Sharon Sobel (5 page)

“Surely any guilt was misplaced,” Claire pointed out. “A steward is responsible for the estate, it is true, but things happen that cannot be under his control. When my husband was killed while out riding, I am sure no one blamed the groom for handing a drunken man the reins.”

Camille paused and turned her head one way and then the other before continuing along the path. “There is so logical explanation for guilt, you understand. When something tragic occurs, I believe every survivor looks for some fault within himself in an effort to make sense of what has happened and how it might have been prevented. Mr. Mandeville perhaps wished he was in the library, ready with a bucket of water to throw on the flames. My Aunt Adelaide wishes she was visiting at the time, for she claims her cries of help could be heard for a mile at the very least. And, of course, most of the blame and subsequent guilt falls on my brother, who wishes he could somehow reverse the whole course of events.”

Claire already knew something of this, but did not want to reveal that the Brooks family tragedy was still the source of gossip in London. “But you told me he was just a boy himself!”

“That might lessen the blame but not the guilt,” Camille said, as if she had already rehearsed the sentence time and again. “I know Maxwell saw something or did something he ought not, and one of the footmen caught him. In exchange for his silence, he said Maxwell must see to the embers in the library and parlours for two weeks. But one night my father met with several men in the library until very late and my brother fell asleep in the hall before he could see to his task. The next thing he knew, the draperies were all ablaze. I am lucky he was in the hall and not in his chamber, for he was able to reach me just when my bed curtains fell on my head. I do not remember much more than that.”

“And for this Lord Wentworth is labeled a murderer?”

Camille’s step faltered but she continued to look straight ahead. “I suppose that is so. But if he was asleep in his bed that night, he would have been a victim. His chamber was completely engulfed in flames.”

“A boy should not have been responsible for disposing of the embers, no matter the reason,” Claire pronounced. Though she still did not know much about the event, she had a feeling something was more wrong than the bare facts of the tragedy.

“But that is the very nature of guilt, dear Claire. If tragedy has never glanced against you, I am not sure you can ever understand it. It works like a canker, eating away all that is good, making redemption impossible.”

“You see a good deal, my friend,” Claire said softly.

Camille laughed. “Have I not already said so?”

“What is the cure? What would heal such a wound?”

“My uncle does not know, and he is a religious man. I surely do not know, though I have done everything to reassure my brother that I am happy and blame him for nothing. But he has made me the victim of his guilt, anxious to do everything for me, unwilling to leave me, unable to let me be free.”

“Free of him?”

Camille stopped in her tracks. “We turn here, towards Middlebury.”

The road into town was somewhat better traveled and framed by small cottages on either side. Chickens and geese scattered at their approach, and once Claire had to pull Camille away from an old bloodhound sleeping on the hard soil, lest she step on the fellow.

“I never thought of it that way, but you are surely correct. My brother will not let me go,” Camille said after a while.

“Will he let you go to London?”

“I am not certain of that, but then, I am not certain I wish to go, either.”

What was the point of Mrs. Brooks’s plan, if not to have Claire deliver her niece to London society?

“And here we are, Lady Claire. If we are not standing before the posting inn in Middlebury, my boasts are surely deflated. But I am certain of it. Middlebury is not London, as you see, but it is all the world to me.”

Claire looked around her, realizing it was a very small world, indeed. Several shops exhibited finery and provisions in large windows framing open doorways, through which women and girls passed each other with cheerful greetings. Several looked curiously at Camille and her new companion and curtsied, perhaps forgetting that the object of their deference could not see them. Claire nodded on her behalf, and took her hand.

“You sense I need assistance,” Camille said. “That is very astute. I cannot be certain of the stairs in front of Mrs. Macy’s shop, and that is one of our destinations. She is a milliner, and I am in need of fresh ribbons for my bonnets.”

Claire gently urged Camille to a shop that seemed to be that of a hatmaker, though the proprietor was Miss Shaw.

“No, this does not seem right,” said Camille. “Is there not another such shop, a bit further up?”

Claire squinted into the sun, though she knew she would get wrinkles about her eyes. “Yes, I believe there is. Is there truly a need for two milliners in such a place as Middlebury?”

