A Yuletide Treasure

by Cynthia Bailey Pratt

  Lady LaCorte was hardly as tall as Camilla herself, but she bore herself with that effortless posture that Mrs. Twainsbury had never managed to inculcate completely in her daughter. Camilla did her best, but when she was tired, her back would touch the back of a chair. She felt that Lady LaCorte could never unbend so far.

  Whatever hair she had was stuffed out of sight under a black cap with the merest hint of lavender frill. She must have been very pretty once. Camilla could see that the lines of her face were very good. But the whole expression was so taut with some emotion that she could not guess that Lady LaCorte looked older than her years. Perhaps her widowhood was enough explanation.

  For that reason, Camilla fought her instinctive wish to be equally cold in reply. Pride wouldn’t help her now; while Nanny Mallow was incapacitated, she herself really had nowhere else to go. She must remain at the Manor on sufferance. She would bite her tongue if necessary and make herself useful.

  Inside the room, Sir Philip swung her down to stand barefoot on the hearth rug. “Here, now,” he said. “That’s not much of a fire.” Going down onto one knee, he groped for the poker. “I’ll soon have this more lively.”

  Lady LaCorte lit the candles. ‘You have baggage, I presume.”

  “It’s at the inn in the village.”

  “Indeed? I shall lend you some of my things from last year.” The offer was coldly made, but Camilla accepted eagerly.

  “I should be glad to see the last of this dress for a while.” She turned toward the fire, putting out her hands to the cheerful blaze, smiling thanks to Sir Philip.

  He sat back on his heels, the firelight calling forth the deeper highlights in his hair. “Nothing like plenty of wood for the fire. Traipsing around in all this snow makes one appreciate the smaller luxuries.”

  “I certainly appreciated the ones your cook offered. She was kindness itself. But I must ask: where did she learn to make such wonderful hot chocolate?”

  “It’s my mother’s receipt, handed down from the sixteenth century,” Lady LaCorte said. “A family secret.”

  “A luxury, indeed, even a treasure, my lady,” Camilla said. “You should never divulge it to a soul.”

  “I won’t. Except to my children.”

  “I imagine they adore it.” Perhaps her children were the subject that warmed her heart. Certainly the mention of them seemed to soften her hard dislike.

  Sir Philip rose to his feet. Letting his hand rest for an instant on her shoulder, he looked with friendliness into her eyes. “I’ll leave you to make your arrangements with Beulah. We’re not very formal here, but dinner is usually served at approximately half-past six. Don’t feel you must come down if you’d rather not.”

  “It will be no trouble to bring you a tray,” Lady LaCorte said in a tone which contradicted her own statement. “Mrs. Mallow will be having one, I’m sure.”

  “May I answer later?” Camilla said. “I’m not really tired now, but it has been a long day.”

  Once again, Sir Philip flicked an eyelid. Camilla wasn’t quite sure that a wink was proper between an unmarried gentleman and a spinster, but somehow this little gesture left her feeling more confident. Though the rest of the household confused her, Sir Philip seemed relatively uncomplicated, a true gentleman. She was sorry to see him leave, though it certainly would not have been proper for him to stay. But his going left her alone with Lady LaCorte.

  Chapter Five

  Lady LaCorte’s anger was cold. Her charity was colder still. But the dress and stockings she brought were warm. She laid the things out on the bed. “There is a nightdress there as well,” she said, never looking directly at Camilla. “I’m sure you must be tired after your strenuous exertions.”

  “It wouldn’t have been so hard but for the snow.”

  “A woman must be prepared for difficulties when she sets herself a task,” Lady LaCorte said, sounding very much like Camilla’s mother.

  “I suppose you are right. Especially when the task is so urgent. It seems, though, that emergencies happen when the elements are against one. Otherwise, they’d hardly be emergencies, would they?”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “Well,” Camilla said, wishing she’d not begun. “If the weather were ideal, someone would have come to Nanny Mallow’s aid sooner, and there wouldn’t have been an emergency. Or at least not so great a one. Tinarose said she sometimes goes to Nanny Mallow’s, when you permit it.”

