Mrs. Duke tossed off her glass of cider. “I doubt but she’ll be awake with all this noise going on. But don’t the whole crowd come up. Likely to scare her into fits.”
In the end, only Camilla, Sir Philip, and Mrs. Lamsard carried up the bowl. “Oh, is it Stir-up Sunday so soon? I must have lost count of the days,” Nanny Mallow said, blinking in the light of the candles.
“No,” Mrs. Lamsard said gently. “We be taking care of this today since there’s guests in the house. It’s not usual, but since everything’s prepared ...”
‘Very wise,” she said. “Having guests stir the bowl brings more honor on a family than anything. Is it m’turn? Help me sit up, then.”
Dr. March came in behind them. Coming to the bed, he picked up Nanny Mallow’s wrist and counted silently. “Steady and strong,” he pronounced.
Camilla saw that Tinarose had also entered the bedroom. She sat down just inside the entrance, and Camilla realized the girl’s affection for the doctor extended to a need to be wherever he was. She wished she knew the girl better so that she might know if this affection was a new thing and whether it was mutual. True, Tinarose was only sixteen, but many of their grandmothers had married that young and done well enough. Yet, honestly, she’d seen no sign that the doctor in any way, shape or form returned the young lady’s tender regard.
“I hardly have anything to wish for,” Nanny Mallow said, her voice soft and quavering, “I have good friends, a roof over m’head, and all those little things that make m’life so pleasant.”
“Why not wish for a speedy return to your strength?” Sir Philip said.
She nodded and took up the spoon, supported by the doctor’s good right arm. “I shall not wish for anything for myself,” she said. “But I can think of plenty of wishes for the ones I love.” Slowly and weakly, she turned the spoon. “Three times toward the sun; then my wishing’s done.”
“All right, now,” Dr. March said soothingly. “Well done. I’m going to mix you a composer,” he added, laying her back against the pillows. “Not as good as you make yourself, I’m sure, but I’ve had good results with it.”
Tinarose busied herself with a small decanter and glass that stood on a table by the window. Dr. March brought out a tiny vial from the bag he’d left on the chair. “Now if I could have a glass of... Oh, thank you, Miss LaCorte. Very helpful of you.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” she whispered, her eyes brightened by this scrap of praise, Camilla’s heart went out in sympathy to the younger girl. She herself could dimly recall her emotional response to a young curate at Tinarose’s age. He’d sung so beautifully on summer evenings that she’d shown a sudden remarkable enthusiasm for the services. By the time he’d been called to his own living, her passion for him had faded. He had, after all, been quite an ordinary young man, and she’d grown wiser since then.
She supposed that all young ladies went through a similar surge of sensibility at about sixteen. She was glad to be through with such feelings now and hoped she might have an opportunity to drop an intrepid word in Tinarose’s ear. Though the fate of the unasked-advice giver might be hers, she hated to see someone be hurt when a word from her might lessen the inevitable pain.
* * * *
Camilla’s bed was soft and deep, the covers fluffy, and if a slight odor of must remained in the room, it was soon banished by the handful of sweet herbs Mavis had thrown on the fire. The candle, shaded by a small screen, sent interesting shadows and lights flickering on the ceiling. After her arduous day, Camilla drifted into sleep like a shallop setting sail on a cairn sea.
Therefore, when she awoke some hours later, she made every attempt, from flipping and fluffing her pillow to counting sheep, to recover that blissful state. She failed. Finally, a definite rumble from her stomach told her why. After two cups of Mrs. Lamsard’s hot cocoa, she had but toyed with her evening meal. Now, long after any hope of finding food, she was famished to the backbone.
Sleep being elusive, Camilla began to yearn for a book. She’d neglected to pack the work she’d been invested in at home—a fascinating study of Byzantine political life.
Sitting up and unshading the candle, she looked around. Though there were shelves in the room, they were decorated with a series of small porcelain pieces, less good than the ones she’d seen downstairs but charming. Someone, perhaps the late Sir Myron, had been a collector. However, there was not a book to be seen.
