Lord St. Claire's Angel

by Donna Lea Simpson

  He frowned in impatience with himself. Why all the introspection suddenly? Why this sudden urge to find purpose to life? But still his mind toiled on as the beautiful voice soared and swooped, echoing against the high, vaulted ceiling. Questions with no answers. Questions with unsatisfactory answers. Such as . . . had anyone in his whole life ever needed him? The young ladies he squired during the season needed him to lend them countenance as they gracefully swayed to the waltz. They needed him to collect their fan for them when they forgot it in the box after the opera. They needed him to court them, so they could marry well and not disgrace their families. Needed him? Any other man of sufficient birth would do.

  It was all so much refuse, litter on the wending roadway of a long and boring life. The years ahead stretched out into one long, intolerable highway of tedium and forgotten dreams, years spent frantically playing at being busy as he moved from house party to London season to country gathering, with or without a family of his own.

  He sighed and stretched out his long legs, the organ music of the Ellerbeck music master filling the quaint church with seasonal carols. For some reason he thought of Celestine, her freckled face and great luminous gray eyes, gazing at him with a tormented expression on her sweet, serious countenance.

  Luminous? Sweet? Yes, she had those qualities, and likely more. He was doing her a disservice by trying to engage her interest when there could be no ending for it but hurt feelings on her part and empty triumph on his. Somehow in the sacred atmosphere of St. George’s his heart, that long-silent organ of feeling, whispered that he was being thoughtless and cruel, callous to a young woman who must need her position very much. For a young woman of birth and breeding to descend to the rank of a governess, there must be a certain amount of desperation.

  It would not do. He must not torture her like that. She was vulnerable to him; he felt it in the very marrow of his bones, and he had been a seducer for long enough to know something like that. He felt a trembling deep in his chest as Celestine’s lovely voice filled the cool darkness once more. It occurred to him that he held her very fate in his large hands. Tears sprang to his eyes. Horrified by his weakness he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and swiftly wiped away the telltale moisture. He was becoming maudlin.

  But for those few minutes in the dark it almost seemed that he could hear the sound of angels in her voice, the sweet celestial sounds of heaven, the world beyond St. Peter’s jealously guarded gate. The imagery was irresistible. He was a supplicant outside that gate, on his knees, begging for entrance. And a stern man in white robes asked him that dreaded question: “What have you ever done in your life that is worthy of entrance here?”

  If he had never added anything to the plus side of his ledger, at least he would not add this one thing to the negative side. If he did not do another thing in his life, at least he could say to himself that he had left Celestine Simons, virtuous governess, heart-whole. He would leave her virgin heart in peace to find happiness with the vicar perhaps, or some other worthy, dull, honest man who would make her a good husband.

  • • •

  Celestine lagged behind a chattering Elise and smugly satisfied Mrs. Jacobs as they walked down the short hall to the great gothic-arched wooden doors that led to the outside. Even her conversation with Mr. Foster, brief as it was, had been carried out in a distracted state unlike her usual calm serenity. And the vicar had felt her distraction. He had frowned and bid her “Good evening” coolly.

  But another long ride back to Langlow with Lord St. Claire loomed, and she was in no state for it. She always felt fragile, like glass, after a practice in which her solo parts were rehearsed. Singing the holy songs in the sacred confines of St. George’s left her weak and trembling, with a heart so open and full she was always afraid she would weep. Or be shattered by an unkind word.

  But when she joined the two ladies it was to find a gravely attentive Lord St. Claire. He handed each of them into the carriage in turn with no lingering pressure or teasing words, and was quietly deferential, treating each woman exactly alike. Her heart flooded with gratitude and relief as he politely turned his remarks to the maid and housekeeper after one questioning glance at Celestine’s drained, pale face.

  She had a few moments to gather her wits as Mrs. Jacobs prosed on about the rehearsal, ending with an arch question to the man sitting opposite her.

  “And now what do you think of our choir, my lord?” Her double chins quivered in expectation of his answer as her beady eyes glared through the dimness.

  “Quite extraordinary, Mrs. Jacobs, just as you said.” His voice was quiet and serious.

  Celestine stole a glance at him in the semidarkness. His noble profile was absolutely still for once, with no laughter or teasing looks being tossed this way and that, and no trace of sarcasm in his low, melodious voice. He was handsomer than any man she had ever seen, and even more so, she thought, in his quiet reflection. His nose was straight, his chin firm, his lips . . . best not to think too much about his lips. She often found herself watching them when he spoke, relishing the fullness of the bottom one, and the even white teeth behind.

  “I was especially moved by Miss Simons’s solos,” he continued, gazing straight ahead. “They were—”

  “Ever so nice, she sings, don’t she? Though her voice is so very high, ain’t it?” That was Elise, buoyed enough by the practice that she ventured an opinion even in such exalted company.

  There was a moment of silence from Lord St. Claire, then he spoke again. “I have heard many vocal performances; Miss Simons is right when she said that earlier. But there was something about her singing that left me breathless. It was sublime. I was transported; that is the only word I can think of to describe my feelings. I felt like the gates of heaven had been opened, and I was chosen to hear an angel sing. It was an unforgettable moment that will live in my heart for a long time.”

