Part 9 (2/2)

Eleven.

A hired carriage was awaiting Camille when school was dismissed for the day on Thursday. Joel jumped out when she appeared and handed her inside. She raised her eyebrows at the chipped, faded exterior, the shabby, slightly ripped seats inside, and the somewhat stale smell, which even the open windows could not quite dispel. But she did not say anything. At least it appeared reasonably clean. She had not looked too closely at the horses.

”You did not change your mind, then?” she asked as he seated himself beside her.

”Oh, I did,” he said. ”An hour ago. And two hours before that, and half an hour before that, and so on back to the night before last. This time I changed my mind in favor of going.”

He both looked and sounded cheerful, but she was not deceived. He had agreed before she left his rooms two days ago that he would go back to Mr. c.o.x-Phillips's house and had told her with grudging good grace that she might accompany him if she wished. He had suggested that they go today after school.

”And did you write to inform him you were coming?” she asked as the carriage jerked into motion and gave Camille a foretaste of how ineffective the springs were going to be.

”No,” he said. ”Why should I give him advance warning? And it is not as though he is going anywhere, is it? Except to his grave.”

She turned her head to glance reproachfully at him. He was looking suddenly grim and a bit pale, his head half turned toward the window next to him. She drew breath to speak, but he looked as if he wished to be left alone with his thoughts, and she had no wish to turn into a scold.

Something had happened to her on Tuesday. She would not go so far as to say she had fallen in love. She did not believe in such a thing. But she had gone to his rooms of her own free will, and she had listened to him and moved into his arms to comfort him. And she had kissed him. Yes, she had. It had been an active thing on her part, not just something she had allowed. And she had felt his man's hard body and his arms and his lips and mouth and tongue, and she had been . . . Yes, she had. There was no point in denying it. She had been disappointed when he had stopped abruptly and apologized. She would have liked to explore the experience a little more deeply.

She was not in love, but she had felt more like a woman since Tuesday. Which begged the question-what had she felt like before? He was extremely good-looking, she had decided, and powerfully attractive, whatever that meant, and she had responded to him as a woman. She still did, though she was puzzled too. She had neither the language nor the experience to explain to herself just what she meant. Perhaps it was merely that she cared.

It had been the middle of the evening and growing dusk by the time she returned home, and he had insisted upon accompanying her. The soup, thick with vegetables and a little beef, had been very good, the bread crisp and fresh. After eating they had taken their tea back into the living room, where they had talked and talked until the fading light beyond the window had caught their attention. He had been sketching her much of the time, though he had not shown her anything.

Afterward she had not even remembered everything they had talked about. She did know they had spoken of their childhoods, of books they had both read, of Sarah, with whom Camille spent some time each day. He had told her of his love for landscape painting, even though he believed his real talent was for painting portraits, and she had watched his face as he spoke of gazing at a scene, not sketching it as he would with a human subject, but somehow becoming a part of it until he felt it from the inside and could finally paint it. Painting for him, she had realized then, was neither a hobby nor just a way of earning a living. It was a pa.s.sion and a compulsion. In a certain sense it was who he was. She envied him. She had never been pa.s.sionate about anything in her life. She had never allowed herself to be. She had deliberately shunned any excess of feeling as ungenteel. It was almost as though she had feared pa.s.sion and where it might lead her.

He did not like life to be too easy, Camille concluded. He liked the challenge of living it and pus.h.i.+ng its boundaries instead of just existing and surviving. Perhaps that was one reason why he had not shown the smallest interest in the fortune he might have inherited from his great-uncle. Money would make his life a great deal easier-money always did-but he was not interested. How many people would voluntarily refuse a fortune, and have absolutely no hesitation about doing it?

Her own question arrested her. She would and had indeed done so. Anna had offered a quarter of all their father had left her, a vast fortune, and Camille had refused.

The carriage left Bath and struggled up the hill beyond. She turned her head toward Joel. ”I had a letter this morning,” she told him. ”Well, two actually, but Abby writes every day.”

