Someone to Hold

by Mary Balogh

  He would have a tailor’s bill and a bootmaker’s bill to pay within the next week or two.

  Fortunately, he did not have long to brood. One carriage was crunching over the gravel of the driveway and another was coming right behind it. Joel moved onto the steps outside the front door and stood with his hands clasped behind him, trying to pretend that he was the grand master of all he surveyed. He wished his boots were not quite so scuffed.

  Everything proceeded remarkably well after that. Everyone was in high spirits, and they all admired the house and the view and the garden. The housekeeper gave them a tour of the house, though the Dowager Countess of Riverdale decided to remain in the drawing room after they had arrived there, and Lady Matilda Westcott chose to stay too to ply her with smelling salts despite her mother’s vociferous protests. Everyone went their separate ways after the tour was over, most of the family strolling outdoors across lawns, through the rose arbor, down onto the steeply sloping rock garden, behind the house to the woods through which a carefully cultivated path ran.

  “Joel,” Anna said, linking an arm through his just before they all gathered on the main lawn for the picnic tea, “this is a quite exquisite jewel of a place, is it not? And to think that we grew up down there within sight of it and were never aware of it. Do you regret . . . Oh, never mind.”

  “Yes, I do,” he said. “If only one could reach back in time and know. But it cannot be done, and it was their choice to remain unknown to me. I do, however, owe the decency of my upbringing to them—it might have been very much worse. And I owe my grandmother my career. It would not have happened if I had not been able to go to art school.”

  “You were always very talented,” she said. “But you are probably right. What are you going to do? Are you going to live here?”

  “Rattle about alone in such a vast mansion?” he said. “It is hard to imagine.”

  “Alone, Joel?” she said, and he was aware that her eyes were resting upon Camille, who was looking remarkably pretty in a light muslin dress and straw bonnet Joel had not seen before—and who had scarcely glanced his way since her initial stiff greeting when she had arrived with her maternal grandmother and her mother and sister.

  “I have not decided what to do about the house,” he said. “I was determined to sell it, but . . . Well, my mother grew up here, and . . .”

  She squeezed his arm. “Take your time to decide,” she said. “All will be well. I promise.”

  “Oh, you do, do you?” he said.

  “I do.” She laughed and released him in order to join two of her aunts.

  The picnic fare seemed like perfection itself to Joel, and everyone appeared to agree with him. Everyone complimented him, and he laughed and told the truth.

  “I left everything in the hands of the caterer,” he said. “When I was shown a list of possibilities, I did not even know what most of the items were. They all had fancy names. So I had to leave the choice to the experts and have been relieved to discover that I recognize the foods even if not the names.”

  Everyone laughed with him and it was time for his little surprise. Servants came from the house with trays of champagne and Joel proposed a toast to the dowager countess, who was sitting upon one of the chairs beneath the shade of a tree, though Lady Matilda had made several attempts also to hold a parasol over her head.

  “I do not know the exact date of your birthday, ma’am,” he said. “But I wish you a happy birthday week.” And everyone clinked glasses and echoed the toast.

  “My birthday is today, young man,” the dowager said, “and so far it has been perfect. I cannot imagine a more delightful setting for my birthday tea or more delicious food or more congenial company. Thank you.”

  The toast and her words signaled the end of the visit. The carriages were summoned and everyone gathered on the terrace waiting for them, talking cheerfully among themselves, thanking Joel again and complimenting him on his new home.

  And still he and Camille had exchanged no more than that initial greeting. She had avoided him all afternoon. Or perhaps he had avoided her.

  “Camille,” he said, “can I persuade you to stay a little longer? There are some things I would like to show you. You may return home with me later.”

  He had not spoken loudly. He had not expected anyone else but her to hear. But it seemed everyone did, and a general hush fell on the gathering as everyone, it seemed, looked first at him, then at Camille, and then back at him.

  “It is hardly the thing, Mr. Cunningham,” Lady Matilda said, “for a single lady—”

  “I believe my granddaughter is quite capable of making her own decisions, Matilda,” the dowager countess said.

  “Of course she is,” Lady Molenor agreed. “If she—”

  “Perhaps, Mr. Cunningham,” Elizabeth, Lady Overfield, said, “you will permit me to stay too. I would love to spend a quiet hour in the library looking at all those books. If, that is, Camille chooses to stay.”

  All eyes swung her way. The color was high in her cheeks. That stubborn jaw of hers was in full evidence, as were the lips set in a thin line. “Yes, certainly,” she said.

  They stood on the terrace, the three of them, watching the carriages move off down the driveway. Lady Overfield turned a smiling face to Joel. Her eyes were twinkling.

  “I shall make myself scarce,” she said. “I daresay I could spend a week in that library without running out of books to look at, so you must not feel rushed. And I know the way.” She turned her smile upon Camille, picked up her skirts, climbed the steps, and disappeared into the house.

  “I suppose I scandalized everyone,” he said. “I do not know how to behave like a gentleman, do I?”

  He heard her draw a breath and release it. “Why did you want me to stay?” she asked him.

