Someone To Hold Part 18

"Yes," her mother said. "Anastasia has begged me to do so, and in that clever, tactful way she has, she has made it appear that I will be doing her a favor by going. She will never live there herself now that she is married to Avery, yet she hates to see it empty and to know how its emptiness affects the morale of the people who work there and the social spirit of the neighborhood. Our neighbors and friends have spoken kindly of us to her, and . . . Well, Camille, she has willed Hinsford Manor to Harry after her time and has pointed out that if I go there to live, I will be keeping it lived in for my own family. I told her I would think about it, but really it has not taken a great deal of thought. I am going home."

Camille felt a bit like weeping, but she found herself reverting to the old Camille, stiff and reserved and showing nothing of her feelings.

"Abigail is coming with me," her mother continued. "She needs me and she needs her home. We will go there and . . . see what happens. Nothing will be the same, of course, and it may not be easy to be living the old life, when the old life cannot be fully recaptured. We will be Miss Kingsley and Miss Abigail Westcott instead of the Countess of Riverdale and Lady Abigail. But . . . Well . . ." She shrugged and smiled ruefully. "Will you come too, Camille? Or do you prefer your life here?"

Home. Camille felt suddenly awash in nostalgia. And temptation. But, as her mother had just said, there was no real going back.

"I do not know, Mama," she said. "I will have to think about it."

And she dropped, like a rock in a pond, into the murky depths of depression. She was living in a dreary little room in a building where she did not belong. She was teaching from instinct alone with very little idea of what she was doing or plan for how she would proceed in the weeks and months-and years?-ahead. She was in love with a man whose absence in the last couple of days suggested that she meant nothing to him apart from a casual lover, and a man who would almost inevitably move on to a new life of his own now that he was wealthy. She adored a baby who was not her own. She had cut herself off quite deliberately from everyone who would love her if she gave them the chance because she did not know who she was and did not want to be smothered by a protective love that would prevent her from finding out. The future yawned ahead with frightening emptiness and uncertainty. And she hated herself. She hated the fact that she could no longer hold herself together as she had done all her life, not realizing that what she held together was an empty core of nothing. She hated her own self-pity. She hated the fact that she was abjectly in love with a man who had made love to her three separate times just two days ago and had made no attempt to see her since. She hated . . .

"I will have to think about it," she said again when she realized her mother's eyes were fixed upon her. "But I am glad you and Abby are going home, Mama. And I am glad for Harry. Do you hate her?"

"Anastasia?" Her mother shook her head slowly. "No, I do not, Camille. She is your sister, and as I told her this morning, your father left behind something of far greater value than a large fortune. He sired four fine children."

"Four." Camille drew a slow breath. "How can you be so forgiving?"

"Because the alternative will only harm me," her mother told her.

Cousin Althea and Mrs. Dance came to join them at that moment and they said no more on the subject.

On Wednesday morning, Camille joined her family for breakfast at the hotel. They did not linger over the meal, as several of their number were to make an excursion to Bathampton a few miles away, where they would enjoy a late luncheon before returning. Camille stayed to wave the three carriages on their way and then turned to Anastasia, who was standing out on the pavement too, listening to something Avery was saying to her.

"Anastasia," Camille said before she could change her mind, "would you care to come and look in the shops along Milsom Street with me?"

Avery raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips. Anastasia looked at her with wide surprised eyes. "Oh, I would indeed, Camille," she said. "Just give me a moment to fetch my bonnet and reticule."

Avery looked steadily at Camille and then conversed for several minutes about the weather. "For the weather will always offer an endless supply of fascinating conversation," he said, "especially when one is fortunate enough to live in England. Or unfortunate, as the case is more likely to be."

The two ladies set off downhill toward Milsom Street, the most fashionable shopping street in Bath, a few minutes later. They walked side by side, talking about . . . the weather when they spoke at all. It was only as they turned onto Milsom Street that Camille changed the subject.

"Do you prefer to be called Anna rather than Anastasia?" she asked abruptly.

"Anna seems more like me," Anastasia said. "I did not even know until a few months ago that it is not my full name. I prefer Anna, but I do not resent Anastasia. It is my name, after all."

"I shall call you Anna from now on," Camille said. "And, since it is less of a mouthful to call you sister rather than half sister, I shall do that too."

