He was wonderful with Alice and Peter. Seeing him on his back making angels, or grabbing Peter in one arm to fling him, giggling delightedly, into a snow drift–well, one would never imagine his behavior only weeks ago when hit by a snowball, nor guess what a proud and overbearing man Lord Quentin really was.
* * * *
The morning of the ball dawned sunny and cold. Helène was determined to ignore the evening’s festivities, and had resisted all attempts by Lady Pamela to convince her otherwise.
“The marchioness,” said Lady Pam, “will be so occupied in fawning over the male guests that she will never notice that you are there.”
Helène was not so sure. “Even without Lady Sinclair glaring at me,” she told Pamela, “I would dread it.”
“Why?” Suddenly Lady Pam stood up, putting one elegant hand melodramatically against her forehead. “Oh! What an idiot I’ve been! Can you dance?”
Helène had to laugh. “As it happens, yes,” she said. “My aunt, despite her leg, was a good instructor, and my father grew rather skilled himself. But it doesn’t signify. Who would ask me?”
“Well, Jonathan, for one,” said Pamela. “He seems to be the last person Celia would care about. And then there’s Viscount Dreybridge, Lord Cantingham... Oh, and Lucinda Blankenship’s brother has finally arrived. Robert, Rupert–something like that. He’s quite nice, strange to say.”
And Lord Quentin?
But it was a name that remained unspoken by both.
“I appreciate the kind thoughts,” Helène told Lady Pamela, “but, no. And I’m terribly sorry about the grey silk.”
This was the evening gown that Madame Gaultier had made up for the ball. Helène had tried it on more often than she wished to admit; tried it on and waltzed around her bedroom with her hands resting lightly on the arms of an imaginary gentleman with deep brown hair.
“Pah,” said Pamela. “I don’t care a ha’penny about the gown. ’Tis your happiness–”
“Then don’t ask me to attend.”
Lady Pam sighed. “Very well,” she told the governess, “I won’t.”
Helène now sat quietly in the nursery schoolroom as Alice and Peter practiced their letters, thinking about how very happy she was not to be attending the Luton Court
bal d’hiver
. Such nonsense, really. All the fine ladies bedecked in their finest jewelry, the men in buckled breeches, everyone whirling about the dance floor of the largest ballroom, drinking champagne and eating inordinate amounts of food.
Helène had never been to such a ball. She had always imagined they might be rather... wonderful.
There came a scratch at the door.
“Miss Helène?”
“Hello, James,” she said, as Peter attached himself, as usual, to the footman’s coattails. The young man looked nervous. “Ah, Miss Helène?”
“Yes, James?” She smiled in encouragement but did not attempt to prompt him further, having learned that patience was the only answer. The footman was not terribly clever in remembering complicated instructions, but he was kind, dutiful–and persistent.
“Ah. Lord Sinclair, that is, the marquess–” James stopped and took a deep breath. “Lord Jonathan Sinclair requests your presence in his study,” he finished in a rush, and stood beaming at her.
Helène’s mind went momentarily blank. Lord Sinclair? In his study? It had been days now, days since the incident in the library. She had been waiting for this summons, knowing it would come. Still, she was not prepared. The governess rose slowly to her feet and looked down at Alice and Peter. The children seemed unperturbed.
“James can stay with us while you talk to Father,” said Alice, barely looking up from her slate. “Don’t worry, I promise we’ll be good.”
* * * *
“Ah. Miss Phillips.”
Helène had only once before entered the marquess’s study, at the time of their first interview. She advanced slowly, marveling again that Lord Sinclair could accomplish any work whatsoever in such magnificent surroundings. Huge, heavy tapestries hung on the wall behind his desk and the floor to ceiling windows showed snow-capped hills in the distance. The desk itself was ornately carved and polished to a mirror finish, but it held surprisingly few papers.
“My lord?”
The marquess looked up, his expression kind, but with an odd edge, as if he was guarding something, something he should have told her all along... Helène blinked, wondering at her thoughts. Lord Sinclair said nothing for several more, slow seconds, and Helène, not knowing that she stared, decided that there was something familiar about his face. Lady Pamela, she realized. It is Lady Pamela’s face, re-told in the planes and rough edges of the male. A handsome face, clean-shaven, with his sister’s aquamarine eyes, and Pam’s white-gold hair seen here in a darker, ruddier hue.