Her better self suggested that she try again to recapture sleep. But her need for a book seemed even greater than her empty stomach’s demands for food. Surely, a voice seemed to whisper, in all this great house there must be a library. True, it was against every principle to wander about through a strange house at night, yet she’d already broken several such rules. This would surely be one that no one would ever know anything of.
Camilla found her slippers and her wrap laid out at the end of the bed. Telling herself all the while that she’d be as quick and quiet as a breeze, Camilla buttoned up to the throat. There were bound to be drafts.
Surprisingly, neither her door nor any of the stairs creaked. The Manor was solidly built. The gilt touches on the picture frames glowed warmly as she descended, her forefinger hooked through the ring of the chamber stick. She held the candle low so that no accident could befall her unbound hair, hanging straight and full from beneath her nightcap.
She knew the dining room was the first door on the left and the drawing room the second. But what rooms were across the hall?
Opening a door, she thrust her candle in and found the light fell on a small round table near a sideboard, glasses and silver set out to be ready for the breakfast. Next to that was a colder room, with blue wallpaper and tasseled curtains. A small gilded harp stood tucked into one corner. Several work cabinets and a table-sized tapestry frame on an easel told her that this must be Lady LaCorte’s morning room.
A book, left on a table, drew her farther forward. But, alas, it was the third volume of a novel famous for its bloodcurdling scenes of horror. Camilla left it lying there, admitting to herself that had it been the first volume, she would have been tempted.
Toward the rear of the house, she found a door left its native dark oak, instead of being painted white like the others. Feeling a sudden lift of spirit, she turned the knob boldly and went in.
“Eureka,” she whispered as her candle’s light played over the gilded spines, warm oxblood, and well-thumbed morocco of filled library shelves. Framed maps and more portraits hung in between tall shelves and over lower ones. She caught a glimpse of Africa in one corner and a long white hand drooping from a lace cuff in another. A thick carpet with a pattern of vines and flowers ran from one end of the room to the other.
It was the most purely “readable” room Camilla had ever seen. There were several comfortable-looking armchairs, a deep leather sofa, and even a window seat between the windows, ideal for curling up for intensive study or dreaming.
Despite the large windows that took up nearly all of the farthest wall, the library was less cold than the other rooms she’d peered into. Camilla walked up close to the nearest shelf and tried to read the titles. Some had none; others only an abbreviation and that in Latin. Still, there must be something she could read here if only she could find it.
Feeling herself to be entirely alone, Camilla was startled by a sudden strange clicking sound, a flicking noise like the striking of flint and steel. At first, she dismissed it, only thinking what a shame that so fine a room should be infested by a deathwatch beetle. But after she turned again to the books, she heard a low growl followed by a whimper.
Walking carefully to keep her candle alight, Camilla moved around the large sofa to find a good dog enjoying the sleep of the just. The sound she’d heard had been Rex’s toenails clicking on the marble hearth as he chased a rabbit in his dreams.
Just beyond the dog’s back lay a piece of white paper. Camilla bent to pick it up and found that it had been crumpled at least once, then smoothed out again.
It was half covered by sprawling handwriting, but her candle did not shed enough light for her to make out any but a few disjointed words.
Looking to see where it had come from, she found a low, double-pedestal table drawn up close to the sofa. More crumpled pages lay scattered over the surface, most clustered close to a portable writing desk. A branch of low-burning candles made a pool of light. The bottle of ink in the holder sat uncapped, a long black pen resting in the ink and casting a strange shadow.
Her curiosity quite unbearable, Camilla tried again to decipher the sheet in her hand.
“I shouldn’t bother if I were you. It’s terrible.”
The sound of a human voice where she’d believed herself alone made Camilla start and gasp. The candle she’d so carefully nurtured dropped from her hand, falling to the tabletop. Instantly, the heavy rag paper began to smolder.
