The Carriagemaker's Daughter

by Amy Lake

  Lady Pam laughed. “In a word,” she said, “tradition.”

  “In a word,” said Amanda, “a parcel of male nonsense.”

  “Isn’t that what I just said?” Pamela turned to Helène. “All of the local countryside was once wooded. But even before the modern century began much of the forest was gone. Used for cottages and firewood, I suppose. One of the early marquesses tried to forbid the cutting of timber on estate property–”

  “But it’s a very long story,” interrupted Amanda, motioning for one of the footmen’s attention. “D’ you suppose Celia thought to bring any sherry?”

  “Yes,” said Lady Pam. “Well, to shorten things a bit, each year the gentlemen of the household cut one large tree–”

  “Drunk as a lord, every one of them. It’s a wonder no one’s ever been killed.”

  “–and present it to the people of Luton-on-Lea on St. Raymond’s Day,” finished Lady Pam. “There’s a very nice ceremony in front of the church, that sort of thing.”

  “Ah.”

  “Don’t forget to tell her the part about the donkey,” said Lady Detweiler.

  * * * *

  Viscount Dreybridge approached Helène a short while later, wondering if he might ‘borrow’ Alice and Peter for a ‘scientifical experiment.’

  “I–I believe,” he stammered, “I believe that children have a natural... instinct for geometry. Figuring the height of that tree, for example. We will employ the So–Socratic method, and–”

  “Alice is but seven,” said Helène. “Peter is five. Surely they are not ready for geometry.”

  “No, no!” said the Viscount, undeterred. “It is a perfect age. They have no previous misunderstandings of scientifical methods to overcome. Now adults, on the other hand–”

  He rambled on. The children adored the viscount and were agreeable to the project, so, with some misgivings, Helène gave them leave to go. Accepting a small glass of mulled wine from one of the footmen, she stood in front of one of the bonfires. The heat was almost painful on her cheeks, and Helène hoped some of the warmth would find its way to her toes.

  “I will teach you to ice-skate, if you wish,” The soft voice was right behind her, and Helène had just enough presence of mind not to jump. Lord Charles Quentin. Of course. He stood grinning, his hand already at her elbow.

  “The Lea is often frozen thickly enough by the middle of January,” he added. “But you must promise never to go near it without me.”

  He steered her over to the far side of the bonfire. It would be churlish to refuse his company, thought Helène, and so she went unresisting, but with a worried glance in the marchioness’s direction. Lady Sinclair looked displeased. Wonderful, thought Helène. He amuses himself with the hired help for a scant few minutes, and I have her looking daggers at me for the rest of the afternoon.

  “I appreciate your offer, my lord,” began Helène, hoping, as she told herself, to be rid of him quickly. “But I really don’t think–”

  “We haven’t finished our conversation,” said Lord Quentin, as if she had not spoken.

  A conversation! Is that what he called it? Helène felt a twinge of annoyance at the man’s high-handed manner. “I don’t recall–”

  “And I will continue to plague you until you have heard me out.”

  “Then by all means, my lord,” said Helène. “Let us finish at once. You have my entire attention.”

  Her heart had begun to thump alarmingly, and her thoughts raced. Why was he here? Was he playing some game with her–or with the marchioness? Perhaps his attentions were all to make Lady Sinclair jealous, and Helène no more than an expendable pawn.

  Yes, decided Helène. That was undoubtedly the reason for his interest. Even the other night... was it a coincidence that Charles Quentin appeared at her door moments before they heard Celia? Suddenly this seemed very unlikely, and Helène’s annoyance changed to fury. How like the Quality, to assume other people had no feelings!

  “What is it?” she heard Lord Quentin ask. She turned to see an honest question in his eyes. Helène had never been skilled at hiding her emotions, and she realized that much of what she was thinking must have been mirrored in her face.

  “ ’Tis all a good game to you, I’m sure, my lord,” she told him. “But I am not playing.”

  “A game?” He had the grace to look confused.

  “Aye,” said Helène. “But I pray you, choose someone else to gain Lady Sinclair’s jealousy. I’m afraid I could not muster enough interest to make the charade convincing.”

