A Yuletide Treasure (13 page)

“I shall certainly inform Lady LaCorte, should the matter arise, that I have no intention whatsoever of marrying you, Sir Philip.” She couldn’t help but wonder if all this was simply a clever man’s way of warding off unwelcome female attentions.

“She won’t believe you, but you may try. Of course, the whole issue may resolve itself, should the child she presently carries prove to be a boy. Then ‘farewell, Sir Philip; welcome Mr. Philip LaCorte, author, traveler, and
bon vivant.’ “

‘Yes, that’s right. She might have a son.”

“I pray for it every night,” he said, the ring of sincerity in every word. “Confidentially, I was never cut out to bear a title. Perhaps one day, if I earn it myself by the writing of some fine book or other. But to bear it because Great-Grandpapa flattered the right king, no thank you. I leave that to Myron, curse him.”

“Curse him?” Camilla echoed, shocked. Even her mother, with all her cause for complaint about her late husband’s gift for squandering whatever fortune came his way, never spoke ill of him after his death. Death was the Great Refurbisher. It removed all spots and stains, all slips and errors, turning the decedent into a shining glory that bore little resemblance to the fallible mortal of yesterday.

“Yes,” he said, his voice hardening. “What business did he have taking up another command? He should have sold out and come home to stay.”

“His duty—” She began, but he cut her off.

“Duty? He did that, and more, during the war like every decent man. But when war is over, a man must think of his family. If I had a wife, a wife I loved as dearly as my brother loved his, no power on earth but the defense of my country would take me away from her.

“Most men would feel that way,” Camilla said, moved by the depth of sensibility he showed. “At least, I hope they would,”

“Myron didn’t. It wasn’t duty that made him go back. It was the sea, the love of the sea. Even when he was a boy, that’s the only thing he ever thought about. We’re a hundred and fifty miles from the nearest ocean, yet it beat in his blood and filled his brain until he was crazy with it.” He chuckled ruefully. “Do you know—he ran away when he was nine. There’d been some discussion of his future career, I think. Father wanted him to be political. Myron made it all the way to Dover before Father caught him.”

“What happened?” Camilla asked, seeing the young boy with determination in his eyes crossing the countless miles between himself and his destination. How many rides did he cajole out of passing farmers? How many nights must he have slept “rough,” and how many countless miles would he have walked? She couldn’t think of anything that she wanted so much that she’d suffer such hardship. Nothing, that was, except the one thing she’d wished for above all others. Perhaps that had been young Myron’s goad. A love he could express in no other way except through suffering to achieve it.

“He’d already persuaded some poor old captain to take him on as cabin boy. The only way Father could bring him home was to swear on a Bible that Myron could go to sea when he was older.”

‘You must have admired him,” Camilla said softly, hearing the love behind every word.

“He was my older brother. He went where no one else dared go, and I followed. He never understood the things that drove me, any more than I ever understood his obsessions. To me, the sea is just something to travel over as swiftly and as safely as human ingenuity can allow.”

“I don’t blame you for that. My sister hates it, too.”

“You know what it is to have family, Miss Twainsbury. When you come to it, who is closer than a brother? I’ve shared many an adventure with other men, some of whom I grew to know so well that we could move in complete silence, judging our actions by no more than a pointed finger or a quickened breath. But Myron and I shared common blood, and that’s something that does not alter, even when all other bonds are shattered.”

He fell silent, looking into the black corners of the room as if he were looking for someone. Camilla felt as if she hardly dared to breathe, fearing to disrupt the communication between the living man and the one gone far out of reach. At last his gaze came back to her.

“I have a sister, sir,” she said. “Women are more fortunate than men in this. We share so much that is common to us all. I sometimes think a woman could fly to the moon, and so long as there were females there, we would understand each other perfectly well. No doubt they gossip the same on the moon as on earth and share stories that no man may ever hear.”

His expression lightened. “You make women sound as if they all belong to some secret order, that of Eleusinian Mysteries perhaps.”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“Oh, secret Greek rites in honor of some virgin goddess. No man was supposed to look upon them.”