Oh, this was difficult. This was very difficult. If her lips felt any stiffer, she would not be able to move them at all.

Anna turned her head and smiled at her. "Thank you, Camille," she said. "You are very kind. I used to walk along this street occasionally for the pure pleasure of looking in the windows and dreaming of what I would buy if only I had limitless money. Once I saved for several months to buy a pair of black leather gloves that were so soft they felt more like fine velvet. I used to come and gaze at them every week. But-"

"Let me guess," Camille said. "When you had finally saved enough and came to buy the gloves, they were gone."

"Oh, they were still there," Anna said. "I tried them on and they fit like . . . well, like a glove. I felt a few moments of glad triumph and utter joy-and then discovered that I could not justify such an extravagance. I left them on the counter with an unhappy shopgirl and went on my way."

"Oh, but you had killed a dream," Camille protested.

"I believe I had merely proved," Anna said, "that having a dream and being on the journey to fulfilling it sometimes brings more happiness than actually achieving it. We have a habit, do we not, of thinking happiness is a future state if only this and that condition can be met? And so much of life pa.s.ses us by without our realizing how happy we can be in this present moment, or how nearly happy. I had a good life as a girl and young adult despite what I was missing. And I had a dream."

They had been gazing at bonnets in a window and had now moved on to a bookshop.

"Are you not happy now, then?" Camille asked.

"Oh, I am," Anna a.s.sured her. "Happier than I have been my whole life. But it is not unalloyed happiness, Camille. Nothing is. This is human life in which there is no such thing as perfection. But I am happy. Today you have made me happier. It seems absurd, does it not, when all you have done is invite me to walk here with you and inform me that from today on you will call me Anna and sister? Camille, we are sisters. That is unbelievably precious to me."

Camille felt guilty, for she could not say quite the same. She had been determined to reach out, though, to act as though Anna were her sister in the hope that in time she would also feel the truth of it.

"I have been very unhappy, Anna-for all the obvious reasons," she said. "But in a strange way, that very fact is encouraging, for before all this happened I had dedicated my life to achieving perfection. I wanted to be the perfect lady above all else. Happiness meant nothing to me. Nor did love. They frightened me, for they suggested chaos and the impossibility of achieving perfection. Now that I have been desperately unhappy, I understand that I can be happy too and that I can love and be loved, and that unless I allow these things to happen to me, I will be only half alive. Oh, why are we gazing at books and talking about such strange things?"

"Because we are sisters," Anna said. "This was always my very favorite shop in Bath. I did spend money here when I had some to spare. I have always loved books and the fact that I can read them and ponder them and keep them and see them and smell them-and reread them. What a treasure they are."

"There is a coffee shop a little farther along the street," Camille said. "Shall we go there?"

A few minutes later they were seated opposite each other at a small table, smelling the wonderful aroma of the two cups of coffee that had been set before them.

"Anna," Camille said as she stirred in a spoonful of sugar, her eyes upon what she did. "I am happy about the baby. I shall enjoy being an aunt. There is a baby at the orphanage. She makes my heart ache. I believe I love all the children there, but there is something about her . . . Well." She looked up. "I wish my father had confessed the truth after your mother's pa.s.sing. I wish he had married my mother properly after that and brought you into their home. I would have had an elder sister. I would not have been the eldest myself, and perhaps I would not have felt compelled to earn my father's forgiveness for not being a son. I think I would have liked being a younger sister, and I think I might have enjoyed looking up to you. Perhaps not, though. Perhaps we would have squabbled incessantly."

"I wish it too," Anna said, "or that he had admitted the truth and acknowledged me and left me with my grandparents. I wish he had made another will. I wish he had married your mother properly so that Harry could have kept the earl's t.i.tle. I do not feel disloyal to Alex in saying so, for even he-perhaps especially he-wishes it were so. But it is not so, none of it, and we have to take life as it is. Camille-" She leaned forward across the table. "Do you love him? Does he love you?"

Camille stared at her. She knew Anna was not referring to Alexander. "Joel?" she said. And she heard a gurgle in her throat and felt her eyes grow hot and said what she doubted she would have said to another soul in the world, even Abby. "Yes. And no. Yes, I think I do, but no, he does not. We spent some time together on Sunday after Avery walked me home, and . . . I do not believe I have ever been happier. But I have not set eyes on him since. All sorts of momentous things are going on in his life, and lately he has been turning to me when he needs a friend in whom to confide, but I have not seen him since Sunday."