  There! Let him think again, if he was so convinced she was easy prey.

  Lord Quentin shook his head and chuckled quietly.

  “What Celia thinks should be a matter of indifference to you, Miss Phillips,” he told her. “As it certainly is to me.”

  Helène shot him a disbelieving look. “Ah, but you are mistaken, my lord,” she said. “ ’Tis a matter of great concern to me, if I have a position at Luton Court, or must needs return to an uncertain future in London.”

  The fire blazed up for a moment, a shower of sparks falling out into the snow. They stepped back and once again Helène felt Charles Quentin’s strong arm at her back. A chill ran through her that had nothing to do with the weather.

  “Your future is not uncertain.”

  Startled by the odd intensity of his words, Helène looked up at Lord Quentin. His brown eyes were warm and compelling, and she forced herself to turn away.

  “No,” she answered. “No, I indeed hope not. Now, if you will excuse me–”

  “Don’t go.” He placed both hands on her shoulders. Helène fancied she felt the marchioness’s stare knifing into her back. She attempted to back away but his grip was strong, his fingers decidedly intimate even through the heavy wool of her cape. She felt short of breath, and angry at herself for her own, mindless reaction.

  Foolish girl.

  “I understand your concerns,” Lord Quentin was saying. He spoke in a near whisper. “But I have a... an idea.”

  An idea? What was this?

  “I can imagine no idea of yours which would be of any help, my lord,” she whispered back. “Unless you have children in need of a governess.”

  There was silence for a moment. While the fire crackled and warmed her cheek, the other sounds of the party–the murmur of conversation, the clatter of silver–seemed to fade. Abruptly, as if the knowledge had been transferred directly into her soul, burning there like a brand, she knew exactly what idea Charles Quentin was talking about.

  Helène turned to face him. She raised her eyebrows. “Ah. I see. I’ve been a bit of a slow-top, I suppose. You mean to offer me carte blanche?”

  It was plain speaking. Lord Quentin appeared momentarily disconcerted, then he smiled at Helène. “Perhaps I’ve been too forward. But I had the impression–the other night–that you do not judge me... repugnant to your sensibilities.”

  The words spoke of hesitation and doubt. But Helène saw amusement in Charles Quentin’s eyes, and she realized that he felt sure of himself. Sure that she would say yes.

  “You are a beautiful, intelligent woman. You are wasted here–”

  “And I should find my true worth in your bed?”

  Lord Quentin blew out a slow breath. Perhaps it now occurred to him that he was approaching his subject in an awkward way.

  “Your pardon,” he finally said. “I do not mean to imply that your worth lies only in your... mmm... ”

  “Physical attributes?” supplied Helène. “I am glad that you admit some possibility of other talents on my part.”

  “You misunderstand the nature of what I am suggesting.”

  “Misunderstand carte blanche?” Helène spat back. “I think not.” Her voice was sharp, her pique rapidly mounting. Perhaps it was her very real attraction to the man that added fury to the insult. She longed to slap him, to hurl curses at that smiling, arrogant face. But a public scene was unthinkable. Helène was aware that Lady Sinclair was watching every ges
ture between herself and Lord Quentin. Even if the marchioness could not hear the words–

  She forced herself to speak calmly, as if they were discussing nothing more than the height of the tree selected to be cut for St. Raymond’s Day.

  “Let me assure you, my lord, that I do not find you personally repugnant,” she told Lord Quentin. “Only your idea of proper employment for a respectable female.”

  “Don’t be so quick to dismiss the idea. Is this what you aspire to in the way of employment? Alice and Peter are pleasant enough children, I dare say, but–”

  “They’re quite wonderful, actually.”

  “–but this cannot be what you wished for your life. It is customary to settle a certain sum of money on one’s... mistress. You would never need work again, even if our relationship... mmm... ”

  “Even after you send me on my way? ’Tis a pleasant thought, I admit.”

  “You are deliberately twisting my words!”

  Helène noted, with satisfaction, that the gentleman was now just as angry as she was.

  “This conversation is over, my lord. Whatever you may think of governesses, ” she told him, “I can assure you that we are not whores.”

