A Yuletide Treasure

by Cynthia Bailey Pratt

  “Very wise of you to say so, my dear. There’s nothing more distasteful than an openly mercenary young girl.”

  “But it’s true.”

  Mrs. Twainsbury gave her light laugh. “Let us hope you need never be put to the test. Marry him if he were a pauper—as if I should ever permit that. No, my dear. Disguise your intentions under the name of ‘love’ if you feel it will save your conscience. I am proud of you.”

  Camilla had often wished to hear her mother proclaim pride for her. Usually she deflected compliments from others on Camilla’s sewing or deportment or music with a “She may improve if she applies herself” or some other dismissive phrase. Yet to be praised for a perceived hypocrisy was horribly distasteful. Camilla wondered if she knew her mother at all. Certainly the headstrong Lolly Feldon who had made a runaway match, as Nanny Mallow had told her, was long since submerged in the calculating Mrs. Twainsbury. Understanding that her mother’s worries were caused by a ne’er-do-well husband and the strains of raising two daughters creditably on next to no money did not reconcile Camilla to her mother’s point of view.

  She sat and listened to her mother talk about the glittering future Camilla would have. “But why are you still packing, Mama?”

  “We cannot remain here any longer. Had I known Lady LaCorte was about to commence on her labor, I should have left this afternoon. Remaining as a guest in a house where there is to be a newborn infant is beyond the line of pleasing. If you were already married to Sir Philip, that would be a different matter. But as I am a stranger and your engagement is not yet given out, of course we shall depart in the morning.”

  “I see. Yes, of course.”

  “Speaking of engagements, have you a ring as yet?”

  “No, we have not thought of such things.”

  “I suppose he won’t be able to acquire any family pieces until after Lady LaCorte is recovered.”

  “I suppose not. Mama, may I leave you? I promised Tinarose I’d remain with her.”

  “Of course, my child. Come, kiss me.” Mrs. Twainsbury patted Camilla’s cheek. “Don’t look so distressed at a little plain speaking. I am, indeed, most proud of you.”

  “Thank you, but you have no cause.”

  * * * *

  The hours swept past in the silent house. The governess, returning with hot cocoa, reported that a vigil was being held in the servants’ hall. Camilla tramped between nursery and library until the little girls fell asleep. Then she and Tinarose passed the time in the library playing piquet while Philip worked on his book. None of them wanted to go to bed, although Mrs. Twainsbury had retired after her wearying day of travel. No word came from the bedroom on the floor above.

  Midnight passed, then one. Though Tinarose resisted going to bed, Camilla made her comfortable on the sofa, laying her large Norwich shawl over the girl. Philip threw another log onto the fire, then beckoned to Camilla. She smoothed Tinarose’s forehead. “Try to sleep a little. I’ll wake you the instant there’s word.”

  “You’re very good to me, ‘Aunt’ Camilla,” Tinarose said with a hint of her mischievous smile.

  “Call me that again and we shall pull caps.” Camilla squeezed her hand and left her to reflection and sleep.

  “Did you tell your mother?” Philip asked in an eager whisper.

  “Yes. She reacted most oddly but seemed pleased.”

  “Oddly?”

  “Yes. I shan’t tell you how; it would flatter your vanity too much.” She knew him well enough to know that he’d find her mother’s conclusions amusing, but she didn’t want to expose how little her mother knew her.

  “But she consents?” he asked, putting his arm about her and encouraging her to put her head on his shoulder.

  “I think so. She certainly seemed to like the idea of my marrying you. I wish, though, that she didn’t wish to leave in the morning. I would like you two to become better acquainted.”

  “You’re still leaving in the morning?”

  “She feels, and rightly, that Lady LaCorte will have enough on her plate without adding guests, one of whom is perfectly unknown to her. If we were already married ...” His arm tightened involuntarily, and she caught her breath at the look in his eyes.

  “A pity one can’t simply wake up the local parson and be married at once, for, I swear, I’d marry you tonight if I could.”

  She could only lean against him, enjoying the strength of his arms and his nearness. After a moment, she looked up into his eyes. “How goes the book?”

