Ha. Benedict never got in trouble, not the way she did. Not even when he was deeply at fault. It wasn’t fair that only men were put to studying law; men were never held accountable for practically anything they did. It was always Theresa, why did you and Theresa, what is going on?
“Think on it, Benedict,” Theresa said. “You would enjoy being an investigator. Very little sitting around in an office reading boring pages. A great deal of talking to people and walking about and looking at clues and such.”
Benedict’s nose wrinkled.
“Besides, who better to find Camilla than family? Nobody knows her the way we do.”
“I was five when she left,” Benedict offered. “I don’t remember her at all.”
Theresa had been six, and she scarcely remembered Camilla, either, but there was no point in admitting to a weakness.
“Dream large or don’t dream at all,” Theresa said with a toss of her head. “Besides, think of what it would mean to Judith. Nothing means more to her than family. Finding Anthony is…not an option.” She wasn’t going to think of Anthony. “Neither of us remember Camilla the way Judith does. We were both too young. But I can understand the pain of losing a well-loved sister. I lost a sister I loved once.”
“Your sister was not real,” Benedict put in. “You invented her when you were three. She did not exist.”
“Insubordination,” Theresa snapped. “What is experience and memory, if not a product of the mind? The fact that my sister may have been imaginary does not make her loss any less painful.”
Benedict just stared at her.
“In fact, it makes it a hundred times worse for me than Judith,” Theresa tossed off. “At least her sister might someday be recovered. Mine is lost forever.”
Benedict let out a sigh and sat on the divan. “I’m guessing you have a plan.”
“However did you know?”
He didn’t say anything. Instead, he reached his hand under the cushion where she’d stashed her misadventure in embroidery. He withdrew it and squinted at her scene.
“Let’s assume Camilla is alive,” Theresa said. “It may not be true, but it would be a horrid present if she’s dead. If she still lives, then the following must be true. First, she is not reading the newspapers. If she were, she would have seen one of the advertisements Judith and Christian have taken out.”
Benedict nodded. “Also, she cannot be using her maiden name—or someone else would have seen the advertisements and sent word in. Perhaps she is married?”
“Good!” Theresa grinned at her brother. “You are good at this.”
He flushed in pleasure. “That would make her difficult to find. How do you reach the unreachable, General Worth?”
Theresa couldn’t remember precisely when she’d made her younger brother into her personal, private army, or how she’d become general of it. But it helped to have someone relying on her, someone who didn’t judge her for her terrible embroidery.
If she’d been left to her own devices, she wouldn’t have felt any need to deliver. But the sheer pressure of being called General Worth made her think that she had something to offer. She was going to… She was going to…
Yes! She had it. Or at least, she knew where to start.
Theresa met her brother’s eyes. “As it turns out,” she said, “I have an idea about that.”
* * *
“Well,” Adrian said, as the barouche pulled up in front of a two-story building. The sun was hanging low on the horizon, lighting the windows in orange. “We’re here. The family country cottage.”
It had only been this morning when Camilla met with the groundskeeper. In the intervening hours, they’d changed trains twice before arriving at the station in Bristol. They’d been met there by a Mr. Singh, an Indian gentleman who had greeted Adrian with a handshake and brought him out to the waiting conveyance. The weather had been fine enough that the top had been left down.
Adrian had taken the seat closest to the driver, leaving Camilla to face forward. They’d wound their way out of Bristol proper into the countryside.
Her whole body ached; she’d been swaying back and forth all day. She was glad to have arrived.
Still…
“Cottage,” Camilla said weakly, looking at the edifice that stood before her. The word ‘cottage’ made her think of a cozy little space, maybe three rooms large. Not this monstrosity of gray stones and thatched roofs set on acres of land. Not so far off, a blue thread of a river wound down and about; a more modern building stood near the banks, all red brick with chimneys pointing to the sky. A faint clatter could be heard even from here.
“Right,” Adrian told her. “That’s the china-works; the whistle should be sounding soon for the end of the day, and then it will quiet down a bit. My family owns it. I do some work there sometimes.”
Beside him, Mr. Singh, his hands full of luggage, made a little noise of protest.
“A little work,” Adrian said. “Sometimes.”
“He is completely in charge of the design process, the sales, the advertisements, and the exhibitions,” Mr. Singh said. “He fools himself. Don’t let him fool you.”
Camilla cast Adrian an inquiring glance.
“The property’s been in the family for almost a century.”
Camilla wasn’t entirely sure what to say to that. “Your…mother’s family?”
“My father’s. It comes…from uncle Henry? My brother is named for him.”
“I thought your brother’s name was Grayson.”
Adrian’s smile froze. “Ah. I mean…my brother was named for him. Henry passed away. Not uncle Henry—he’s really great-great uncle Henry—and technically not an uncle. But an uncle.”
“I…see.” She didn’t.
Adrian turned away from her. “Enough of my family. The china-works was built maybe thirty years ago by my uncles John and Henry. They really started the family enterprise.”
“The family being you and your brother and…?”
“Far more complicated than that. It starts with John and Henry. Henry was my great-great-uncle John’s business partner. He inherited this land from his aunt. They had thought first to sell it off, but…” He trailed off. “But you don’t need to hear my family history, do you?”
She wanted to hear it all. She could listen to him speak for hours. But she was trying not to betray her stupid, stupid heart. Camilla just smiled. “Don’t worry, tell me all you wish.”
“I will. First things first. This is Mrs. Singh. She and her husband keep the cottage.”