  “Miss Phillips, I never meant–”

  “You never meant!” Helène knew that Lady Sinclair still watched them, knew, too, that it would be no difficulty for the marchioness to guess the source of conflict between Lord Quentin and the governess. She was past caring. “Oh, my lord, you meant exactly that!”

  His eyes blazed. “I can assure you, Miss Phillips, that any mistress of mine is no whore.”

  “We disagree, then, on the plain meaning of an English word.”

  “You would have your own establishment in town. Clothing, jewels, anything at all. Most women in your station would jump at the chance to better themselves–”

  “To better myself!” Helène’s voice rose, her fury suddenly complete. She could feel the guests–and Lady Sinclair, certainly–turning to look at Lord Quentin and herself. Disaster loomed, inexorable and hungry.

  “Miss Phillips! Miss Phillips!”

  Alice and Peter appeared at her side, tugging on her cape. Lady Pamela was close at their heels and Lady Detweiler–Helène noticed, from the corner of her eye–had engaged the viscountess and Lady Harkins in animated conversation.

  “Miss Phillips! Aunt Pamela said we can help cut the tree!”

  “Cut the tree?” Helène was all at sea for a moment. What tree?

  Lord Quentin proved faster to respond. He looked at the children and frowned. “I’m sure your father will let you watch us, but–”

  “Sorry,” interjected Lady Pamela, moving quickly to Helène’s side. She sent a speaking look to Lord Quentin. “Best I could think of on the spur of the moment. Now, Alice–” She turned her attention to the girl. “Please explain to Peter that when I said help cut the tree, what I meant was–”

  “But, Aunt Pamela!”

  “You said–!”

  “Alice. Peter.” Helène’s voice was soft. The children immediately stopped arguing and turned their attention to her. Lord Quentin chuckled.

  “How do you do that?” asked Lady Pamela.

  “When the gentlemen are ready to cut the tree, you may watch, but only if you are standing next to me and holding my hand.”

  “Yes, Miss Phillips,” chorused Alice and Peter.

  “Now, come along. The fire has made me quite thirsty, and I shall need you to help me find some hot chocolate.” Helène left Lady Pamela with Lord Quentin and, one child in each hand, walked away without a backward glance.

  “Lord Quentin, a word with you if I may,” said Pamela Sinclair.

  * * * *

  The gentlemen had selected a well-formed pine not too far from the clearing and were now rallying to the cause, bearing axes and a two-man timber saw. Men and their traditions! However much she may have reassured Helène, Lady Pamela had always worried that the St. Raymond’s Day tree-cutting was an affair ripe for disaster. Amanda was quite correct about the amount of spirits that were generally consumed. But the marquess had undergone a long apprenticeship during their father’s day, and her brother was generally trustworthy in matters of straightforward labor. This year, as it happened, they also had the Viscount Dreybridge, who was a dab hand with an axe. The viscount and Lord Quentin had remained more sober than some of the rest and Jonathan now set them to work.

  “Alice! Peter! Come to mama, darlings.”

  The voice, against all expectation, was that of Lady Sinclair. She stood as close to the working group of men as she dared, with her rabbit’s fur muff in one hand and champagne in the other, and called for the children.

  “Good heavens. What is Celia going on about now?” was Amanda’s comment. “Is she trying to add ‘maternal’ to her list of talents?”

  “I should say so,” said Lady Pamela.

  “I don’t think she’s that good an actress.”

  “She does try with them, you know,” added Pam. “And I suppose she’s noticed that Charles is fond of children.”

  It was true. Alice and Peter, with the unerring instinct of the young, had discovered that Lord Quentin was the one gentleman of the party with a gift for play. He’d been flat on his back making snow-angels with them earlier, and his coat still sported the evidence.

  “If Celia thought the children were the key to Charles’s affection, I dare say she’d be down in the snow herself,” said Lady Detweiler. “Did you decide to tell him, by the way?”

  “Mmm?”

  “Don’t be coy,” said Amanda. “Did you tell Lord Quentin that he’s been making free with the granddaughter of a duke?”