  Between the lateness of the hour, the low light, and his difficult handwriting, Camilla found it necessary to rest her eyes. Letting her head fall back against the wing of the chair by the fire, she closed her eyes for only a second. When she opened them, the fire had dwindled to almost nothing. Disoriented, she struggled up, her hand to her head. “Philip?”

  The knock that had awakened her was repeated. Over on the sofa, Tinarose raised herself on her elbow, blinking. “Is it morning?”

  “Come in,” Camilla called.

  Dr. March poked his head in. Water droplets sparkled like silver sequins in his bright hair. His shirt was open, waistcoat and cravat discarded during the night, the sleeves rolled back on his strong forearms. “Is Miss LaCorte here? Her mother is calling for her.”

  “Mama?” Tinarose swung her feet to the floor, the shawl falling away unheeded. “Is she... all right?”

  “Of course,” he said, unconsciously holding out his hand to her. She took it, her eyes focusing on his face, every thought concentrated on the patient upstairs. “She’s perfectly well. Fourth children don’t take very long as a rule.”

  “But it’s been hours!”

  “Only six. It’s three o’clock in the morning.”

  “I must go at once,” Tinarose said. Though she turned to go, she pressed his hand between hers for one grateful instant. “Thank you, Dr. March. Thank you.”

  When she rushed away, he wheeled as if to follow her, his hand still outstretched as though to draw her back again. Then, he let it fall, but his gaze stayed with her until Camilla spoke.

  “You look worn to a shadow, sir. A glass of something?”

  “Philip promised me a glass of brandy. Where is he?”

  “Here.” His voice came from the hall. He came in, bearing three cups on a tray. ‘I heard my sister-in-law’s maid come down some few minutes ago and thought the girls would like something to wake them up, but I see I’m too late.”

  “Not for me. What’s that?”

  “Cocoa but there’s brandy in the library.”

  “Cocoa sounds good, though I don’t recommend it as a rule. Too rich for the average constitution.” When he tasted Mrs. Lamsard’s cocoa, however, he seemed to forget his objections. He licked at the chocolate mustache left on his upper lip and stared with disbelief into the depths of the cup. “Food of the Gods,” he muttered.

  “Doctor,” Camilla began, curious because no one else seemed to be. “Tell me about the baby.”

  “The baby?” he repeated, still bemused by what he was drinking. “Oh, perfectly healthy. Not too large and very lusty. No doubt you’ll hear crying in the night. Lungs like a bellows.”

  “Thank God,” Philip said.

  ‘Ties, indeed,” Camilla said. “Lady LaCorte must be so happy to be safely delivered.”

  “Nanny Mallow was a great help when her ladyship seemed to lose heart about halfway through the proceedings.”

  A rap at the door made them all look up. “Mama,” Camilla said. “I’m sorry you were awakened.”

  “It’s unimportant. I understand I am to congratulate you, Sir Philip, on the addition to your family.”

  Thank you, Mrs. Twainsbury. But I’m not Sir Philip any longer. I’ve been replaced, thankfully, by young Sir Myron Thomas LaCorte, born this day, fourteen December, year of our Lord 1817. Long life to him.”

  “Amen,” Camilla and the doctor said and clinked their cups together. Mrs. Twainsbury said nothing.

  Chapter Fourtee
n

  A week later, Camilla sat in her mother’s clean parlor, listening to Sir John’s son and young Mr. Van der Groot argue some fine point of Greek drama. They used a great many quotes, both in Greek and Latin. She thumbed through the recipe book on her lap, which Mrs. Lamsard had given her at her parting, and did not attend.

  Finally, she caught a sound she had been waiting for—the whistle of Sir John himself, coming to collect his son on his way back from the village. Excusing herself with a smile, she left the room, not that the young men noticed.

  ‘Your letters, Miss Twainsbury,” Sir John said, his hair gleaming as white as the snow still clinging to the yew bushes either side of the doorway.

  “Thank you, Sir John,” Camilla said, holding the three or four envelopes tightly. “I hope you didn’t go too far out of your way.”

  “Not at all. A pleasure. Is my son ready to go?”

  “I think they’ve gotten as far as Sophocles.”

