“Not very late, but Lady Camille was already abed.”
Claire nodded her head towards the breakfast room. “It sounds as if they are enjoying his homecoming, and I should not disturb them. If you would be so good as to ask Lucy or Maria to bring my breakfast to my chamber, I will allow them their privacy.”
“Most assuredly, you will not disturb my lord and his sister. Indeed, his lordship specifically said he is most anxious to meet you.”
“So I fear.”
“Excuse me, my lady? I am somewhat deaf in my left ear and did not hear your words,” Mr. Clark said, leaning forward.
“Perhaps it is just as well,” replied Claire. “I shall join them, then, though I have very little that might amuse them.”
Mr. Clark looked solemn, though he could not possibly be as dispirited as Claire felt at the moment. He nodded and walked on, leaving Claire quite on her own. She took a deep breath and opened the door of the breakfast room.
The butler was wrong about the intimacy of the marquis’ homecoming, for the brother and sister were becoming reacquainted in a way that warranted no intruders.
Lady Camille sat next to Lord Wentworth, smiling up at him. Her long, thin fingers were on his face, exploring his unruly beard, and apparently finding it quite ridiculous.
“You must cut it off at once, Maxwell,” Camille said, giggling. “Someone will mistake you for a sheepdog. Or worse, a furry lap robe.”
“Nay, I have it on the best authority it makes me appear rather rakish. I nearly made a lady swoon when she saw me.”
“If that is so—and I really do not believe you—then she swooned for thinking you were a pirate or some other disreputable sort. Did you meet her onboard ship?” Camille asked.
“I met her on English soil. On a woodland path, in fact.”
Camille’s fingers remained poised over her brother’s beard. Claire could not see her face, but guessed what she was thinking.
“Then she thought you a hermit, and only swooned when you spoke to her, for I understand they are silent fellows.”
Lord Wentworth seemed to study his sister’s sightless eyes, perhaps contemplating her scars or the long-ago circumstances that brought them to this point.
“How do you know I spoke to her?” he asked softly.
Camille once again caught his beard and playfully tugged. “Because I doubt any lady brave enough to venture alone on a woodland path would let you walk within ten feet of her without grilling you as to your identity, your reason to be traveling the same route, and your intentions for the immediate future.”
Good heavens, was she such a harpy? Camille would have her brother believe their houseguest was both formidable and thoroughly annoying.
Claire must have made some small sound, for brother and sister turned to where she stood at the door. Camille’s expression was one of pure pleasure, and there seemed nothing to suggest she truly bought her own description of her friend. And in one brief moment of recognition, Claire realized Lord Wentworth did not buy his sister’s description, either.
He studied her with an intensity that suggested there was much more between them than a few hurried words in the woodlands could possibly allow. His gaze caught hers, making her suddenly aware of how she must look in her well-fitted blue day dress with its deep V neckline, and its barely concealing lace. Through the mass of his ridiculous beard, she saw his lips were slightly parted, as if he could not bring forth the words of common courtesy and greeting. And though Camille sat at his side, and one of the servants refreshed the tray of breads on the sideboard, it seemed there was no one else in the whole wide world but the two of them, confronting each other in the well-ordered propriety of a breakfast room, but with no greater reason than if they still stood in the woods, wondering about the identity of the other.
“It is Lady Claire, is it not?” Camille asked quietly. “But of course it is, for I would know your footsteps anywhere. It sounds as if you are favoring one foot, however.”
“I am. I should have heeded your advice about wearing sturdy shoes when walking about the property. Instead, I foolishly wore my slippers, and lost one along the path,” Claire said.
Lord Wentworth finally remembered his manners and rose from his seat. “I am sorry to hear you had a mishap on my land. I will replace the slipper for you if the gardeners do not find it.”
“Both the mishap—if such it was—and the slipper are trivial, my lord.” Claire decided to stop right there before she said something about the nature of mishaps and the more serious consequences that could occur. And in any case, they had not yet been introduced in this setting. She looked at Camille, who somehow read her mind.
“Lady Claire, allow me to present my brother, Maxwell Brooks, the Marquis Wentworth. Maxwell, this is my dearest friend, Lady Claire.”
“The Dowager Countess of Glastonbury, as I recall. Indeed, we have met before, if only briefly.” He came around the side of the long table as he spoke and reached for her hand in greeting.
Claire gave it unwillingly, so unsure was she that she scarcely recognized herself. But she recognized him well enough, even through his facial hair.
“Yes, it was so brief I would scarcely imagine I might recognize you again, especially as your appearance is so dramatically altered,” she said, but in fact it was not. She recalled with perfect clarity how tall he was and how he somehow managed to seem both lean and strong. She remembered those eyes that were so dark she could scarcely distinguish the pupils, and now wondered if Camille’s had looked like this once.
“Ah, yes, it is something I am not used to myself. After traveling for some time without having the convenience of a looking glass, I am now startled to see my own reflection and wonder at whom I am gazing. Certainly, the fellow looks rather rough and disreputable. But I will not have the time to get accustomed to him, for my beard shall be gone by day’s end.” He fingered his facial hair appreciatively.
