by Amy Lake
* * * *
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.
“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 depart
ure. 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 P
eter 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.