  “Mrs. Mallow is an ignorant old woman. Only fools and children heed her.”

  “She was my mother’s nurse,” Camilla said. “Mother still takes her advice, and I can assure you, Lady LaCorte, she is neither a child nor a fool.”

  “Ah, yes,” she said as if reminded of something she’d meant to say. “Your family. You are not related to anyone living here in Bishop’s Halt, are you?”

  “I have little family, Lady LaCorte. A mother and a sister only.”

  “Your father is deceased?”

  Camilla nodded.

  “Who was he?”

  She didn’t like to be questioned in such a way, but she felt Lady LaCorte had the right to do so. After all, she could be anyone, a fast woman or a fallen angel, and Lady LaCorte needs must think of her daughters. Camilla only hoped Lady LaCorte would be satisfied with her answers.

  “His father was the Earl of Pentrithe, in Scotland. Under attainder, I’m afraid, after the ‘45.”

  “Rebels?” Lady LaCorte gave her a glance at that, even more scornful than her previous unwillingness to look at her.

  “Not my father. He wasn’t born until long after. But his father knew about it. Father said he’d heard his father talk about the men coming to the muster, barefooted and dirty, but the finest fighting men in the world. Of course, my grandfather was only a sixteen-year-old boy at the time.”

  “You’re Scots, then,” she said as if that explained everything.

  “I suppose one could say that. I’ve never been there. My father grew up in France.”

  “French?” Lady LaCorte seemed even more horrified by this than by the notion of rebellion, odd in light of her name.

  “Oh, he came back to England before the Revolution. It was quite safe after so long. His older brother had paid to have the title reinstated by then. It’s a pity he has no male heirs.” She remembered too late that this might be a tender subject for the highly pregnant lady before her.

  “So you are the daughter of the second son of an earl,” Lady LaCorte summed up, her tone even more barbed. “Who is your mother, then? The natural daughter of the Empress of China?”

  “No, the legitimate daughter of a general who thought that marrying my father would be one long romantic story. I don’t know how she feels about it now. It always seemed romantic to me. They traveled a great deal. My sister was born in Portsmouth, and I was born in York, which only goes to prove—”

  “What? What does it prove?”

  “That my father had wandering feet, I suppose. Until his death, we never lived two years in the same town.”

  “How peculiar.”

  “Yes, I suppose so. But I loved it. Always something new to see, strange people to meet, never-walked byways waiting for exploration....” As she spoke, she recalled her father saying something very much like this once as she rode beside him on the roof of a carriage. She couldn’t have been more than six or eight. She remembered that Linny, never a good traveler, had been sick and had ridden inside with Mother. She’d been more than glad to get out in the fresh air.

  “Difficult for your mother, however. When I came to the Manor—” She stopped suddenly as if remembering that she was speaking to a stranger not deserving of confidence.

  “I suppose it must have been. Mother doesn’t talk much about such things.”

  “Where is she now? Staying in the village, perhaps?”

  “No,” Camilla said, now thoroughly lost. “She’s traveling to give aid to my sister, who finds herself in the same condition as you yourself, ma’am,”<
br />
  The white hand, decorated only with the thinnest of golden wedding bands, lifted to smooth unconsciously over the mound of her abdomen. “Is she married?”

  Camilla drew herself up, giving Lady LaCorte a glance in which anger was mixed with disappointment. She’d hoped for better of a woman of greater age and rank than herself. “Of course. Married three years or more to John Armistead of Leeds, a rising attorney of the city. I take leave to tell you that your insinuation is insulting, ma’am, not only to my mother and my sister, but to myself.”

  ‘Tempestuous creature, aren’t you?” her ladyship said, seeming pleased rather than angered by Camilla’s outburst. For the first time, she looked fully into her eyes. “You may be the thoroughly nice girl you seem, or you may prove a conniver. Perhaps you are no more than as impetuous as my own girls. Whatever the reason you have come to the Manor, I hope you’ll be comfortable here until you find other accommodation. Dinner has been moved back until seven o’clock. Join us if you wish.”

