Maxwell was her protector, and thus it was all the more frustrating that Armadale desired his assistance on a particularly irksome mission to Portugal, which required some time away from their home in Yorkshire. Camille was surrounded by people who loved her and would see to her every need, but she did confide to him that she would desperately miss their reading time together, and she was not sure who else would give such life to the ancient Romans. An ordinary man might feel extraordinary guilt at such sentiments, but Maxwell long knew his cup of guilt had runneth over.
And so, he was determined not to enjoy himself while away from her, though his cousin tried to engage him in London’s glittering social life, and introduced him to every single lady who lived in the vast city. But, as lovely as they were, none interested him—until he glimpsed an angel poised in another man’s arms this night.
He, so ready for hell, suddenly wondered at the promises of heaven. And yet, she surely was not the ethereal and pale creature of popular imagination, but a very real beauty of great contrasts. Her hair was as black as that of the ladies of Spain, but her skin was so pale he wondered if she ever went outdoors. Her eyes, which twice found his, were of the brightest blue and tilted upwards at the corners, making her look very wise.
Who was she? And more importantly, who was the man with whom she danced?
She only stood up for one waltz; that fact and the intimacy of the dance suggested they were married. And yet, she seemed indifferent to her partner, and even bored by his company. Maxwell supposed he had the confirmation he needed: Whoever she was, she was clearly already taken.
“Are you a boy for stealth, Maxwell?”
Startled, Maxwell looked away from the dance floor and realized his Aunt Adelaide stood at his side, barely reaching the height of his chest.
“I beg your pardon, Aunt. What did you say? It cannot be what I just heard.” He leaned over, to better hear her.
Aunt Adelaide sighed impatiently. “It is not your height that keeps you apart from all reasonable conversation, but your indifference to everything that goes on around you. I asked, ‘Are you enjoying yourself, Maxwell?’”
Max straightened, for he was in an awkward position, in all ways.
“Of course I am, Aunt. It is a wonderful ball.”
She laughed so loud, people turned around to stare at them. This was unfortunate, but at least he did not have to bend again to hear her.
“And you are a terrible liar,” she said. “You look perfectly wretched, quite as if you are a fox surrounded by hungry dogs.”
“That does not seem apt, as I do not think anyone has noticed me at all.”
“I believe every lady in the room has noticed you, and you have made the men rather protective.”
“Because they assume I shall set fire to the place?”
Aunt Adelaide shot him a familiar look, one that spoke eloquently of her despair for him.
“Because they assume you will seduce the ladies away from them, you peewit. You cut a very fine figure, you know.”
“No, I do not know,” he said grimly.
“Well, perhaps it is time you opened your eyes. It would do you much good to bring a wife home to Brookside Cottage, and start living your life again.”
“It will not do Camille much good.”
Aunt Adelaide prodded him in the chest with a surprisingly strong finger. “And that is where you are wrong. Camille would love the company of another young lady of her own class and intelligence. And knowing you are settled might be what she needs to find a young man who suits her.”
“You describe a world that is unknown to us. Such things are not meant to be.”
If Aunt Adelaide did not stop prodding him, she would wear a hole in his jacket. “And you, dear nephew, live in a world of your own making. It is time to shake things up, and this is an excellent place to start.”
“And to end this discussion,” Maxwell said, gently removing his aunt’s finger, and clasping his hand over hers. “Armadale will have me leave in the morning, and it is time I retire to my room.”
“You might as well remain here, for you will not sleep,” she argued. “The noise will carry through all the corridors of this great house.”
“I have been accustomed to fitful sleep for many, many years. Music, no matter how loud, will seem like a dirge to me.”
“Or the sweetest lullaby. Why not stay a bit longer and meet a few of the ladies? Then you may find yourself humming its melody for all the time you are away from us.”
Knowing here was a discussion that might go on all night, Maxwell bent from the waist and kissed her on the forehead, hoping to bring an end to it. Aunt Adelaide meant well; he knew that as surely as he knew himself. But that is why he understood that what she proposed was utterly impossible.
***
“Cheviot was trying to reel in a bigger fish,” Claire said to Marissa, over a glass of something she thought was lemonade, but seemed more potent.
“Almost certainly,” Marissa agreed. “As he did not have much success with a countess, he is now fishing for an Italian princess. Though truly, one cannot always trust Continental titles, for I believe some are invented on the spot. While in Marbella, I met a man who claimed he was the Compte of Pomp or something of that sort, but he seemed so utterly common.”
Claire put down her glass, wondering if the stuff was making her impaired. “You have made up that absurdity. It cannot be true.”
“Have I ever lied to you?” Marissa asked.
Claire did not know, so she abandoned the subject. “He was fishing for a monster.”
“Oh, Princess Albiani is not that bad. But she is nothing to you, of course.”
It was finally too much; Claire laughed in great gasping breaths, trying to contain herself. This why she loved Marissa over all her other friends, for no one could reveal the humor to be found in all things as could this lady. She saved Claire from despair, loneliness, altogether poor choices, and taking herself too seriously.
