Someone to Hold

by Mary Balogh

  His chance came when the former Countess of Riverdale, Camille’s mother, decided that it was time she and her younger daughter returned home and Netherby raised a hand—actually it was one languid forefinger—to summon a servant and instruct him to have the ducal carriage brought around.

  “It will deliver Camille to Northumberland Place first, if that meets with your approval, Aunt Viola,” he said, “before taking you and Abigail up to the Royal Crescent.”

  “It really is not far for me to walk,” Camille said.

  “Nevertheless,” Netherby said with a sort of haughty weariness, clearly expecting that the one word was enough to settle the matter. It never ceased to amaze Joel that Anna had married him. He was all splendor and affectation. However, Joel knew there was a great deal more to the Duke of Netherby than met the eye. There were those Far Eastern martial arts he had perfected, for example, which apparently made him into a lethal human weapon. And there was the fact that he loved Anna, though that was not something that had particularly endeared him to Joel at first.

  “I will be passing Northumberland Place on my way home,” Joel said. “I will happily give you my escort to your door, Camille, unless you prefer to ride.”

  Anna beamed across the table at him, and Lady Overfield turned her head toward him and smiled too for no apparent reason.

  “I will walk home with Joel, Avery,” Camille said stiffly.

  Joel stood exchanging pleasantries with Lord Molenor while she took her leave of her relatives and promised her mother that she would walk up to the Royal Crescent tomorrow afternoon.

  “I shall probably see you there, Camille,” Anna said. “I know that Aunt Louise and Aunt Mildred want to call upon Aunt Viola. There is something I wish to tell you.”

  Camille gave a brief, chilly nod, Joel saw.

  The outside air had cooled with the descent of darkness, but it was still almost warm. The stars were bright. There was not a breath of wind. The silence of the street seemed loud after the clamor of voices in the dining room.

  “You were not expecting to see your mother?” Joel asked, clasping his hands behind his back as they walked.

  “I was not,” she said. “I did not believe she would come at all. She gave no hint of it in the letter she wrote me this week. She feels herself to be an outsider.”

  “Yet she must have been a close member of the Westcott family for more than twenty years,” he said. “She still is in the minds of the others. That was clear to see. So are you and your sister.”

  “Alexander said a strange thing to me before dinner,” she told him, “and before you arrived. It was in the nature of a suggestion—that I allow myself to be loved. I have never thought before about the difference between loving and being loved, though I learned early in my schooling the distinction between the active and passive voices of verbs. I think I have always behaved in the active voice. It is easier to do something oneself than wait for someone else to do it. One might wait forever, and even if one did not, the thing might not be done as well as one could do it oneself. I have always liked to be in control. It is easier to love than wait to be loved—or to trust that love even if it is offered.”

  “You love your Westcott relatives, then?” he said.

  “Yes, of course,” she said, shrugging. “Though I tend to avoid using the word love, for it is used to cover a multitude of different emotions and attitudes, is it not? They are my family. The fact that I will no longer allow myself to be dependent upon them does not alter that.”

  “Was the Earl of Riverdale suggesting that you do not allow them to love you in return even though they wish to do so?” he asked.

  “I do not know what that means,” she said.

  He remembered her telling him that throughout her girlhood she had craved her father’s love, that she had tried to shape herself into the sort of perfect lady he would love. She had been far more damaged by that man than she realized. The fact that he had knowingly made her illegitimate was the least of his sins against her.

  “It was clear to me tonight,” he said, “perhaps because I am indeed an outsider and could judge dispassionately, that your family members have been hurt by what has happened to you and your mother and sister and brother. The pain they feel is perhaps the deeper for the fact that they feel largely helpless to lessen your burden. They want to cherish you and make your lives easier again, less painful, but there are limits to what they can do. They can and do love you, however. Your sister seems willing to accept that. You and your mother hold yourselves more aloof, and it hurts both yourselves and them.”

  She did not immediately reply, and he listened to their footsteps on the silent, deserted street.

  “Not that it is any of my business,” he said belatedly.

  “I must do this alone,” she said. “I need to do it alone.”

  “I know,” he said, and he unclasped his hands and reached out without conscious thought to take one of hers. “But perhaps you can find some sort of middle ground. Perhaps you are already doing it, in fact. You went to spend the evening with them tonight. Tomorrow you are going to see some of them again at your grandmother’s house. Then afterward you will return to your room at the orphanage, and on Monday you will teach again. Independence and an acceptance of love offered need not be mutually exclusive.”

  She did not snatch her hand away as he half expected she would. Her fingers curled about his instead.

  “But what on earth am I doing, talking about myself?” she said suddenly. “What about you, Joel? You went back up to that house again today? I am so sorry you were too late. You must have felt wretched. Strange as it may sound, I rather liked Mr. Cox-Phillips. I think you did too even though you had good reason not to. You must be feeling some grief. I saw in your face as soon as you arrived this evening that something had happened.”