It felt more horrible, more ominous put into words-not to mention abject.

"Then he must be in love," Anna said. "I always knew he was an idiot. This proves it."

There was no logic, no comfort in her words. Camille frowned, drew a deep breath, and turned her cup on its saucer without lifting it. She must get to the point of this contrived meeting. "I wanted to talk to you about something in particular," she said.

Anna sat back in her chair.

"I am glad I have lived at the orphanage," Camille said. "I am glad I have taught there. I have already learned a great deal-about you, about myself, about where I belong and do not belong. About being poor. I may well continue, for I have always been stubborn and do not give up a challenge easily. But there is an alternative, and I am at least considering it. My mother wants me to go home to Hinsford with her and Abigail. She will not press me, and I will not make a hasty decision. But . . ."

She looked up at last and met her sister's eyes. It was going to be incredibly difficult to go on. But Alexander had advised her to allow herself to be loved. Avery had suggested something similar.

"Whether I go or stay," she said, "will you-? Are you still willing to share the fortune you inherited from Papa?"

"Oh." Anna expelled her breath on a long sigh. "You must know I am, Camille. If your mother has told you I will be leaving Hinsford to Harry, you must surely have guessed that I will also be leaving three-quarters of my fortune to my brother and sisters. It is not charity, Camille. It is not my attempt to buy your love. It is fair. We are all equally our father's children."

"Then I will take my share," Camille said after drawing a ragged breath. "Not because I need it or necessarily intend to use it, but because-" She swallowed awkwardly. "Because you are offering it."

Anna's eyes filled with tears, and Camille could see that she was biting down on her upper lip. "Thank you." Her lips mouthed the words, though very little sound came out. "It will be done immediately. Never mind the will. Wills can be changed. I shall write to Mr. Brumford. I wonder if Abigail . . . But it does not matter. Oh, I am so very happy." She glanced downward. "And I would be even happier if we had not both allowed our coffee to grow cold."

"Ugh," Camille said, and they both laughed rather shakily.

It was not easy to allow oneself to be loved, Camille thought, to make oneself vulnerable. She really, really had not wanted to take the money-because her father had not left it, or anything else either, to her and she might never forgive him, though she remembered what her mother had said on that subject last night. But now the money was Anna's, and sharing it with her sisters and brother was important to her. And accepting Anna with more than just her head had become necessary. She must somehow find a way of opening her heart too, but this was at least a start. If one could give love only by receiving it, then so be it.

And however was she to continue with her new life if she had riches in a bank account somewhere to tempt her? But perhaps she would go back home with Mama and Abby. There she would be far away from Joel. Oh, and the life would be familiar to her. She could give up the struggle . . .

Was she a coward after all, then?

"I suppose," Anna said, frowning, "we could have these cups taken away and two fresh ones brought. They will think us strange, but what of that? I am a d.u.c.h.ess, after all. And I have something to celebrate with one of my sisters."

She raised an arm to summon the waitress, and they both laughed again.

Joel had never been inside the Upper a.s.sembly Rooms, since they were largely the preserve of the upper cla.s.ses. Afternoon teas there were open to anybody who had paid the subscription and, as in his case on that Thursday, to anyone who had been specifically invited. He donned the new coat he had bought yesterday, one that was readymade and therefore not quite as formfitting as an obsequious tailor a.s.sured him he would make the other two Joel had ordered. The tailor's manner indicated to Joel that he had read the paper on Tuesday morning and had recognized the name of his new client. Joel was pleased with the coat anyway and decided that he would at least not disgrace himself when he walked into those hallowed and dreaded rooms. Now if only there had been a readymade pair of boots to fit him . . .

He was feeling ridiculously nervous. He was also wishing he had sought out Camille before today. It was going to be awkward meeting her for the first time since Sunday in a public setting and surrounded by all of her family. Sunday! It seemed like a bit of a dream. Why the devil had he not gone to see her since then? He was behaving like a gauche schoolboy with his first infatuation.

He arrived five or six minutes later than the time appointed for fear of being early and so, of course, had to make something of a grand entrance, or what felt like one. The Upper Rooms were crowded and humming with conversation. He stood upon the threshold of the tearoom and looked about for familiar faces. He spotted Miss Ford first and could see that she was sitting among a group of tables occupied by the Westcotts. Anna had raised her arm to attract his attention and was smiling broadly. He made his way toward them.