”Yes, she told me that just this morning. I was there, working on her portrait,” he said, turning away from the window to look back at her. ”It is astonis.h.i.+ng. Whatever does she find to write about? Do you reply?”

”Ladies are brought up to write letters,” she told him. ”She tells me everything about her day. Today her letter was full of her session with you yesterday, among other things. And yes, I answer. Of course I do. She is my sister. I write every evening and tell her about my day.”

”And tomorrow,” he said, ”your letter will be full of this journey with me?”

”Yes,” she said, ”and of the progress of the purple rope and of the noticeable improvement in Caroline's reading skills and of the ten minutes I was able to spend with Sarah before luncheon, counting her toes and kissing each of them in turn and drawing two whole smiles from her.”

He gazed at her to the point of discomfort. Not that the carriage ride was comfortable even without that gaze. She would not be surprised if it jarred all her teeth loose.

”You had two letters today?” he finally asked.

”The other one was from my mother,” she told him. ”She wrote directly to me at the school. She has only ever written to both Abby and me in the past, but Abby had told her I was living at the orphanage. She is concerned about me. But she did not write to scold me or tell me how foolish I have been or how unkind to Abby and Grandmama. She understands and she honors my decision.”

Camille had been surprised about that and more than a little touched. She had not expected it-or the letter. She had not even wanted a letter of her very own from her mother-until she had seen it. And ever since reading it she had felt, oh, a jumble of emotions. Resentment was still one of them. Mama had gone away to the comfort of Uncle Michael, but also away from her own daughters.

”Why did she not stay here with you and her mother?” Joel asked.

”It was at least partly for our sakes,” she told him. ”She thought life here would be intolerable for us, or more so than it was going to be anyway, if everywhere we went we had to be introduced as the daughters of Miss Viola Kingsley.”

”Everywhere you went,” he said. ”But you did not go anywhere, did you? You were a recluse until you went to the orphanage to teach.”

”How do you know that?” she asked, frowning at him.

”I never saw you,” he said. ”I saw your sister a few times and was introduced to her at Mrs. Dance's soiree. The first time I saw you was in the schoolroom when Miss Ford brought you there. Would your mother's staying have made life more difficult for you?”

”I do not know.” She shrugged. ”But Abby has missed her.”

”And you?” he asked.

”I do not know,” she said again, and it was her turn to look out through the window on her side of the carriage in order to discourage further conversation-though she was the one who had brought up the subject. It was actually a good thing she had read her mother's letter early this morning before school. She had been unable to weep over it-she had had a cla.s.s of children to face. Would it have made a difference if Mama had stayed? Abby was only eighteen, little more than a child. And as for Camille herself . . . Well, sometimes she felt as though she had been cast into outer darkness. She had felt when she came to Bath that there could not possibly be anything more to lose. But there was. Her mother had gone away.

The carriage was making a sharp turn between two stone gateposts and then proceeding along a winding driveway until a modestly sized mansion appeared to the right, a panoramic view downward opened up to the left, and a carefully laid-out, well-tended garden stretched out on either side of them.

”This is it,” Joel said unnecessarily.

He helped Camille alight, instructed the coachman to wait, and approached the steps to rap the knocker against the front door. He was looking grim again, and she knew he would rather be anywhere else on earth. She could not feel sorry, though, that she had goaded him into coming. She really believed he would be forever sorry if he did not. Of course, Mr. c.o.x-Phillips might refuse to see him or to answer any questions if he did admit them. But at least Joel would be able to console himself in the future with the knowledge that he had done everything he could.

An elderly butler admitted them to a hall cluttered with marble busts surely designed to make any chance visitor uncomfortable enough to flee. They all had empty eye sockets but stared anyway. Camille stared right back after the butler had gone off to see if his master was receiving. He had looked as though he might be on the verge of refusing even to check until his eyes had alit upon Camille, and without conscious thought she had reverted to a familiar role and had become Lady Camille Westcott without uttering a word. He had inclined his head deferentially and gone on his way.

