Sharon Sobel (4 page)

“Lady Camille is the ward of my husband,” said Mrs. Brooks. “And the point of this adventure is to remove the difficulties from my darling’s life, is it not? My dearest hope is that you will be able to ease her way into society.”

“I see,” said Claire quietly, though somehow the waters had become someone muddier since she spoke up a few minutes before.

“I knew you would, Lady Claire, once you had my assurance that I would visit the girls here with a good book in hand. It is just as everyone says: You see everything that goes on in society and are kind to everyone. Your reputation is as bright as my nephew’s is dark.”

Claire heard Marissa tittering beside her. “I will do what I can, Mrs. Brooks, but one cannot expect miracles.”

“You forget I am a vicar’s wife, Lady Claire. I expect them everywhere, even at Brookside Cottage.”

Chapter 2

Brookside Cottage was not nearly so modest as its name. Claire saw the chimneys well above the trees as her carriage approached the property, passing through acres and acres of well-groomed farmland. A large conservatory graced one side of the cottage, clearly a more recent addition to the main structure, which looked to be of the reign of Elizabeth.

And yet, Mrs. Brooks already informed her that elsewhere on the estate were the ruins of the great house, long abandoned these many years. Wentworth and Lady Camille came to the Cottage as children, where their aunt and uncle joined them, to see to their care until Wentworth was of an age to oversee his own property. Though he owned other estates, and there was always the possibility of restoring the great house, both expressed a preference to remain as they were. As to the great house, Mrs. Brooks believed they never ventured there at all, allowing the drive to become overgrown with weeds, and the woodlands to spread into what was once the ballroom and library. She made it seem as if their present dwelling was a deprivation, though Claire immediately thought it perfectly lovely.

The servants assembled at the base of the marble steps, well attired and with the ease of deportment that suggested that there was nothing more compelling to occupy their time than to welcome a stranger to the household. To the left stood a young man and his horse, surely not a servant, but equally deferential. But all this Claire noted only tangentially, for her attention was all for the lady who stood at the top of the steps, appearing to gaze directly at her.

As Claire slowly ascended, they continued to face each other, and Claire had the feeling Lady Camille was able to see as well as any person. She paused, not entirely sure how to greet a person whose limitations had already been carefully explained to her.

“Welcome to Brookside Cottage, Lady Claire,” Camille spoke softly, with just a trace of her native Yorkshire.

“I am delighted to be here, Lady Camille. Your family name seems most apt in this bucolic setting,” said Claire.

The younger woman laughed. “It has been noted by many of our acquaintances. Even though my family has lived on the land for many generations, the name comes from our proximity to the running water that skirts our gardens.”

Claire listened for the music of the nearby brook, and now that her attention had been directed to it, heard it quite clearly.

“I look forward to exploring the landscape and perhaps do some sketching. I hope you will be my guide and direct me to all the fairest prospects.”

She heard the collective gasp behind her, and immediately regretted her words. How insensitive to call attention to precisely that which the lady could not do! “That is, I meant to suggest . . .”

“Of course, I will show you everything, Lady Claire, for I am delighted to have you as my guest.” Camille spoke without the slightest trace of awkwardness, for perhaps she was well practiced covering the missteps of others. “There is not so very much to see here, however. Certainly this is nothing to London.”

Claire laughed, partially in relief. “I believe I have seen everything there is to see in London and have been quite bored of late. Brookside Cottage will be a welcome respite.”

Camille smiled and turned her head in the direction of the young man and horse. She nodded, seeming to confirm something already decided, though her expression did not change. Claire studied her, even as she remembered she could do so at any time and not appear rude.

Lady Camille’s eyes were heavy lidded, so it was nearly impossible to see their color. A thin scar was sketched across her forehead, over her brow, disappearing behind carefully styled hair; one had to look as carefully as Claire did now to see it. But for that, there seemed nothing in her outward appearance to suggest any other injuries. Camille was slight of build and as fair as her brother was dark. Her gown was of simple sprigged muslin, and if it was of slightly dated fashion, it surely was no more so than one was apt to see in the country. In fact, Claire thought it somewhat refreshing to envision a life in which one was not ever burdened by the necessity of ordering new gowns because dressmakers in Paris thought blue preferable to green this season.

Behind her, Claire heard the sound of a retreating rider, and Camille’s eyes were once again upon her.