  Because he was the world’s worst coward. And because he did not want her to go home to Hinsford Manor with her mother and sister.

  He closed the short distance between them and took her determinedly by the hand. “I told you I came here on Wednesday,” he said, setting out with her along the terrace and around the side of the house, “and wished you were with me. Today you have been here with me and a dozen or so other people and I almost let you go with them. My mind is like a hornets’ nest, Camille. There is so much bubbling up inside it. Is that a mixing of images? That will tell you the state of my mind, perhaps. Did you walk through the woods back here earlier? The path rises rather steeply, but it is well worth the climb. There are all sorts of places to sit and relax and simply enjoy the views.”

  “I did not come this far,” she said as they climbed.

  They arrived at the part that had particularly struck him on Wednesday—a clearing among the trees that had been made into a little flower garden with a wrought iron seat in the middle. From here one could see down between a framework of tree branches over the roof of the house to the dazzling white elegance of the Georgian buildings of Bath. He led her to the seat and they sat down side by side.

  “I thought that perhaps I would sell this place,” he said, “but I cannot bring myself to do it, Camille. It is the only real connection I have to my family. I cannot see myself living alone here, but I can see all sorts of possibilities, none of which I have thought through to know if they are possible or practicable or anything else. I picture an art school here, or a place for art retreats, perhaps. Possibly for some of the children from the orphanage, perhaps for other children too, perhaps for adults. I picture a music school—or retreat house—for various instruments and for voice. Even for dancing. Or a writing retreat. I picture bringing distinguished experts here to give courses of instruction upon a variety of different subjects and to offer demonstrations and concerts. More than anything, though, I see and hear children dashing about down there on the lawns, up here playing hide-and-seek among the trees, running through the house making noise and tracking dirt. Happy, fr
ee.”

  “Your own children?” she asked, and he knew as soon as he turned his head to look at her that she was wishing she could bite out her tongue. Her cheeks were flushed.

  “Among others,” he said. “I would like to have children of my own. I would like to give them what I never knew—a father and a mother. But I see other children here too, enjoying a holiday and a chance to kick up their heels in a place where there is so much space to run.”

  She did not say anything.

  “Of course,” he said, “it is a considerable distance from Bath, and I have never been anywhere else but there. It seems a bit isolated up here. Wide-open. Beautiful too, though. Close to heaven.”

  “You would not be isolated,” she said, “if there was always something going on here and people constantly coming and going. And, Joel, you could afford your own carriage to take you back and forth to the city.”

  “So I could,” he said, though it was not the first time he had thought of it. “I could have horses. And perhaps a dog or two and a cat or three. Maybe rabbits. As a boy, I believe I longed for a pet almost as much as I longed for a family. They have never been allowed in the orphanage, for very obvious reasons. But I have always thought that the presence of pets would be so very good for the children. Dogs and cats, I have heard, will always love you even when no humans seem to. Pets can be cuddled with and read to. They do not judge. They . . . simply love. Do you think I could talk Miss Ford into allowing some of the children to come here to stay for a few days at a time for lessons and music and romping and riding on horses and playing with cats and dogs and rabbits? Am I being very naïve? Building castles in the air? Sand castles? Am I being a fool?”

  “Would you consider having a small orphanage of your own up here?” she asked.

  He thought about it for a while. “No,” he said. “If there were to be children here permanently, they would have to belong to me.”

  “Your own children,” she said.

  “Or adopted.” He was on new ground here. He had not thought of this before. “Perhaps . . . Sarah,” he said.

  Their eyes met and held. He saw her swallow and he watched her eyes fill with tears before she turned her head away.

  “And Winifred,” she said.

  “Winifred?” He frowned.

  “She is not a terribly likable child, is she?” she said. “She is righteous and pious and neat and judgmental. I recognize myself in her, Joel, to the point of pain. She wants desperately to be loved and believes love must be earned with good behavior. She does not understand that her efforts are pushing love away rather than gathering it in.”

  “You would like to adopt her?” he asked.

  She looked back at him with blank eyes. “You were the one speaking of adoption,” she said, “and of bringing children here as your own. I was merely speaking hypothetically. I just wish she could know herself loved. More than loved. Chosen.” She blinked her eyes and stood up abruptly. “Elizabeth will be running out of books with which to amuse herself. Let us go back down.”

  And the moment, the edge upon which he had been teetering, had passed. It was just as well. Ideas had been spilling out of his mind and he was really quite unsure of any of them. He was not sure of anything.

  No, that wasn’t true. He was very, very sure of one thing. He was desperately in love with her. And he just as desperately wanted to marry her.

  But still the moment did not feel quite right. He did not want a marriage proposal to sound as if it had just stumbled out of his mind into his mouth and out through his lips.

  He stood up beside her and took her hand again. “Thank you for staying,” he said. “Thank you for listening.”

  They made their way back to the house in near silence.

  Twenty-two

  After returning from taking Sarah and Winifred and two other young children to see the ducks down by the river and feed them bread crumbs the following morning, Camille sat beside Miss Ford and the nurse for luncheon.