The Dowager d.u.c.h.ess of Netherby took it upon herself to introduce him to her mother and sister, the Dowager Countess of Riverdale and Lady Matilda Westcott. Joel made his bow to both ladies, greeted everyone else, and took a seat at a table with Lady Overfield, her brother the earl, and Camille's mother. It was only as he did so that he saw Camille for the first time. She was sitting almost back-to-back with him at the next table with Mrs. Kingsley and Mr. and Mrs. Dance. He glanced at her and opened his mouth to speak, but she was impersonating her former self today, all stiff, aristocratic formality as she inclined her head to him with haughty condescension and turned her back.

She was annoyed with him, was she? Because she regretted last Sunday? Because she wished him to know that that was then and this was now and never the twain should meet? Because he had not been to see her? Because he had not spotted her immediately when he had entered the room?

He gave his attention to the conversation at his own table and strained his ears to listen to that at the next.

It was a while later when Riverdale uttered a m.u.f.fled exclamation, a frown on his face, his eyes fixed on the doorway. Joel turned his head to look. Viscount Uxbury was standing there with the two men who had been at the funeral with him. They were looking about the room for an empty table. Suddenly Uxbury's eyes alit upon Camille, or so it seemed to Joel, and remained on her as he moved away from the other two and strolled toward her table. Other members of the family were beginning to notice him and were falling silent one by one, but he seemed not to be aware of them. He had but the one object in his sights. He stopped by Camille's table, raised a quizzing gla.s.s to his eyes, and regarded her insolently through it.

"I wonder," he said, "if your companions and the other respectable citizens of Bath here present realize that they are rubbing shoulders with a b.a.s.t.a.r.d, Miss Westcott."

What? What the devil? Had the man been so offended by the setdown she had given him a few days ago that he was willing to breach all semblance of good manners in order to get back at her?

Uxbury had not spoken loudly, Joel realized afterward. He had not drawn a great deal of attention his way. Conversation at all but the tables occupied by their group continued as usual while cutlery tinkled cheerfully against china and white-ap.r.o.ned waiters bearing trays wove their way among tables. Nonetheless, Riverdale rose from his place and set his linen napkin on the table. Netherby was doing likewise at his table. So was Lord Molenor. In another minute they would have ushered the viscount outside and dealt with him there in a perfectly well-bred manner for as long as it was likely they might be observed by people arriving or leaving or pa.s.sing on the street. They also, very probably, would have made an appointment to meet him privately, as Netherby had done once before in London.

Joel was not well-bred. He knew nothing of the rules that governed a gentleman's behavior, especially in the presence of ladies. He got to his feet, took two strides forward, and smashed his fist into Uxbury's mouth.

The viscount, taken by surprise, went down heavily in a shower of blood, grasping with one flailing hand at the tablecloth of the table behind him as he went in a vain attempt to save himself. His fall was followed by a noisy shower of crockery and cutlery and smashing gla.s.sware and cream cakes and tea. One of the cakes landed upside down on the bridge of his nose.

There were screams, shouts, general mayhem. Everyone was standing. Some were trying to escape danger. Most were craning their necks to see what had happened. Others were moving closer to get a better look. Joel flexed his stinging knuckles.

"Oh, bravo," Riverdale said quietly beneath the hubbub.

"Very well-done," Lady Overfield agreed.

"Dear me," the Duke of Netherby said, and somehow-how did the man do it?-all around him fell silent and those farther back shushed others so that they could hear. "New boots, my dear fellow? They can be embarra.s.singly slippery for a while, I have found. Too bad that you have made such a spectacle of yourself, though I daresay you are among friends here who will make every effort to forget the whole thing and never remind you of it. Allow me to help you to your feet."

"He must have caught his mouth on the edge of a table on his way down, Netherby," the Earl of Riverdale said, "and knocked out a tooth. Ah, Viscount Uxbury, is it not?"

Uxbury was not unconscious. He scrambled to his feet without a.s.sistance, brushing aside Netherby's hand as he did so. He pulled a large handkerchief out of his pocket and held it to his bleeding mouth. His face was chalky white. His two relatives had come up to him and were taking an arm each to lead him out. He went quietly after glaring at Joel and speaking to him, his voice m.u.f.fled by the handkerchief.