“Mmm,” said Lord Sinclair. “Ah. Yes, well the Winter Ball is tonight, you know... ”
Helène, half expecting instant dismissal, was at sea. The ball? What was this?
“ ’Tis very exciting for the children. You will accompany Alice and Peter–”
“Ah. Yes, of course, my lord.” Helène blushed furiously. She should have realized that she would be responsible for the children! But they were so young, surely it would be too late–
“–but they are to stay no more than three-quarters of an hour.”
The governess nodded. “Very well, my lord.”
She curtsied and turned to leave, her mind leaping to the evening ahead. The ball! No one would dare object to her presence if she had Alice and Peter in tow. But ’twould be for less than an hour, Helène reminded herself. She could wear the grey silk gown, perhaps with a bit of ribbon threaded through her hair. Her blush deepened. Charles Quentin might see her, thought Helène, even if only for a moment.
“And Miss Phillips... ”
The governess had turned to leave; she faced Lord Sinclair once again.
“James will then take Alice and Peter to Mrs. Hawkins. You are to remain at the ball.”
Helène stared at him. “But–Lord Sinclair–”
“This is my express wish.”
Helène did not dare to argue. He doesn’t mean it, she told herself. He can’t really mean it. She was convinced that Lord Sinclair had barely noted her existence before today, after all. And what would the marchioness say?
Lord Sinclair cocked one eyebrow.
“As you say, my lord.” said Helène.
Alice and Peter seemed unsurprised at the news.
“You’ll need time to dress,” said the girl, looking at Helène with wise, seven-year-old eyes. “So you needn’t bother with us. I can dress myself, and Nanny will tend to Peter.”
* * * *
Helène stood before the mirror in her bedroom, regarding her appearance with a critical eye. Her auburn hair was set off by the deep, shimmering grey of the silk gown. She had initially objected to the color, but Lady Pamela and Madame Gaultier had insisted. They were right, of course.
Scalloped lace trimmed the neckline and sleeves and set off the smoothness of her skin to advantage. Otherwise the gown was free of ornament, calling attention only to the woman wearing it. Any misgivings she had originally felt about attending the
bal d’hiver
were fading, and if she could only stop this pounding in her chest–
“Miss?”
Helène looked up to see Lady Pamela’s maid standing there, holding a long string of pearls.
“Milady said as I’m t’ help you with your hair,” said Jeannie.
“Oh, I don’t think... ” Helène was a bit confused by the girl’s arrival. She’d had no chance to consult with Lady Pamela over the marquess’s command that she attend the ball.
“Milady said I’m t’ do your hair,” repeated the maid. She looked mulish, and Helène realized that she must have instructions not to be refused.
“Well,” said Helène, “I suppose.” Even a lowly governess knew of Jeannie’s reputation as a hairdresser; she could see the girl eyeing the
coiffe
she had attempted on her own with what looked perilously close to pity.
“Hmm,” said the maid. “I think ’twould be best if you sat down.”
With a few deft movements the girl loosened every strand and ringlet of Helène’s hair and started over. She brushed out the auburn curls with confident strokes, and then piled them atop the governess’s head, managing to secure the whole arrangement with a few, well-placed pins. Unlike Helène’s own attempts, the maid’s arrangement felt as if it might stay in place. Jeannie fussed for a few more moments, and then–
“My goodness,” said Helène. Deep auburn curls framed her face, with a few wispy tendrils softening the strong lines of her cheekbones. The difference was astounding and, magically, there was now a strand of pearls interwoven within the shining tresses. “My goodness. Thank you.”
“Hmm,” said Jeannie, standing back from the governess and examining her handiwork with a practiced eye. “ ’Twill do very nicely, I think.”
After the maid disappeared, Helène was left to pace nervously, wondering how long it would be before she could seek out the children, and what she might do to quiet the beating of her own heart. ’Twould be mortifying if a fit of apoplexy prevented Miss Helène Phillips–a nineteen-year-old governess–from attending the Grand Winter Ball.
Thump. Thump. Helène’s pacing carried her over to the small washstand and there, at the side of the basin-and-ewer, was the ring. It flashed blue fire in the candlelight; she picked it up and turned it over in her fingers.
Her grandmother’s ring. Given to her by her father, but far too late, only hours before his own death. He must have known she would have pawned it, as she had pawned all of her aunt’s jewelry–
Papa. You need the medicine.
