by Amy Lake
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.
“These are my own clothes! I’m not ashamed of them!” Helène had said at first, mulish. This was a bouncer, of course.
“No one said anything about being ashamed,” replied Pamela. “We are talking about clothing here, not morality. One’s dress should be a matter of enjoyment.”
“Enjoyment for whom? I’m the same person no matter what I wear!”
“Humor me,” said the unflappable Lady Pam, holding a length of silk shawl up to Helène’s face. “Yes, this color suits you very well.”
Further objections to the scheme got no further, as Lady Pamela apparently brooked no compromise on the subject of clothes. Several days after that conversation a modiste had arrived–one Madame Gaultier–and Helène was summoned to Lady Pamela’s sitting room for fittings. Every piece of furniture was awash in cambrics, calicos, and silks.
“She is too thin, neh?” said the dressmaker, taking an appraising look at the governess.
“I think we should allow some room for increase.”
“Very good, my lady. Now, as for the number of walking gowns... ”
“I can’t pay for this!” Helène protested.
“Of course you can’t,” said Lady Pamela, holding a lilac silk up to Helène’s face. “I can.”
“You! But what will Lord Sinclair say?”
“We won’t tell him, will we?” said Lady Pam. “And I can assure you that he isn’t likely to notice a thing on his own.”
“But–”
“Stand still.”
Helène continued to argue until Lady Pamela told her that the gowns were to be her Christmas gift, and if Helène continued to fuss about it in such an unbecoming manner she, Lady Pamela, would order twice as many.
* * * *
If Madame Gaultier could speak a single word of French, Helène was the Prince Regent. The modiste had, however, a good eye for the flattering cut of a gown and was remarkably quick as well. The cambric gown Helène wore today, for example, had been made up within hours. Grosgrain ribbons of a deep green set off the high waist, and the skirt sported lines of tucking along the hem. The bodice was gently fitted, and although the neckline was not low cut it showed Helène’s bosom–and here no one could complain of her figure, thin as she still was–to great advantage. Anyone could feel pretty in a dress like that, and, despite Helène’s objections, the fern-green cambric was only one of several new habillements now gracing her wardrobe.
The latest addition was a grey silk evening gown with a gauze overskirt, simply cut and eminently suitable for a small country ball. Here Helène tried to put her foot down, but Lady Pamela had been adamant.
“A beaded reticule and matching gloves in addition, I should think,” she told Madame Gaultier, as the modiste took careful notes in a tiny, precise hand. “To be made up within the month.”
“Trez bien, mam’zelle.”
“You are wasting your time!” protested Helène. “What are the chances of my being invited to a ball? And can you imagine the marchioness allowing me to attend?”
Lady Pam looked at her archly. “I wouldn’t be so sure about your chances. And don’t argue with your betters.”
This last was uttered in Pamela’s flawless imitation of Lady Sinclair’s voice at its most petulant. Helène stuck out her tongue.
* * * *
“C - O - W,” spelled Peter, his lips pursed in concentration. “Cow! It’s cow, Miss Phillips!”
“Very good, Peter,” said Helène.
Alice was unimpressed. “It’s only three letters! Can’t he read any thing bigger than that?”
“Hush, Alice,” said Lady Pam, who had arrived for tea. “He’s only five.”
“I bet I could read more than stupid old cow when I was five!”
“Could not!”
“Could too!”
“Could not!”
“Alice. Peter,” said Helène softly. The children immediately quieted, and Peter went back to
his picture-book.
“I wish I knew how you did that,” commented Lady Pamela. “I thought we’d be hearing ‘could not’ and ‘could too’ for the next hour.”
“I regret to disillusion you, but it doesn’t always work.”
“Ah.”
The two women sipped tea and chatted quietly in French. Lady Pamela enjoyed the habits and patterns of this language as much as Helène, and they both felt it was a benefit to the children to hear natural conversation à la française. Not that they always paid much attention. Alice, with sketch book in hand and a look of artistic concentration on her face, was attempting to draw Peter as he played with his blocks. It was a hopeless task.
“Sit still, Peter!”
“I can’t!”
“Miss Phillips!”
“Helène,” began Lady Pam. There was a mischievous look on her beautiful face. “Do you have any particular plans for the remainder of the afternoon?”