“Please come in, so you can rest. The journey must have been a terrible burden,” said Camille.

“It was not terrible at all, and certainly not a burden. In fact, I shall just need some minutes to freshen my face, and am looking forward to getting to know you. Ours is a most unlikely meeting, and you may decide that you do not want me here at all.”

“Yes, that is possible,” Camille said softly, surprising Claire, who was only attempting to be gracious with her words, and did not consider leaving here so soon a real possibility. Surely she did not already offend? “But no one close to me seems particularly concerned with what I desire.”

She turned to the door, gesturing for Claire to precede her, and the servants moved to make a clear path for them.

“Then perhaps I shall be the first,” Claire said, sounding a good deal more optimistic than she felt.

***

“I was eight when I lost my parents and my sight,” Camille explained some time later, when they were seated together in the parlour. The windows faced west, and the late afternoon sun made the room overly warm, but Camille held her face to the bright light, indifferent to any discomfort. Claire wondered if she was able to discern shadows and if the light intensified that experience.

“It must have been a dreadful time for you,” Claire said softly.

“I cannot imagine many things worse,” said Camille. “But you are a widow, and must have endured your own pain of loss.”

“It was nothing to your loss, my lady. The late earl was happy to be rid of me, and surely imagined he was going to a better place. I am somewhat consoled he did not decide to take me with him,” Claire said.

Camille smiled, and in that moment Claire decided they would get on very well.

“You are quite right to feel that way. When I have been brought most low by my losses, I remember that I am alive, and have Maxwell. He is my brother, of course.”

“Of course,” Claire murmured. “I also have a brother, though I have not seen him in some time.”

“As I have not seen Maxwell.” Camille must have heard Claire’s barely audible gasp. “Please do not be overly sensitive to such words, Lady Claire, for I am too accustomed to it. Any resentment I might have felt slipped away year and years ago. And, in truth, I do know what Maxwell looks like, for he lets me touch his face and try to reach the top of his head when we are both standing. I believe he is very fine-looking, though he is quick to deny it.”

Claire thought about touching Maxwell Brooks’s face, an intimacy that would be pleasurable because he was so very fine-looking.

Camille continued. “My aunt may have mentioned that he pulled me from the fire and saved my life at great risk to his own. He was injured as well.” Camille reached for her teacup, tapping her fingertips on the tray for a moment before she found it. “He was not much more than a child himself.”

“Then he was exceptionally brave.”

“He was and he is. That is why he was sent to Portugal, though I don’t know the nature of his mission. He works with Lord and Lady Armadale, you know.”

“Lady Armadale?”

“Oh, yes. I understand she is involved in everything.”

Claire thought of the lovely, gracious lady who had been her hostess only weeks ago, and could scarcely believe Lady Armadale faced greater dangers than slipping on a well-polished ballroom floor. Perhaps she should have conferred with the lady when she sought to alleviate her loneliness for her adventures might have taken a very different turn. But then she would not have met Mrs. Maybelle and her girls. And she would not have met Lady Camille, whom she already liked very much.

“You would not know it to look at her. She is elegant and gracious and looked splendid in a rose gown. She has something of the look of the Portuguese, with dark hair and skin, and her eyes are nearly black. But she is very much an English lady, and a perfect complement to her husband. He has the most astonishing red hair, and his skin is so fair it looks like it might redden by nothing more than his walking past a sunlit window.”

Camille turned away from the light, and her face glowed from the same exposure. “What did Lord Armadale wear to the ball? Was it something to match his wife’s rose gown?”

Claire paused, not really remembering his appearance, other than his fairness. And a slight bruise on his cheek, she now recalled. How curious that she scarcely took note of it at the time. “Oh, he wore the usual, I suppose. Black and white, perhaps with a dash of silver at his waist.”

“A black jacket and a white shirt? Was his cravat white as well?” Camille asked, leaning forward.

“Yes, of course,” Claire said, and then remembered something else. “And that is where he sought to match his wife. He wore a small ruby stickpin in his cravat. It was nothing to match his lady’s necklace and earrings, which were the fine color of port, but was a very elegant addition.”

“Yes, yes, I can see that,” said Camille.

And Claire rather thought she could.

After a while, Camille added, “Most of my gowns are gray or blue.”

