"Thank you, my lord. I enjoyed it as well."
After bidding them farewell, he walked through the museum, his footsteps echoing around him. He did so enjoy all the new sights that London allowed him to experience: modern marvels and preserved history in many cases side by side. He could see how far civilization had come and imagine how much further it had to go.
But of all the sights that London held, he thought none delighted him more than Camilla. She snagged his attention the moment he stepped into the sunshine. She sat on a nearby bench. Beside her stood a scruffy boy who appeared to be no more than eight, holding her parasol and giving Camilla the appearance of being a queen awaiting her coronation.
Arch hurried down the steps to join her. She glanced over and smiled, a completely unaffected smile, unlike the practiced ones she usually gave him. Caught off guard by the rarity of the moment, he nearly lost his footing.
When he reached her, she came to her feet, the all-too-familiar smile that didn't quite touch her eyes back in place.
"Lord Sachse, have you a sovereign for the lad?" she asked, as she took her parasol from the boy and snapped it closed.
He removed the gold coin from his pocket and handed it to her. She, in turn, gave it to the boy.
"Bless you, m'lady." The lad darted off into the crowds.
"Camilla, why did you hire him to hold your parasol?" Archie asked.
Studying the filthy handle of her white parasol, she said, "Because I grew weary holding it myself."
He withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket, took her parasol, and proceeded to wipe the smudges left by the lad from the handle. When he was finished, she took it from him and smiled. "You are most kind, my lord."
"Not as kind as you."
Obviously startled by his words, she looked up at him and released a tiny laugh. "I am hardly kind."
"Generous then."
She opened her mouth—
"Protest all you want," he said, cutting her off before she began. "But you are generous to a fault, and don't think that I don't see it, because I do. A sovereign for holding a parasol? Had it been me, I would have given him a ha'penny."
"What a ludicrous notion. An earl with a parasol. You'd have tongues wagging that you were eccentric and make my task of finding you a suitable wife much more difficult."
He grinned. "You're turning the conversation away from my point."
"Only because I find it tedious. It's a lovely day. Shall we walk for a bit?"
"If you like."
She reopened her parasol and positioned it just so before slipping her arm around his. Had he complimented her on any aspect of her person that could be noted by a stranger, she would have welcomed his words. The pleasing lines of her face. The way the pink of her dress complemented her pale skin.
But whenever he spoke of anything that could only be detected by astute observation, she shied away from his words. Shallow compliments she could accept. Anything more she brushed aside like so much rubbish.
"When we return to my residence this afternoon, I was hoping you might read to me," she said.
"I was hoping you might read to me—from your new French book."
"That is for my own private enjoyment."
"A pity. I so enjoy the flow of French words."
She perked up at that. "Do you read French fluently then?"
"I've had lessons."
"I'll gladly lend you the book when I've finished reading it."
He shook his head. "No need. I've no interest in reading animal husbandry—French or otherwise."
Her mouth opened slightly, and she seemed completely at a loss for words. Then she said, "But you would have me read it to you."
He stopped walking, forcing her to do the same. "You don't read French, Camilla. Why pretend that you do?"
"You don't know what you're talking about."
She started to walk off in a huff. He grabbed her hand, to stop her escape. She turned and glared at him.
"Don't run from me, dammit," he growled. "Do you think that I can't see that you keep secrets? That you refuse to let me see who you truly are? Weary of holding a parasol? No. You gave a lad a chance to earn a sovereign and have a bit of pride doing it. Why do you continually hide this part of you away as though it is of no consequence, when it is the better part of you?"
"It's a part of me that can't survive in this world, Archie." She tugged her arm free. "I shall share a secret with you." She took a deep breath. "I don't read French. But I liked the way the book looked, and so I bought it. Because it pleasured me to do so. And that's the reason I gave the lad a sovereign—because it pleasured me to do so."
"I believe the world would be a kinder place if everyone took pleasure in a similar manner. The lad seemed a bit young to be making his way around London."
"Only in years. I could tell that in many ways he is older than you and I."
"Because he was dirty?"
"Because of what I saw in his eyes. Children on the street do not stay children for long."
"I would not have thought a countess would be aware of the sufferings of the impoverished."
"I wasn't always a countess, Archie."
He'd known that, of course, but something in the way she said it alerted him to the possibility that for once she might be willing to reveal a bit of her past. "What were you before, Camilla?"
"Companion to the old Sachse's wife. She took me in when I was but fourteen. I had spent a good many years in the children's home, because no one looked at me and wanted me. I was very much like that ugly duckling in the story you read to me recently." She slid her gaze over to him and smiled triumphantly. "I believe I have become a very lovely swan."
"Indeed you have. But at what cost?"
"At a cost I was willing to pay."
Her voice was not tinged with regret or sorrow, but simply acceptance. She'd made something of herself, a companion turned countess. He thought she was a woman with the ability and determination to become whatever she wanted.