“Did the lady take too much to drink?” asked someone behind her, who started to slap her back.
“Oh, dear, no! You will hurt her, Mrs. Brooks! She is only laughing at a joke. A very tiny one, in fact.”
Claire started to laugh again.
The newcomer walked between them and leaned down to sniff at Claire’s discarded glass.
“Did they not tell you what you drink, my lady?” she asked. This is limoncello, served in honor of Princess Albiani. It has been known to kill people.”
Claire recovered very quickly. “Is it poison, do you mean?”
“Not in the usual sense. But I am sure men have fallen off bridges and parapets after nothing more than a sip of the drink.”
Marissa eyed their companion suspiciously. “For a vicar’s wife, you seem to know a great deal about this,” she said.
“I think it’s fair to say I have seen everything in my time. And everyone, though I am not yet acquainted with your friend, Lady Fayreweather.”
“Forgive me, Mrs. Brooks. Lady Claire Marchant, Dowager Countess Glastonbury, may I present Mrs. Adelaide Brooks, a good friend of long standing,” Marissa said.
Claire raised her brow questioningly at Marissa, for it seemed very strange such a friendship would never have arisen in their conversations, but Marissa did nothing more than smile and give a little shrug. “Adelaide and I knew each other as girls, and spent a good deal of time annoying her guardian’s two handsome sons.”
“I married the younger son, James,” Mrs. Brooks smiled. “But we both adored Robert, poor soul. I miss him terribly and think of him often. And do you find yourself doing the same, Lady Fayreweather?”
Claire thought her friend was about to admit that she had not thought of the man in years, but she gracefully leapt over such sentiments. “I do think of him oft
en, my dear. It was such a terrible tragedy.”
“And now James and I have the responsibility of his children, you know,” Mrs. Brooks confided.
“Are they very young?” Claire asked, wiping her eye with a bit of lace.
Mrs. Brooks tapped her familiarly on the arm. “Maxwell is thirty-one, and poor Camille is four years younger. Poor wee mites.”
Marissa brought a lace to her own face as well, but Claire thought she was hiding her laughter.
“You must be a great comfort to them, Mrs. Brooks. But surely they can manage for themselves now?” Claire asked.
“Aye. Maxwell is a man well grown, for all he prefers is to cloister himself in their cottage. But Camille is a sad figure. She is blind, you see, and requires constant assistance. She is entirely dependent on Maxwell and I am just now quite worried about her, for he is off to Portugal and I do not know how long she will be alone.”
“Do you intend to visit her while he is gone, Adelaide? It would be an excellent opportunity to spend time with her, without her brother about. By all reports, he is a very serious sort,” said Marissa.
“Do you suggest I am not?” Mrs. Brooks asked, and then she and Marissa laughed as if it were the greatest joke.
But Claire did not laugh, even though she guessed what the two ladies meant. Instead, she nodded her head, newly aware of that habit, and even more aware of her racing thoughts. Surely, Mrs. Brooks was the lady who spoke to the man near the column, the Marquis Wentworth, the fire starter. And Camille was the sister who would forever bear the consequences of his deed.
Not only did he cause the poor girl the original harm, but it also seemed he continued to do her injury by making her a prisoner in their home.
“How awful,” Claire murmured.
“What did you say, my dear?” Marissa asked. “Do you worry that we will bring on too much attention to ourselves by laughing so? It was always this way with us. We could hardly avoid it now.”
And the two women laughed again.
“No, I will not spoil your pleasure. I am only thinking of your unfortunate niece and how her life must be fraught with difficulties. It is a blessing that you will spend time with her while her brother is gone.”
Mrs. Brooks quickly sobered. “But that is just the problem, Lady Claire. Though such a visit would be outstanding, I have too many reasons to be in London this season and cannot get away to Yorkshire. I did invite my niece to join me here, but she absolutely refused.”
“What reason could any young girl have to refuse a season in town?” Marissa asked, clearly perplexed by the whole business.
“You forget, Marissa. Camille is quite blind and has led a sequestered life. She does not know of ball gowns, and fine dinners and plays. She knows nothing of young men.”
“Then perhaps this is the opportunity to present such things to her, particularly the young men. I do not understand why her blindness should pose such insurmountable barriers,” Marissa argued.
“Do you not know Mrs. Fairfield-Jones, Mrs. Brooks?” Claire asked. “She is nearly deaf, but had her season several years ago and is already the mother of three little Fairfield-Joneses. Her sisters taught her to dance by taking the cues from others. And she communicates very well by writing down her thoughts.”
“If she has had three children in three years, I daresay she manages to communicate by other means as well,” Marissa pointed out. “And remember Lady Catherine Pouletenay? The poor lady had only one leg, but hardly a soul knew it.”
“And Lord Warren is a hunchback,” Claire added. “And . . .”
Mrs. Brooks held up her hand. “This is all well and good, but my niece is afraid to be seen by those she cannot see. It is as simple as that. She does not feel safe away from Brookside Cottage, or with those who are strangers to her.”