“Well, we must keep something for ourselves alone,” Camilla said with a laugh that perhaps held more mystery in it than she’d intended. She hoped he wouldn’t think she was attempting to flirt with him. It was past time to call this interesting
tête-à-tête
to an end.

She yawned.

“You’re tired and no wonder. Leaving you standing here in a draught while I rattle on. You should have reproved me sooner.”

“Oh, no,” she said with genuine warmth. “It’s been most interesting. You’ve answered my questions, and I’m grateful.”

“It’s I should be grateful to you.” He changed the subject, feeling, perhaps, their intimacy had grown too quickly. “Tell me,” he said, like any genial host, “have you everything you want in your room?”

‘Yes. Mavis and your niece have made my room as cozy as my own at home. I don’t mind saying that at first I was a trifle hesitant to get into bed this evening. I thought for a certainty that I would find a hairbrush in my bed or that it had been made up apple-pie fashion.”

“Why? Has anyone ... if my nieces have been less than welcoming ...”

She only smiled, wishing she’d not brought the subject up.

“Not my nieces, then. The servants? Have they been impertinent?”

“Oh, no, not at all. Now that you’ve explained things,” Camilla said quickly.

“So,
they were less than kind. I don’t count Mavis; she’d serve tea to the devil himself if he looked as though he could stand a cup.”

“They weren’t unkind,” Camilla said hurriedly. “On the contrary, Mrs. Lamsard, for one, could not have been kinder. Of course they would choose to protect their mistress. Anyone would have done the same.”

“I shall have a word with them come the morning.”

Camilla laid her hand delicately on his folded arm. “Pray don’t. If I were going to remain here, perhaps I should use you for my champion. But as Nanny Mallow and I will return to her cottage as soon as the weather clears ...”

“Nonsense,” he said from deep in his chest. “You and she will stay here, as our guest. Nanny will have every comfort, far better than that old cottage with the wind prying loose the shingles.”

“I’m sure she would not wish to impose upon you.”

“There’s no imposition in the case. It’s settled.”

Seeing that nothing she could say at this juncture could alter his mind-set, Camilla thanked him and said good night. Before she could depart, however, he caught her by the hand. Giving it a firm, respectful shake, he stopped and stood looking down at her fingers, lying unresistingly in his. “We must surely be destined for friendship,” he said. “In the course of an evening, we have discussed history, literature, love, and war and found, if not uniformity of opinion, at least respectful challenge. Thank you, Miss Twainsbury. I cannot remember when I was last so happy to meet someone.”

‘Thank you, Sir Philip,” she said. He released her, and she started for the door. On the threshold, she turned back a moment, wishing to speak. But the words she wanted to say must surely seem too bold from a maiden to a gentleman. Her mother would certainly think so. Until Camilla could be quite sure that her own ideas of the world could stand against her mother’s, she thought she’d better allow her mother’s teachings to win the day.

“Good night, then, Sir Philip.”

* * * *

Despite her interrupted night, Camilla woke early. Stretching out in bed, she found that she’d awakened with a particularly contented smile on her face. At first, she thought it was because no one had roused her from bed at daybreak to sweep a grate or start a fire. She had no posset to brew, no breakfast to make, no list of duties to perform. True, when she removed to Nanny Mallow’s house, she would cheerfully do all she could, more than she was asked, to help the older woman, especially with her injuries. In a great house like this, however, any attempt to assist would be met with very proper refusal and might alienate the very people she wanted to assist.

Camilla hoped she was not so shallow as to revel in the mere physical luxuries of the Manor. Servants and fine furnishings were all very well, but if they were going to corrupt her essential nature, she’d be better off without them. Examining her soul closely, Camilla decided that she was in no danger from an eiderdown coverlet and a fine carpet. Her happiness this morning must spring from a different source.

Pressing her pillows into a bolster shape behind her neck, Camilla recalled her interrupted night. Sir Philip’s slow revelation of his different facets made him much more interesting than the surface word “charming” that she’d first applied to him. Last night, there’d been true emotion in his voice several times as he expressed his thoughts. He had treated her throughout their acquaintance as a friend; even more so, as an equal.

