Lord St. Claire's Angel

by Donna Lea Simpson

  Mary, a chaste innocent when she left the village, returned a broken woman, only to be shunned by some of the more narrow-minded citizens even in her hometown. She and her child lived in poverty, ineligible even for the charity of the church because of her supposed transgression.

  Celestine couldn’t do anything but hope that no one else ended up alone with Mr. Knight.

  Anna and Betty, the two strong maids-of-all-work, came in and started to haul the bath out to the hall, but they fell back when Lady Langlow entered the room. It was unheard of for her to mount to the third floor unless it was to visit the schoolroom, and Betty gaped in astonishment.

  Lady St. Claire was at her most regal, chin up, head held high. She gazed at the bath with a frown on her lovely face. “What is that doing in here?”

  Celestine, rising from a curtsey, looked at her in consternation. “It is my morning bath, my lady. The bath you and the marquess kindly ordered.”

  “I ordered it? Or August?” Her eyebrows were arched in high curves over her startling blue eyes. “I never did such a thing,” she stated. “A morning bath for the hired help? We cannot tie up the maids that way, especially with a house full of guests. This is monstrous! How did this come about?”

  “B-b-but, I was told that his lordship . . .”

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, my lady,” Anna, a stout, red-faced country girl, said, gazing nervously at her employer. “It was his lordship, Lord St. Claire, the marquess’s brother, what ordered a bath for Miss Simons ev’ry mornin’. Sed as how it wuz for her artyritis.”

  The marchioness’s face blanched, then turned pink. “St. Claire?” Her whole frame trembled with indignation. “This is absolutely unheard of and will stop this instant! He has no authority . . . we have a house full of guests, and I cannot . . .” She ran out of words, speechless with rage.

  “Go!” she said, to Anna and Betty, and they quickly tugged the bath away, shutting the door behind them.

  Lady Langlow circled Celestine, eyeing her usual gray dress and nodding. Celestine’s mind worked furiously. Was she going to be fired? What if she was? Those thoughts superseded others in her brain, but she knew that later, when she had time to reflect, she would wonder at St. Claire’s kindness in thinking of the bath for her arthritis.

  The marchioness drew to a halt in front of Celestine. “I came up here to ask you just what you meant last night by prancing around in front of my guests in finery ill-befitting your station, after my kindness in allowing you to join the festivities?”

  Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, Celestine considered what to say. She would not blame her aunt. Emily had only thought to give her some pleasure, and she would not repay that kindness with tattling.

  She swallowed. “I am sorry, my lady. It was ill-considered of me. I only thought that since you kindly invited me to dine, that I should—”

  “I was humiliated in front of my friends. Lady van Hoffen could not believe that I allowed my governess to dress up in silks and jewels and pass herself off as one of the guests! And then to finish off your insolence, you just disappear, and I must find out from St. Claire that you had retired to your room with the headache!”

  Celestine gazed down at the bare wood floor. This was it. She was going to let her go, and likely without a reference. Aunt Emily would take her in, but she could not impose on her for long without finding another job. She had hoped to keep this one until Lottie and Gwen were ready to make their London debut.

  She glanced up at the marchioness. Her ladyship had seemed quite happy with her work until now; maybe she could still be appealed to. It went against the grain to grovel, but she really wanted to stay. She had come to love the girls, and she was enchanted with the Lake District, the magnificent fells and varied scenery. Never would she be so lucky as to find such an elevated situation again. And never would she see St. Claire again! A jagged rush of pain took her breath away for a moment. Never see him again, never gaze into the blue of his brilliant eyes, never hear his husky, masculine voice, the voice that sent chills rushing down her spine . . .

  She must not think of St. Claire! Her feelings for him were tumultuous and confused. Right now her job was at stake.

  “M-my lady, please accept my apologies for last night. I realized the folly of my actions even as I went in to dinner, but I saw no graceful way out. That is why I retired to my room so early.” It was close enough to the truth. She had felt it to be a mistake.