  His voice was absolutely serious and Celestine, in her vulnerable state, felt the tears well up and a lump form in her throat. She choked them back. Not now! she fiercely told herself. But they would come and she must ignore them. They flowed down her face, dripping off her chin onto her gloved hands, twisted together over her reticule. She cloaked a sob with a quiet cough. Then, in the dimness, she felt a pressure on her hand and a large square of fabric, a man’s handkerchief, was being pressed there. One swift glance told her it was Lord St. Claire, though he was not drawing anyone’s attention to her emotionally fragile state.

  What a puzzle he was, she thought, as she pressed the deliciously scented square to her eyes. The pressure on her fingers ceased and he left her to her recovery, engaging the other two in a conversation that needed no contribution from her.

  • • •

  She wept silently, he thought, withdrawing his hand after putting his handkerchief in hers. It seemed his one weak compliment had burst some dam of reserve and her tears had flowed just as his had in the still, resonant reaches of the church. He was touched beyond belief that mere words, a trifling commendation from him, could break her reserve.

  Had he ever touched a woman’s heart that way? He was awed by the powerful sensation he had of holding her living, beating heart in his hands and keeping it safe. He wished he could be of more comfort. If only he could put an arm around her shoulder and draw her head down to rest on his chest, she could weep unrestrainedly while he soothed her. He felt an odd tug in the region under his breastbone, as if someone had a string tied to his heart and had pulled it gently. Was he ill? Was this awkward emotionalism the precursor to a bout of the grippe?

  He wished to offer Miss Simons aid, and all he could do was keep the chattering maid and the self-satisfied housekeeper busy so they would not inquire after Miss Simons’s silence. He would give her time to recover. And he would leave off his pursuit of her. She was worthy of his respect and self-control, at the very least.

  She would suffer no more at his hands.

  Chapter Four

  St. Claire rose earlier than
usual the next morning and actually whistled while his man, Dooley, dressed him and tied his cravat. He felt cleansed somehow and had an earnest desire to see Miss Simons again so he could prove to her in the light of day that he knew exactly how to treat her, and would embarrass her with his attentions no more.

  It was too bad the little governess did not breakfast with the family, but of course that would be unheard of. Why was that? he wondered. She was obviously of good family, and if her fortunes had not been depressed she would have been an honored guest. If not of elevated rank, at least her birth was sufficiently genteel for a marquess’s table. But because she had somehow fallen on bad times and had been forced to the extremity of educating a gentleman’s brats in his home, she was now beyond the pale.

  He shrugged as he strolled down the wide stairs. Society’s dictates were not for such as he to defy, they just were. Miss Chambly, last year’s governess, had obviously not seen any impediment to attaching the younger brother of a marquess, but then she was a foolish little widgeon, blessed with more hair than wit. Whatever had possessed his sister-in-law to engage her for the education of her daughters he did not know. Perhaps she was doing a favor for someone in taking the girl on, or repaying a favor bestowed.

  He was not the first aristocrat to entertain himself with a little dalliance with the hired help. His own father had on more than one occasion lifted the skirts of his staff. In fact, of St. Claire’s own knowledge there was at least one child sired on the wrong side of the blanket. Somewhere out there he had a half brother or sister.

  He had never gone so far as his father and had only ever stolen kisses from the serving class, but for Celestine’s sake, this time he would refrain from inflicting his gallantries. St. Claire paused in his descent. Since when had his favors been a penance to be endured? Yet that was how the girl acted, like she was being martyred on the cross of his attentions. St. Claire shrugged off the faint feeling of ill-use and entered the breakfast room, a pretty little dining room decorated in yellow and peach.

  Elizabeth was alone, her husband having already eaten and started on his day’s business. The present marquess was one aristocrat who would not bed his hirelings, no doubt. August was too aware of his elevated position, and had a stern morality that made St. Claire want to twit him all the more. He didn’t know what it was about goodness that made him so wicked, but there it was.

  “Good morning, my dear,” he said, cheerily bestowing a salute on his sister’s presented cheek. He pulled out the chair beside her and glanced at the newspapers neatly piled on the table for perusal, selecting one and taking his seat.

  A footman glided silently into the room with more tea and served the nobleman unobtrusively, while Lady Langlow made small talk about the cold weather and the possibility of snow before Christmas. When St. Claire had been served and had a full plate of eggs, kippers, and kedgeree in front of him, she nodded regally for Albert, the footman, to absent himself.

  Her fixed smile changed to a scowl, and she turned and glared at St. Claire. “Now, you unprincipled bounder, I want a word with you.” In her agitation she pointed her fork at him and jabbed it with each word, an unforgivable breach of etiquette unlike Elizabeth to commit.

  “And what have I done to deserve my sister’s wrath,” St. Claire said lightly, one elegant brow arched in surprise.