  Lady Pam sighed. She’d known for weeks that Charles found the governess attractive, but something else had happened between the two of them today.

  “No,” she told Lady Detweiler. “And I don’t think I can–”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake, why not!”

  Lady Pam considered this. “For one thing, Helène specifically asked me not to.”

  “Pish-posh. She can hardly be twenty–what does she know?”

  “Nineteen, I believe. But for some people nineteen is as good as thirty. Perhaps she would prefer to be loved for herself.”

  “Idealistic nonsense. What on earth would it mean? No one is ever loved for themselves. Their looks, their money, their connections, yes, but–”

  Pamela laughed. The subject of true love never failed as a source of skeptical comment from Amanda.

  “So, what was it?” asked Amanda.

  “What was what?”

  Amanda threw up her hands. “How can we gossip if you won’t pay attention? What did you tell the illustrious Lord Quentin?”

  “That if he was the cause of Helène’s dismissal, I should have Jonathan call him out.”

  That was too much even for Lady Detweiler. She snorted. “D’ you want your brother killed? Besides, wouldn’t the marquess be the one who had dismissed her?”

  “Mmm,” said Lady Pam. “That’s a point. But Lord Quentin assured me that there was no mischief afoot.”

  Amanda groaned. “I shall despair of you yet. She’s a woman. He’s a man. Of course there will be mischief.”

  * * * *

  As the men prepared to make the final, uphill cut on the St. Raymond’s Day tree, Lord Sinclair rounded up the more inebriated and instructed them to stay out of harm’s way. The marchioness kept Alice and Peter at her side, and the best Helène could do was to stay as close to Lady Sinclair as she dared.

  “Evoe!” shouted the marquess, an ancient Luton battle cry. An ear-splitting report rattled the ground and bounced off the nearby hills, and the tree–slowly, as if sinking through water– began to lay itself down on the hill. Helène watched in mixed trepidation and awe. She had never seen anything so large... fall. The tree continued its descent for what seemed like minutes, tearing branches from neighboring trees with a crack crack crack. Then came a thunderous crash that she felt through her fee
t, and finally, abruptly, silence. Peter, entranced by the huge cloud of snow flung into the air by the tree’s impact, slipped from Lady Sinclair’s grasp and dashed forward. But the pine, although horizontal, was not at rest. It shifted slightly and began to roll.

  “Peter!” cried Helène. She ran forward to grab his arm, and caught it–

  –too late. The boy fell, his feet slipped under the trunk, and down they went in the snow. Helène tried to cover Peter’s body with hers. Above them echoed the terrific noise of a branch splintering as the tree continued to shift... then, again, silence.

  * * * *

  Lord Quentin was wielding the final cuts of the axe and did not see Peter run forward, turning around only at Helène’s cry. The boy and the governess went down in a flurry of snow and breaking tree limbs as the tree continued to roll–only another few inches, but it seemed to take an eternity. He could see a small foot . . .

  Why had she let go of the child’s hand? Lord Sinclair was already on his knees in the snow, digging, and in the next moment Charles and the viscount were at his side. The party was a babble of confusion. The men worked furiously, with Alice crying in the background, Lady Pamela comforting her, Celia wailing some complaint–

  A second foot appeared, then the green wool of a woman’s cape.

  “Take care,” said the marquess. “There may be broken bones.”

  “Papa!” Peter’s face appeared from under the cape, followed by an arm. He was scratched but otherwise unhurt and Lord Sinclair lifted him gently away from the tree. Lady Detweiler retrieved the boy, and the men returned to Helène, who was still motionless in the snow. Her breathing was regular, however, and there was no obvious injury. Charles carefully felt the back of her neck.

  “Miss Phillips,” said Jonathan. “Miss Phillips, you must wake up.”

  “Mmm,” came the murmur. Her eyes fluttered open, and she stared at nothing in particular.

  “Cold,” she said, eyes threatening to close.

  “Miss Phillips,” said the marquess. “We will assist you directly, but we must know if you can move your legs.”

  This had some effect. Another second’s silence, then Helène struggled to sit up in the snow.