A Yuletide Treasure (23 page)

“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.”

“I’m not going. Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t run after a man this way. Where is your pride? Listen to me, Camilla.”

“Well, Mama, the way I look at it is this: You can stay here and think of lots of things to say to me. Or you can come with me on my elopement and say them to me face-to-face. Who knows? Perhaps you
can
talk me out of it.”

Several hours later, arriving at the Red Knight Inn, Mrs. Twainsbury was barren of words. Camilla had turned them all away, gently but firmly. “We walk from here,” she said. “Leave the baggage. Merridew will collect it later.”

“Walk?” Mrs. Twainsbury said as if she’d never heard the term before.

“It’s traditional. Come along.” Camilla turned back as she went from the courtyard, remembering how Philip had stood and watched her go that first day. With the winter evening fast closing in, she almost felt she could see him.

The two women hadn’t gone very far, however, when a coach and four came by. A few hundred yards past them, the coach pulled up and stood on the roadway, the horses steaming in the cold air. The door flew open. “May I offer you ladies a ride? It’s too cold for walking.”

Mrs. Twainsbury clutched Camilla’s arm. “Don’t talk to strange men,” she whispered.

“No, of course not, Mama.” She patted Mrs. Twainsbury’s hand. “Thank you, sir. Do you know Savyard Manor? It’s not far from here.”

“I know it very well, indeed. By a curious coincidence, I’m heading there myself.”

“Don’t believe him,” Mrs. Twainsbury said. “It’s a ruse to get us in his power.”

But something about that voice had sounded familiar. Deeper and much louder than Philip’s, it had a ring to it not unlike his own. Perhaps it was no more than a common accent. Camilla came on, her mother leaden-footed behind her.

A face nearly black with sunburn looked out from the carriage, topped with hair the color of new iron. He wore ordinary gentleman’s clothing but characterized by extreme neatness, even though one sleeve was pinned to the shoulder. A smart valet climbed out and helped the ladies into the coach.

“Who are you, sir?” Mrs. Twainsbury quavered.

“I think I know,” Camilla said.

“Do you?” The dark eyes were very much like Philip’s but even more crinkled when he beamed at her. “Then you have the advantage of me, Miss... ?”

“Miss Twainsbury,” she said with a laugh. “Miss Camilla Twainsbury but not, I hope, for long. I hope to change it for LaCorte quite soon.”

The dark eyes narrowed. “Other girls have hoped for that, but I only knew of one that achieved it. Yet, why do I have a strong suspicion that another LaCorte male is doomed to lose his freedom?”

“He might marry, sir, but he’ll lose nothing by it.”

Drawn by horses, powerful even when weary, Camilla arrived at the Manor long before she’d hoped. Samson opened the door. “Is Mister Philip at home?” she asked, breathless now that she’d be seeing him in moments.

“Why, Miss Twainsbury,” Samson said, looking past her at the coach. “Mr. Philip is ...” Then the butler completely forgot training and decorum. Pushing past her, he went running down the stairs as he’d probably not run in years.

“Oh, sir! Oh, sir.”

Camilla entered the house, looking everywhere at once. Nothing had changed, and she was glad of it. There was still a faint scent of flowers in the air and well-loved furniture. She hurried to the library and opened the door.

The fire was cold ashes, the candles fresh and new, wicks as white as an unwritten page. The ink in the pot on the desk was untouched and the pen uncut. Looking at the manuscript pages on the desk, Camilla saw that Philip had written hardly a word since she’d left, though he’d crossed a good many out with savage slashes of his pen.

Worried now, Camilla tore up the staircase, heading for the nursery. Tinarose must know where her uncle could be. On the landing, making the turn to go up, Camilla collided with Philip, just emerging from his sister-in-law’s chamber.

“Camilla?” he said, his hands tight on her shoulders.

“Oh, you are here,” she said.

“Yes. And so are you.” He spoke slowly, unemotionally like a man in the grip of exhaustion. Perhaps she would have worried that he wasn’t glad to see her, but his hands betrayed his true feelings. They held her so tightly that she bore the marks of them a day later.

“What is it? What’s wrong? I knew when you didn’t come that something must be amiss.”

“Is it Christmas Eve already? I suppose I have lost track of the days. My nephew is ill.”

“Oh, no. What is it?”

A ghost of a chuckle escaped his lips. “Croup. Just croup, Nanny Mallow says, but Beulah won’t let go of the child. She says she knows he’s going to die, and nothing anyone can say seems to change her mind. Even Evelyn can’t get her to give him the baby. If they can take the boy, they can treat him, but she won’t give him to them.”

“Wait here,” Camilla said, freeing herself. “Wait here.”

Philip smiled as he closed his eyes, leaning tiredly against the wall. After two days without sleep, even the wall felt comfortable.

Camilla had come. How like her not to be swayed by dark circumstances into believing the worst of him, even though he felt sure her mother had poured poison enough into her ears. He promised himself never to take advantage of her faith in him. Idly, waiting for her, he wondered how soon they could marry. A quiet family service would be best. He could almost see the church, glowing with the lights of many candles, as Camilla came down the flower-bedecked aisle. She had rather heavy footsteps for such a light creature. It sounded as if she was wearing thick boots under her wedding gown.

“Philip, old man,” someone said, and Philip knew he was dreaming, for that voice had been stilled by waves half a world away.