by Amy Lake
“It’s rather late to be concerned about my reputation, don’t you think?” Her voice had returned to a whisper, but she was still agitated, and Charles was nearly out of patience.
Damn it all. If she would only calm down, he could describe to her the many advantages of becoming his mistress.
“Let me suggest–” he began.
“No!” in a fierce whisper.
“But if you’ll only listen for a moment, and allow me to explain–”
“I am finished listening to you for this evening, my lord. ”
“Miss Phillips!”
The voice, from the hallway outside the door, brought their hissed conversation to an abrupt close. Celia’s voice. Lord Quentin thought furiously for a second, and then mimed sleep to Miss Phillips.
Wide eyed, she pointed at the bed in question.
No. No, that wouldn’t do. She would have to answer the door–
“Miss Phillips!”
–but not in that nightgown. Charles looked around, noticed her wrapper and threw it to the girl. He motioned to the door. She shook her head, violently, pointing at him. Oh, for the love of–
“Miss Phillips, are you in there?”
There was no help for it. Charles moved silently across the room to the wardrobe and squeezed in, quietly pulling the door closed. Of all the ridiculous–! He’d hardly touched the girl, and here he was, hiding in the closet like a love-struck twenty-year-old. Lord Quentin prided himself on the discrete and dignified nature of his affaires de coeur. Crouching in a wardrobe had never been necessary before, and he was highly annoyed with the stubborn Miss Helène Phillips for making it necessary now. If she had only kept her mouth shut and let him explain–
He heard the door open.
“Miss Phillips, what is going on in here?”
“I beg your pardon?”
Don’t let her in! thought Lord Quentin, wishing that he could somehow send signals through the wardrobe door.
“I’m quite sure I heard a man’s voice in this room, Miss Phillips. I’m asking for an explanation.”
“A man’s voice?” The governess, to Charles’ relief, sounded genuinely sleepy and confused.
“Yes!” From the sound of it, Celia was still standing in the doorway. Lord Quentin could imagine the marchioness’s frustration at not being allowed a clear view of the entire room.
“I beg your pardon, my lady, but you must be mistaken. I’ve had a terrible headache this evening–” The governess broke off suddenly and Charles heard a sound of annoyance from Lady Sinclair.
“Miss Phillips, really, I’m sure you don’t expect me to believe–”
“Mmm.” A soft moan. That must be the girl, thought Charles. What was happening?
There was a loud thump, followed by a moment’s silence. Then–
“Oh, bother it all.”
The door slammed shut and a lengthier silence ensued. What on earth had happened to Miss Phillips? Lord Quentin was very tired of being hunched over in a woman’s wardrobe, but he had a healthy respect for Celia’s cunning. She might wait at the doorway, listening... .
Another long minute went by, and then Charles heard soft footsteps. The wardrobe was flung open and Miss Phillips stood there, eyes blazing, in silence. She motioned toward the window.
“Your exit, I believe, my lord,” she hissed.
Lord Quentin shook his head. He’d climbed out of a few boudoir windows in his rambunctious youth, to be sure, but it was a method used more for speed than stealth.
“Too noisy,” he whispered back.
“C’est tant pis,” she retorted. “By the time they find you in the bushes nobody will be able to prove which window you came from. Tell them you were trying to climb into Lady Harkins’s room and she pushed you away. Tell them anything–I don’t care. Just get out.”
“What happened?” he asked her, stalling. “I heard something fall.”
“I fainted. Again.”
“You really fainted?”
Miss Phillips looked disgusted. “Of course not.” She had grabbed his wrist and was yanking him toward the window.
Lord Quentin chuckled. “Good job.”
“Well, I certainly didn’t do it for your approval. Now please go.”
Charles decided an offer of carte blanche could wait until the next morning. The girl was overwrought. He eyed the view from the window. A ledge several feet below, then a drop into a bank of yews. Well, he had climbed down from worse.
“Until tomorrow then, fair maiden,” he told her, pretending to hold a hat in his hands and making a sweeping bow.