"You will be hearing from my lawyer," he said.

"I shall look forward to it," Joel told him.

He was standing, he realized, almost shoulder to shoulder with Camille. He turned his head toward her, and she turned hers to him.

"Thank you," she murmured before turning back to resume her seat. She was not the haughty aristocrat now. She was the marble lady with the complexion to match the t.i.tle.

The three men left without further incident, everyone sat down again, conversation buzzed, waiters rushed about clearing debris, making up the table again with fresh linen and bringing fresh tea and food, and within minutes anyone arriving at the Upper Rooms would not have known that something very ungenteel had just happened there. Indeed, it seemed probable to Joel that many people who had been there the whole time did not realize it either. A number of conversations were probably on the topic of how dangerous new boots and shoes could be before the soles had become properly scuffed by use.

Perhaps it was as well he had been unable to purchase a ready-made pair yesterday.

"I owe you a debt of grat.i.tude, Mr. Cunningham," Camille's mother said to him. "I am deeply ashamed that I once approved that young man's courtship of my daughter."

"I understand we are to go picnicking tomorrow, Mr. Cunningham," Lady Overfield said. "I look forward to it enormously. I confess to a great curiosity to see your new home."

Twenty-one.

Camille was basking in the sunshine out in the garden the following morning. She was seated on a stone bench while Sarah sat at her feet, grasping blades of gra.s.s and pulling them out before looking up at Camille, thoroughly proud of herself. Winifred was sitting cross-legged on the ground, watching her. Several other children were outside, involved in various games. Everyone was enjoying the brief holiday from school, though most of the children had greeted Camille cheerfully.

She had not been invited. The family was going up to Mr. c.o.x-Phillips's house, now Joel's, this afternoon for a picnic and probably a tour of the house.

She had not been invited.

Yesterday, on her first full appearance in public, she had been called a b.a.s.t.a.r.d. She hugged her elbows with both hands and smiled down at the baby, whose triumphant smile displayed her two new bottom teeth. Joel, like a knight errant, had punched Viscount Uxbury in her defense. And somehow Avery's words had covered up the whole potential scandal, at least temporarily. It was too much to hope, of course, that absolutely no one outside their family group had seen what happened or heard the fatal words. Joel was the one who had acted, and he had drawn blood and possibly a tooth.

And then he had sat down again with Mama and Elizabeth and Alexander and continued with his tea and conversation as though nothing had happened. He had not spoken a word to her.

He had not invited her to today's picnic.

If he had taken a horn up onto a rooftop and bellowed through it, his message could not be louder than his silence was. Well, then. She squared her shoulders and wished the bench was not quite so hard.

"I prayed every night that Sarah's teeth would come through," Winifred said as the baby held up her arms and Camille picked her up and set her on her lap, "and they did."

Winifred's occasional piety could be even more annoying than her general righteousness. But Camille smiled. "It is good to know," she said, "that prayers are answered. She is a good deal more contented now."

And then, suddenly, he was there, standing in front of the bench in his old coat and scuffed boots, looking down at them, a smile in his eyes. His head blocked the sun and made Camille feel chilly. And Sarah, the treacherous child, gurgled and reached up her arms again. He swung her up, held her above his head while she chuckled and drooled onto his neckcloth, and lowered her to sit on one arm.

"Good morning, ladies," he said.

"Sarah has two teeth," Winifred told him. "I prayed that they would come through and they did."

"That's the girl," he said, patting her shoulder with his free hand. But Hannah was coming for Sarah. It was time for her feed. Winifred went inside with them. Joel stayed where he was, his eyes fixed upon Camille. "I had a note from Anna this morning. She told me you are not coming to the picnic."

d.a.m.n Anna, Camille thought, using a shocking word in her mind she would not dream of speaking aloud. "No," she said. "I have other things to do."

He folded his arms and stared down at her. "I am sorry, Camille," he said. "I have been behaving like an a.s.s. It is just that- Well, the earth moved on Sunday. It moved more than it always does, that is. I-"

"That is quite all right," she said. "You do not need to explain or apologize if that was your intention. Sunday was my suggestion, if you will recall, and I do not regret it in any way. It was very enjoyable. But that was the past, and it is always wise to let the past go and concentrate upon the present and as much of the future as can be reasonably planned for."