She turned to the door, gesturing for Claire to precede her, and the servants moved to make a clear path for them.
“Then perhaps I shall be the first,” Claire said, sounding a good deal more optimistic than she felt.
***
“I was eight when I lost my parents and my sight,” Camille explained some time later, when they were seated together in the parlour. The windows faced west, and the late afternoon sun made the room overly warm, but Camille held her face to the bright light, indifferent to any discomfort. Claire wondered if she was able to discern shadows and if the light intensified that experience.
“It must have been a dreadful time for you,” Claire said softly.
“I cannot imagine many things worse,” said Camille. “But you are a widow, and must have endured your own pain of loss.”
“It was nothing to your loss, my lady. The late earl was happy to be rid of me, and surely imagined he was going to a better place. I am somewhat consoled he did not decide to take me with him,” Claire said.
Camille smiled, and in that moment Claire decided they would get on very well.
“You are quite right to feel that way. When I have been brought most low by my losses, I remember that I am alive, and have Maxwell. He is my brother, of course.”
“Of course,” Claire murmured. “I also have a brother, though I have not seen him in some time.”
“As I have not seen Maxwell.” Camille must have heard Claire’s barely audible gasp. “Please do not be overly sensitive to such words, Lady Claire, for I am too accustomed to it. Any resentment I might have felt slipped away year and years ago. And, in truth, I do know what Maxwell looks like, for he lets me touch his face and try to reach the top of his head when we are both standing. I believe he is very fine-looking, though he is quick to deny it.”
Claire thought about touching Maxwell Brooks’s face, an intimacy that would be pleasurable because he was so very fine-looking.
Camille continued. “My aunt may have mentioned that he pulled me from the fire and saved my life at great risk to his own. He was injured as well.” Camille reached for her teacup, tapping her fingertips on the tray for a moment before she found it. “He was not much more than a child himself.”
“Then he was exceptionally brave.”
“He was and he is. That is why he was sent to Portugal, though I don’t know the nature of his mission. He works with Lord and Lady Armadale, you know.”
“Lady Armadale?”
“Oh, yes. I understand she is involved in everything.”
Claire thought of the lovely, gracious lady who had been her hostess only weeks ago, and could scarcely believe Lady Armadale faced greater dangers than slipping on a well-polished ballroom floor. Perhaps she should have conferred with the lady when she sought to alleviate her loneliness for her adventures might have taken a very different turn. But then she would not have met Mrs. Maybelle and her girls. And she would not have met Lady Camille, whom she already liked very much.
“You would not know it to look at her. She is elegant and gracious and looked splendid in a rose gown. She has something of the look of the Portuguese, with dark hair and skin, and her eyes are nearly black. But she is very much an English lady, and a perfect complement to her husband. He has the most astonishing red hair, and his skin is so fair it looks like it might redden by nothing more than his walking past a sunlit window.”
Camille turned away from the light, and her face glowed from the same exposure. “What did Lord Armadale wear to the ball? Was it something to match his wife’s rose gown?”
Claire paused, not really remembering his appearance, other than his fairness. And a slight bruise on his cheek, she now recalled. How curious that she scarcely took note of it at the time. “Oh, he wore the usual, I suppose. Black and white, perhaps with a dash of silver at his waist.”
“A black jacket and a white shirt? Was his cravat white as well?” Camille asked, leaning forward.
“Yes, of course,” Claire said, and then remembered something else. “And that is where he sought to match his wife. He wore a small ruby stickpin in his cravat. It was nothing to match his lady’s necklace and earrings, which were the fine color of port, but was a very elegant addition.”
“Yes, yes, I can see that,” said Camille.
And Claire rather thought she could.
After a while, Camille added, “Most of my gowns are gray or blue.”
“That is very practical, of course. But I believe you would look very splendid in red. If you chose to experiment, you might have a red jacket made, to wear with one of your dark blue gowns, and we shall see what others say about it.”
“If I also wear a white bonnet, I daresay they will say I look like the Union Jack.”
“A very patriotic decision, then, though there are a fair number of flags in those colors. You might be mistaken for a Frenchwoman, for example. Or, even worse, a Yankee.”
Camille laughed. “Someone once described the Yankee flag to me, and it seems rather complicated. But why should I care what others think?”
Claire put down her teacup, considering this. “I suppose we are sometimes curious to know how others see us. I have many gowns in my wardrobe, but I know I am apt to receive particular compliments when I wear one or another. As a result, I can determine that I look best in green and I should avoid black at all costs. That was a very difficult thing to do for the year I was in mourning for my husband.”
“Is that why you have not married again?”
“Do you mean, because I wore an unflattering color? Dear Lady Camille, I can only hope a gentleman looks beyond the color of a lady’s gown before he asks her to be his wife.”
“Some men are able to overlook a great deal,” Camille said softly.
“I suppose you speak of your brother, who sounds very admirable on all counts.”
“Maxwell? Yes, he is very admirable.”