Was that the hint of a smile? He preferred to think so. But the governess watched, silent and impassive, while he climbed out the window. As he hung, swaying, from the ledge, about to drop to the turf below, Lord Quentin heard the unmistakable click of a window latch being closed.
Charles smiled to himself. Impudent little vixen! He was beginning to think that Miss Helène Phillips was a woman of whom one might not easily tire.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Alice and Peter, faces shining and hair full of snow, caught up with Helène as she returned to the house from her morning walk. Lady Pam trailed behind, grimacing with the effort to keep her skirts held above the ever growing drifts of snow.
The children began talking at once.
“Oh, Miss Phillips, did you hear–?”
“Miss Phiwips! We’re going to–”
“Let me tell her!”
“No! You always get to tell her everything!”
“No, I don’t!”
Helène could see another snowball fight brewing; fortunately, Lady Pamela had now joined the group.
“I’ll tell her, if you please,” said Lady Pam. Both children looked downcast. “Oh, don’t be little fussbudgets. You’re going to need to warm up first anyway, so go ask Nanny to help you out of those clothes. I believe Cook is making poppyseed cake today.”
Peter’s eyes lit up. “Yes, ma’am,” he and Alice responded, and they bounced off.
“Tell me what?” asked Helène, after the children reached the house without further conflict. “And isn’t it a bit early for Alice and Peter to be outside?”
“Pah!” said Lady Pamela. “They were too excited at the news.” She gestured to the scene around her. “And besides, this is new-fallen snow! You cannot expect children to remain inside when there is new-fallen snow!”
Helène laughed. “And the news?”
“ ’Tis the cutting of St. Raymond’s tree on the morrow.”
“St. Raymond?”
“A long story. But the short of it is, that although the men usually cut the tree by themselves, this year Celia has decided we should make a ‘snow-picnic’ of the event.”
“Lady Sinclair suggested–?” She and Lady Pamela had started walking back to the house; Helène now stopped to stare at Pam in disbelief.
“Don’t look so shocked. I’m sure Celia ventures outside from time to time. I understand she has a fine new winter outfit, complete with an enormous rabbit’s fur muff.”
“And–?” suggested Helène, not quite believing that a new muff was enough to convince the marchioness to brave the elements.
“And, there will be a ride on the hayrack, where I believe it is traditional for the gentlemen to make sure the ladies are kept warm.”
“Ah.”
“Ah, yourself,” said Lady Pam. “You will be joining us, of course.”
“Hmm,” said Helène. They had almost reached the kitchen door. The two women stood on the stoop and brushed snow from their skirts, inhaling the unmistakable aroma of almonds and poppyseed.
“I think not,” she finally answered Pamela. “Nanny is too old to go, of course, but surely one of the footmen could be assigned to watch Alice and Peter.”
Lady Pamela had lifted her eyebrows. “You will not be asked to keep charge of the children,” she told Helène. “They will be well occupied. Besides, ’twill be harmless fun. Amanda has been convinced to jo
in us, so we can easily contrive to help you avoid Celia.”
“Even so.” Helène managed a great, theatrical sigh. “I’m sure the children will be delighted to escape their taskmistress for an afternoon.”
“Taskmistress?” Lady Pamela sniffed. “To be sure, one can see how much Alice and Peter despise you.”
Helène was forced to laugh. “No, I don’t mean that... ” She hesitated, the reason for her reluctance to join the party not something she wanted to admit even to herself. It was one thing to know that the very beautiful Lady Celia Sinclair had fixed her interest on Charles Quentin. It was quite another to watch it happening. A cold evening’s ride in a hayrack? She could already see Lady Sinclair and Lord Quentin huddled together, almost hear Celia’s protests–
“Oh, Charles. My hands are so cold.”
Helène shook her head. Botheration. Why should she care whose hands Lord Charles Quentin chose to warm? His activities were a matter of indifference to her, after all. Nevertheless...