  Lady St. Claire’s face softened. Her tightly clenched mouth relaxed and she gazed into Celestine’s eyes. “I accept your apology. You have been so good with the children and I’ve been very pleased with your work so far; I would not want to lose you. Let us forget about this, and go on as before, Miss Simons. But the morning bathing must stop. It is much too inconvenient for the maids to be hauling water and the bath all the way up here.”

  Celestine dropped a curtsey. “Thank you, my lady. You will not regret it, I promise you.”

  “See that I don’t.”

  • • •

  St. Claire stroked the cue and slammed a ball into the corner pocket. How could she treat him as if he was in the same class as that bounder, Knight? What would a prissy little gray mouse of a governess know about men and what that depraved animal’s intentions were? Did she know that she was within moments of him lifting her skirts and forcefully invading her soft body with his? He had heard whispers about Knight before, about his willingness to abuse women he considered of a lower class.

  St. Claire had gone directly from the library to challenge the bastard to a duel, but the coward had already fled the house, leaving his would-be batterer with an excess of angry energy. He knocked a couple of more balls into pockets, paying no attention to how he got them there, or in what order, as he remembered his frustration and sleepless night. Celestine’s words had haunted him as he tossed and turned beneath the covers, and even an early morning ride had not rid him of the echo of her voice.

  The rest of the men lounged in big leather chairs by the hearth in the billiards room, smoking cigars and drinking coffee, but he didn’t feel like joining in with conversations about horses or land problems or taxation laws. He was brooding and he knew it. It was totally unlike him, and it made him even more angry that Celestine Simons, spinster governess, somehow had the power to leave him feeling humiliated and uncomfortable with himself. He liked to feel good about himself and usually did, so what was wrong this morning?

  He had saved her from God knows what fate, dammit! Knight was a brutish type. He had known men who enjoyed sexual conquest more if the woman was unwilling and it sickened him to the core. And she had the ingratitude . . . St. Claire stopped and laid down his cue stick. He passed one long-fingered hand through his hair and paced away from the table to stare up at a painting of some ancient St. Claire ancestor that hung on the wall.

  Ingratitude?

  He stalked away from the painting and stared, unseeing, through the window.

  She had just been attacked, had been in fear for her virtue and maybe for her life, for all she knew. And he had waltzed in, driven the animal off, then demanded a reward for his good deed. A reward! While she was frightened, still dealing with the aftermath of what must be a most terrifying experience for a woman.

  He remembered her wide, panicked eyes and heaving breast, the fear etched in every feature of her face, from those wide eyes to the added pallor of her skin. And the blood on her lip from valiantly biting the detestable Knight. She had been in shock and he had taken brute advantage of that. And then on top of that he had been unforgivably vicious in what he had said to her. He had been worse than unfeeling, and he was deeply ashamed. How could he ever make that up to her?

  The image of Celestine as she appeared the previous evening rose up in his mind. He glanced up at the staircase and saw her, radiant in rose silk, her hair gleaming in the light from the chandelier. She had gazed down at him, an unreadable look on her oval face. In that moment he had forgotten anything but that
he had kissed those full lips and they were delicious. He had felt that soft, feminine body and found it arousing. He had touched her soul one night in a dark church and found it unbearably beautiful.

  There was a simple beauty in her lack of pretension and honest gaze. She didn’t simper or smirk or flirt or giggle like other women did in his presence. Was that why he couldn’t stop thinking about her? Or was he just piqued because she hadn’t responded to his lovemaking like other women did? And what was he going to do about it?

  • • •

  Celestine kept to herself for the next couple of days, avoiding the house party as much as possible. She concentrated all her attention on keeping her job, voluntarily taking on extra work, like caring for Bertie while his nursemaid was pressed into service fetching and carrying for the guests.

  She was sitting in the schoolroom with Bertie on her lap when Lady Grishelda tapped lightly on the door and asked to join her.