Claire watched her new friend turn her face back to the window as she reached for a biscuit. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply of the scents of grass and blossom that wafted into the room and smiled in such a way that Claire was certain she had not been thinking of her brother at all.
***
That night, the first of many she intended to spend at Brookside Cottage, Claire lay in her bed studying the shadows of branches and leaves dancing across the ceiling. How strange she never noticed such things before, though she surely slept with windows open to the night air.
She raised one hand and studied it in the moonlight before using the other to trace the hills and valleys of her fingers. Her skin was soft and a little moist; her fingers were long and thin. One nail was a bit rough on the edge and needed cutting. On her middle finger there was the slightest evidence of a callous, where she usually rested her pen.
As she turned on her side, settling in to sleep, she wondered if she would learn more from Lady Camille than the innocent, sequestered girl would learn from her.
***
“I thought we might walk today,” Lady Camille said over breakfast, “if you have brought a pair of sturdy shoes.”
Claire looked up from her coffee, wondering if her friend could appreciate how tired she was. She slept well, but, unaccustomed to country hours, not nearly long enough.
“I have comfortable slippers, sturdy enough for an exploration of the gardens.”
Camille laughed. “I would like to walk to town, a distance of several miles. Will you accompany me? I am sure we can find boots for you somewhere.”
Several miles? And then back again? Claire’s feet hurt just contemplating the journey.
“Do you do this sort of thing often?” she asked.
“Very often,” Camille answered. “Sometimes I persuade Maxwell to walk with me, but he is not so much fun. My Aunt Adelaide always has
some excuse not to go. So I usually walk with Alice, my maid. I think she will be grateful for the reprieve.”
“What shall we do in town?” Claire asked, hopeful of something to look forward to at the end of the journey. “Are there shops and diversions?”
“Certainly. I have a letter to deliver to our solicitor and it should be very diverting.”
Claire laughed, appreciating Camille’s sarcasm, and then realized she might not be sarcastic at all.
“Well, then, I suppose I should eat a hearty breakfast so I might have the strength to endure. Will you be able? . . .”
“Yes. If you fear that I shall get us both lost and have us walking about in circles, you greatly underestimate my talents. I have been traveling this road for all my life,” said Camille.
“Well, then, I can hardly refuse,” Claire said, even as she tried to think of another reason why she might do so. “I shall have shoes, and direction, and good company, and several shops at the end of my journey.”
“And the solicitor,” Camille reminded her. “Do not forget him.”
***
The wind that trifled with the trees the night before cooled the day, but as they walked at a fairly brisk pace, Claire remained comfortable in her wool jacket. She could no longer express any surprise that Camille proved to be an excellent guide, for she seemed to know every detail right down to the stones beneath their feet. She explained that Brookside Cottage was, for many years, the home of the estate’s steward and the job was held by a distant cousin, John Mandeville, in her father’s time. After the great fire, Mandeville was never seen again, though it has never been certain what happened to him. Since his body was not found in the ruins, some people speculated that he banished himself, unable to be reconciled with the great guilt he must have felt at not protecting Brook Hall and its inhabitants.
“Surely any guilt was misplaced,” Claire pointed out. “A steward is responsible for the estate, it is true, but things happen that cannot be under his control. When my husband was killed while out riding, I am sure no one blamed the groom for handing a drunken man the reins.”
Camille paused and turned her head one way and then the other before continuing along the path. “There is so logical explanation for guilt, you understand. When something tragic occurs, I believe every survivor looks for some fault within himself in an effort to make sense of what has happened and how it might have been prevented. Mr. Mandeville perhaps wished he was in the library, ready with a bucket of water to throw on the flames. My Aunt Adelaide wishes she was visiting at the time, for she claims her cries of help could be heard for a mile at the very least. And, of course, most of the blame and subsequent guilt falls on my brother, who wishes he could somehow reverse the whole course of events.”
Claire already knew something of this, but did not want to reveal that the Brooks family tragedy was still the source of gossip in London. “But you told me he was just a boy himself!”
“That might lessen the blame but not the guilt,” Camille said, as if she had already rehearsed the sentence time and again. “I know Maxwell saw something or did something he ought not, and one of the footmen caught him. In exchange for his silence, he said Maxwell must see to the embers in the library and parlours for two weeks. But one night my father met with several men in the library until very late and my brother fell asleep in the hall before he could see to his task. The next thing he knew, the draperies were all ablaze. I am lucky he was in the hall and not in his chamber, for he was able to reach me just when my bed curtains fell on my head. I do not remember much more than that.”
“And for this Lord Wentworth is labeled a murderer?”
Camille’s step faltered but she continued to look straight ahead. “I suppose that is so. But if he was asleep in his bed that night, he would have been a victim. His chamber was completely engulfed in flames.”
“A boy should not have been responsible for disposing of the embers, no matter the reason,” Claire pronounced. Though she still did not know much about the event, she had a feeling something was more wrong than the bare facts of the tragedy.
