by Mary Balogh
“One thing I knew, the lesser thing,” he said, “was that I am indeed going to keep that house and use my money to do something with it that will share the bounty and the beauty, something that will lift people’s spirits and feed their souls. Particularly children, though not exclusively. I do not know either the what or the how yet, but I will. And I will live there to give it the warmth of home as well as everything else. I will have animals there and . . . people.”
Good God, he was a coward. He had not known that about himself until recently. He drew her arm beneath his own, their hands still clasped. He stopped walking and they faced outward, looking toward the steep descent of Gay Street.
“The other thing I knew with perfect clarity,” he said, “was that I love you, that I want you in my life whatever that turns out to be, that I want to marry you and have children with you and make a family with you in that house—with children of our own bodies and adopted children and dogs and cats and . . . well, snakes and mice too, perhaps, if we have sons or intrepid daughters. I am not sure I can ask it of you. You have lived a very different life. You have grown up the daughter of an earl in an aristocratic household. You are a lady through and through. When I saw you tonight I thought you the most beautiful woman I had ever seen—I did not exaggerate that. I also thought you the grandest, the most remote, the most unattainable. It felt presumptuous to love you.”
“Joel,” she said, cutting his eloquence short. “You can be sure.”
He looked at her blankly in the near darkness. He could be sure? He heard the echo of his own words—I am not sure I can ask it of you.
“Can I?” he asked.
“You will need a lady to run that house of yours while your head is among the clouds,” she said. “One thing I can do with my eyes blindfolded and my hands tied behind my back is run a household. I may find it hair-raising to have shrieking children and barking dogs and squeaking mice and absentminded artists underfoot, but if I can walk into an orphanage and start teaching a schoolroom full of children of all ages and ability levels; if I can get them to knit a purple rope as a collective project and march them all about Bath clinging to it; if I can teach a certain absentminded artist to waltz, I can do anything.”
“But . . .” He was squeezing her fingers and her hand very tightly, he realized before relaxing his grip. “Would you want to, Camille?”
She sighed, a sound of exaggerated long-suffering. “The thing is, Joel,” she said, “that I really am a lady by upbringing and cannot shrug off the training of a lifetime in a few brief months. I did it once, shockingly, almost a week ago when I asked you to take me home with you. I do not believe I could do it again. I could not possibly ask you to marry me. A lady does not, you know. That is a gentleman’s task.”
He gazed at her. Darkness or no darkness, there was no mistaking the expression on her face.
“I am not a gentleman,” he said, his eyes settling on her lips.
“I think it is a man’s task, Joel,” she said, “even if he is not also gentle or genteel. You are very definitely a man. It was the first impression I had of you when we met in the schoolroom, and it offended me, for I had never consciously thought it of any other man, even Viscount Uxbury. It struck me that you were very . . . male.”
He wondered if she was blushing. It was impossible to know in the darkness. But if she was, her eyes were certainly not wavering from his.
“It must be my Italian heritage,” he said. “Do you suppose we have any sort of audience behind any of those darkened windows all about us?”
“I neither know nor care,” she told him.
“Very well, then.” And since he was apparently a man and very male even if not a gentleman—and half Italian to boot—he had better do the thing properly. He lowered himself to one knee and held her hand in both of his. He felt silly . . . and then he did not. He gazed up at her. “Camille, will you marry me? Because I love you with all my heart and really, really do not want to live the rest of my life without you? Because I hope you feel that same way about me? I wish I had composed and memorized some polished sort of speech you might have quoted to our grandchildren—if your answer is yes, that is. Though I daresay I would have forgotten every word of it by now. Dash it, Camille, will you?”
She was laughing softly. He loved her laughter. Actually, he loved the Amazon and the military sergeant and the brisk schoolteacher and the Madonna and child and this aristocratic goddess in her sliver-and-blue ball gown and elaborately piled hair. He loved the woman with whom he had made love in his rooms and the woman who had begged to be held when she was feeling upset.
“Well, I will,” she said, freeing her hand and bending over him to cup his face in her hands and kiss him softly on the lips. “But do get up. You will be ruining your splendid new evening clothes.”
“You will?” He scrambled to his feet and caught her by the waist.
“I will,” she said, “but only because I love you and cannot bear the thought of living without you. Not for any other reason.”
“You will.” He gazed at her for a moment and then tipped his face up to the sky. “She will.” He lifted her from the ground and spun twice about with her while she laughed down at him. “She will.”
He did not think he had spoken loudly. Part of his mind was aware that there might be sleepers in the houses all about the Circus, and they might not appreciate being woken by voices from the central garden. But from somewhere—in the darkness it was impossible to know exactly where or even in which direction—came the sound of someone clapping slowly.
They looked at each other, he and Camille, as he set her feet on the ground, their eyes widening with shock and then filling with amusement. He drew her close and held her against him while she wound her arms about his neck, and they laughed softly.