Ach, you daft-witted gel, I’ll be dead soon enough without the leeches havin’ their hand in it–
It was a gorgeous piece, the huge sapphire brilliant in its clarity and color and set in an ornate band of gold. The stone told of a family that needed nothing from its members other than loyalty, nothing from the outside world beyond its admiration. An old family, proud...
Everything her father, in his final, bitter years, had professed to hate. Helène slipped the ring on, thinking–just this one time.
Sell this ring if you must t’ keep you from the poorhouse. That much they owe you
. Her father’s last words had been bitter with the sober knowledge that he had not provided more for her.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A governess is well advised to avoid grand society affairs of whatever kind.
“Miss Phillips! Oh, Miss Phillips, you look
beautiful
.” Alice clapped her hands together in delight, and the look on Peter’s face was enough to make Helène feel like a princess.
“Thank you,” she told them, glad for their innocent, uncomplicated enthusiasm. “Alice, your dress is very pretty. And Peter, you look exceedingly handsome tonight.” The children beamed. Peter was still in short pants, of course, but proudly sporting a small neckcloth tied “just like Papa.” Alice wore a simple adaptation of a lady’s evening gown, with a rustling, white cambric overskirt and a fichu of lace at the neckline. They were both quite charming; a tribute, Helène knew, to Lady Pamela’s efforts entirely. The marchioness had declared herself too busy to be bothered with children’s clothing.
“Now come along. Your father will want to us to be early, so we can choose a good spot.”
Thankfully, the marquess had not insisted that Alice and Peter join him and Lady Sinclair in the reception line. Helène’s idea was to pick some out-of-the way nook where the three of them could watch as the various lords and ladies of the party made their entrance. The
bal d’hiver
at Luton was not only for the houseguests, she had discovered; the local gentry were invited as well.
“ ’Twill be,” announced Peter, in his chirping, little-boy voice, “a sad crush indeed!”
Helène shepherded the children down the long hallway to the grand staircase, and from there to the ballroom. She focused her attention on Alice and Peter, resisting the impulse to scan the crowd for... a familiar face. She was the governess with her charges, and that was all. None of the guests presented any special interest to her.
* * * *
Lord Charles Quentin entered the ballroom and began circling its perimeter, searching for the one young lady he most wanted to see.
The marquess himself had insisted that Miss Phillips attend the ball. Jonathan had offered no explanation for this decision to Lord Quentin, nor had he mentioned anything about the incident in the library. This was discomfiting. It was possible that Celia, for reasons of her own, had said nothing to her husband. The marquess was notoriously absent-minded, of course... .
Charles would still have preferred the chance to set matters straight with his friend. But could he? What else might Lord Sinclair know?
He had gone to the marquess’s study two evenings past, intending to clear the air. The two men had sat drinking brandy far into the night, and Lord Quentin had been about to broach the subject of Miss Phillips when the marquess spoke first.
“The children adore their governess,” said Jonathan. “Corky little chit.”
The comment had appeared from nowhere. Charles sat up and stared at him, wondering what to say.
“Ah. Yes–”
“I’ve insisted she attend the ball. It won’t do, old man, won’t do at all.”
Charles sat up even straighter. It won’t do? Could Jonathan mean his offer of
carte blanche
to Miss Phillips? If so, why had he not mentioned it before now? A sudden, chilling prospect sprang to Charles’s mind: Jonathan challenging him to a duel over the governess. He himself would delope, of course, but the marquess was such a terrible shot that he might actually hit something, possibly even Lord Quentin.
“Mmm?” offered Charles, still trying to frame an appropriate response. He had wanted to clear the air, after all–
Jonathan looked up owlishly, as if unsure of what they had been discussing.
“Miss Phillips?” prompted Lord Quentin.
“Ah, yes. Well,” said Lord Sinclair, “I think it’s time she went out a bit in society.”
* * * *
The ballroom at Luton Court was, as Jonathan fondly described it, “of singular and curious formation.” The product of some previous marquess’s scheme of Modern Architecture, the room was square, not overly large, and flanked on all four sides by a colonnade which opened, to the east, onto the terrace of the formal gardens. As the dancers tended to remain within the center area, the portion of the ballroom beyond the columns was the site of constant moving to and fro, and free for assemblages of gossiping mamas and young men who’d had too much to drink.