“Oh, no, Maxwell! I quite enjoy it,” said Camille.
It was not for Claire to voice any opinion on the matter, nor ask where a marquis might wander and have no access to a basic tool of civilized society.
“But I will not enjoy it when a sparrow decides to nest within it, or when I trip over it when ascending the stairs.” The marquis ignored his sister’s laughter and offered his arm to Claire. “And what do you think, Lady Claire?”
“I think I might very well enjoy it, particularly if you become father to a clutch of fledgling birds.”
“It is not in my plans to become father to anything or anyone, but I do see your point. And I am grateful you did not think a fall on my face would be more amusing,” he said. “But come, now, we are keeping you from your breakfast and you must be hungry after your adventure in the woods.”
Camille waited until Claire was served her accustomed breakfast of kippers, toast and unsweetened tea before she spoke again.
“Tell us about your walk in our woods, Claire, and how you managed to lose a slipper. It sounds like the consequence of some adventure,” she said. “I have walked there all my life and do not recall anything more extraordinary than a dog strayed from a Gypsy caravan.”
“And then you decided to keep him in the house, and the real adventure began,” her brother said affectionately.
“But I want to know about Claire’s,” Camille insisted.
“It was nothing, really. Now that I think upon it, I may have imagined the whole thing, for it could only be a dream wherein a gentleman accosts a lady who is unknown to him, and does not reassure her for her safety,” said Claire.
“In our wood?” Camille asked, smiling. “How extraordinary.” She first faced her brother and then her friend, and somehow seemed to see it all.
“Did he not offer to see you home?” Wentworth asked, reaching for the honey.
“Only a foo
l would accept such an offer from a man who might be a murderer or a thief or even . . . a hermit.”
“You were wise to behave as you did,” Wentworth said without a note of irony. “Now, do tell me what circumstances brought you to us, Lady Claire. And what have you and Camille found to occupy yourselves in our quiet neighborhood?”
Claire glanced at Camille, who seemed particularly interested in a block of sugar.
“Did you not receive a correspondence from your cousin, Mrs. Adelaide Brooks? Or from your sister?” Claire asked, looking for support from her friend. But Camille found a second block of sugar, which must have been equally fascinating to the first. “I am here to read to Lady Camille.”
“My cousin and sister surely believed I would be gone from Brookside Cottage for many months to have summoned you for this task. It has always fallen on me to be my sister’s eyes, and read what she cannot. I believe we were in the midst of the letter E in Ephraim Chambers’s Cyclopaedia, when we were interrupted by my unexpected business. Have the two of you continued to plow your way through it? The references are at times particularly obscure, and I should like to know what you think of his work.”
“We have saved the honor of completing the reading of Mr. Chambers’s work for your return, my lord. Lady Camille and I are engaged in reading of another sort.”
“Burke’s A Vindication of Natural Society, perhaps? Something by Mr. Pope?” Wentworth leaned back in his seat, and, with his unruly beard, looked liked one of the elderly sages he seemed to favor.
“I am sure their works are remarkably edifying, but we have selected reading of another sort,” Claire repeated, bracing herself for his reaction, and Camille’s defense.
“Poetry, then. We have many volumes of poetry in my library.”
“We are reading novels, my lord.” Claire paused to bite into her toast and took her time swallowing. “And when we are tired of novels, we read articles from ladies’ magazines and the fashion pages.”
The room was so quiet that the sound of Claire’s next bite of toast was inordinately loud.
“I see,” said Wentworth at last. “There is no harm in light amusement, as a dessert to the more satisfying meal. Surely you do not solely subsist on such sugary bites?”
“We do, my lord, and seem to be managing quite well. In fact, we do not miss the taste of bland meat and potatoes.”
Camille made a sputtering sound, and Claire realized she could barely control her laughter. She smiled, but sobered immediately upon seeing Wentworth’s expression.
“And to what purpose are the two of you feasting on desserts only?”
“Why, when Lady Camille makes her long overdue entrance into society, she must be prepared to speak knowledgeably about many things, but I doubt if Chambers’s Cyclopaedia is among them. I also believe she will be well served if her garments reflect the fashion of the current century, and not something she might have discovered in a trunk in the attic.”
“So this is your plan, hatched conveniently upon my departure. No wonder my cousin was so vague about her intentions and her introduction.” Wentworth rose and with his heavy beard had the look of a vengeful deity. “My sister is not going to London for any reason, to be whispered about behind her back and ignored by those in her company. You do not understand how cruel society can be, how intolerant of anyone who is different, who deserves pity instead of condemnation.”
Claire stood, well prepared for his reluctance, but startled at his vehemence.
“You are wrong, Lord Wentworth! I understand it better than most. My past marriage has always been the source of some speculation, even by those who know me well, and I am very accustomed to hushed conversation as soon as I enter a room.”
“You agree with me?”
