Poised on the edge of the snowy hill, Camilla knew that if Philip reached out his hand to her, she’d be forced to make a choice she had no wish to make so soon. He looked as if he might speak, but she didn’t permit him to go beyond the first syllable of her name.
“What better answer to mutiny in the ranks than escape?” she said, turning away. Seizing the fifth tray, standing abandoned on the edge of the hill, Camilla sat down quickly and pushed off as she’d seen the others do. Instantly, she was flying along much faster than she’d anticipated and had not time to do more than notice Sir Philip’s last-second attempt to keep her from going over.
At the last instant, the tray spun her around backward as she shot over a snow-buried hump. The others scattered as she blew past them. Another bump came up fast. She and the tray parted company.
Spitting snow, Camilla sat up, shaking out her arms. A throbbing spot on her hip told her there would be bruises come the morning. As the others raced to her, she looked up and laughed to see Sir Philip, half out of control, come careering down the hillside.
“Are you all right?” he demanded, moving the children aside gently and reaching down to haul her to her feet.
She came up by the strength of his right arm. “I think I need more practice.”
“We’ll see that you get it.”
Chapter Ten
Camilla wrote to her mother that afternoon, even though it was three days before the letters could be carried to the post. She told the story of how she came to be staying at the Manor house, instead of in Nanny Mallow’s cottage. She did not wish to conceal the facts, not even the trick of fate that put her in a house with a woman just as close to her time as Linnet.
However, upon rereading her letter, Camilla was forced to recognize that she’d given rather less credit to Sir Philip for his generosity than he deserved. It was as if she was somehow reluctant to mention him. She did not feel as if she was ashamed of having been rescued by him; quite the contrary. Yet his name was only referred to in passing, and a cursory reading would do nothing to limit the impression that he was Lady LaCorte’s husband rather than brother-in-law. She certainly never mentioned the story of the Paris wound. It would be much too hard to explain in a letter restricted to one sheet to hold down the cost of mailing it.
One week later, she wrote to impart the information that Dr. March thought it unwise for Nanny Mallow to return to her home, even with Camilla there to assist her. Sir Philip had insisted, therefore, that both Nanny and Camilla remain at the Manor for the length of Nanny’s incapacity. She did not bring up the fact that young Grace had thereupon expressed the wish that Nanny’s knee might never get better. Though Tinarose had reproved the little girl for speaking such an ill-wish aloud, she echoed it a day or two later.
“I wish you never had to go. It’s comfortable having you here, Camilla.”
“Why, thank you, Tinarose. You’re very sweet.”
The girl sighed. “I have noticed that it’s not nearly so confusing now. We always know when tea is coming; before, it could come at any time between two o’clock and six. And we’ve had elevenses as early as nine and as late as at two.”
“I hope elevenses at two and tea at two didn’t happen often.”
“Oh, that was all right. Then we’d hide a few cakes and things for later when we’d get hungry.”
Camilla shook her head. “I hope I haven’t interfered in the running of the house. That would be unforgivable in a guest.”
Tinarose dropped her sewing into the workbox beside her and went to the morning room window. “I thought I heard a carriage,” she said in explanation. Apparently, however, no one had come, for she turned away again with a sigh. She did not return to her patchwork but, putting her hands behind her, rocked idly against the edge of the piano. “No, you don’t interfere,” she said. “But everyone seems to want to please you.”
“You know, I always thought it would be wonderful to have half a dozen servants waiting on you,” Camilla said, smoothing a seam firmly. “When I would be washing the dishes or baking the bread, I’d think, ‘Now the butler is coming to ask me if I’m at home to callers,’ and I’d say, ‘Tell Her Highness I shall be with her directly I scrub the tureen.’ ”
“Sometimes they are underfoot,” Tinarose said. “I shouldn’t ever like to be without them, though. How ever you manage with only a daily woman....”