  “Please do,” Celestine cried. Except for her aunt, she had spoken to no one for days, and she realized she had become spoiled by the company of St. Claire, Lady Grishelda and Emily. It would be lonely when they all left again.

  “Where are the little girls?” Lady Grishelda asked, sitting in a chair opposite Celestine and tucking her lavender skirts around her legs.

  “The Miss Stimsons longed to go skating, and they wished to take Lottie and Gwen with them. Elise accompanied them to look after their needs. I have Bertie to take care of right now, so I couldn’t join them.”

  The other woman gazed critically at the little boy, who was snuggled on Celestine’s lap, his head on her chest, fast asleep. “Ugly little brutes, aren’t they? Boy children, I mean.”

  Celestine gazed at her in shocked silence.

  “Oh, I know, women are supposed to dote on the little monsters, but I am not much of one for children, beyond feeling that they should be clothed and fed and educated properly, of course. You appear to like them, though; am I right?”

  “Yes. Sometimes I feel like Lottie and Gwen are my own, and then I realize that I will likely never have the opportunity to have children. It saddens me, sometimes.”

  “But surely what you are doing is better? You are your own woman, independent, making your own way, beholden to no one!”

  Celestine gazed over at the plainly dressed young woman in front of her and then laughed softly. “Ah, yes. The women’s freedom movement.” She looked down tenderly at Bertie’s fuzzy head rested on her bosom and held his hand in hers, rubbing the tender skin with her thumb. His hand flexed and curled around her finger, and he sighed sleepily.

  He was a warm little bundle, fragrant from his bath, with that particular “baby” smell. Celestine rubbed her lips over his satiny-soft hair. She caught Lady Grishelda’s curious gaze on her again, and said, “I would give up in a moment whatever ‘independence’ I supposedly have, just to have a man I love, a home and children.”

  “But right now you are controlled by no man! You make your own way and your own decisions!” The young woman’s gaze was incredulous, her pale blue eyes wide in disbelief.

  “You believe that?” Celestine said, thinking about Mr. Knight’s attack, St. Claire’s rescue and her precarious position at Langlow. “I don’t really, you know. I was lucky to get this position. The marquess is a good man, the marchioness a fair woman, and the working conditions better than a lot of governesses could hope for. But still, my employment could be terminated at any time for anything, even their whims. And if they dismissed me without a reference, I would find it difficult to get another job. I’ll never starve; I am luckier than most, for I have an aunt who would take me in, but I do want to earn my keep, and I want to work with children. So much for making my own decisions. That is their extent.”

  Lady Grishelda was speechless for a moment. Then she colored faintly. “I’m afraid you must have had a bit of a hard time after the dinner party the other evening.”

  Celestine glanced at her curiously. “How did you know?”

  “My mother spent a good half an hour pouring a lovely helping of vitriol in the marchioness’s ear about your impudence in dressing in silk when you should have known your station.”

  Celestine remembered Lady van Hoffen’s whispered conference with Lady Langlow and the venomous glances darted her way. The marchioness had said as much when she berated Celestine for her presumption. And she remembered something else too, from earlier.

  “I think, perhaps,” she said slowly, “that you did not approve, either, my lady. I saw how you gazed at me when I came down the stairs. Pardon me if I am too bold, but I was curious to know what you were thinking.”

  Lady Grishelda plucked at the worn fabric of the chair arm and gazed into the hearth, now containing only embers of the fire that was there. “I must admit, I was shocked. I thought we had a kinship, you and I.” She looked up and gazed into Celestine’s eyes with honesty and forthrightness. “I thought you more sensible than to want silks and satins and jewels. I thought we had in common our belief that marriage, as an institution, is designed for men by men, and that you would not lower yourself to dress frivolously for the purpose of attracting notice.” She lifted her square chin at that. “I am sorry if I am too blunt.”

  “No, I invited your honesty.”

  A tiny smile lifted the corners of the woman’s thin lips. “Many people claim to respect honesty, but few do, in reality.”