“Do you think us too provincial to care about fashion and style?” Camille asked, a bit irritably. It was the first time in their brief acquaintance Claire heard her so. “We manage very well here, you realize.”

Claire looked at Camille’s simple blue dress, of a style popular several years before. If she saw a lady wearing it in London, she would assume the lady had limited resources and might even be wearing a friend’s castoff. But Camille’s dress scarcely had signs of wear, and fit her perfectly. Perhaps it was not the lady who was dated, but the dressmaker.

“I see you manage very well, and Middlebury is charming. But when we are off to London, as you surely desire, we will have some new gowns made, more fitting to your rank and beauty.” Claire hoped she phrased that well, without giving any additional offense.

Camille reached up and ran the back of her hand across her brow and eyelids, silently reminding Claire of what needed no reminding. “Do you not think I would be accepted as I am?”

Now it was Claire’s turn to defend her town, for as surely as Camille knew Middlebury to be small and modest, Claire knew London society to be censorious and unforgiving.

“I think you will be admired everywhere you go, both for your appearance and your capabilities.”

“Faint praise, indeed,” Camille said and laughed.

Claire was relieved she was restored to good humor. “I am sure the gentlemen will be fawning over you,” she added quickly.

“As they surely do over any lady with a title and a large dowry, no matter her appearance and capabilities. What if I were to tell you that I am not interested in gentlemen or their attentions?” Camille asked coyly.

“Are you telling me that?” Claire asked, realizing her noble mission to Brookside Cottage was being deflated on every front.

“I am,” Camille said, smiling as if she had uttered the most clever witticism. Claire was unamused. “But I have not told you the answer to the riddle of why Middlebury has two milliners. Miss Shaw and Mrs. Macy are sisters, and the Misses Shaw were amiable partners in business for many years. Then Miss Lida Shaw decided to marry Mr. Macy, the blacksmith, and Miss Rose Shaw was set against it, and warned her of the dangers.”

“Is Mr. Macy a violent or cruel man?” Claire asked, thinking of her own marriage.

“I do not know, and inasmuch as Mr. Macy died within a year, I did not hear much about it. But the deed was already done, and there were already two milliners in town. And so it has stayed. Perhaps Miss Lida Shaw foresaw the dangers of separating family from one another.”

“Is that why you are not interested in gentlemen? Has Lord Wentworth asked you to remain with him throughout your life?” Claire asked, thinking she was coming to understand much that perplexed her, and desiring nothing more than having it out with Camille’s selfish brother.

“Let us visit Mrs. Macy and see if she has bright red ribbons. If I am to have a new red jacket, I must appear fashionable in all ways,” Camille said, not answering the immediate question, but seeming to address one equally compelling.

***

“Mrs. Macy is very kind,” Claire said sometime later, shifting her small parcel so she could once again take Camille’s hand. “Is that why you prefer her to her sister? Or do you frequent both establishments?”

Camille cocked her head, reflecting on the matter. “I suppose I do prefer Mrs. Macy, though I also visit Miss Shaw. I have never considered it before, but I suppose I have always felt that as Mrs. Macy proved the more adventurous of the two sisters, her hats must be somewhat more adventurous as well.”

Claire thought Mrs. Macy’s hats as adventurous as an evening alone, reading
Pilgrim’s Progress
.

“Well, she certainly offered an abundance of ribbons,” Claire said cheerfully. “I daresay she had twenty spools.”

Camille said nothing, and Claire wished she were able to tamp down her own sarcasm and not sound so high in the instep.

“Have you other shops to visit today? There is a small tearoom across the way,” Claire said, trying to steer Camille in a different direction.

“We are to have tea with Mr. Cosgrove. Did I not mention I have a letter for my solicitor?”

“You did, though I nearly forgot it. It is very pleasant of him to offer us tea while on a business call.”

“Jamie Cosgrove is very pleasant,” Camille said, and nodded. “We are to meet him at the posting house.”

“The one we passed on the way into Middlebury?”

“There is only one posting house,” Camille explained.

Of course. A small town might require two milliners, but one posting house would do.