Camilla turned a hem over and adjusted a pin. “It’s what I’ve always done, so I suppose I don’t think of it, at least, not often. As my mother says, ‘One makes a virtue of necessity.’ ”
“That’s the sort of thing mothers always say.”
“I dare say we’ll be echoing it to our daughters one day and then blush to think how much we sound like our mothers.” She held up the little dress she’d been fashioning from some white linen. “I hope I haven’t made these sleeves too long. Nanny says not, but it looks more like a dress for an ape than a human child.”
Tinarose came closer to look at the infant’s dress. “It looks all right to me. You did compare it to some of the dresses we used for Grace, so it’s bound to be all right. My, Grace was hard on clothing. You know she started to pull up on the furniture almost as soon as she could crawl. Once she took hold of a tablecloth and pulled a whole glass of red wine over on herself. She looked like Julius Caesar in the Senate,”
“Gruesome,” Camilla said, laughing.
“Yes, it was. I picked her up to carry her to our nurse, and she shook wine all over my favorite dress. There was nothing to do but dye it red. I was terribly upset.”
“You have a red dress, Tinarose?” Camilla asked, remembering how she’d thought the younger girl would look splendid in brighter colors than the cold white or bland pink forced on her by fashion. “You should wear it.”
“Heavens, Camilla! It was five years ago. Nelly has it now. It’s so faded she uses it for her painting smock.”
‘You should make another.”
“Mother would never hear of it. She hated that dress after we dyed it. She’d let me wear it only if we were sure not to have visitors.” That apparently reminded her of her other preoccupation, for she turned again to the window.
Camilla hadn’t been in the house three days before Tinarose had made her her confidante regarding her feelings for the handsome doctor. While searching for a piece of paper in the schoolroom to write her letter to her mother, she’d come across, quite accidentally, a page covered over with variations on the theme of “Mrs. Doctor Evelyn March.”
She’d been very much surprised when Tinarose, coming up behind her, suddenly snatched the paper out of her hand, ripping it in two. Tinarose had stamped her foot, turned bright red, and burst into tears of embarrassment.
When Camilla neither scolded nor trotted off to tell but silently handed her a handkerchief, she made a friend for life.
“I know I’m a fool,” Tinarose confessed now, going to sit down again in her chair. With a sigh, she picked up her abandoned patchwork. She had decided some months ago to make a new counterpane for her bed out of some old curtains, and matching the long green and white stripes kept her busy.
“Every girl is allowed one hopeless passion,” Camilla said. “I’ve told you about mine.”
“I hope I grow out of this one soon. He’s so attractive, I know one day there’ll be some girl who’ll just snatch him up. I think I may be relieved when it happens.”
“Very wise,” Camilla said with a half-smile. Then she heard the front door close solidly, and a familiar booted tread came along the hall. Hastily, Camilla tucked the baby dress into her workbasket and turned to face the door, wishing she had just one more instant to tidy her hair.
Sir Philip entered, his face flushed with the cold. He gave a smacking kiss to Tinarose. She squealed at the frigid touch of his cheek. “It’s bracing,” he admitted. “Chased the cobwebs out of my brains.”
Turning toward Camilla, he tossed his greatcoat over the arm of a chair near the door, letting his h
at fly to rest on top. “I’ve thought of a whole new way to end chapter four. He receives a message to meet Genevieve in the half-ruined chapel, but when he gets there, smugglers attempt to kidnap him.”
“Why? Have they been bribed? By the evil landlord?”
“Remember, we made him a duke.”
“That’s right. So the duke bribed the smugglers?”
“To take him to the Crusade. He’d have a hard time getting back from there in time for the joust.”
“You’re both quite mad,” Tinarose said. “But it does sound exciting, Uncle Philip. Will you let me read it, too?”
Camilla and Philip had both started in surprise when the girl spoke. A little concerned that they could so easily forget their duty to others when engaged in literary creation, Camilla picked up her sewing. Why had she been about to let it drop so carelessly? The dress might have become dusty when she’d thrown it down like that.
“Your mother doesn’t approve of novels. I couldn’t let you read it without her permission.”
