or more from the coach stop to the Sinclair estate was a long way to carry something so unwieldy. Even as cold as it was on this late November afternoon, she was beginning to perspire.
Helène peered down the road uneasily, noting that it would soon be dark.
She wondered again why no one had met the coach, since the letter detailing her travel arrangements must surely have arrived at the estate by now. Yesterday’s early morning start from a gloomy, soot-ridden London had been bad enough. Then there was the day and a half spent crammed in a mail coach with an odd assortment of other passengers, a number of whom were not particularly clean. The lecherous comments from several of the men, the incessant arguments over whether or not to keep the windows open–
It wasn’t an experience she cared to repeat. And the inn they had stopped at last night! She was still scratching from the bed bugs.
In short, Helène was in no mood for excuses. Perhaps she should plan a set-down to give Lady Sinclair when she finally arrived at Luton Court.
How dare you–
I am not accustomed to being treated–
The Prince will be informed of your outrageous–
Helène repressed a tired giggle, imagining the scene. She would say nothing of the kind, of course. She needed this position, and an impoverished spinster of evidently humble family had no business complaining about anything to the likes of the Marquess and Marchioness of Luton.
You are a governess, Helène reminded herself. They are Quality. You may not like the rules but you do have to play by them. She rested a few more minutes, sitting on the portmanteau, before getting to her feet and trudging on. It had been a mistake to stop, she decided. The struggle to carry her bag had taken her mind from how hungry she was, and now her empty stomach clamored for attention.
Botheration. Helène winced as the strap dug cruelly into her hand. If only I had a rope, she thought. I could tie one end around my waist and one end to the portmanteau and drag the blasted thing behind me. Through the snow and mud and all.
It would hardly matter, since she couldn’t be any dirtier than she was already after a day and a half in the mail coach. Helène’s thoughts moved to an uneasy consideration of her appearance. A governess was not required to be a fashion plate–in fact, it was discouraged–but her employers had every right to expect a reasonably tidy appearance. Helène wasn’t sure she still qualified in that respect. She had lost weight in the stress of recent months and, although the brown merino wool had some years of service left in it, the dress now hung loosely around her waist.
I look like I’m wearing a sack, thought Helène gloomily. And not a very clean sack, at that. The revolting man sitting next to her in the coach–the one who kept pretending to brush dirt from her bodice–had not been careful with the greasy chicken he was eating–
Best not to think about him. But her skirts still showed the evidence of his noonday meal. Helène stopped and set the portmanteau down once again. She pushed the hood of her cloak aside and felt her hair. It was impossibly tangled, as usual, and half of it seemed to have fallen down around her ears. She rearranged several hairpins, jabbing blindly at the heavy mass in yet another futile attempt to wrestle her curls under control. She found little else to be cheered by in her appearance–her nose was a bit too long, her mouth too wide, her brilliant green eyes too bold–but Helène harbored a secret pride in her hair. Glossy and thick, its deep auburn color complimented the warm ivory of her complexion. Unbound, the silky locks fell in curls past her waist.
“I’ll be cutting it off any day now, you daft girl,” her father had told her, time and again. “Hair like that is the sign of the devil, don’t you know, and a waste of time for the likes of you. ’Tis not like there’s to be suitors banging at your door–”
Helène grimaced at the memory, though his words had been said affectionately, in jest. She never believed he would carry through on his threat. Still, in London, hair was only one more commodity, and if she could have convinced her father to eat a bit of meat, she would have cut off the tresses herself and sold them for a fine hock of lamb. But in the last few months of his life Nathaniel Phillips had wished for naught but his ale.
At the thought of food Helène’s stomach growled, and she glanced down involuntarily at the bodice of her dress. A sapphire ring was pinned carefully in the lining, its large stone hidden from the waning rays of the November sun.
If she had known of that to sell, ’twould have been food for a year.
Helène walked on as the sun sank lower in the sky and the surrounding hills took on the bluish cast of a winter’s evening. The broad hills and meadows of Bedfordshire were beautiful in the twilight, but Helène was feeling the first glimmering of fear. She really did not want to be outside after dark on a cold November’s night. Her exertions no longer kept her warm, and her feet especially felt the cold, her toes almost numb, even through the leather of her half-boots.
What could Lady Sinclair have been thinking, to risk her new governess freezing to death before she’d even arrived? She didn’t know the district, and it was certainly possible, thought Helène, that she might miss the turn-off to Luton Court in the dark. Perhaps she had missed it already! Her heart began to pound and she forced herself to breathe slowly. No matter how bad the situation, it would never do to panic. Now think–had she passed any cottages along the road?
No. She’d seen not another living soul or habitation since the coach had driven away.
But how much farther could it be? How long had she been walking?
Helène cursed herself for being a fool and not demanding more assistance from the coach’s driver before he left. But the man had been ill-tempered and rude and she’d been sure someone from Luton would arrive at any moment.