  “That is true.” Celestine stared pensively into the fireplace, at the flickering coals that still radiated waves of warmth. She cuddled Bertie to her. “And I think it is a fair question, why I dressed myself in silks and jewels this once. I am plain. I have always been plain, and I have arthritis as an affliction. Also, my life until a year ago was devoted to my father.”

  “I have heard about your loss. I’m sorry,” Lady Grishelda murmured. “How difficult caring for your father must have been for you, not having your freedom, or any ability to plan for your future.”

  “I loved him, and I would do it all over again exactly the same way.” Her lips curved up in a smile and her gray eyes were glazed as she stared back into the past. She laid her cheek against the little boy’s downy head. “My father was the sweetest, dearest man who ever lived. He wanted so much for me to have a season and a chance at marriage, but I refused. We could have afforded it, barely. Aunt Emily would have sponsored me. But Papa would not have been able to go with me and I could not leave him alone, with just servants to look after him.”

  Lady Grishelda said nothing, but eyed her curiously. Celestine caught the glance and continued. “You’re wondering what that had to do with me dressing inappropriately two evenings ago. You see, it was a first for me, and I could not resist. You have made the choice to eschew beautiful silks and jewels. For me the choice was made by life. When Aunt Emily coaxed me to wear that dress, one of her own cut down to my size, I could have said no. Perhaps I should have said no; it nearly cost me my job. But I wanted to know, just once, what it felt like to walk down the stairs in a lovely gown and join the company at dinner, under the glittering chandeliers at a beautifully set dining table.”

  Looking down at her hands, Lady Grishelda murmured, “And it was spoiled for you by my mother’s ill-natured gossip and my reproving glare. I am so sorry, Miss Simons. I had no right—”

  “Please.” Celestine hushed her. “That one moment was worth it. And I didn’t lose my job, and everything is still the way it was.”

  “I think that perhaps freedom is a much more complicated issue than I perceived,” Lady Grishelda said.

  “In a perfect world women and men would all be free to use their talents and abilities, without the strictures of their place in society or their sex to bind them, but we live in an imperfect world, and I, for one, can only do the best with what I have been given.”

  Silence fell between the two women, each one lost in her own thoughts. The schoolroom clock tapped out the seconds, and the embers in the grate crackled and moved as coal disintegrated in
to ash.

  “Will you call me Celestine, instead of Miss Simons? I feel that we are friends, if that is not too presumptuous.”

  Lady Grishelda looked up with shining eyes. “I would be honored, Celestine. But only if you call me May.”

  “May?”

  “My middle name. I hate my name,” she said with a frown. “It was a family name that I am forced to use. ‘May’ is the name my mother chose, and what she calls me when she remembers to talk to me at all.”

  Celestine heard the anguish behind the words but felt the area too painful to probe.

  The young woman brightened a moment later though, and said, “I hear you sing? I wish you had stayed long enough the other night so we could have heard you. I adore good singing, though my own voice is more like a frog than a bird, I am afraid.”

  “I will be singing a solo in the Christmas pageant on Friday night at the church. I hope you will come.”

  “Aren’t you nervous to perform in front of everyone like that?”

  Celestine considered the question, her head on one side, absently smoothing Bertie’s hair down. “Not really. Oh, if I think about it then, yes, I am nervous. But I know that when I start to sing, all of that will leave me. I’ll be fine.”

  “I look forward to it, Celestine. I really do.”

  The two young women smiled across at each other, a bond forged, a friendship made, a bargain sealed.

  Chapter Fourteen

  His very presence must be repugnant to her, St. Claire thought bitterly, but he could not help that. He had promised something and a gentleman always kept his word. He tapped on the door of the schoolroom and entered, finding her with her head bent over as she worked on something at the table. She glanced up and paused, seeing him.

  “Lord St. Claire! What can I do for you?”

  “I finished the play, Miss Simons,” he said, his voice stiff and formal. “I felt you might need it to make any changes you see fit, and to make and design your puppets accordingly.”