“But that is the very nature of guilt, dear Claire. If tragedy has never glanced against you, I am not sure you can ever understand it. It works like a canker, eating away all that is good, making redemption impossible.”
“You see a good deal, my friend,” Claire said softly.
Camille laughed. “Have I not already said so?”
“What is the cure? What would heal such a wound?”
“My uncle does not know, and he is a religious man. I surely do not know, though I have done everything to reassure my brother that I am happy and blame him for nothing. But he has made me the victim of his guilt, anxious to do everything for me, unwilling to leave me, unable to let me be free.”
“Free of him?”
Camille stopped in her tracks. “We turn here, towards Middlebury.”
The road into town was somewhat better traveled and framed by small cottages on either side. Chickens and geese scattered at their approach, and once Claire had to pull Camille away from an old bloodhound sleeping on the hard soil, lest she step on the fellow.
“I never thought of it that way, but you are surely correct. My brother will not let me go,” Camille said after a while.
“Will he let you go to London?”
“I am not certain of that, but then, I am not certain I wish to go, either.”
What was the point of Mrs. Brooks’s plan, if not to have Claire deliver her niece to London society?
“And here we are, Lady Claire. If we are not standing before the posting inn in Middlebury, my boasts are surely deflated. But I am certain of it. Middlebury is not London, as you see, but it is all the world to me.”
Claire looked around her, realizing it was a very small world, indeed. Several shops exhibited finery and provisions in large windows framing open doorways, through which women and girls passed each other with cheerful greetings. Several looked curiously at Camille and her new companion and curtsied, perhaps forgetting that the object of their deference could not see them. Claire nodded on her behalf, and took her hand.
“You sense I need assistance,” Camille said. “That is very astute. I cannot be certain of the stairs in front of Mrs. Macy’s shop, and that is one of our destinations. She is a milliner, and I am in need of fresh ribbons for my bonnets.”
Claire gently urged Camille to a shop that seemed to be that of a hatmaker, though the proprietor was Miss Shaw.
“No, this does not seem right,” said Camille. “Is there not another such shop, a bit further up?”
Claire squinted into the sun, though she knew she would get wrinkles about her eyes. “Yes, I believe there is. Is there truly a need for two milliners in such a place as Middlebury?”
“Do you think us too provincial to care about fashion and style?” Camille asked, a bit irritably. It was the first time in their brief acquaintance Claire heard her so. “We manage very well here, you realize.”
Claire looked at Camille’s simple blue dress, of a style popular several years before. If she saw a lady wearing it in London, she would assume the lady had limited resources and might even be wearing a friend’s castoff. But Camille’s dress scarcely had signs of wear, and fit her perfectly. Perhaps it was not the lady who was dated, but the dressmaker.
“I see you manage very well, and Middlebury is charming. But when we are off to London, as you surely desire, we will have some new gowns made, more fitting to your rank and beauty.” Claire hoped she phrased that well, without giving any additional offense.
Camille reached up and ran the back of her hand across her brow and eyelids, silently reminding Claire of what needed no reminding. “Do you not think I would be accepted as I am?”
Now it was Claire’s turn to defend her town, for as surely as Camille knew Middlebur
y to be small and modest, Claire knew London society to be censorious and unforgiving.
“I think you will be admired everywhere you go, both for your appearance and your capabilities.”
“Faint praise, indeed,” Camille said and laughed.
Claire was relieved she was restored to good humor. “I am sure the gentlemen will be fawning over you,” she added quickly.
“As they surely do over any lady with a title and a large dowry, no matter her appearance and capabilities. What if I were to tell you that I am not interested in gentlemen or their attentions?” Camille asked coyly.
“Are you telling me that?” Claire asked, realizing her noble mission to Brookside Cottage was being deflated on every front.
“I am,” Camille said, smiling as if she had uttered the most clever witticism. Claire was unamused. “But I have not told you the answer to the riddle of why Middlebury has two milliners. Miss Shaw and Mrs. Macy are sisters, and the Misses Shaw were amiable partners in business for many years. Then Miss Lida Shaw decided to marry Mr. Macy, the blacksmith, and Miss Rose Shaw was set against it, and warned her of the dangers.”
“Is Mr. Macy a violent or cruel man?” Claire asked, thinking of her own marriage.
“I do not know, and inasmuch as Mr. Macy died within a year, I did not hear much about it. But the deed was already done, and there were already two milliners in town. And so it has stayed. Perhaps Miss Lida Shaw foresaw the dangers of separating family from one another.”
“Is that why you are not interested in gentlemen? Has Lord Wentworth asked you to remain with him throughout your life?” Claire asked, thinking she was coming to understand much that perplexed her, and desiring nothing more than having it out with Camille’s selfish brother.
“Let us visit Mrs. Macy and see if she has bright red ribbons. If I am to have a new red jacket, I must appear fashionable in all ways,” Camille said, not answering the immediate question, but seeming to address one equally compelling.
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