  Lady LaCorte swept out of the room in her heavy gleamless dress. Even her shoes and stockings, glimpsed under her very long dress as she lifted the hem, were black as the bottom of a well.

  Camilla sank down on the bed, another trespass against her mother’s sacred rules. She pursed her lips and blew hard, just evading a whistle. Twice, at least, Camilla had heard in Lady LaCorte’s voice such an air of miserable despair that she’d forgiven her on the spot for her sharpness. But it seemed as though the older woman had wanted to make her disdain very clear as almost every word she’d said, by content or by tone, had been reviling and rude. Camilla could not begin to explain it. Unfortunately, Lady LaCorte had been too harsh to permit Camilla to indulge in any of the whys that crowded her mouth.

  Merridew brought up the tub, grumbling away. Mavis and another younger girl, who never opened her lips or looked her way, brought up the cans of hot water, making several trips.

  Clean, warm and dry, Camilla didn’t trouble anyone to help her dress. Her hair was not so bad as she feared. The dress Lady LaCorte had lent her was simple in design, with a crossover front that meant all the ties and fastenings were within Camilla’s reach. Of a lightweight green wool, embroidered on bodice and down the seams with white-work leaves and flowers, it was too old for her. The high starched ruffle at the neck forced her to keep her head up while the sleeves tumbling to her knuckles made her wonder if the dining room was very drafty.

  She paused in Nanny Mallow’s chamber for an instant. Nanny was asleep, and Mrs. Duke would brook not the slightest chance of waking her. She all but pushed Camilla out of the room by continuing to advance, hissing all the while in a hoarse whisper, until Camilla had either to become nose-to-nose with her or back away. She chose discretion.

  “It’s bad enough that doctor had to come in, disturbing her just when she’d nodded off, without you doing the same, miss. All she needs now is a mite of sleep, and that she’ll have or my name’s not Portia Duke.”

  “Is it?” Camilla asked, finding it hard to believe. But no one was responsible for their name, only what it stood for. “How pretty,” she added quickly.

  “M’father was fond of a word of poetry in the evenings, poor man.”

  “ ‘The quality of mercy is not strained,’ ” Camilla began.

  “That’s right.” Mrs. Duke seemed puzzled that anyone besides her father should know it. “Mortal fond of poems and such like. Don’t know where he took a taste for such stuff, him being no better than a coachman.” She sniffed. “No sense to it, mostly.”

  ‘Your father must have been a remarkable man.”

  “He was a good provider. My mother says you can’t expect more from a man than that.”

  “My mother says the same thing,” Camilla noted. Of course, Mrs. Twainsbury masked her meaning rather more than Mrs. Duke’s mother. She talked about the duty a girl owed to her family not to marry beneath herself. Though the daughter of a general might equal the second son of an earl, Camilla had always wondered secretly if her mother had felt herself to have married up or down on the social scale.

  Mrs. Duke seemed suddenly to remember that she disliked Camilla. All the same, she grudgingly promised to offer her good wishes to Nanny Mallow, should she awaken. Then she slipped back into the sickroom and shut the door quietly but firmly.

  At almost the same instant, Camilla heard a door open on the floor above. She frankly listened, hoping for some clue to her reception at the Manor.

  Though she had not expected to be received with open arms and a military band playing “See the Conquering Hero,” the cool unfriendliness of the inhabitants, even if tempered by charity, was starting to make her doubt herself. Was her breath somehow offensive? Did she remind them all of some acquaintance better forgot?

  A quite young and rather loud voice sounded from above. “But I don’t see why you should be allowed to eat with the grown-ups while we have to take our tea up here.”

  “It’s not fair,” another voice chimed in, younger, yet somehow deeper. ‘You’ve got your cameo on. We’re not even allowed to look at ours.”

  “That’s because you’re children,” Tinarose said. Camilla could imagine the young girl’s nose tilted in the air. “A lady like me needs a little touch of jewelry to set me apart from the governesses and companions.” Her sisters greeted this attempt at pretension with hoots of laughter, then a scream as a sudden swift thud of a charge took place. Lighter feet skipped away over Camilla’s head.