In fact, the simplicity of its exterior was far exceeded by the cleanliness and elegant fixtures within. It would do very nicely, Claire reflected. Certainly, it was a fine place for a meeting.

“Lady Camille?”

A tall man came forward, out of the shadows. He was very lean, with deep dimples that might well disappear if he gained more heft, or if he did not smile so. But he appeared to be a man who liked to smile. As he bent over Camille’s hand, his brown hair fell over his forehead and brushed against her fingers. She slowly bent her elbow, so as he raised his head he was close to her he might well have stolen a kiss. Camille seemed to sense this, and parted her lips, as if in anticipation.

“I believe you are Mr. Cosgrove?” Claire interrupted. She thought she knew the full extent of her responsibilities to the young lady, and did not guess she would also be chaperone.

“I am,” he said, turning towards her, still holding Camille’s hand. Claire suddenly realized he was the gentleman who rode away from Brookside Cottage just as she arrived.

“Lady Claire, please let me introduce Mr. James Cosgrove. Lady Claire is my new friend.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, my lady. I understand you are a great reader and have traveled to Brookside Cottage to share your knowledge of the classics with Lady Camille,” he said.

Oh, indeed. If one considered shelving the latest issues of Ackermann’s fashion plates alongside Aristotle in one’s library.

“I have come to share many things, Mr. Cosgrove. And as Lady Camille also shares much with me, we are learning from each other. Perhaps today we both are to learn a lesson in the law?”

He grinned, and his dimples deepened. “Are you interested in the law? Some consider mine a savage profession.”

“Mr. Cosgrove, I know people who consider any profession a savage one. But they have never had one, so could not truly know.” Claire smiled back at him, for his good humor was contagious. “Perhaps I ought to have a lesson from you, for one never knows when a source of income might come in very handy.”

“Are there lady solicitors?” Camille asked.

“No, my dear lady, there are not.” Mr. Cosgrove took her hand and led her to a small table near the window, beckoning Claire to follow. “I have never heard of a lady solicitor, but I believe one would do very well. Most females manage to get precisely what they desire.”

Camille sighed, while Claire looked in wonderment from one to the other. Dear God, she was indeed acting as chaperone today. Did Mrs. Brooks know of this friendship? Was it sanctioned by Lord Wentworth? Was such a visit possible only because Camille’s protective brother was far from Middlebury, Yorkshire, and England?

All these things were thoughts for serious contemplation, though not more so than Claire feeling very mature and matronly at all of twenty-eight years of age.

They sat companionably at the little table, with Camille facing the window and its light. Mr. Cosgrove took her hand and stripped off her glove before placing her fingers around the fork in front of her. She explored the implement before setting it down and finding her spoon.

“Do you usually conduct business in a posting house, Mr. Cosgrove?” Claire asked, managing to find her fork on her own.

“I do, when circumstances allow. Most often, I call upon my clients at their own home.”

“As you were doing just the other day, when I arrived at Brookside Cottage?” Claire countered, trying to make it very clear she did not miss a thing. It would be very easy to fall into a trusting relationship with this man, but she would not be caught until she understood the whole of the situation.

“Mr. Cosgrove was paying a social call then, Lady Claire,” Camille said. “We are old friends, you know.”

“No, I did not know. I only assumed Mr. Cosgrove came on business because you have a letter to deliver to him today. Is that not why we have come?”

“Of course,” Camille said, and pulled a sealed paper from her straw basket. She held it aloft until Mr. Cosgrove retrieved it from her hand. He looked at it with such interest, Claire thought he could see through the paper, but he tucked it into his jacket without opening it. Claire caught a faint whiff of lavender and did not think it was coming from his neatly starched shirt.

“Will you remain in Middlebury until our next Assembly Ball, my lady?” Mr. Cosgrove asked Claire. “Country dances are nothing to London balls, but perhaps that is why they are more enjoyable.”

“And have you attended many balls in London, Mr. Cosgrove?” Claire asked pointedly.

“I have, Lady Claire,” he said tersely, and turned his attention back to Camille. “Have you heard from your brother, Lady Camille?”