* * *
Chapter 6
Camilla was finishing her morning toilette when a knock sounded at her bedroom door. Frannie hastened to open it, while Camilla gave a final perusal to her reflection in the looking glass. She liked the way the dark and light shades of grayish blue in her dress accented each other and her coloring. The color of fabric was so important. Honestly, she'd seen the loveliest of gowns ruin the loveliest of ladies' faces because they'd chosen the color based on what they liked rather than on what complemented them.
Frannie returned to her side. "Lillian says your packages have arrived."
"Splendid."
She hurried to the parlor, where her servants were bringing in the last of the parcels and setting them on the floor beside the settee before leaving. Lillian stood nearby with her paper, preparing to make sure that everything they'd ordered had arrived.
"Where would you like to begin, my lady?" Lillian asked.
"Here." Camilla pointed toward a large box.
Lillian took a pair of scissors to the string holding the box closed and removed the lid.
Whenever the expected boxes arrived, Camilla always felt as though she was experiencing Christmas morning, Christmas mornings that she'd never had as a child. Although she knew what she'd find inside, she still experienced a thrill of anticipation as she reached into the box and pulled out the first dress. Just as Lord Sachse had commented at dinner the other night, it was rather plain.
"What do you think, Lillian?" she asked as she held it up.
"It's ever so plain, my lady."
"So it is. I have no use for it. I suppose there is nothing to be done except to give these clothes to the poor."
"I don't know why you continue to use this seamstress," Lillian said, her smile broad.
It was a game they played every month when Camilla's special orders arrived, pretending that what they'd received wasn't exactly as they'd ordered. It was a pretense they'd begun when her husband was alive. They'd had
to be much more clever then and much more careful.
"Where are the cloaks?" Camilla asked.
"I believe they'll be in this box," Lillian said, opening a box and removing a heavy cloak. "Oh, it's very nice."
Camilla ran her hands over it. "Yes, it is. It'll keep someone extremely warm. We probably should have ordered more. Where are the dolls?"
Lillian turned to another box. "In here, I think."
She handed Camilla a doll made of cloth, with an embroidered face and yarn for her hair, something a little girl could hold tight at night and feel safe with.
"The skates for the boys are at the bottom of the box," Lillian said, as she dug through the dolls and brought out a length of thick leather with wheels at either end. "They simply strap these around their shoes."
"On second thought, it wasn't a very practical purchase was it?"
"The boys can sell them, I suppose, if they don't want them."
But a child should receive something of value to keep. She crossed her arms over her chest. "I know so little about boys. As a child, all I wanted was a doll to snuggle with when I went to sleep."
"Perhaps you could ask Lord Sachse. He might know what a boy would prefer to have to play with."
"That's a splendid idea. He'll no doubt recommend books, but still I'll ask." Reaching out, she clutched Lillian's arm. "I forgot to tell you. Lord Sachse is going to begin paying me a sum of a hundred pounds each month."
Lillian furrowed her brow. "An allowance?" "No, no, a salary. A very nice salary to help him find a wife."
"So you're to become a matchmaker?" "In a way, I suppose, yes." She'd never actually looked at it that way, but with all her connections, she could find a match—not only for Lord Sachse, but for any man. It was rather reassuring to realize that if she didn't become a duchess, she could always have a way to earn money. Though only as a last resort, if she were desperate. For a woman in her station, working would be rather degrading. She needed to let Archie know that he mustn't let on to anyone that he was paying her. It needed to remain their little secret. She knew Lillian wouldn't tell anyone, and Lillian was perhaps the closest thing she had to a friend.
"Here's what I was thinking," she continued. "We could use part of the money to hire ladies to make these clothes rather than the seamstress I'm presently using. I thought it would serve two purposes. Provide employment for those who don't have it, and provide clothing for those who don't have the means to purchase them."
"Where would you have them work? In the basement?"
"No, no. I don't want them to feel as though I'm ashamed of them. Still I can't have them traipsing up to the front door either, can I? But I thought they could use the servants' entrance, then come to the parlor. Light is good in here." She remembered the many nights as a child when she'd stood shivering beneath the streetlights her mother had used to cast light on the sacks she was sewing so she wouldn't have to use costly candles in their home. Slop work it was called.
It was there the men would sometimes approach her. "Would you be interested in sowing a few wild oats rather than a bit of cloth?" they'd ask, then cackle like idiots at what they perceived to be a witty proposal.
"Lady Sachse?"
She snapped out of her horrid reverie to find Lillian's eyes wide-open. "Are you all right, my lady? You're pinching my arm."
Immediately, she released her hold on her secretary. "I'm sorry. I was thinking of the possibilities. We'll discuss them all later. For now, have the servants put these items in a carriage and deliver them to the Salvation Army." Camilla supported Catherine and William Booth's recent efforts to provide shelter and aid to London's poor and socially outcast.
"Will you at least let us tell them who the items are from this time?"
She shook her head. "No. No one need know." She turned to leave and released a tiny shriek at the sight of the unexpected man standing in the doorway. "Lord Sachse!" "Countess."