Twenty-three
The wedding of Miss Camille Westcott to Mr. Joel Cunningham was set for a date in early September, six weeks after the birthday ball in the Upper Assembly Rooms. It was to take place at Bath Abbey, a somewhat surprising choice, perhaps, when the bride was an earl’s illegitimate daughter and the groom was the illegitimate son of a lady of no great social significance and an Italian artist whom few people remembered and none could identify by name. But the bride was acknowledged and held in high esteem by the powerful Westcott family and the formidable Duke of Netherby, who was married to one of their number, and by Mrs. Kingsley, widow of one of Bath’s wealthiest and most prominent citizens and the bride’s maternal grandmother. And the groom was the great-nephew of the late Mr. Cox-Phillips, a prominent politician in his time and wealthy citizen of Bath, who had acknowledged the groom in his will by leaving him his two homes and his fortune. Joel’s story, and, by association, Camille’s, had captured the imagination of Bath, at least temporarily, and invitations to their wedding were coveted.
The whole of the Westcott family was to return to Bath for the occasion. So was the Reverend Michael Kingsley, whom many people remembered from his boyhood, and his affianced bride, granddaughter of a baronet, with her sister. Other Kingsley relatives were expected too. Miss Ford, enjoying some fame of her own as matron of the orphanage where the Duchess of Netherby and Mr. Cunningham had both grown up and where Miss Westcott had taught until very recently, had also been invited, as had the whole staff of the orphanage and all the children. Many people recalled that they had seen a number of those children quite frequently through the summer walking out on various excursions in an orderly line as they clung to a rope of startling purple hue. Rumor had it that the bride and groom were in the process of adopting two of the orphans as their own children.
The groom had also invited a number of personal friends as well as the staff of a certain butcher’s shop and all the lecturers and many of the former students of the art school he had attended ten years or so ago. And invitations went out to numerous citizens, including friends of Mrs. Kingsley and people for whom th
e groom had painted portraits.
One person of real importance would not be in attendance. Lieutenant Harry Westcott was in the Peninsula with his regiment and would not have been able to travel home in time even if he could have been granted leave or had wanted to. A letter arrived for Camille a few days before the wedding, however, in which he expressed his very best wishes for his sister’s happiness and his trust in her choice of mate, though it had surprised him. He also mentioned the fact that he had recently been in a great pitched battle, which had been a touch-and-go thing before the inevitable rout of the enemy. He had sustained an assortment of cuts and bruises during the hostilities, but the regimental sawbones, who was a good sort, had patched him up and assured him that in no time at all he would be as good as new with the addition of a few interesting scars to appeal to the ladies. He sent his love to his mother and Abby and anyone else who might like to have it.
Strangely, Camille thought as she folded the letter, Harry was the only one who seemed a little dubious about her choice—it had surprised him. No one else did. Indeed, everyone seemed happy for her. Perhaps they recognized that she had changed—and perhaps they saw that the changes were for the better. Perhaps they could see that she was in love, just as it was perfectly obvious that Anna was in love with Avery. Perhaps, she thought with a smile and a soft laugh, everyone loved a lover. She raised Harry’s letter to her lips and said a silent prayer for his safety.
Joel had given notice to his landlord—he would move to the house on the hill after his marriage. He had finished Abigail’s portrait, to the delight and even awe of all who saw it, though her grandmother would not display it until Camille’s had been painted too. Joel left that until after his wedding. He was not sure if his intimate relationship with her would make her portrait easier or harder to paint, but he always welcomed a challenge, and this would surely be the biggest yet.
Camille gave her notice to Miss Ford but did assure her she would teach right up until her wedding day if necessary. She was cheered to discover that there had been two other very promising applications after the position had been offered to her, and that one of those applicants was still available and eager for the job. Camille met her and approved of her sunny nature and sensible disposition and enthusiastic knowledge on all sorts of subjects, academic and otherwise, and obvious love of children. Even so, Camille felt a pang of regret for having to leave so soon. She would see the children again, though. She would visit, and a number of them would come up to the house on the hill for various reasons. Joel was already concocting an ambitious scheme for gathering them all there over Christmas for feasts and parties and games and gifts and the celebration of the birth of a baby.
The legal arrangements for the adoption of Sarah and Winifred were well under way. Sarah did not need to be consulted, of course, being too young to express an opinion. However, that she loved Camille above anyone else was acknowledged by all, as was the fact that Camille adored the baby quite as much as she could possibly love any child of her own.
There was to be no child of her own yet. She had discovered that a week after her betrothal.
Winifred, at nine years old, was old enough to be consulted. Indeed, it was imperative that her wishes be known. She had lived at the orphanage all her life. It was the only home she had ever known, the people there the only family. It might well be that she would choose to stay rather than launch into the unknown several years before it would be necessary for her to do so anyway. Camille took her into one of the visitor rooms a week after her betrothal and closed the door.
“Winifred,” she said when they were both seated, “you have probably heard that Mr. Cunningham and I are to be married.”
“I have, Miss Westcott,” Winifred said, seated primly on the edge of her sofa cushion, her hands folded in her lap. “I am very happy for you.”
“Thank you,” Camille said. “You probably do not also know that after we are married and move to our house up in the hills we will be taking Sarah with us as our adopted daughter.”
The girl’s thin hands tightened about each other. “I am very happy for her,” she said. “I have prayed for her, and my prayers are to be answered.”