“That is very practical, of course. But I believe you would look very splendid in red. If you chose to experiment, you might have a red jacket made, to wear with one of your dark blue gowns, and we shall see what others say about it.”

“If I also wear a white bonnet, I daresay they will say I look like the Union Jack.”

“A very patriotic decision, then, though there are a fair number of flags in those colors. You might be mistaken for a Frenchwoman, for example. Or, even worse, a Yankee.”

Camille laughed. “Someone once described the Yankee flag to me, and it seems rather complicated. But why should I care what others think?”

Claire put down her teacup, considering this. “I suppose we are sometimes curious to know how others see us. I have many gowns in my wardrobe, but I know I am apt to receive particular compliments when I wear one or another. As a result, I can determine that I look best in green and I should avoid black at all costs. That was a very difficult thing to do for the year I was in mourning for my husband.”

“Is that why you have not married again?”

“Do you mean, because I wore an unflattering color? Dear Lady Camille, I can only hope a gentleman looks beyond the color of a lady’s gown before he asks her to be his wife.”

“Some men are able to overlook a great deal,” Camille said softly.

“I suppose you speak of your brother, who sounds very admirable on all counts.”

“Maxwell? Yes, he is very admirable.”

Claire watched her new friend turn her face back to the window as she reached for a biscuit. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply of the scents of grass and blossom that wafted into the room and smiled in such a way that Claire was certain she had not been thinking of her brother at all.

***

That night, the first of many she intended to spend at Brookside Cottage, Claire lay in her bed studying the shadows of branches and leaves dancing across the ceiling. How strange she never noticed such things before, though she surely slept with windows open to the night air.

She raised one hand and studied it in the moonlight before using the other to trace the hills and valleys of her fingers. Her skin was soft and a little moist; her fingers were long and thin. One nail was a bit rough on the edge and needed cutting. On her middle finger there was the slightest evidence of a callous, where she usually rested her pen.

As she turned on her side, settling in to sleep, she wondered if she would learn more from Lady Camille than the innocent, sequestered girl would learn from her.

***

“I thought we might walk today,” Lady Camille said over breakfast, “if you have brought a pair of sturdy shoes.”

Claire looked up from her coffee, wondering if her friend could appreciate how tired she was. She slept well, but, unaccustomed to country hours, not nearly long enough.

“I have comfortable slippers, sturdy enough for an exploration of the gardens.”

Camille laughed. “I would like to walk to town, a distance of several miles. Will you accompany me? I am sure we can find boots for you somewhere.”

Several miles? And then back again? Claire’s feet hurt just contemplating the journey.

“Do you do this sort of thing often?” she asked.

“Very often,” Camille answered. “Sometimes I persuade Maxwell to walk with me, but he is not so much fun. My Aunt Adelaide always has some excuse not to go. So I usually walk with Alice, my maid. I think she will be grateful for the reprieve.”

“What shall we do in town?” Claire asked, hopeful of something to look forward to at the end of the journey. “Are there shops and diversions?”

“Certainly. I have a letter to deliver to our solicitor and it should be very diverting.”

Claire laughed, appreciating Camille’s sarcasm, and then realized she might not be sarcastic at all.

“Well, then, I suppose I should eat a hearty breakfast so I might have the strength to endure. Will you be able? . . .”

“Yes. If you fear that I shall get us both lost and have us walking about in circles, you greatly underestimate my talents. I have been traveling this road for all my life,” said Camille.

“Well, then, I can hardly refuse,” Claire said, even as she tried to think of another reason why she might do so. “I shall have shoes, and direction, and good company, and several shops at the end of my journey.”

“And the solicitor,” Camille reminded her. “Do not forget him.”

***

The wind that trifled with the trees the night before cooled the day, but as they walked at a fairly brisk pace, Claire remained comfortable in her wool jacket. She could no longer express any surprise that Camille proved to be an excellent guide, for she seemed to know every detail right down to the stones beneath their feet. She explained that Brookside Cottage was, for many years, the home of the estate’s steward and the job was held by a distant cousin, John Mandeville, in her father’s time. After the great fire, Mandeville was never seen again, though it has never been certain what happened to him. Since his body was not found in the ruins, some people speculated that he banished himself, unable to be reconciled with the great guilt he must have felt at not protecting Brook Hall and its inhabitants.