  Sir John sighed. “May I ask you a personal question, Miss Twainsbury?”

  She blinked at him. Both the local magistrate and a noted proponent of preservation, he’d never given the slightest sign that he knew her from any of the other girls in the village. He was always civil, but rather absently so.

  “Are you at all interested in Greeks or Romans and their ilk?”

  She colored. “No, Sir John.”

  “I thought as much.”

  “My interest lies in medieval Ireland. I... took a fancy for it while I was away.”

  He raised one white eyebrow. “I shall not mention your confidence to my son. The constant Greek is bad enough. I can do without adding the Gaelic.”

  Camilla hastened to pour balm on the waters. “He’s a very intelligent young man. I’m sure he must enjoy Oxford.”

  “I wish they’d teach him a few things about women,” Sir John muttered.

  “He is young yet.”

  Sir John nodded as if understanding the rejection behind her words. “He’s been using your house as a coffee club. I never thought to ask if it discommoded you. I suppose I assumed you were pleased about it.”

  “It is my mother’s house, sir, not mine.”

  “But it makes no difference to you whether he visits here or not.”

  “No, Sir John.” She wished she could soften this by telling him that there was someone else, but her mother had forbidden it. “Besides, he soon forgets I’m here. I think he and Mr. Van der Groot will make great scholars. One day the world will marvel that two such men came from such a small village.”

  “I marvel all the time, Miss Twainsbury. I’ll relieve you of having to do so.”

  As soon as they’d gone, Camilla put on her heaviest coat and boots and ran down to the garden shed, an extremely lonely spot in winter. Three of the letters were addressed to her mother, one of them in Nanny Mallow’s writing. The fourth was for Camilla. At the sight of the all but illegible script, sprawling with energy across the buff-colored paper, Camilla closed her eyes and sent a grateful prayer skyward.

  True, she probably shouldn’t have gone behind her mother’s back to achieve this letter. Yet for the past week, her mother had been using every stratagem to prevent Camilla from collecting the post, usually one of her more pleasant tasks. Even today, Mrs. Twainsbury had told her not to trouble herself, that she would collect it on her way back from visiting a sick neighbor.

  Philip had promised faithfully to write every day, yet this was the first letter she’d seen. Though she had not asked, Camilla felt certain her mother was preventing his letters from reaching her. She ignored the niggling little fear at the back of her mind, the one that said Philip had already forgotten her.

  My Dear Camilla:

  If I do not hear from you in response to this letter, I shall come myself. Your mother has written to me, telling me of the illness you contracted on your journey home. I will not wound you by telling you my opinion of this tale, but as an author, I feel it lacks that unstudied quality which is the hallmark of the best fiction. But whether you be in health or ill, whether you still love me or have discovered your mistake, I will come within three days.

  ‘Til forever, your Philip

  She clasped this missive to her bosom, feeling that last doubt drown under the swell of her happiness. Her mother might try stratagems and practice deceit, but there was no point and so she would tell her. Smoothing out the letter, she read it again and perceived this time that something was written on the back, in a rounder hand and with lighter ink.

  “Camilla, come as soon as you can. We all miss you. Tinarose.”

  The three days passed. Camilla had not told her mother about Philip’s letter or his impending visit. She felt her mother could easily invent some reason for them to be halfway across the country by the time he arrived Though she’d handed her mother the letters, Mrs. Twainsbury only shot her a sharp glance to which Camilla responded with perfect blankness.

  The third day came and went Camilla slept at last, fitfully, her eyes too hot with tears to find much ease. When morning came, she awoke with a simple resolution in her mind. Dimly, across the fields in the frosty air, came the sound of the church’s ancient bells, mellowly tolling the hour. “Seven o’clock,” Camilla muttered. “I suppose the public coaches must run on Christmas Eve.”

  When her mother came home from doing the flowers in church for the night’s service, Camilla took the empty basket from her and hung it on its proper hook. Then she put tea and luncheon on the; table. “How is the vicar? Is his cough improved?”

  “Very much. He’ll be able to give his sermon today, I think.” She reached out for the teapot but hesitated, her hand floating in air, as she saw the crumpled letter lying on the napkin. “What is this, Camilla?”