  Camilla dipped two fingers into the high lace collar that scratched so abominably at her neck. She caught hold of and dragged out her gold locket on a thin chain. With a wry smile, she laid it to repose on her bosom. It had been made on the Continent and was said to be quite fine. She, at least, would not be relegated to the status of governess or lady’s companion, two fates which she prayed she need never attempt.

  She waited patiently on the landing until Tinarose stopped chasing after her sisters. When Tinarose caught sight of her as she came down a level, her steps grew slower and more deliberate on the uncarpeted stairs to the third floor.

  “Are you lost?” she asked, the tone friendly.

  “I don’t know the way to the dining room.”

  “Oh, my uncle isn’t there.”

  “I wasn’t looking for him. Your mother said I might join the family for dinner if I didn’t feel like taking a tray in my room. I would like company, so here I am.”

  “You saw Mother?”

  “Yes. She lent me a few things for the night.”

  Tinarose nodded as if Camilla had confirmed something for her. “I thought I recognized the dress.”

  “It’s very pretty. I’m very grateful to her.”

  “Mother doesn’t like it. Of course, she couldn’t wear it anyway. Not now.”

  “I was sorry to hear of your father’s death,” Camilla said with compassion. “He must have been a most gallant officer.”

  “He was,” Tinarose said, gazing off into the distant view afforded by the upper-landing window. “Two of his crew nearly drowned trying to save him.” Then the girl turned her head and gave Camilla a slight, sweet smile. “Come on. I’ll show you where the drawing room is. We always meet there first.”

  As they went down together, Camilla became aware of a kind of suppressed excitement simmering in the girl beside her. Her cheeks held a tinge of color, and her eyes were bright. She’d also obviously taken some extra pains with her abundant dark hair, creating several large springing curls at either side of her head. It was becoming to her but far too elaborate for a quiet family party. Camilla wished she knew Tinarose a little better so that she might have dropped a gentle hint.

  “I am intrigued, Miss LaCorte, by your name. Tinarose. Does it have some significance?”

  “I was named for both my grandmothers,” she said with a smile that indicated she’d often been asked. “My father was afraid that one name or the other would drop away, so he linked them into one so that neither would have preference.”


  “A very fair decision.”

  “What about you?”

  “Oh, I was named for some Roman heroine. Or perhaps she wasn’t Roman. All I recall is that she ran so lightly that she could run over a field of growing crops without bending a stalk. Sir Philip would probably know more.”

  “Does your mother admire that kind of person?”

  “Doesn’t everyone?” Camilla saw the girl having trouble answering this rhetorical question. “Now, my sister has a charming name. Linnet. Named for the birds that sang during my parents’ honeymoon.”

  “How romantic,” Tinarose said, turning toward her. “Is your sister older or younger?”

  “Older, by two years.”

  “Oh.”

  She sounded so disappointed that Camilla laughed. “Why, did you want her to be younger?”

  “No, it’s only... Well, I have two sisters, both younger than I. They’re the bane of my life, they tease me so. I thought if you were in the same case, you could offer me some advice.”

  “You’re fond of them?”

  “They can be such dears,” Tinarose conceded. “But I’m sixteen and Nelly is ten and Grace is only six. They don’t understand what it is to be a woman.”

  Camilla, hardly twenty-one herself, did not smile at the mingled pride and resignation in Tinarose’s voice. She had not yet entirely outgrown the feeling that no one could understand her. “It’s difficult,” she said. “I remember my sister at your age. I thought she was impossible. She’d been a darling before that; we shared so much since there was only the two of us. It’s hard to watch a beloved sister go through the door to womanhood, leaving you behind.”

  “Are you close again now?”

  Camilla shook her head. “Not yet. But I hope to be again, once I catch up to her. She’s married now. I’m only here because my mother has gone to be with her through her first confinement.”

  Tinarose’s eyes grew wide. “Oh, how you must miss being with her!”