Lady Pamela had seen the warring emotions on Helène’s face and her perception was, as always, acute.
“You aren’t really worried about the children, are you?” she asked Helène–and then, without stopping for a reply–“You’re worried about Celia and Charles Quentin.”
“No! Well, that is, of course, the marchioness is not overly fond of me. I try to stay out of her way.”
Lady Pam nodded. “And Lord Quentin?”
Helène found a bit of snow still clinging to her skirt. She brushed it away. “What about Lord Quentin?”
Lady Pamela studied Helène closely. The governess was blushing, despite herself.
“Helène. Tell him.”
“No.”
* * * *
In the end, the choice of whether or not to join the next day’s activities was made for her. Shortly after Helène returned to her rooms, a footman arrived with a note from the marquess, requesting that she accompany the party to a “St. Raymond’s Day Tree-Cutting And Snow Pick-nick.” Helène assumed that her presence was required only to mind the children, being unaware of a conversation between Lord Sinclair and Charles Quentin in which her name figured prominently. At any rate, there was no avoiding it now, and she comforted herself with the thought that she would scrupulously avoid Lord Quentin, and certainly not speak with him.
The day of the “pick-nick” dawned clear and cold, but there was happily little wind. Helène, who had never before dined al fresco in the middle of winter, anticipated being miserably chilled, but she had not counted on the ingenuity of the marchioness when physical comfort was at question. The party gathered in a sheltered clearing at the edge of a small forest of Scotch pine. An army of servants had preceded the guests, trampling the snow into a smooth, flat surface and laying huge rugs over the ground. Comfortable winged-back chairs, each with its own set of wool blankets, were clustered about, with heated bricks to be used as foot-rests. Several bonfires blazed away at the edge of the clearing, and the guests stood chatting as footmen circulated with cups of mulled wine.
An overwhelming quantity of food, all served in the highest style on silver platters or in crystal bowls, was laid out on linen-draped tables, with chafing dishes to keep various dishes warm. Alice and Peter were in alt, running circles around the party, flopping backwards in the snow to make angels, asking everyone in earshot, over and over, “Which tree? Where is it? When can we cut the tree?” The marchioness tried to shoo them away, only to be countermanded by her husband. Childish fun, it seemed, was to be allowed.
Celia Sinclair stood out from the rest of the group in a long fur-lined pelisse of scarlet wool, the red in bright contrast to the white and green of her surroundings. The other ladies were similarly arrayed, if less colorful. Helène was astounded to find each of them in possession of appropriate and stylish cold weather garments, as few of the women had previously exhibited any interest in the out-of-doors. She herself was only adequately dressed in her forest-green pelisse, covered on this occasion with a mantle of grey wool borrowed from Lady Pam.
The mantle had earned her a curt remark from Lady Sinclair.
“My goodness, Miss Phillips, I hope that association of colors will not frighten the horses.”
Make up your mind, thought Helène. Do you want me to be well dressed or not? But she was enjoying the day too much to worry about the marchioness.
“Miss Phillips! Miss Phillips!”
The children ran towards her with the news that they had discovered a “big river” nearby. A river? The Lea flowed through the northern part of the estate, but that was some distance away. Still, feeling uneasy about Peter’s common sense with flowing water, Helène followed them through the woods to have a look.
“See, Miss Phillips! We told you!”
The children had reached the bank of a small creek that flowed in twists and turns down a wooded, rock-strewn slope. Partially frozen over, the creek sparkled in the sunshine against the green background of pine. Bare sticks of willow poked through the ice near the edge of the stream, and the sound of the water was a soft murmur in the otherwise silent woods.
Peter threw a pebble onto the ice. Parts of it seemed solid.