”He may have been instructed to toss me out if I should ever have the effrontery to return,” Joel said with a grin that did not quite compensate for the tense look on his face.

”Then it is a good thing I came too,” she said. ”I have my uses. I do not for one moment believe these marble busts are either marble or authentic. If they came from Italy or Greece or anywhere other than some inferior workshop in England, I would be very surprised.”

”We concur in that,” he agreed.

The butler returned and invited them to follow him. They were admitted to a library, one that lived up to its name. As far as she could see from a single glance, there was not a s.p.a.ce on the walls that was not taken up with bookshelves, and there was surely not a s.p.a.ce left on those shelves for even one more book. The room was in semidarkness, heavy curtains having been drawn across the windows, perhaps to preserve the books or perhaps to protect the old man's eyes from bright sunlight.

There were three people already in the room, apart from the butler, who withdrew after admitting them and closed the door behind him. There was what appeared to be a very old, wizened man in the chair by the fireplace-the fire was lit even though the air was stifling. He even had a heavy blanket covering him from the waist down and a ta.s.seled nightcap on his head. Behind his chair stood a soberly clad individual, every line of whose body told Camille that he could be nothing else but a valet.

The third occupant of the room was silhouetted against the fireplace so that until he moved he appeared only as a tall, broad-shouldered, well-formed man dressed in the very height of London fas.h.i.+on. When he did move, in order to take a few steps away from the fire and toward the door, he revealed himself also to be an extremely handsome man-with a haughty, condescending expression on his face.

”That is quite far enough, fellow,” he said, looking Joel over from head to toe with insolent contempt and the aid of a quizzing gla.s.s. ”I can see the butler ought to have known better than to come asking if he might admit you when my cousin is not well enough to make an informed decision. I shall be having a word with the servants about allowing in every riffraff pet.i.tioner who thinks to take advantage of Mr. c.o.x-Phillips's advanced age and frail health. Fortunately for him, such persons will have to get past me in the future now that I am here to protect him. You may take yourself off with the . . . lady.” He turned dismissive eyes upon Camille, who had remained behind Joel, half hidden in shadow.

She felt close to fainting, though not from the heat of the room. The training of years kept her from doing anything so missish or from otherwise humiliating herself. ”How do you do, Lord Uxbury?” she said, stepping out of the shadows and looking him steadily in the eye.

He dropped his quizzing gla.s.s on its ribbon, and his eyes fairly started from his head. It was a brief setback. He recovered within moments, and a sneer replaced his look of shock. ”Well, upon my word, if it is not Miss Westcott,” he said, emphasizing her t.i.tle, or, rather, her lack thereof, and subjecting her to a sweeping head-to-toe perusal.

She had last seen him at Westcott House in London on the afternoon of the day she learned the truth about her father and his bigamous marriage to her mother. She had received him and told him what she had just learned, expecting that he would be full of concern for her plight and determination to bring forward their wedding. That had been shortsighted of her, of course, for he was as much a stickler for social correctness as she and it would have been out of the question for him to marry a b.a.s.t.a.r.d. He had taken a hasty leave and written to her almost immediately suggesting that she send a notice to the morning papers, breaking off their betrothal.

Now he looked both familiar and . . . alien. As though he were someone from another long-ago lifetime, which, in a sense, he was. She had never before seen that look of contempt on his face directed at her. She had never witnessed him being spiteful. But she recalled that he had openly insulted her in her absence at Avery's ball and again in Hyde Park during the duel. And she recalled with intense satisfaction that Avery, who must be a full head shorter than he and surely at least a couple of stone lighter, had knocked him down and out with his bare feet.

”I beg your pardon . . . Viscount Uxbury, is it?” Joel said. ”But my business is with Mr. c.o.x-Phillips. When I spoke with him a couple of days ago, he seemed perfectly capable of speaking for himself and of personally asking me to leave if he so desires.”

<script>