“That reminds me, Sir Philip,” Camilla said with a great air of innocence as she continued stitching the hem. “Mavis was complaining that you leave your papers strewn about the library so she doesn’t know what is to be kept and what needs to be thrown away or burnt. I don’t blame her for being confused. I had to throw myself across chapter two yesterday for fear she’d start the fires with it.”
“I’ll try to do better,” he vowed. “Perhaps if I left the completed chapters in my upper left-hand desk drawer?”
‘That’s a very good idea.”
“I think so,” he said, adding in a very stagy whisper, gesturing with his thumb toward the office, “It as a very secure lock. You can only open that one by pressing the key in as you turn it.”
“Ingenious,” Camilla exclaimed just as obviously. They neither of them peeked to see if any of this elaborate and blatant by-play had reached the target. She smiled up into Sir Philip’s face as he sat above her on the arm of the chair.
Tinarose continued to look at them as if they’d lost their minds, instead of offering her a broad hint on how to circumvent her mother’s unreasonable ban of novels, even that of Tinarose’s own uncle’s imaginings.
“What are you making?” he asked, touching the soft fabric.
“A little dress for your future niece or nephew. Tinarose said that Lady LaCorte hadn’t the opportunity to make many new things.” Crushed by the announcement of her husband’s death, Lady LaCorte had put down the baby dress she’d been embroidering and had never picked it up again.
“Ah, that reminds me,” Philip said, reaching for his greatcoat. “A letter was waiting for you at the inn.”
“You rode so far?” Camilla asked, glancing at the window to see the weather.
“Icarus enjoys the snow, so long as it isn’t actually falling, and we both needed the exercise. Besides, I had some urgent affairs to see to.”
Camilla glanced curiously at Tinarose, who shrugged. What “urgent affairs” could have arisen between yesterday, a day that was no worse than today, and this morning? He’d received no letters; no messenger had arrived.
“Nothing serious, I trust?”
“It could prove to be exceedingly serious.”
Tinarose grew alarmed. “I do hope it’s nothing that will upset Mother. She seems happier today.”
Camilla let the conversation go on without her as she looked at the carefully folded piece of paper. Her mother had found someone to frank her letter, and the date meant it had been only a few days in transit. Rising, she carried it over to a wastepaper basket in the corner and slid her finger under the seal, letting the crumbling wax fall neatly into the basket.
The first paragraph made her turn at once to her friends. “I’m an aunt,” she chirped. “Linnet was safely delivered of a girl three days ago. They’re calling her after me.”
“Wonderful,” Philip said. “Everyone all right?”
Camilla nodded, still reading. “Yes, all perfectly healthy. Except for my brother-in-law. He fainted upon hearing the news. Mother says he should be fully recovered by now.”
“Why on earth would he faint?” Tinarose asked.
“Nervous prostration,” Philip said wisely. “Your father told me once he thought women had the easier share in childbed. It’s the only time in his life, so he said, that he had no power over what would happen. He could only pace about the library waiting for the verdict.”
“I’m sure he exaggerates,” Camilla said, looking up.
“I don’t think so. For a man to wait to hear whether his wife and child will survive, knowing he can do nothing to influence the outcome, must be mental torture of the most refined kind. I don’t mind telling you that it is one of the things that has held me back from stepping into marriage.”
Tinarose laughed. “Uncle Philip, you’re a coward!”
“When it comes to matters of the heart, yes, I am. But I’m getting braver in my old age.”
Camilla froze, knowing that if she should look up, she would find Philip’s gaze fixed on her. Though he’d said nothing as yet, she’d begun to feel that his friendship for her had started to change. Sometimes, she was sure she must be the victim of her own too-vivid imagination. Other times, she felt sure it was only her comparatively unprotected state that kept him from seizing her in his arms. Nor could she constrain the sudden thrill that filled every atom of her being at the thought of his acting so impetuously.