Helène had heard of people... skating on rivers. She had seen a pair of the odd shoes in a shop once, high-laced leather with a piece of polished metal on the soles, somewhat like the runner to a sled. But one could hardly skate on something like this, surely it wasn’t smooth enough–
It was a very small creek, really. Peter threw another rock, apparently content to stay well away from the edge of the water. Alice was complaining that Helène had not allowed her to bring her sketchbook. She began drawing something in the snow with a stick. The burble of water was almost hypnotizing. Helène took a small step forward, imagining what it might be like to glide over a river of ice.
“You are a little fool, aren’t you?” teased a male voice, almost in her ear.
Helène jumped. One foot slipped as she turned around, and she began to fall. Immediately, a strong arm wrapped itself around her waist, hauling her upright and away from the creek’s edge. She looked into the eyes of Lord Charles Quentin. He was smiling.
“What are you doing? Let go!” Helène tried to extricate herself, but her captor was unyielding.
“Alice. Peter. Go back to your father.” Lord Quentin’s arm was still around her waist. He motioned the children away from the creek.
“But Lord Quentin!” protested Alice. “It’s pretty!”
“I’m sure the marquess can arrange for James to bring you more hot chocolate,” he told her. “And Alice–”
“Yes, sir?” said the girl.
“We wouldn’t want your father to scold Miss Phillips, would we?”
“Oh no, sir!”
“Why would Father scold Miss Phillips?” asked Peter, eyes wide.
“Because she almost fell into some very cold water. Your papa might not think she was clever enough to be your governess, doing something as foolish as that.”
The mock seriousness of his tone was lost on both children, and Peter looked up at her with a shocked expression.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” said Helène.
“We won’t tell!” said Alice.
“Good. Now off with you.” They trooped away obediently, but Lord Quentin did not loosen his grip. Helène stopped struggling and stood, rigid and furious, feeling his breath warm in her ear.
“You are no longer joining us at dinner,” he said. “Why is that?”
“I did not ‘almost fall into cold water!’” she told him, choosing to leave the playfulness of his words unacknowledged. “Are you mad? I wouldn’t even have slipped if you hadn’t startled me!”
“You’ve entirely the right of it,” said Lord Quentin. “I do apologize.”
Startled by his answer, Helène found herself with nothing else to say. “Very well,” she muttered, finally. “Now be so good as to let me go–”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
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She was beginning to feel a little weak in the knees. Lord Quentin’s body was strong and warm against hers, and Helène felt his lips nuzzling the top of her head.
“I prefer to eat alone.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Her body betrayed her, insisting that it wished to remain standing there enfolded in his arms. But... what had Lord Quentin just said?
“I don’t care what you believe,” Helène retorted, and, pushing his arms aside with sudden strength, she stomped away.
* * * *
The marchioness had decided that champagne was de rigeur for a winter’s picnic, while the marquess preferred the warmth of brandy. Consequently, both were offered in addition to the wine, in liberal portions, and by mid-afternoon the greater number of the guests were somewhat unsteady to foot. Lady Sinclair was in her element, shrieking with laughter at every jest or bon mot from the gentlemen, and had attached herself quite firmly to Lord Quentin’s side.
“Doesn’t the marquess notice anything?” Helène asked Lady Pamela and Lady Detweiler, and was promptly embarrassed to think she had voiced such an impertinence aloud.
“An excellent question,” answered Amanda. She shrugged. “I believe much of what Celia does is indeed designed for her husband’s notice. But Jonathan’s attention seems quite difficult to catch, these days.”
“Can’t he see what she’s doing–?” Helène stopped. Both women were looking at her with raised eyebrows.
“He?” Lady Detweiler asked the girl. “The marquess? Or Lord Quentin?”
“I–well–” She blushed. What is wrong with me? wondered Helène. Mooning over an arrogant, conceited lord as if she believed in fairy tales! The shy governess and the handsome earl-to-be, living happily ever after in some ivy-covered castle. Well! Celia Sinclair could just have him, every last bit of him, because Helène was finished with such nonsense. She’d sooner marry a footman.
“Why are the gentlemen cutting down a tree?” she asked, focusing her attention on a less aggravating subject.
“Oh, don’t get me started,” begged Amanda.