“Heady stuff,” she told herself, making it a warning. She’d never had a man treat her as if he valued her for the reason, common sense, and gift of observation that were her dearest possessions. These three counselors joined now to tell her that though her observations of Sir Philip promised that he was as honest and forthright as he appeared, her reason reminded her that no person could ever be less than complex, while her common sense warned against any impulsive emotional tie. Even friendship came with dangers. Far wiser to hold back from furthering this friendship until she knew whether they’d ever meet again.

Camilla promised herself that she would be wise and cautious, yet even if they never met again from this day until the passing away of the world, she would feel that she’d made a friend.

Someone had laid out on the end of the bed one of Camilla’s own dresses, the wrinkles caused by packing having been pressed smooth. Looking around, she saw her own hairbrush and comb on the dressing table, her own bottle of apple-water beside them, even the book she’d packed by mistake. Camilla reproached herself for having slept so soundly that a maid had been able to do all this, like: a fairy at morning light, without disturbing her in the slightest. In something of a fuss, she began to dress.

Once attired in her lilac sarsenet, the fashionable white trimming at the neckline and sleeves never betraying that it had been sewn on at home, she made sure her hair was neatly dressed in its usual smooth knot. There was no point in attempting anything that would betray her desire to be as elegant as her surroundings.

As she had been dressing, she noticed strange noises in the hall outside her door. They had passed away after a little while, sometime between her drawing on her stockings and sitting down before the mirror, and she’d thought no more about them. Now they returned, rustlings, whisperings, running footsteps. She wondered if these were the fairies who had worked so many wonders while she slept. In this curious house, she wouldn’t be surprised to find some young maids lurking in the hallways when they should be working. Yet, it didn’t sound exactly like that.

Tiptoeing herself, Camilla approached the door. Placing her ear against the white panels, she listened intently. When she judged the sounds to be nearest, she suddenly twisted the knob. Opening the door, she surprised two very young maidens, indeed.

“Oh!” said the oldest, grasping her sister by the hand. ‘You shouldn’t do that; it might make her scream.”

“Who?” Camilla asked, smiling at them. Dressed alike in tight red pelisses covering them from neck to waist, the two youngest daughters of the Manor gazed up at her from very similar dark blue eyes. They looked like a pair of kittens, unsure whether to hiss or to purr.

“Her,” the girl said with a nod toward her smaller sister. “She has the loudest scream in the world. It shakes the windows. Uncle said that if she screams today, it might cause a
navalanche.
”

“An avalanche?”

‘Yes. Do you know what that is?”

“I think so. Do you?”

Two similar dark heads were shaken.

“Oh,” said Camilla, who had been offering the little girl a chance to show off her superior knowledge. “Well, I believe it’s a large fall of snow, very dangerous.”

“Oh, then, we had one last night.”

“I didn’t mean that kind of snowfall. More like, all at once ... down a mountainside? Quite destructive.”

“Hmm,” said the elder, whose name Camilla could not recall. She remembered Tinarose saying something about how her sister’s names were simpler than her own. She felt sure the littlest one’s name was Grace. She’d thought at the time that it sounded too adult for so small a person.

Now she grabbed Camilla’s hand and pulled. “Come and see,” she said. Her small hand was slightly sticky and surprisingly strong. Towed along, the other sister coming behind, Camilla didn’t want to seem petulant by demanding to know where they were taking her.
Perhaps,
she thought hopefully, as they went downstairs,
they are taking me to breakfast.

“Look!” said Grace as they reached the ground floor.

“At what?” Camilla asked, after looking about her obediently.

“At the window,” the older one said impatiently.

Camilla looked and, at first glance, saw nothing but the faint grayish light of a snowy morning. It must be earlier than she’d thought. The clock in her room could not have been set properly, though it had been wound so that its cheerful ticking could be heard. It had said eight-forty-five when she’d awakened, but it must be closer to dawn.