“Only French, I believe. Alice is progressing exceptionally well–”
“The sun is shining today, as I’m sure you’ve noticed,” interrupted Lady Pam. “One might almost call it warm.” Helène noticed that the children’s ears had perked up.
“I might call it warm as well, my lady, except that it is so cold, ” replied Helène. She cocked an eyebrow at Lady Pam.
“Oh, fustian,” said Pamela. She sighed theatrically. “You know perfectly well what I mean. The children can’t stay indoors all winter–they’ll be positively peaked by February. And ’tis a perfect day for a good tromp through the snow.”
A lack of patience for book-learning was Lady Pamela’s one besetting weakness. She was intelligent without being the least bookish, a combination which baffled Helène. With such a grand library at her disposal–! But Lady Pam could never see a child quietly at work in the schoolroom without wanting to set them outside “in the good fresh air,” and in this she became Helène’s ally. The governess no longer worried that the next snowball fight would lead to her dismissal from Luton.
“Well, Peter does have a prime case of the fidgets these days,” Helène admitted. “I suppose French can wait until tomorrow. Although–”
“Miss Phillips! Oh, yes, please, Miss Phillips!”
Too late. Alice and Peter, with the acute hearing children use only when adults are trying to conceal something from them, crowded around Helène, their faces shining in anticipation.
“Oh, very well,” laughed Helène. “But only if your aunt agrees to join us.”
“Aunt Pamela! Aunt Pamela!”
Helène looked at Lady Pam and grinned.
* * * *
Lady Pamela watched Helène making a row of miniature snowmen with Alice and Peter. She felt satisfied with the changes that the past few weeks had brought in the girl’s looks. Miss Phillips was filling out a bit, and her skin had the healthy glow that came with wholesome food and enough of it. No one would ever find fault with that hair, and combined with the new wardrobe, the governess now made a more than tolerably attractive figure. Still, there was one aspect to the situation that troubled Lady Pam.
’Twas all very well to provide someone with proper clothing. Easily done, in fact, if one had money and taste. But, now what?
“She’s a governess,” Lady Detweiler had reminded Pam, the night before. “A very intelligent governess, to be sure. But what is the chit to do?”
Lady Pamela had already considered this at some length. “I can’t imagine anyone really wants to spend their life moving from house to house,” she told Amanda. “Only becoming accustomed to one family and then–gone. She should get married.”
“Pray remind me of the reasons that marriage would be an improvement,” was Amanda’s rejoinder. “Besides, like it or not, she isn’t ton. You can’t marry her off to the first besotted viscount that comes along.”
Pragmatic as always, Lady Detweiler had the right of it. The usual younger son would never do in this case. The boy might be swayed by Helène’s beauty, but the family would never allow the match. No, it would need to be someone of more mature years, in charge of his own life, and possessed of adequate income. Lady Pamela wrinkled her forehead, mentally reviewing the marquess’s list of guests. Now that Christmas itself was past, there would be a steady stream of new arrivals, and the return of at least one older friend of the family.
Celia had been in alt last night, Pam recalled, ever since word had arrived that Lord Quentin would be returning to Luton Court at almost any hour.
Charles Quentin. Lady Pamela’s fingers, encased in a rabbit’s fur muff, tapped out a thoughtful tattoo. Jonathan’s friend had been a regular visitor at Luton for years; she knew him well, although no romantic spark had ever flickered between them. Still, Lady Pamela had found Lord Quentin to be intelligent and, like herself, possessed of both a wicked sense of humor and a more than average appreciation for the more blatant absurdities of the ton. But as a possible husband for Miss Phillips? No, it was impossible. Charles was the future Earl of Tavelstoke–
“Good heavens, have you run mad to be outside in this weather?”
Pamela turned around and burst into laughter. Lady Detweiler was picking her way through the snow, an expression of distaste on her face.
“It’s only snow, Amanda.”
“Nasty, cold stuff I’ve always thought. And not a decanter of sherry in sight. What’s the point, my dear?”
Pamela pointed at Helène and the children, who were now engaged in adding sprigs of yew to the top of each snowman’s head. The effect was somewhat antler-like. Snow-reindeer? wondered Lady Pam.