“Oh, dear,” Camilla said, reaching out to draw back the candlestick before the disaster increased.
“Let it burn.” Sir Philip unfolded himself from the sofa where he’d been lying at full-length in time to grasp her by the wrist. “It’s only worthy of being used as a fire starter.”
“Be that as it may,” Camilla said, twisting free from his slackening hold. “I don’t see that it’s worth ruining a perfectly good table.”
She picked up the candle, but a page already had a line of red glimmering away on one edge, followed by charring, smoke, and destruction.
Sir Philip picked up the page by the farthest end and chucked it into the fireplace near at hand. The last embers of a fire there caught the paper, blackening it into a crumbling mass in seconds. “So shall all my works perish from the earth.”
“Your work?” Camilla asked, lightly rubbing the wrist he’d held. Though he’d only exerted his strength for an instant before recollecting himself, she could still feel the imprint of his fingers on her skin.
“I’m a writer,” he said glumly. “May God have mercy upon me for my presumption.”
“A writer? But how interesting.”
“Go on,” he said, folding his arms. He had taken off his coat at some point and torn loose his cravat. His dark waistcoat hung unbuttoned around his trim waist, and his shoes were under the table.
“Go on how?” she asked.
“You know. What have I published? Is it under my name? Do I make much money?”
“People don’t ask you that, surely.”
“Perhaps not directly, but that is the issue they hint at most often. You, though, Miss Twainsbury, are not the kind that hint.”
“I hope I’m not the kind who asks impertinent questions about fortune. However, since you insist....” She let the silence build for a breath, then asked, “What have you published, Sir Philip?”
He laughed, and the tension left him. “Two books on my travels, in the Hebrides and America.”
“Under what name?”
“Philip Delphos.”
She sought in her memory. “I’ve heard that name, but I don’t think I’ve read any of your books.”
“Comparatively few people have,” he said with a deprecating smile. “But they were good books.”
“Why that name, though? Delphos. What does it mean?”
“It’s a town in Greece that everyone thinks is an island, thanks to Shakespeare who got it wrong. The only way to know differently is to go there. Since most people can’t travel as they’d like to, I’ve seen it and described it for them. It’s complicated, isn’t it?”
“A little.”
“Well, I was young and foolish when I chose it. But it’s a good name, short and memorable. Better than ‘Bohemia.’ “
“Why... ?”
“Shakespeare gave Bohemia a seacoast which it lacks.”
‘You don’t like Shakespeare, I take it?”
“Oh, on the contrary. I adore him. I was just lying here cursing his name as a matter of fact.”
Camilla felt she’d gone from having a tolerable understanding of Sir Philip LaCorte to wondering if she were not talking to his mysterious twin brother by mistake. “Sir Philip,” she said, testingly.
“Yes, Miss Twainsbury?”
She knew she’d regret asking. “Why are you cursing Shakespeare?”
He sighed and stirred the papers on the table with his finger, whether to see if the fire was out or to encourage its embers, she couldn’t tell. “I was cursing his blasted gift of invention. Even though his tales are twice-told, he had a gift for making them live again. Since I cannot borrow his gift, I am indulging in a bout of sour grapes.”
“Then, this is your new work?” she asked, looking at the litter of papers with more respect.
“Yes and no. It was to be my new work, but I’m surrendering. It’s beaten me.”
“What is it about? Some other place you have traveled?”
“It’s a novel. That’s why Beulah was being so severe on the subject while we dined.”
Camilla didn’t wish to criticize her hostess, however reluctantly Lady LaCorte might have welcomed her. “She doesn’t approve of your work?”
“In addition to the fact that no gentleman should wish to work, she doesn’t think I’m very good at what I do.”
‘Yet you have had some success, I think? I should be very interested in reading one of your books.”
He bowed graciously. “I gave Myron an inscribed copy of each. I’m sure they’re around here somewhere.” He walked to the shelves and scanned them. “Here’s America and here’s the Hebrides. Which one appeals to your taste, Miss Twainsbury?”