  Just as Anna had. He squeezed her hand. “With my head I cannot grieve,” he said. “But the head does not always rule the heart, does it? His stiff, impassive butler was shedding tears, Camille, and a younger servant was wrapping the door knocker in black crepe. Someone had died—someone related to me when all my life I have assumed I would never discover anyone of my own. Crusty as he was, he gave me what I believe will always remain the most precious gift I have ever received. He gave me the portrait of my mother. And he was a . . . person. Yes, I feel bereaved and bereft and foolish.”

  “Oh, not foolish,” she said, turning her head to look at him. “He sent for you before it was too late. He even admitted you a second time though you had rejected his plan for a new will the first time. He answered your questions even though he was very ill. And yes, he remembered your mother’s portrait and gave it to you.”

  But they were close to the orphanage, and he must speak about what was surely uppermost in both their minds. He stopped walking and took her other hand in his. “Camille,” he asked her, “why did you slap my face? What happened was not seduction . . . was it?”

  She drew a sharp breath and snatched her hands away. “No, it was not,” she said, enunciating each word clearly. “But when you apologized, you made it seem that you thought it was. It cheapened what had happened. And it made me feel that I must have seemed frigid or been totally inadequate if you could have so misunderstood. I was upset. More than that, I was angry.”

  Good God, he had misunderstood, but not for either of the reasons she had suggested.

  “I thought you generous and giving and kind,” he said. “You once asked me to hold you, but I asked much more of you. I feared I had taken advantage of you and you might regret and resent that I had demanded so much. Camille, you might be with child. I might have done that to you. I might have forced you into a marriage you would not dream of entering into of your own free will.”

  She had clasped her hands at her waist and was staring at him. He could not see in the darkness whether she had turned pale, but he would wager
she had.

  “You did not even think of that, did you?” he asked her. “That you might be with child.”

  “Of course—” she began, but she did not finish what she had started to say.

  “No,” he said. “I did not think you had.”

  “Of course I did,” she protested. “Oh, of course I did. How could I not?”

  She turned to walk onward, and he fell into step beside her. What had their lovemaking meant to her? She had slapped him because his apologies had cheapened what had happened. Cheapened what? She surely could not have had any deeper feelings for him than sympathy and the desire to comfort. Could she?

  And what had their lovemaking meant to him? Had he merely reached blindly for someone to hold him—in the ultimate embrace? Blindly? Would any woman have done, then? And if the answer was no, as it assuredly was, then what did that mean? What did it say about his feelings for her?

  “You will let me know immediately if you discover there are consequences?” he said, his voice low. “We have both suffered illegitimacy though in different ways. We both know how it can devastate a life. We will neither of us condemn a child of ours to that, Camille. Promise me?”

  They were outside the door of the orphanage, and she turned to him, her face expressionless, her manner devoid of any of the roles she adopted to fit various circumstances. The silence stretched for several moments.

  “I promise,” she said. “I am tired, Joel, and you must be too. Thank you for walking home with me.”

  He nodded, but before he could turn away she raised both hands and cupped his face and kissed him softly on the lips.

  “You have nothing about which to feel guilty, Joel,” she said, her voice suddenly fierce. “Nothing. You are a decent man and I am more sorry than I can say that Mr. Cox-Phillips died before you could know him better. But at least you did know him, and through him you know more about your parents and grandparents and yourself. You are less alone than you have always felt even if none of them are still alive. Take comfort. There is comfort. I think I began to learn that for myself this evening. There is comfort.”

  And she turned without another word, opened the door with her key, and stepped inside before closing the door quietly behind her.

  Joel was left standing on the pavement with—the devil!—tears burning his eyes.

  There is comfort.

  * * *

  Camille awoke early the following morning and was immediately surprised that she had slept at all. The last thing she remembered from last night was putting her head down on the pillow. All the events of the last couple of days that might have teemed through her mind and kept her tossing and turning all night must have actually exhausted her to the point of rendering her almost comatose instead.

  She got up filled with energy, washed and dressed, and went to an early church service. When she returned she spent a while in the schoolroom preparing a reading lesson that could be adapted to each age group tomorrow morning. And then she had breakfast in the dining room. There she learned that Sarah had had a restless night as two teeth pushed up on her lower gums and made them red and swollen. Her housemother was pacing one of the visitor parlors with her when Camille found them. The child was thrashing about in her arms, wailing and refusing to be consoled. She turned her head when Camille appeared, and held out her arms.

  Camille had no idea how to comfort a baby who was feverish and cross and in pain and probably desperately tired too. But she must do something. She took the blanket in which the child had become entangled, shook it out and spread it on the sofa, and took Sarah from Hannah’s arms to lay her on it before wrapping it tightly about her.

  “She won’t keep it on her,” Hannah warned. “She will tire you out in no time, Miss Westcott.”

  “Perhaps,” Camille agreed. “But you look exhausted. Go and have some breakfast and relax for a while.”

  Hannah hurried away as though fearful Camille would change her mind. Camille picked up the baby, smiling into her eyes as she did so, and proceeded to rock her with vigorous swings of her arms. Sarah stopped crying, though her face was still drawn into a frown.