  “You know very well! Maude, my dresser, could hardly wait to tell me what Mrs. Jacobs has been saying in the kitchen. She was all atwitter because ‘his lordship’ had deigned to go to choir practice with them. Choir practice? Really, St. Claire, what is your game? Is it Elise or . . .” Her lovely face twisted in a frown. “But it couldn’t be Celestine. You promised not to pursue a flirtation there. Out with it! Who are you trying to bed?”

  St. Claire did not have to pretend to be offended, he was, and justly so, he thought. Did his sister think that he could do nothing without an ulterior motive? And when had he ever bedded her servants? “You’ve already stated it can’t be Miss Simons, so it must be Elise, eh? Maybe I lifted her skirts and had her right there in the carriage in front of the governess and the housekeeper. Being I am such a bounder. I invited them to join in but they declined!”

  “Don’t be vulgar, St. Claire!”

  “Then don’t be insolent,” he cried, throwing down his fork and tossing his napkin on the table. He stood and strode to the door of the breakfast room. “I shall do what I want with whom I want, and I will not be hen-led like my dear, saintly brother. From now on keep your elegant little nose out of my affairs, amorous or otherwise!” He slammed the door and headed for the stable, stopping only to have his man called to provide him with his crop and coat. He needed a good long ride to work off this latest indignity.

  • • •

  “Lottie, help Gwen with the paste. That’s a good girl.”

  “Shall we do our play for all the comp’ny, Miss Simons?” Lottie asked, helping her little sister firm her tiny hands around the papier-mâché figure she was making.

  “That will be up to your mama, my dear.” Celestine watched the child and her younger sister, their hands white with flour and water paste, as they formed the paper into balls.

  She knelt beside them for a moment and showed them how to give the ball a suggestion of a nose and chin, and how to press in their tiny thumbs to make indentations for the eyes. She winced as she struggled back to her feet. It always took a few hours in the morning before her body would do as she commanded easily and without pain. This morning had been particularly difficult, and the cold of her room seemed to have seeped into her very bones. But she owed it to the girls to do her best to not let her physical limitations affect her work.

  Gwenevere’s round face was screwed up with concentration and her tongue was pushed out through her teeth. Gwen was a special child, slower than Lottie had ever been, but with a sunny disposition and cherubic smile that melted the heart. Celestine smiled down at her as she wiped her hands off on her apron, giving the swollen knuckles a surreptitious rub to soothe their aching. If only there were something to take the pain away!

  Lottie glanced at her, her serious face intent. “Do your hands hurt you, Miss Simons?”

  “Sometimes. But not always.”

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  Celestine smiled at the candor of youth. It was so much better than all the sneaking side glances or disdain of adulthood. “It started when I was a child. My joints ache occasionally, and they get swollen. Not always. In the summer, you remember, they were fine. But the cold makes them ache, and there is nothing I can do about it.” She looked down at her inflamed knuckles and slightly crook’d fingers, so ungainly looking, and remembered Lord St. Claire’s gentle touch the night before.

  What had happened to him between the time the choir started and the time they were finished? She had sensed a difference in his manner. It had none of the gallant raillery he had displayed before and more of true gentility of spirit. He was more dangerous to her in that moment than he had been with all his teasing before then, for he became more truly what she had dreamed of in a man in those rare moments she allowed herself to dream of impossibilities.

  And she had. She had been a young girl once, a girl with air castles and fairy dreams in her mind. But she was a woman now, and knew the truth of the world. Women married for security, and men married . . . why did men marry? For dynastic reasons, she supposed. Absently she helped the two little girls work as she sorted out her thoughts.

  They married for money sometimes, if they were pulled about. They married to beget an heir. Marriage was an exchange of benefits, with each side trying to gain an equivalency in what they were offering. Even in her hopes of a match with Mr. Foster she realized that they would be making an exchange. She would offer him an ancient and unblemished family history and would make him a good wife and helpmeet in the village. In return he would offer her security and a home of her own, and perhaps children if they were lucky.

  But sometimes . . . sometimes when she a
llowed herself to dream she longed for that rare union of two hearts, two souls that upon meeting sang a sweet song of love together. She had yearned for the pulse-quickening, earth-shattering delirium of true love, the tender emotion the poets described. She believed in it, fervently and completely. Then she looked at herself in the mirror. She was no idiot; she had long known that men favored a pretty face, and she did not possess that valuable commodity. Women with that gift could look higher and expect more from a match, with or without love.

  Her thoughts drifted back to the previous evening in the carriage with Lord St. Claire. His gentle, thoughtful action in providing her with a kerchief, as simple as it was, was the most gallant she had ever experienced. She had wanted to lean on him as she wept, and had to physically restrain herself from laying her head on his shoulder. Wouldn’t he have been surprised if she had, she thought with a rueful grimace.

  “What play shall we do, Miss Simons?”

  Lottie’s high treble disrupted her thoughts, and Celestine forced herself to pay attention to her charges. It was all fairy dust, her dreams, the lightest spun sugar, pretty to look at but dissolving at the merest touch. Love and marriage had nothing to do with her, and she must not expect it, even from Mr. Foster. He was likely just being kind in his attentions to her.

  “I don’t know yet, dear. Shall we clean up the schoolroom and ourselves and go look for a good one from the bookshelves?”