"How long have you been standing there?" A devastatingly handsome smile slowly spread across his face. "Long enough."
She was livid. Arch was entranced. He'd known she was harboring secrets, but why was she fearful of her generosity being discovered? Because others might see her as tenderhearted and take advantage of her goodness? Was it as she'd said during their walk from the art museum—that a generous woman would be unable to survive?
She held her tongue until Lillian left to retrieve the required servants, but the whole while he could see Camilla seething, see the tiny tremors going through her.
"How dare you!" she spit, once they were alone. "How dare you spy upon me!"
"I did not mean to spy."
"Did you not? Then why did you not announce your arrival?"
"I'd planned to. I told your butler that I would see to it, but then I decided that I shouldn't interrupt." He hadn't wanted to interrupt.
"You had no right."
"No right? No right to learn that my suspicions were founded? You lied to me about the purchases—without shame or remorse."
"Oh, there was remorse."
He was glad to hear it, but not to see her suddenly appearing downtrodden and defeated. She'd not taken pleasure in lying to him. He took a measure of satisfaction from that, but still it bothered him that she had yet to trust him completely. He'd done nothing to earn her distrust except be related to the man she'd married. He supposed she was of the opinion that the apple didn't fall far from the tree, but his branch of the tree was quite a distance from the one her husband had fallen from.
"What did you think I would do? Force you to return the items if I discovered they weren't for you?"
"The old Sachse would have. He was a good deal like that character in the story you read to me a couple of weeks ago. Scrooge. The entire time you were reading it to me, I wondered if perhaps Dickens had met the old Sachse and was truly writing about him."
"He may well have been, but you'll not turn me away from the subject at hand. I don't understand why you insist on keeping your good works a secret?" Not only from him, but apparently from everyone else as well, based upon what he'd overheard.
"Because it's a private part of me, a bit that I own. The last remaining remnant of who I thought I would be." She sighed. "Makes me sound as though I belong in a mental asylum… as though I am a looking glass that has been shattered, and various shards reveal different sides to the same thing."
He thought her description was probably more exact than she realized. And he wondered if once shattered, a looking glass could ever again be as it was before or would it forever carry the marks that revealed it had once been handled without care.
He'd championed her before Spellman, he'd kissed her, he'd struck a bargain with her that would provide her with a modest income, but he'd failed truly to reach her, to earn her unfettered trust. He eased farther into the room, reached into the box of children's items, and pulled out a skate.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
Searching for the woman in the tower. Smiling, he turned to her. "Have you ever gone rinking?"
She looked positively horrified. "Of course not."
He considered her attire. Her dress accentuated her narrow waist and slender hips. He wondered if her smallness was at all responsible for her being unable to give his predecessor an heir.
"Go change into something that doesn't fit quite as snugly."
"Are you mad?"
He laughed. "Probably." He took a step toward her, she took a step back. He strove not to take offense. He'd caught glimpses of a woman who intrigued him, like looking through a kaleidoscope, where each turn revealed another facet to the piece. He wanted to know every aspect to her. "When was the last time you laughed?"
"I frequently laugh."
"With joy?"
She furrowed her brow. "Is there any other kind of laughter?"
"Cruel laughter. Sarcastic, harsh. The saddest of all is when people laugh to hold back their tears."
"Why must you always qualify things?"
"So you can't remember the last time you laughed with pure joy." He stated it as fact, not inquiry as he was beginning to learn that she found a way to redirect questions when she didn't particularly like the impression of her that the answer would provide.
"Of course I remember."
"Share the moment with me."
She held his gaze as though daring him to accept the moment she was going to reveal. "I laughed when I discovered the old Sachse was dead."
He imagined that she expected him to exhibit shock at her revelation. Or perhaps pity. The words were delivered in her usual icy manner. And he wondered if she'd mourned her own passing of innocence with laughter. He smiled because he knew it would unsettle her. "Just as I suspected. It's been years since you've laughed with joy. So come on. Change your clothes so we can head to the park."
"Archie, we're too old to skate."
"Nonsense, it'll be great fun."
"Shopping is fun."
"We'll do a bit of that afterward if you like, but for now hurry along."
"Arch—"
"Go along now."
She gave him one final glare before flouncing out of the room as though she wasn't at all happy with his demands, but he suspected before the morning was finished, he'd have her glad that she'd joined him.
Lillian returned with several footmen in her wake. She directed the servants to carry the packages to the waiting carriage, then gave the set of skates he held in his hands a pointed look as though she expected them to leap back into the box from which they'd come.
"I'm keeping these for the time being," Arch said.
"Yes, my lord."
She was leaving with the footmen when Arch called to her, "Lillian, can you spare a moment?"
She hesitated before returning to the room. "Yes, my lord?"
"How often does she do this?"
She gave an exasperated look that seemed to want to say that she had no idea what he was referring to, then perhaps thinking better of it because when it came right down to it, he was the one who paid her salary each month, she offered, "A good servant doesn't gossip about her mistress or reveal her mistress's business."
As an Earl Desires Page 6
