Part 19 (2/2)
”I do not know the exact date of your birthday, ma'am,” he said. ”But I wish you a happy birthday week.” And everyone clinked gla.s.ses and echoed the toast.
”My birthday is today, young man,” the dowager said, ”and so far it has been perfect. I cannot imagine a more delightful setting for my birthday tea or more delicious food or more congenial company. Thank you.”
The toast and her words signaled the end of the visit. The carriages were summoned and everyone gathered on the terrace waiting for them, talking cheerfully among themselves, thanking Joel again and complimenting him on his new home.
And still he and Camille had exchanged no more than that initial greeting. She had avoided him all afternoon. Or perhaps he had avoided her.
”Camille,” he said, ”can I persuade you to stay a little longer? There are some things I would like to show you. You may return home with me later.”
He had not spoken loudly. He had not expected anyone else but her to hear. But it seemed everyone did, and a general hush fell on the gathering as everyone, it seemed, looked first at him, then at Camille, and then back at him.
”It is hardly the thing, Mr. Cunningham,” Lady Matilda said, ”for a single lady-”
”I believe my granddaughter is quite capable of making her own decisions, Matilda,” the dowager countess said.
”Of course she is,” Lady Molenor agreed. ”If she-”
”Perhaps, Mr. Cunningham,” Elizabeth, Lady Overfield, said, ”you will permit me to stay too. I would love to spend a quiet hour in the library looking at all those books. If, that is, Camille chooses to stay.”
All eyes swung her way. The color was high in her cheeks. That stubborn jaw of hers was in full evidence, as were the lips set in a thin line. ”Yes, certainly,” she said.
They stood on the terrace, the three of them, watching the carriages move off down the driveway. Lady Overfield turned a smiling face to Joel. Her eyes were twinkling.
”I shall make myself scarce,” she said. ”I daresay I could spend a week in that library without running out of books to look at, so you must not feel rushed. And I know the way.” She turned her smile upon Camille, picked up her skirts, climbed the steps, and disappeared into the house.
”I suppose I scandalized everyone,” he said. ”I do not know how to behave like a gentleman, do I?”
He heard her draw a breath and release it. ”Why did you want me to stay?” she asked him.
Because he was the world's worst coward. And because he did not want her to go home to Hinsford Manor with her mother and sister.
He closed the short distance between them and took her determinedly by the hand. ”I told you I came here on Wednesday,” he said, setting out with her along the terrace and around the side of the house, ”and wished you were with me. Today you have been here with me and a dozen or so other people and I almost let you go with them. My mind is like a hornets' nest, Camille. There is so much bubbling up inside it. Is that a mixing of images? That will tell you the state of my mind, perhaps. Did you walk through the woods back here earlier? The path rises rather steeply, but it is well worth the climb. There are all sorts of places to sit and relax and simply enjoy the views.”
”I did not come this far,” she said as they climbed.
They arrived at the part that had particularly struck him on Wednesday-a clearing among the trees that had been made into a little flower garden with a wrought iron seat in the middle. From here one could see down between a framework of tree branches over the roof of the house to the dazzling white elegance of the Georgian buildings of Bath. He led her to the seat and they sat down side by side.
”I thought that perhaps I would sell this place,” he said, ”but I cannot bring myself to do it, Camille. It is the only real connection I have to my family. I cannot see myself living alone here, but I can see all sorts of possibilities, none of which I have thought through to know if they are possible or practicable or anything else. I picture an art school here, or a place for art retreats, perhaps. Possibly for some of the children from the orphanage, perhaps for other children too, perhaps for adults. I picture a music school-or retreat house-for various instruments and for voice. Even for dancing. Or a writing retreat. I picture bringing distinguished experts here to give courses of instruction upon a variety of different subjects and to offer demonstrations and concerts. More than anything, though, I see and hear children das.h.i.+ng about down there on the lawns, up here playing hide-and-seek among the trees, running through the house making noise and tracking dirt. Happy, free.”