“What else does Mrs. Twainsbury say?” Tinarose asked. “It’s a long letter just to announce a birth.”
Camilla reined in her wild thoughts and focused on her mother’s neat script. Despite the clarity of her hand, Camilla soon found herself frowning.
“Not... bad news?” Tinarose added.
Looking up, Camilla saw both her friends looking at her with mild alarm. “Oh, nothing of importance,” she said, forcing a smile. Philip looked as if he wanted to question her further, but Mavis entered and bobbed a curtsey to find them all there.
“If you’re none too busy, miss, her la’ship asks if you’d come up.”
“Of course. Certainly. Tell her ... I shall be with her directly.” Camilla shook out the folds of the little dress. “Shall I press this, Tinarose, or give it to her now?”
“Oh, now, Camilla. It will cheer her up even more; it’s so pretty. I’ll take it and press it later.”
* * * *
She rapped gently on Lady LaCorte’s chamber door. Despite having been in the house more than a week, she’d yet to cross this threshold. After a moment without reply, she hesitatingly turned the knob. She saw a pleasantly appointed room, the walls a mix of cream distemper and a green-striped wallpaper.
Though the colors were feminine, the furnishings were not. Of dark wood, massive posts heavily carved, the bed dominated one end of the room while a pair of immense wardrobes stood like sentinel towers against each wall. The gold-framed paintings were of naval battles, complete with cottonwool smoke and heaving seas. A brass spyglass on a wooden easel stood by the window, throwing off gleams from the winter sun.
Beside this was a chaise, upholstered in a deep moss green velvet that matched the curtains. Lady LaCorte lay upon it, a book fallen upon the floor below her drooping hand. She looked as if she were asleep. Camilla prepared to shut the door.
“No, come in, Miss Twainsbury,” the woman said without rousing.
“I don’t wish to disturb you, ma’am.”
“Oh, well...” Lady LaCorte moved her shoulders with a kind of restless discomfort. “I’m so sleepy these days. I’m not resting well at all. It’s always so in the last weeks.”
Though Camilla remembered perfectly the insult offered her sister when she’d first met Lady LaCorte, she decided to impart her good news. “My mother writes to inform me that my sister was safely delivered of a child last week.”
“Indeed?” Lady LaCorte smiled. ‘You must be very pleased. What sex is it?”
“A girl, ma’am.”
“One may always be a spinster and keep house for more fortunate relations.”
“But you would never settle for so menial an existence. I have observed you, Miss Twainsbury; you have gifts quite out of the common way.”
“Not at all, ma’am. As for a menial existence, I have lived that very comfortably since my childhood. I can truss a bird, paint a room, scrub a floor, and sew a frock.” With that, she handed Lady LaCorte the gift she’d held behind her back. Wrapped in a square of tissue and tied with a chance-met ribbon from Tinarose’s sewing box, it looked mysterious and interesting.
With an effort, Lady LaCorte pushed herself into a more upright position. “What is this?” she asked, her gloomy eyes lightening,
“A little token of my thanks for your hospitality and kindness.”
She found herself the recipient of a searching glance. “I believe you mean that,” Lady LaCorte said, her long fingers smoothing the thin cloth wrapping.
“Of course.”
“Won’t you be seated, Miss Twainsbury?” She indicated a chair with a graceful gesture. “Bring it nearer.”
She waited until Camilla was seated before she opened the gift. Her smile when she held up the little dress was all Camilla could have hoped for, tender with maternal dreams. “What fine stitches,” she said, looking more closely.
“I hope I made it the right size. I guessed by Grace’s old clothes.”
“It will suit. I only hope ...” She let her other hand rest a moment on the rise of her abdomen. Camilla couldn’t help but notice that her hostess looked noticeably larger than she had at breakfast but was too well-bred to speak about it.
“Would you care for some water, Lady LaCorte? Or anything?”
“No, thank you, child. I am to have a glass of my cordial before long. So you’ve had a letter from your mother, then?”
“Yes. She wrote to me almost immediately.”
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