“Yes, well it’s all very charming and pastoral, I’m sure. Can we go back in now? I’ve been stuck all alone with your sister-in-law. She’s in an absolute tizzy over Lord Quentin.”
“Lord Quentin?” Lady Pam asked Amanda. “Has he returned already?”
“No, but he will be arriving any minute, according to Celia. She can hardly sit still. I am quite convinced her décolletage is getting more outrageous by the day. This morning’s gown is positively alarming, I’ll have you know. Lord Quentin could stick a grapefruit down there, if he had half a mind–”
Pamela erupted into laughter once again.
“–and a very large grapefruit, at that. D’ you suppose,” added Lady Detweiler, “that she intends to continue this absurd flirtation? Although I can’t imagine why I should care.”
“I believe she... knew Lord Quentin before her marriage,” replied Pam.
“Indeed. Why does Jonathan not put a stop to it? She’ll end up in real trouble one of these days.”
Lady Pamela sighed. She had wondered the same thing. Of late, her brother’s affection for his wife seemed even cooler and more distant than usual. “I don’t know,” she admitted to Amanda. “He must see her insecurity. I believe she would not behave near so badly if... ” Screams of laughter erupted from the direction of the snowmen and Pam broke off, her attention diverted once more to the children and their governess. “Amanda, does Helène Phillips remind you of anyone?”
Lady Detweiler had the best memory for faces of anyone in Pam’s acquaintance. She glanced at the girl, then looked at her more carefully for several moments, frowning.
“No... I don’t think so.” But Amanda sounded unsure.
“I keep thinking I’ve seen her somewhere before.”
“In London, perhaps?”
Lady Pamela hesitated, closing her eyes. A memory, a hand’s breadth out of reach–
“I don’t know,” she finally said. “There’s something about her face, and that hair, that seems so familiar...”
Hooves sounded close by, muffled by the snow. Pam and Amanda turned to see a horse cantering down the long front-court drive. The size of the stallion identified its rider even before they could clearly see his face.
“Speak of the devil,” said Amanda.
It was indeed Charles Quentin. He stopped in front of Pamela and Lady Detweiler, swung down from his mount, and doffed his hat.
“Welcome back to Luton, Lord Quentin,” said Pam. “I hope your journey was uneventful.”
“Lady Pamela. Lady Detweiler. I took advantage of the full moon and left Tavelstoke before dawn this morning. I’m delighted to see you taking full advantage of our fine weather.”
Amanda snorted. Pamela winked at Lord Quentin. “I believe that Lady Detweiler has taken about as much advantage of the weather as she can endure,” she told him.
“Oh, come now,” said the lord. “Look at how much Alice and Peter are enjoying themselves–” He stopped abruptly and frowned.
Helène had been gathering another armful of ‘antlers.’ She reappeared now from behind the yew hedge, a slender figure in a brushed-wool pelisse of deep forest-green. A matching shawl was cast loosely around her neck, and a mass of glossy auburn curls shone in the winter sun. She looked, thought Pam with satisfaction, like any proper young lady. Lord Quentin was staring blankly at the governess.
Pamela and Amanda exchanged looks.
“Who–?” began Lord Quentin. Then–“I don’t believe I’ve been introduced to your new guest.” He looked a little puzzled, as if he realized he should know her.
“Of course,” said Lady Pamela. “Miss Phillips!” she called to Helène.
* * * *
Miss Phillips? The governess? Charles looked at the girl as she walked slowly toward them, trying to put this rather dashing young woman together with the person he had last seen wearing little more than rags. How could he have forgotten that she was so pretty? Thick auburn hair set off a perfect, creamy complexion. A wide, sensual mouth and brilliant green eyes–
The eyes met his. He drew in a sharp breath.
“Lord Quentin,” said Lady Pamela, “may I present Miss Helène Phillips?”
The girl obviously remembered who he was. She gave him a quick, veiled look and dropped into a deep curtsey. Watching Miss Phillips’s hands flick her skirts out into a wide circle, a quick rustle of fabric over the surface of the snow, Lord Quentin was amused. It was apparently quite possible, he saw, for a curtsey to convey irony. The chit had some spirit.