”Your own children?” she asked, and he knew as soon as he turned his head to look at her that she was wis.h.i.+ng she could bite out her tongue. Her cheeks were flushed.
”Among others,” he said. ”I would like to have children of my own. I would like to give them what I never knew-a father and a mother. But I see other children here too, enjoying a holiday and a chance to kick up their heels in a place where there is so much s.p.a.ce to run.”
She did not say anything.
”Of course,” he said, ”it is a considerable distance from Bath, and I have never been anywhere else but there. It seems a bit isolated up here. Wide-open. Beautiful too, though. Close to heaven.”
”You would not be isolated,” she said, ”if there was always something going on here and people constantly coming and going. And, Joel, you could afford your own carriage to take you back and forth to the city.”
”So I could,” he said, though it was not the first time he had thought of it. ”I could have horses. And perhaps a dog or two and a cat or three. Maybe rabbits. As a boy, I believe I longed for a pet almost as much as I longed for a family. They have never been allowed in the orphanage, for very obvious reasons. But I have always thought that the presence of pets would be so very good for the children. Dogs and cats, I have heard, will always love you even when no humans seem to. Pets can be cuddled with and read to. They do not judge. They . . . simply love. Do you think I could talk Miss Ford into allowing some of the children to come here to stay for a few days at a time for lessons and music and romping and riding on horses and playing with cats and dogs and rabbits? Am I being very nave? Building castles in the air? Sand castles? Am I being a fool?”
”Would you consider having a small orphanage of your own up here?” she asked.
He thought about it for a while. ”No,” he said. ”If there were to be children here permanently, they would have to belong to me.”
”Your own children,” she said.
”Or adopted.” He was on new ground here. He had not thought of this before. ”Perhaps . . . Sarah,” he said.
Their eyes met and held. He saw her swallow and he watched her eyes fill with tears before she turned her head away.
”And Winifred,” she said.
”Winifred?” He frowned.
”She is not a terribly likable child, is she?” she said. ”She is righteous and pious and neat and judgmental. I recognize myself in her, Joel, to the point of pain. She wants desperately to be loved and believes love must be earned with good behavior. She does not understand that her efforts are pus.h.i.+ng love away rather than gathering it in.”
”You would like to adopt her?” he asked.
She looked back at him with blank eyes. ”You were the one speaking of adoption,” she said, ”and of bringing children here as your own. I was merely speaking hypothetically. I just wish she could know herself loved. More than loved. Chosen.” She blinked her eyes and stood up abruptly. ”Elizabeth will be running out of books with which to amuse herself. Let us go back down.”
And the moment, the edge upon which he had been teetering, had pa.s.sed. It was just as well. Ideas had been spilling out of his mind and he was really quite unsure of any of them. He was not sure of anything.
No, that wasn't true. He was very, very sure of one thing. He was desperately in love with her. And he just as desperately wanted to marry her.
But still the moment did not feel quite right. He did not want a marriage proposal to sound as if it had just stumbled out of his mind into his mouth and out through his lips.
He stood up beside her and took her hand again. ”Thank you for staying,” he said. ”Thank you for listening.”
They made their way back to the house in near silence.
Twenty-two.
After returning from taking Sarah and Winifred and two other young children to see the ducks down by the river and feed them bread crumbs the following morning, Camille sat beside Miss Ford and the nurse for luncheon.
”Are any of these children ever adopted?” she asked during a lull in the conversation. She had never heard of it happening, but then, she had not been here long.
”Occasionally,” Miss Ford said. ”The babies, that is. People looking for adoptive children rarely look for any above a few months old. This is not the sort of orphanage upon which unscrupulous employers cast their sights for cheap labor.”
”What is the procedure for adoption?” Camille asked.
”In most cases,” Miss Ford told her, ”the real parent or whoever it is who is supporting the child here is consulted and grants or withholds permission. If the answer is yes, the legal details are handled by our solicitor, but the governing board is very careful to investigate the prospective parents. We offer love here and safety and a good quality of care, as you know. We try to make sure it is to the child's advantage to become part of a family.”
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