  “Are any of these children ever adopted?” she asked during a lull in the conversation. She had never heard of it happening, but then, she had not been here long.

  “Occasionally,” Miss Ford said. “The babies, that is. People looking for adoptive children rarely look for any above a few months old. This is not the sort of orphanage upon which unscrupulous employers cast their sights for cheap labor.”

  “What is the procedure for adoption?” Camille asked.

  “In most cases,” Miss Ford told her, “the real parent or whoever it is who is supporting the child here is consulted and grants or withholds permission. If the answer is yes, the legal details are handled by our solicitor, but the governing board is very careful to investigate the prospective parents. We offer love here and safety and a good quality of care, as you know. We try to make sure it is to the child’s advantage to become part of a family.”

  “And if the real parents are unknown?” Camille asked.

  “We follow the same careful investigative procedure,” Miss Ford said. “Having our children adopted feels a little like giving up our own children, you know. We will do it gladly if it is for the child’s benefit, but it is never easy to say goodbye. Understandably, most adoptive parents do not want to come back here for visits.”

  “Do you remember Sammy and his golden curls?” the nurse asked, and she and Miss Ford were off into reminiscences of babies they had lost to adoption.

  Camille returned to her room and wrote to Harry to congratulate him upon his promotion. It was the first time she had written directly to him. It was painful. Harry had been the Earl of Riverdale. She had been forever annoyed with him because he was having the time of his life, surrounded by companions who numbered more sycophants than real friends, merely wearing a black armband in deference to their father’s passing while Mama, Abby, and she were swathed in funereal black. But he had been a good-hearted boy, cheerful, intelligent, affectionate. She had loved him dearly without fully realizing it. And she loved him now and felt the pain of what had happened to him. His letters were always high spirited, but what was the reality? Would he even be alive to read her letter? Her fear for him was always there, deeply suppressed but very real.

  The price of love, she thought, was pain. Was it worth it? Was it better not to love at all?

  In the middle of the afternoon she walked up to the Royal Crescent, as she had done yesterday before the picnic, to raid her wardrobe for something more suitable to wear to the evening’s ball than any of the few garments that hung in her room at the orphanage. It felt a little like digging into a past life she had left behind longer ago than a few months, but there was something undeniably enticing about it. What woman did not like to dress up and look her best at least once in a while?

  She chose a gown of silver lace over blue satin, its waistline high beneath her bosom, its neckline low, the sleeves short and puffed. The hem was deeply scalloped and embroidered with silver thread. She donned long silver gloves and silver slippers and would carry a delicate fan that opened to reveal a brightly colored painting of fat winged cherubs hovering above a romantically handsome, languishing young man who looked as though he had been badly wounded by one of Cupid’s darts. It amused Camille—though she had never thought of it before—to imagine that the holder of the fan perhaps held the fate of a young man’s love literally in the palm of her hand. Her only jewelry was the pearl necklace her father had given her on her come-out—actually it was his secretary who had delivered it to her—and the matching earrings that had been her mother’s gift. Her grandmother’s dresser styled her hair high on her head with intricate twists and curls and some waved tendrils to lie along her neck and over her ears.

  For a moment, looking at herself in her mirror, she felt a wave of nostalgia for that familiar world she had left behind so abruptly. But it surprised her to realize that she would not go back now even if she could. She did n
ot believe she particularly liked the person she had been then, and she certainly did not like the person to whom she had been betrothed. She turned away and went to Abigail’s room, where she found her sister looking like a relic of springtime in a pretty pale yellow gown Camille had not seen before. She was in a fever of excitement and anxiety.

  “Will it be like a real ball, do you think?” she asked. “Oh, you do look lovely, Cam. I always wish I had grown as tall as you.” Abby had attended a few local assemblies in the country, but no formal balls. She had never had a coming-out Season.

  “It will not be like a London squeeze, I suppose,” Camille said, “but I understand the whole of Bath polite society has been invited, and I would imagine it is being touted as the grandest event of the summer. The Westcotts have more than their fair share of titles among them, after all. It will be well attended.”

  “Do you think—” Abigail stopped and fussed over donning her shawl and picking up her fan. “Do you think we may have a few partners, Cam? Apart from Uncle Thomas and Alexander, that is?”

  “I think,” Camille said, “our aunts will take their duties as hostesses seriously, Abby. A hostess does not like to see wallflowers decorating her ballroom. It reflects badly upon her.”

  “They will find us partners, then?” Abigail wrinkled her nose.

  “It is the way things are arranged,” Camille told her. “And sometimes gentlemen will ask to be presented. It is not done, you know, for them to rush up and ask for a dance when there has been no introduction.”

  She hoped she was speaking the truth. She hoped her sister would have dancing partners and that they would not be just older married men who had been coerced into it or had taken pity on her. She did not care for herself. She would be quite content merely to watch the festivities and spend a little more time with her family before they returned home. And, as Abby had just said, Uncle Thomas and Alexander and even Avery would no doubt dance with her. And . . .