A Yuletide Treasure (22 page)

“He has asked me to call him Philip, Mama, and I hope he will always wish to call me by my name.” Though her mother was frowning at her, usually enough to set her a-quake, Camilla was still buoyed up from Philip’s evident admiration and love, as well as from his remarkably effective kisses. She felt a sudden ripple of joy from somewhere under her ribs at the memory, as if her heart danced.

“I hope you have not passed the line of what is pleasing,” Mrs. Twainsbury said, folding Camilla’s own nightdress with crisp little jerks. “Gentlemen are not to be trusted with young ladies fresh from the schoolroom.”

“I know I can trust Philip to protect me even from myself,” Camilla said in a defiant whisper, hoping she’d not be called upon to defend that statement with charts and graphs. “As for propriety, Mama, as you know, Philip has removed to Dr. March’s house while the Manor has no mistress capable of her duties. His designs toward me are entirely honorable. In short, he’s asked me to be his wife.”

“I beg your pardon?” Mrs. Twainsbury blinked as if she honestly hadn’t heard a word.

“Philip loves me and wants to marry me. I have accepted him.” Camilla breathed again. There, she’d gotten all of her message out without resorting, as she had feared, to mime to cover her tongue-tiedness.

Mrs. Twainsbury sat down on the bed, a clear infringement of her tribal laws. “I—I can’t fathom it,” she said. “You’re sure it’s marriage he’s offered?”

“He’s too much of a gentleman to have offered anything irregular.” Camilla felt the tension leave her neck and shoulders. Strange to say, it had been harder to dread the telling than to tell it. “I hope we may hear that you approve of this step, Mama.”

“Approve?” Mrs. Twainsbury appeared to be thinking of something else. “I never would have thought it of you of all people, Camilla.”

Worried again, Camilla spoke more quickly. “I realize he should have asked you properly for my hand, but it really has only been a very few days since the subject first arose. He’s such a
good
man, Mama. If only you could know him better, I’m sure you’d think so, too.”

“Of course, fate played a considerable part in this. You couldn’t have orchestrated Nanny’s accident; ‘twould be wrong, and you were miles away when it occurred. Yet to take such swift advantage of the situation in which you found yourself was really a stroke of genius that I had never expected lay within you. I never took you for such a downy one, Camilla.”

Downy? Genius? These were not terms her mother had ever used for her. Her adjectives were “bluestocking” and “Miss Clever” usually prefaced by “Don’t be such a”

“Who told you that the LaCorte fortune had passed to the younger son? And what a fortune! Sir Myron lived on his pay and prize money, but I’ve heard that they might have in the Bank of England as much as a hundred thousand pounds. A hundred thousand... yes.” She looked about her incredulously. “Yet they live with old pictures and old wallpaper in all their rooms. Even this coverlet is only silk on one side.”

“I don’t know anything about that,” Camilla said, wondering if she should fetch a vinaigrette or some hartshorn. Her mother seemed to be wandering a little in her thoughts. “Then you do approve, Mama?”

“Had you this plot in mind when you submitted with such a good grace to my sending you to Nanny’s? If I had but realized that Sir Philip was at home, I could have sent you here months ago. Heavens, you could already be settled as a LaCorte today. Well, there’s no use in repining over lost opportunities so long as you leap upon the next one.”

“Mama,” Camilla said, narrowing her eyes. “Are you saying that you think I—I set my cap for Sir Philip because he’s wealthy?”

“Of course, it would never do to admit such a thing outside of these walls.” She clasped her hands together and raised her eyes ecstatically toward heaven. “I thought I did well to marry your sister off so creditably. When your brother-in-law offered for Linnet, I counted it a personal triumph. Sir John Fuster’s son was the height of my ambition for you, you know. You both being so very blue. But this! My dear child, you may well find yourself presented at Court.”

“I hadn’t given that any thought.”

“No, how should you? You’ve had quite enough to plan here.” She laughed and rose. Embracing her daughter about the shoulders, she kissed her. “Now you must be cautious. Be advised by me.”

“Mama, I assure you that I did not chase Philip. I never thought about money or title in connection with him. He is the man I love, so greatly, so completely. I should love him if he were a pauper.” Her voice quavered under the stress of her feelings, but her mother didn’t seem to understand.

“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.

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.”