Claire, feeling thoroughly indignant on the part of a young lady she did not know, opened her lips to say more, but caught Marissa’s look of warning.
“That is all there is to it, then,” Marissa said. “It is a pity, but there is nothing you can do if your niece will not help herself. Now, tell me, how is your excellent husband? Is he busy tonight administering to the unfortunate? I remember the time he brought an old military man to our dinner table and he . . .”
Claire did not hear what the old military man did at the table or elsewhere, or why Marissa and Adelaide Brooks thought whatever he did was very funny. Her thoughts were all for a lady in Yorkshire, not much younger than herself, who did not know of balls and gowns and men, whereas Claire already felt she knew too much of such things. In their own ways, they each were lonely souls, living apart from the normalcy of life humming around them. But how extraordinary it would be to introduce a lady to a new world, to describe all the things she could not see for herself, and bring her into a society that might not be as censorious as the lady feared. And if she herself was the person to do such a deed, might it not be possible for some of the wonder of it all to reflect once again on Claire, and allow her to find pleasure in a rare friendship with someone who truly needed her?
Claire nodded thoughtfully. It was an unlikely notion, and yet somehow full of promise.
“Lady Claire?”
“I do not think my friend heard what you said, Mrs. Brooks,” Marissa said. “She has a habit of nodding to herself while thinking through a problem.”
“And my nephew is a problem, as he does not think there are any pleasures to be found in society. He approaches, undoubtedly to bid me farewell before he retires for the night. He is off to Portugal in the morning.” Mrs. Brooks’s sigh was as audible as the conversation of others around them.
“Dear Maxwell,” Mrs. Brooks said. “Please allow me to introduce my friends to you. Lady Fayreweather, Lady Claire Glastonbury, here is my dear nephew, the Marquis Wentworth.”
Claire looked up at him, thinking him even more compelling at such proximity than when he stood among the columns. She caught a glimpse of the dreadful scars so casually reported to her by Lord Cheviot, and thought a few silvery lines down his cheek were not that fearful at all. But then, she did not know what remained hidden beneath his fine costume and wondered how Cheviot came to be knowledgeable in this, as he professed to be in all other things. Claire speculated upon the possibilities as her eyes wandered across his shoulders and down his chest.
“Lady Glastonbury,” Wentworth murmured as he took her gloved hand. “Shall I bring you a glass of lemonade? Your face seems rather heated.”
Indeed, it was. Claire did not remember blushing so since she was a girl and every man presented to her prompted rough imaginings of what their future might hold. But she was now a woman of experience, and until this moment thought she knew all she wished about men and the appearance of their bodies once their fine garments were abandoned. Glastonbury favored cotton wool padding, she recalled, which made him look very sturdy, if a little lumpy. But she had a very keen sense that there was nothing between Wentworth’s clothing and his body, and his shoulders and chest were every bit as muscular as she dared to imagine.
“If my face is heated,” Claire said, and ran the back of her free hand across her forehead, “it is because I have already sipped of Lord Armadale’s lemonade and it is somewhat more potent than I imagined.” Good heavens, she felt as if her face were on fire.
“My cousin has a very liberal hand when mixing spirits and may surprise his unsuspecting guests. Of course, things are often not what they seem,” he said, marking each word for emphasis.
“Ah, there is another dance starting just now. Perhaps the two of you would enjoy the exercise,” Mrs. Brooks said.
Claire turned towards her, nodding thoughtfully. “Of course, some things are exactly what they seem. Thank you for your encouragement, Mrs. Brooks.”
Wentworth released her hand. “I regret I have no intention of dancing this evening, and c
alling undue attention to myself and a partner. I only am here to wish you a good evening before I retire, Aunt. It has been an honor to meet your friends.”
He bowed and removed himself so quickly that there was no opportunity for any of them to protest. But Adelaide Brooks once again sighed with enough energy to put the musicians off their music.
***
Over the next several days Claire’s thoughts turned once and again to the plight of Camille Brooks, and in most unexpected circumstances. At the fashionable establishment of Madame Lamartine, the dressmaker asked Claire to finger several fabrics, as she asked her to compare the weights of dimity and nankeen and their suitability for a summer day dress. Even as Claire did so, she thought about how she would teach a blind girl to feel the differences in the woven textures and map out patterns with her fingers. At the theatre that evening, Claire closed her eyes to the action onstage, and heard the actors’ words with an intensity she had never before appreciated. And when she discussed the week’s menu with her cook, Mrs. Terry, she asked the woman’s opinion about which foods were best served in small pieces and less likely to spill off one’s spoon.
But when she closed her eyes descending the steps of her townhouse and nearly fell on her face, she began to understand what hazards could sabotage even the best-intentioned plans.
“Are you quite well?” Marissa asked, startled, as she grasped her friend’s elbow. “What is wrong with your eyes?”
“Nothing, truly. I seem to have a cinder under my eyelid and it is most vexing,” Claire answered, and rubbed her eyes for good measure. If they did not look injured, they most certainly would now.
Sharon Sobel Page 2