  “A letter from Philip. Sir John was kind enough to bring it up from the village the other day. I asked him to do it.”

  “May I read it?”

  “You’ve read the others,” Camilla said.

  “My goodness, what a headstrong young man. I shall see him when he comes today. There must be no more of this sort of thing.”

  “I quite agree. There won’t be any more letters.”

  Her mother smiled and poured the tea. Tm glad you are going to be sensible.”

  “I didn’t say that, Mother. On the contrary, I intend to be magnificently nonsensical. I love Philip. No one has ever made me feel safe enough to risk everything.”

  “I suppose you know what you are talking about; I confess I do not. Safe enough to risk? What does that mean, may I ask?”

  “It’s hard to explain it to you. I know only one person who might understand.”

  “Your precious Mister LaCorte,” her mother said sharply.

  “No, that’s not who I meant, though I’m sure he would understand. I meant a girl I heard of once—oh, how sweet she must have been. How wildly certain that love was worth any risk. Perhaps you remember her, Mother. She was called Lolly Feldon.”

  Mrs. Twainsbury’s thin lips twitched. “I suppose Nanny Mallow told you all about my youth.”

  “Some of it. I know you made a runaway marriage and that you were cast off by my grandparents because of it.”

  ‘Yes. A sweet, romantic tale she made of it, I’m sure. She can’t tell you the other side of it, but I can. I can tell you about living in squalid boarding-houses, never with anything to call your own because everything is up for pawn. And if you do, by some miracle, find yourself a little house where you can live decently, your husband comes home to tell you about some wonderful new opportunity in some distant town. So you leave whatever friends you’ve made and you travel with him to another squalid boardinghouse with a sluttish mistress and slovenly servants. Love dies in those places, my dear. It gets no light, no air, nothing but arid weariness.”

  Camilla came around to her mother’s chair. “I don’t expect you to believe me, Mother, but it won’t be like that for us.”

  Mrs. Twainsbury laughed shortly. “That’s what your father said when
we ran away together.” Then a ghost of a smile crossed her lips. “He never stopped hoping, your father. The next town was always Fairyland for him, a place where all his dreams would come true.”

  “You never need leave this house,” Camilla said.

  “Only because he died before he could move us again. It was coming; I could feel it whenever he spoke. I told him I wouldn’t go with him anymore, but I knew I would. All he had to do was ask me, and I was still such a fool....”

  “That’s how I feel about Philip, Mama. Where-ever he wants me to go, I’ll go.”

  “Don’t be a fool, Camilla. I don’t want that life for you. You don’t know how hard it is. Scrimping and pinching, making one pound do for five, never beforehand with the world, always afraid of the bailiffs and the butcher. How I hated writing to my parents for money! They made me beg for every penny. If you marry a man of property, then you need never fear for your children.”

  “But, Mama, you’ve raised me to be a poor man’s wife. Who knows more about making and mending than I? If Philip is really to have no title and no fortune, then I am all the more the perfect wife for him. But what matters most is that he is the perfect husband for me.”

  “Wait, then. Ask him for time when he comes. You are still so young. He’ll give you time.”

  “I’m older than Lolly Feldon was, Mama. Besides, Philip isn’t coming here.”

  “He isn’t?” Mrs. Twainsbury said hopefully.

  “No. He was supposed to have come yesterday, Mama. Look at the date on the letter.”

  “Doesn’t that prove what I’m saying? Obviously he’s thought it over and decided that it’s best not to see you again. I honor him for it.”

  “I’m glad. Have you had all you wanted? Now, we must go or we’ll miss the coach. Never mind about the dishes. I asked Mrs. Willet’s oldest daughter to come by and close up the house.”

  “Coach? Close up the house? What do you mean, Camilla?” Mrs. Twainsbury came to her feet, still holding her daughter fast by the arm.

  “I’m not going to let you make the same mistake your parents made, Mama,” Camilla said, rubbing her cheek against her mother’s. “Your traveling dress is laid out on your bed, and I’ve packed the small portmanteau for you. You had better hurry.”