Stupid. Stupid, stupid girl, to go haring off from the coach stop with no plan in her head other than she would soon find Luton Court conjured up in front of her. Should she keep walking? Should she attempt to find some kind of shelter for the night? Deep in contemplation of her precarious circumstances, Helène didn’t hear the rider as he approached. Suddenly–
“H’yah!”
An enormous chestnut stallion was almost on top of her. Rearing up, its forelegs flailed the air as Helène backed away. She tripped over the portmanteau and fell hard to the ground.
“H’yah!” The rider yelled and the horse reared again. Helène rolled from under the plunging hooves, gasping as her hood fell back and snow cascaded over her face and down her neck. She managed to scramble off the road, but without her luggage. Down, down came the horse and she watched, horrified, as the portmanteau was trampled into a muddy, crumpled heap.
“What the devil?” she thought she heard the man shout. What the devil, indeed! The rider brought his mount under control and Helène shakily pushed herself to her knees. She started to brush the snow from her hair, taking care to keep clear of the stallion, which was still fitful and stomping. The man swore the entire time in a low, steady voice, using a number of words that she found unfamiliar.
That’s a surprise, thought Helène, her mind starting to recover from the fright. One would have thought I’d heard them all by now. She clambered to her feet and glared up at him.
“What in heaven’s name are you about?” said the man. The cursing had stopped but the voice still betrayed his irritation.
A deep voice. Strong. She looked up at him without speaking, half-dazed from the shock of being nearly trampled under-hoof.
“Standing in the middle of a public road like that!” he continued. “Young women with no common sense shouldn’t be allowed out on their own.”
Common sense–! Indignation cleared Helène’s thoughts.
“And gentlemen who can’t keep charge of their animal shouldn’t be allowed on a horse,” she snapped, brushing more snow out of her hood and off her skirt. Her heart was pounding from the encounter and she hoped the man couldn’t see that her hands trembled. What a nasty, disagreeable person! She finished removing the snow and eyed her skirt in annoyance. A number of mud stains now competed with the chicken grease on the front of the brown wool. Heavens, at this rate she’d be lucky if Lady Sinclair allowed her into the house.
The stallion sidled nervously and neighed. Helène looked up to see the man staring down at her, an expression of amusement on his face.
“I’m willing to concede the point,” he told her, “but only because it’s too cold to stand here and argue. Come, where’s your home? I’ll take you back–”
He stopped suddenly and looked down at the portmanteau, as if seeing it for the first time.
“What’s all this?” he asked her. “If you are running away, mademoiselle, I must inform you that the middle of November is a poor time for it.”
Helène sighed. “Pour vrai, monsieur,” she told him. “I’m sure you are correct. But as it happens, I am en route to my employer’s estate, and I am no more eager than you to stand here and discuss it in the cold. Now if you will excuse me–”
She bent down to pick up the battered portmanteau, keeping a wary eye on the restless stallion. But the man, who had cocked his eyebrow at her refined accent–or perhaps the scrap of French–muttered something under his breath and dismounted to stand in front of her. She found herself looking up into a pair of deep brown eyes.
“Your employer’s estate?” He looked nonplussed. “The Sinclair estate?”
“Yes, as it happens.” She tried to push past him but the man was immovable, a broad-shouldered rock in her path.
“Pardon me, sir,” she said, hoping that she wasn’t addressing some high-in-the-instep lord. “But I really must be on my way.”
Almost before she knew he had moved, he plucked her portmanteau from her hands. She found herself lifted up and deposited, as if she was no more than baggage herself, sidesaddle on the stallion.
“Hang on,” said the man.
“Sir!” she said, “I must insist that you release me this instant.” Helène looked down, thinking to jump, but the ground seemed to be a very great distance beneath her feet. She hesitated.
“It would be much easier if you could sit astride,” said the man. He swung himself up to sit behind her. “This business of putting both feet on the same side of the horse is absurd.”
Helène turned to stare at him. “Monsieur,” she said. “I assure you, I do not wish to be on this monster of an animal in any position at all. Now, if you will please assist me–”
“Don’t be a little fool. You’ll freeze before you reach Luton, and, as it happens, I’m going there anyway. Now sit still.”
He clamped an arm around Helène and, as she started to object, uttered a soft clucking sound to the stallion. The horse sprang forward immediately into a smooth trot and Helène swallowed her protest. Now what? The man’s forearm was like an iron vise around her middle, and she seemed to be in contact with more of his body than she really ought to be. Even riding sidesaddle she was nestled snugly against the man’s thighs, her back held firmly against his warm chest.
“Sir, I must protest–”
“I don’t suppose we could continue this conversation at some later time?” said the man. “Alcibiades and I have had a long day, and idiotish young women weren’t part of our plans.”
“Oh! But–”
“Hush,” said the man, without emotion. “Be glad you’ll not be found a month from now, frozen in a drift of snow.”
There was no reply to that. The arrangement was undoubtedly most improper, but Helène couldn’t summon the energy to complain any further. She supposed that she had once been as dewy-eyed and innocent as any young miss, but the last year in London had left her with few girlish fantasies. And who was there left to care anymore, whether it was proper or not?