“America, please. It is a place that has long held much interest for me. I have an uncle there, I believe.”
“Maternal or paternal?”
“Paternal. My father’s family scattered to the four winds, rather, after some unfortunate political choices.”
“A common fate.” He handed her the book.
Camilla seated herself on the sofa and thumbed through the book, bound in olive green cloth with squares of brown leather at the top and bottom of the spine. The title page was beautifully engraved with what looked like the spillings of a cornucopia of native American vegetables and fruits. “De Novo Republica, an account of journeying and residence in the bosom of the sometime friendly offspring of Great Britain.”
Camilla glanced up at Sir Philip. “You must be very proud. It’s a very great accomplishment.”
“Not so great. Any fool can write a book; as proof, I offer you any library.”
“Still... You’re the first author I’ve ever met. Was this your first book?”
“No, I wrote the other one first. This one,” he said, tapping the book, “is better.”
“I shall take your word for it.” Camilla glanced at the rumpled sheets of paper cowering in the pool of light. “What is the trouble with this new one?”
He hitched one shoulder. “The characters, the plot, the setting ... the author.”
“Oh, come. What is the story?”
“Are you certain you want to know?” he asked with one of his sidelong, humorous looks. At her determined nod, he shook his head. “At your request, m’lady. My hero is a young man returning to his ancestral home from whence he’d been unceremoniously booted upon blotting his copybook some years earlier. Oh, I forgot to mention this takes place during the Middle Ages.”
“Oh, chivalry,” she asked.
“Not at first. My hero is something of a rogue and a wastrel as well as a mercenary. He’ll swear loyalty to any man or cause that will pay him. He returns home to find his father dead, his lands heavily taxed by the new landowner, and that his stepmother is the woman he loved before he went away.”
“Gracious,” Camilla said. “Whatever happens next?”
“At first, he throws his lot in with the new landlord, going in disguise,” Sir Philip said, losing much of the speed and flippancy with which he’d begun. “But the suffering of the people he once knew starts to change him. The way the landlord persecutes Genevieve and her patience also begin
to soften his heart.”
“Doesn’t she recognize him?”
“She does, but she’s afraid if she reveals his identity, the new landlord will kill him to keep the land.”
“Does Genevieve love him?”
“I think so, but of course, they can never marry. The Tables of Kindred and Affinity forbid it.”
“Kindred and Affinity? What’s that?” Camilla asked with a laugh.
“Rules for marriage so that you don’t accidentally marry your father’s mother’s brother.”
“As if I would! Go on; what happens next?”
“He leads a revolt against the cruel landlord in which they both die.”
“Wait. He dies?”
“He redeems himself in battle. Of course he dies.”
“Must he really? You couldn’t make him live?”
“He doesn’t have anything to live for. He—”
“Of course he does,” Camilla said abruptly. “There’s always something to live for.”
Sir Philip crossed his arms over his chest, and his expression chided her with laughter. “Are you trying to tell me that I should end this book with a wedding?”
“Better that than a funeral. Couldn’t you make Genevieve somebody else’s wife? A brother’s, perhaps. Couldn’t she be his brother’s widow?”
“Absolutely not,” he said, his tone falling from the bantering they’d been indulging in. “However,” he said, lightening, “nay hero has a best friend, a wise and kind minstrel. What if, with his dying breath, he commends them to each other. They’d marry, the lands would be secure—without a proper heir the king is sure to award them to the widow— and they’d be happy.”
“Wouldn’t the best friend know she didn’t really love him?”
“She could leave him and enter a nunnery.”
“No!” Camilla objected again. “She should be happy. Maybe she stopped loving your hero while he was away; I’ll wager he never wrote a word while he was gone.”
“I doubt it; he can’t write.”
“Well, then,” she said, settling the matter. “It sounds wonderful. I shall order a copy from the bookseller’s as soon as it is printed.”
A Yuletide Treasure Page 9