“I agree that gossips will always find something to say. But that has not prevented me from doing what I wish, and being invited to the best parties, and enjoying my subscription to Almack’s. Rumors and innuendo only find traction when they hit their mark and cause it pain.” Claire paused to catch her breath. “And why would you assume Camille would be an object of their pity? Why would a young lady of grace and intelligence, beauty and wit, be dismissed by anyone worth knowing in London?”
Wentworth looked down at his sister, who sat quietly between them at the battlefield of their breakfast table.
“I should think that should be fairly obvious, Lady Claire,” he said. “My sister is . . . not like other ladies.”
“Because she is blind? There, I’ve said it! And Lord Westerly lost his arm at Waterloo. And Mrs. Randall has a dreadful stutter. And Captain Pierce cannot hear a word anyone says. And I am not going to mention the dozens of society’s minions who are so stupid it is torture to engage them in conversation.” Camille raised her hand, perhaps to silence Claire’s outburst, but Claire caught it instead, and held fast. “Your sister has every right to take her rightful place in society, and I am determined to see her there.”
Wentworth grabbed his sister’s other hand. “It is not your right to be determined, Lady Claire, for what passes between us in this household has nothing to do with you. My sister and I have spent our lives together, endured great tragedy and pain, and we are not to be disturbed because a lady so wholly uninvolved in our affairs thinks something is wanting in our manners. We are happy as we are.”
“Please speak for yourself, Lord Wentworth! Ask Lady Camille what she wants.”
“I know what my sister wants and needs, and it is not a widow who does as she pleases and goes where she will. And that includes walking unchaperoned in the woods in the evening.”
“I was perfectly safe before I was accosted by a passing vagrant who did nothing to calm my fears.”
Wentworth flushed to the roots of his dreadful beard and dropped his sister’s hand. “There is no reasoning with you, Lady Claire, and I see no purpose in wasting my time on one whose hearing is as impaired as Captain Pierce and whose understanding is as impaired as any of society’s minions, whomever they may be. Please excuse me.”
He stalked to the door of the room, where he surprised poor Mr. Clark and nearly toppled the tray the butler carried. Once he helped his servant right the tray, he turned back to Camille and Claire.
“And there is nothing wrong with the dresses my sister wears, Lady Claire. They are ordered from the best dressmaker in our town, and are of the finest fabrics.”
Claire refused to allow him the last word, no matter how absurd it was.
“They are ordered from the only dressmaker in your town. And there are finer fabrics to be had than scratchy worsted and rough linen, Lord Wentworth.”
Claire felt a moment of terror, for he looked as angry as her late husband, and she guessed him possessed of even greater strength. But Lord Wentworth did nothing more than drop his hands to his sides, turn on his heel, and leave them in peace, even as their words still reverberated in the room.
Claire dropped into her chair, utterly exhausted.
“That went well,” she said.
Camille laughed, as if nothing had passed of any consequence. “It did go well, my dear Lady Claire. I have never had such a champion.”
“Of course. It is a wonderful thing to have a brother so concerned for one’s welfare, who is willing to sacrifice everything for a sister’s happiness,” Claire admitted.
“I do not refer to my brother, dear friend. I say you are my champion, for no one has ever stood up to my brother in his whole life. It is an unfortunate thing, you understand, for it allows him to believe he is always right.”
“If you do not believe that is so, you must stand up to him yourself.” Claire sighed, knowing the truth of what Wentworth said. It was not her place to come between a brother and sister. “It will be very difficult, but I believe you have the strength of character to act in accord with your own wishes.”
; Camille turned to the window seeing something not visible to anyone else. “It is not so easy as that,” she said.
“Change never is easy, but in time your brother will come to see that you enjoy what every other young lady of quality enjoys. And even more, that you are quite capable of holding your own amongst the beau monde.”
“Maxwell does not doubt that. He may argue otherwise and cite a dozen reasons why I will fail utterly in such society, but the one who will have the most difficult time is Maxwell himself.”
“I suppose he is very shy? It is true that when we met in London, he looked like he wanted nothing more than to hide among the Corinthian columns in Lady Armadale’s ballroom.”
“He is not shy, at least not in the usual way.”
“What is the usual way?” Claire asked, having never before considered the question.
“Someone who is naturally shy cannot bear to look at other people or talk to them or hear what they have to say. Maxwell does not seem to have such problems. But he carries a great burden of guilt with him, and if he senses that I will be abused because of my condition, then his burden becomes even heavier. He might collapse under the weight of it.”
Claire thought about Lord Wentworth’s broad shoulders and the very solid look of his body, and imagined he could bear a great deal. She wondered how it would feel to be lifted into his arms as she mounted a horse or required help over a fallen tree. Or truly, just to be lifted into his arms.
“You are thinking how his guilt has made him shy,” said Camille, for once not guessing what Claire was thinking. “But it is different than that. He is not concerned with protecting himself, but with protecting me.”
“Camille, you are a fine young lady. Everything I said to Lord Wentworth is absolutely true, and you can most certainly hold your own in London society. Is it not time to prove to him that you can protect yourself?”
“I was unable to do so when our beautiful home burned to the ground.”
“You were a child, still in short dresses and pinafores. Your brother was not that many years older.”
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