It actually feels rather good, Helène decided, releasing her breath in a drawn-out sigh. Warm. If he really is going to Luton Court then so much the better. If he isn’t...
She decided not to think about that possibility. The man somehow inspired trust, despite his abrupt manner. Helène stole a glance at his face and discovered that he was looking down at her with a peculiar, rather intent expression, which quickly gave way to a half-smile.
Warm brown eyes–
Helène held his gaze for a moment and tried not to blush.
“I can’t imagine that even Lady Sinclair is hiring French-speaking scullery maids these days,” the man said. He had apparently decided that some conversation could be tolerated. “So you would be... ”
“The new governess.”
“Ah. The governess.”
“And you are–?” asked Helène.
“A house guest.”
After this meager exchange, nothing further was said. The stallion trotted on, his stride fluid and steady, as the twilight became night and a light snowfall began. She watched the flakes descend, dusting the horse’s mane and glinting like bits of silver fire in the moonlight. Any sound from the surrounding woods was muffled and heavy in the snowfall. Soon the horse and its rider seemed the extent of Helène’s world, everything else unreal. Despite the renewed gnawings of hunger she felt comfortable and... and safe.
Papa. Papa, wake up.
I’ve brought the doctor. Papa–
Helène’s head came up with a jerk and she realized she had dozed off. Good heavens, she thought, sitting up a little straighter. I hope I wasn’t asleep for long. The road had narrowed, and the muddy ruts were smoothed over with a good layer of gravel. A regular planting of trees lined the sides–columnar beech from the look of it, although in the fading moonlight of a winter’s evening she couldn’t be sure. It must be very pretty here in the summer, thought Helène, muzzily. I wonder what the gardens are like at Luton Court. Will there be any statues? She thought of a statue she had seen once of the Greek Apollo–quite shockingly naked–in another garden, another place. Strange to think of a man’s body as beautiful. Helène’s eyes began to close again. His arms are so strong...
Wake up, she told herself, straightening again and taking a deep breath. Wake up. You don’t want this... person to think you are the type of woman who falls asleep in the arms of any stranger she happens to meet. Indeed not.
Mayhap we are poor, her father had told her, more than once, but the Phillips have always been respectable.
A bit of wishful thinking, perhaps, these days.
Their silent journey continued, the horse’s stride never faltering, the man seeming to take no notice of her at all. Although she was content for the most part to be ignored, Helène began to contemplate the appearance she would soon present to the marquess and marchioness, and she decided to risk voicing one complaint. She turned to look up into a strong, craggy face. The man raised his eyebrows.
Faint heart ne’er won fair maiden, Helène could hear her father saying. ’Twas not the most logical adage for her current situation, but it would have to do. She took a deep breath.
“Your animal has destroyed my portmanteau,” she told the man, her voice firm. “I’m sure my things are ruined.”
“Your clothing?” His voice sounded skeptical.
“Yes, my clothing!”
“Clothing of the sort that you are wearing now?”
Helène narrowed her eyes. Was the man short of wit? “What other kind of clothing would you suppose?” she asked him.
“Mademoiselle, I must say that if the
contents of your bag are similar to the costume you are wearing at present, it can hardly be much of a loss.”
The tone of his voice betrayed amusement, but Helène was in no mood to be teased. Well! she fumed. This was the outside of enough. Run down in the middle of a public road, accosted, her baggage ruined–and now insulted. Helène’s temper, never under the best of control, flared, and she tossed her head at him.
“Sir, I will thank you to put me down at once!”
“Certainly.”
A twitch on the reins, the horse stopped–and Helène found herself lifted to the ground.
“Good evening to you, mademoiselle, it was a pleasure to have been of some service.”
Her mouth agape, she stared at the rider in speechless fury as he rode off at a smart trot, and without a glance behind. He was out of sight around a curve in the road before she realized he still had her portmanteau.
“Oh! Of all the despicable, odious, pig-headed–!” She stomped after him, only to discover–as she rounded the curve herself–that Luton Court stood in front of her, lights burning from every window, and the front entrance not fifty yards away.
* * * *
Surely Harrison has arrived with the luggage by now, thought Lord Quentin, anticipating the pleasures of a hot bath and fresh clothing. He dismounted wearily from Alcibiades and tossed the reins to the waiting groom. The stallion snorted and stomped but Charles ignored him. He was gazing back in the direction from which he had come, watching, through the heavy snowfall, for a small figure to appear.
“Will you be wantin’ this... item, milord?” said the man, and Charles turned to see the governess’s portmanteau in his hands. The groom looked bemused, and Lord Quentin could only imagine what he thought of the torn and muddy bag.
“Yes–well, no.” Charles was about to tell him to give it to the housekeeper with directions to hold it for the new governess, who would be arriving very shortly. But it had been a long, cold day, and he was tired, and he doubted if he could summon coherent instructions for the portmanteau.