“We have asked Miss Ford,” Camille said, “and Miss Ford has asked the members of the board of governors if it is also possible for us to adopt you. They have granted permission, but since you are old enough to have a say in the matter, I have undertaken to be the one to speak privately with you. The choice will be yours, Winifred. You may remain here where you have always belonged and where you are safe and comfortable, or you may come with us and be our daughter and Sarah’s elder sister. We would give you a home and love you and care for you and provide for you when you grow up. No matter what you decide to do when that time comes, you would always be our daughter, and our home would always be yours. We would always love you.”
Winifred’s eyes stared out at her from a thin pasty face. “But why have you chosen me?” she asked in a voice that was higher pitched than usual. “I always try to be good and to learn my lessons and be tidy and help others and say my prayers, but other people do not always like me because I am still a sinner. I am not worthy of such an honor, Miss Westcott. Sarah—”
“Winifred.” Camille went to sit beside her and set a hand over the two clasped ones. They were icy cold. “Let me tell you something about love. It is unconditional. Do you know what that is?”
The child nodded. She had not taken her eyes off Camille’s face.
“Love does not have to be earned,” Camille told her. “You are indeed a good girl and conscientious and pious. Those are admirable qualities and have won my approbation. They alone would not necessarily win my love, however. Love is not the reward for good behavior. Love just is. I want you to know that if you choose to be my daughter and Mr. Cunningham’s, we will love you no matter what. You would not have to feel you must be on your best behavior every moment. You would not have to feel you must prove yourself worthy or fear that we would send you back here if you did not live up to our expectations. We have no expectations, Winifred. We just love you and want you to be part of a family with us and Sarah and any other children we may have in the future. We want you to be happy. We want you to be able to run and play and talk and laugh and do whatever you wish to do, provided only that it is not dangerous to yourself or others. We want you to be the person you choose to be. I do love you, Winifred.”
The eyes still stared. The complexion was still pasty. “I am not pretty,” she half whispered.
Her brown hair fell in two braids over her ears and shoulders. Her forehead was broad, her eyes and other facial features unremarkable. It was a small face and had not yet grown into her permanent teeth. She was thin, even a bit gangly. She was indeed not a pretty child.
“Most girls and women are not,” Camille said, resisting the temptation to protest and perhaps lose all chance of winning the child’s trust. “Many are beautiful, however. Have you noticed that? Some women are plain, even bordering upon the ugly, but no one ever notices except perhaps upon a first encounter. There is so much goodness and light and kindness and happiness and vitality welling up from inside them that their outer appearance is transformed into beauty.”
“Can I be beautiful?” Winifred asked.
“Yes, of course,” Camille said. And perhaps even pretty in time, with an elfin, dainty sort of look. “You are already well on the way.”
“Would I be Winifred Cunningham?” the child asked.
“I believe we would like that,” Camille told her, “though the choice would be yours. Hamlin may seem too much a part of your identity to be abandoned.”
“Winifred Cunningham,” the girl whispered. “Would I call you Mama?”
“I would like that above all things,” Camille said—though she was only thirteen years older. “Do you wish to think about it, Winifred? It is a huge decision for you and I do not want to press anythin
g upon you that you may regret later. I do want you to know, however, that you will be loved regardless.”
“I do not need time.” Winifred was back to clasping her hands very tightly in her lap, and Camille withdrew her own. “When I heard you were going to marry Mr. Cunningham and leave here so soon after Miss Snow left and married the Duke of Netherby, I cried a bit and prayed for the strength to be glad for you. But I could not feel quite glad. It was selfish of me, but I am being rewarded anyway. Miss Westcott . . . I am going to have a mama and a papa? And a sister? I am going to be Winifred Cunningham, part of the Cunningham family?”
“And the Duke and Duchess of Netherby will be your aunt and uncle,” Camille said. “And there are others too.”
Winifred’s face looked even more pasty, if anything.
“Would you like to be held?” Camille asked her. “Would you like me to hug you?”
The child nodded and squirmed into Camille’s arms and clung tightly. She ended up somehow on Camille’s lap, all gangly legs and thin body and urgent arms. Camille kissed the very white, very straight parting along the top of her head and rested her cheek there. She would do what her father had never done, she thought, closing her eyes. And because he had been the loser in his inability to love or accept love, she forgave him for all the pain he had caused her and loved him anyway.
* * *
Joel was familiar with Bath Abbey, inside and out. He had always admired its beauty and studied its architecture and intricate decoration with great attention and awe. He had wandered inside, and had often sat there for long minutes, absorbing the atmosphere of peace and exaltation he had not felt anywhere else, even in other churches. He had been to a few services there, but had always sat as close to the back as possible, more an observer than a participant.
In his wildest imaginings he could not have pictured himself being married there, the pews almost filled with people both humble and fashionable who had come to witness the event and share his joy and his bride’s. Several rows were occupied by children close to bursting with excitement but on their best behavior under the eagle eyes of Miss Ford and their housemothers and the new teacher. Even so, a few of them bounced in their seats and waggled their fingers at Joel and smiled broadly at him as he walked to the front with Martin Silver, his best man, to take his seat and await the arrival of his bride.