  “Shhh.” Camille lifted her a little higher in her arms and smiled at her again. “Hush now, sweetheart.” She searched her mind for a lullaby, could not think of a single one—perhaps she had never known any—and hummed instead the waltz tune to which she and Joel had danced a couple of days ago, an hour or two before they made love.

  Sarah gazed fixedly at her until her eyelids began to droop and finally closed altogether and remained closed. Camille rocked her for a while longer before lowering herself gingerly onto a chair. She held the soft, warm, sleeping bundle to her bosom and swallowed against what felt very like a lump in her throat.

  Let yourself be loved.

  Sarah, who was growing more responsive to the other people at the orphanage, was nevertheless a quiet baby who did not smile or gurgle a great deal, even when she was not cutting teeth, and did not demand attention. Yet whenever Camille appeared in the playroom, her face lit up with recognition, and she either smiled broadly or held out her arms, or both.

  Sarah loved her. It was not just that Camille had grown fond of the child to such a degree that she looked forward each day to seeing her, to holding her and talking to her. No, it was not just a one-way sort of affection. Sarah loved her.

  Joel had mentioned something last night that she had quickly pushed from her mind, just as she had when it occurred to her after they had been to bed together. She had even promised last night that she would tell him without delay if she discovered that there was a need for them to marry. She did not believe it would be necessary. What were the odds that during one lovemaking she had conceived? They were slim to none. Well, perhaps not none. But they were slim nevertheless. But what if . . .

  What if within a year—within nine months—she had a child of her own to hold like this? Her own and Joel’s. No, she could not possibly wish for it, could she? She was not the maternal sort.

  Yet now she longed, she yearned . . .

  But would a child of her own replace Sarah in her heart? Could one love replace another? Or did love expand to encompass another person, and another, and on and on without end? She had never thought about love. She had always dismissed it as part of the uncertain chaos that threatened from just beyond the boundaries of her ordered, disciplined, very correct existence. There was love of mother and siblings and other family members, of course. There was love of father. But those loves, or that love—was love ever plural? Or was it only and ever singular? Those loves had been all tied up with duty in her mind and had never been allowed the freedom to touch her heart.

  Would her life have been different if Papa had loved her? Papa had never allowed himself to be loved, and his life had been hugely impoverished as a result. How much was she her father’s daughter?

  Let yourself be loved, Alexander had said.

  There was a tap on the door and it opened to reveal Abigail and their mother. Camille’s eyes widened as they stepped inside the room.

  “Camille?” her mother said softly. “We were told you were in here with a feverish baby.”

  Abigail had come hurrying across the room to peer down at the baby, a soft smile of delight on her face. “Oh, Cam,” she said, “she is adorable. Just look at those plump cheeks.”

  “She is teething,” Camille explained, “and kept her housemother up most of the night. I have just rocked her to sleep.”

  Her mother had come closer too to look at the baby and then to gaze steadily at Camille. “And you felt obliged to give her caregiver a chance to have some breakfast and relaxation, Camille?” she said.

  “She has taken a fancy to me,” Camille told them almost apologetically. “Sarah, that is—the baby. And I must confess I have taken a fancy to her. I was not expecting you. I was to come up to Grandmama’s this afternoon to call on you.”


  “And I beg you to come anyway,” her mother said, seating herself on the sofa. “But there will be other visitors, and I wanted you—both of you—to myself for a while.”

  Abigail went to sit beside her.

  “You resent my coming back here,” their mother said. She was still speaking softly in deference to the sleeping baby.

  “Oh no, Mama,” Abigail protested.

  Her mother reached out to cover her clasped hands with one of her own. “I was referring to Camille,” she said. “You were not entirely happy to see me last evening, Camille.”

  Oh, she had been, had she not? She had been happy, but also . . . resentful? Her mother had always been perfect in her eyes, the person above all others she had tried to emulate. But there was no such thing as perfection in human nature. Her mother had become human to her in the last few months, and it was something of a jolt to the sensibilities. Parents were not supposed to be human. They were supposed to be . . . one’s parents. What a foolish thought.

  “Abby was and is eighteen, Mama,” she said. “Only just out of the schoolroom, not yet launched upon society. She had recently lost Papa and had just learned the terrible truth about herself. She had just seen Harry lose everything and go off to war. And I—” She swallowed. “I had just been spurned by the man I had expected to marry.”

  “And I went away,” her mother said, “and left you both here alone with only your grandmother to comfort you.”

  “Oh, Mama,” Abigail said. “Grandmama has been wonderful to us. And you explained why you must leave. You did it for us, so that we would not so obviously be seen as the daughters of someone who had never actually been married. I still do not believe people would have judged you so harshly, but you did it for our sakes.”

  Their mother squeezed Abigail’s hands and gazed at Camille. “That is what I told you,” she said. “It is what I told myself too. I am not sure, however, that even at the time I deceived myself into believing I spoke the truth. The truth was that I had to get away, not quite to be alone, perhaps, since I went to your uncle Michael’s, but away from . . . you. I could not bear the burden of being your mother and seeing your worlds come crashing about your ears. I could not bear to see your suffering. I had too much of my own to deal with. So I left you in order to nurse my own misery. It was terribly selfish of me.”