The woman who had come out to greet them took a step forward, waving her hand. She was heavy and blond, and she smiled brightly. “Mr. Hunter. We’re so glad you’ve returned. Was your business successful? Mr. Alabi has been ranting about your absence for weeks.”
“Mr. Alabi is an artist,” Adrian said in an aside to Camilla. “He is very much an artist. Outsized personality and all.”
“Don’t let him fool you; so is our Adrian,” Mrs. Singh said, and Camilla felt dizzy when Adrian ducked his head almost shyly. How had she not known that about him? How had she not known any of this?
“Mrs. Singh, this is Camilla Winters. I am sorry to have to condense so much history into so little space, but…” Adrian glanced at Camilla, and she gave him a nod to proceed. “To make a very long story short, I was doing Bishop Denmore a favor. Things went awry, and Camilla and I were forced to marry one another at gunpoint.”
Camilla winced at this bare recital of the last week.
But Adrian sounded positively cheery. “She’s had quite a time of it. We’re not married. Neither of us consented, and we are in the process of perfecting a petition to have that marriage annulled. I would count it a particular favor if you could take care of Miss Camilla for me, Mrs. Singh.”
“And what does Captain Hunter think of that?”
“Nothing,” Adrian said with a grimace. “Please, God, let him not be aware of any of this at all. Is Mr. Alabi in the study?”
“Then I’d better see him.”
Confident, she thought, watching him stride away. That’s what he was—he was confident in a way she’d not yet seen him be. It was as if the moment he set foot on his own territory, with his own people, he grew an extra inch.
She watched him go almost wistfully.
If only she had that sort of confidence…
“Come, Miss,” Mrs. Singh was saying. “You’ve been traveling. You’ll want to wash and have something to eat, won’t you?” Camilla couldn’t quite place her accent. Nothing English.
Camilla swallowed, then nodded. “Yes, please. I would be so grateful.”
The woman just smiled. “Well, you have nice manners, don’t you? I could never be so polite, not if I’d been through such an ordeal. Why, when I first came from Russia…”
She chattered on, as if recognizing that Camilla was too shocked to speak, nicely filling the silence until she brought Camilla up to a room.
“I’ll be back in thirty minutes, then, to show you where we’ll be dining tonight. You must be starving.”
“Oh, food.” Camilla smiled wistfully at the thought. “I will love you forever,” she promised.
The door shut; she was left alone. She set her things down on a chair.
Adrian had put on confidence as if it were a coat from the moment he arrived. She wished she could do that, too. If she were confident like Adrian, then…
No. She squeezed her eyes shut. No looking back.
She took off her gown; it was dusty from travel. There was a basin and a washcloth; the water slowly turned brown as she rinsed her face.
She had stayed in dozens of rooms over the years—some for months, some for weeks. This was another room just like those. It was larger, though. More room for her hopes.
Every time she had moved, she had let herself love, reaching out despite every one of her last failures—yearning for connections with grandmothers, daughters, women who could have been her sisters, men.
Look forward, Camilla thought. She had been thinking it all day, and every time it happened, she remembered Adrian telling her that sometimes, looking back meant lemon tarts. Camilla was exhausted; she had been weary since she spoke to Mr. Graves that morning. Look forward, she thought, trying to banish the image—but Adrian had been right. She’d been running headlong into the future for so long that she felt off balance.
She’d yearned and yearned and yearned, and she’d never looked back. But if she didn’t learn now, once Adrian left her, she couldn’t allow herself to remember him. Not his smile, not his kindness. She’d have to leave behind all memory of a time when she was happy.
She didn’t want that. Camilla knew herself well enough to know that the love she felt now was the love she always gave—easily earned, tossed at anyone who paid her attention. It didn’t mean anything that she yearned for him. It was just Camilla being Camilla.
It didn’t mean anything that she liked him. It meant everything that he liked her.
Camilla drew in a deep breath.
She opened her valise and there, sitting on top, was that half-scarf she never had finished and her crochet hook. For a second, she thought of the time when she’d learned to crochet. Adrian was right; she would have to look back.
But… Not today. It didn’t need to be today.
She set aside the crochet hook and found one of her new gowns instead. It was serviceable, made of thick cloth, and it fit her as well as could be expected for ready-made clothing. She had thrown her whole heart into love as if she were fishing, tossing her hook out into waters and hoping for a bite. Again and again.
After the storm of this morning, she felt almost calm.
She was contemplating the day, lacing up a clean gown, when there was a knock on the door.
“Ready?” Mrs. Singh’s tones were muted through the door.
She was ready.
In the dining room, a sideboard contained a feast—roast chicken and turnips and greens and oranges. How long had it been since Camilla had an orange?
“We don’t stand much on ceremony,” Mrs. Singh told her. “I hope you don’t mind. Fix yourself a plate.”
“Of course I don’t mind.”
“Good—I’ve given up on these two lunks.”
These two lunks were Adrian and another man. They sat at the table, engrossed in the work before them—the table was filled with dozens of papers, each decorated with patterns. Some were colorful, vibrant reds and golds and greens in stripes on one square, vermilion chevrons on another. Next to those was an interlocking design of green and pink cranes.
“Gentlemen.” Mrs. Singh spoke loudly. “Dinner is served.”
The men looked up.
Adrian blinked. His eyes focused on Camilla; he looked back at the table, then at Mrs. Singh.
“Oh.” He blinked again, then shook his head. “Oh. The time. I had not noticed it at all. My apologies.” He pushed a few squares to the side, making scant room. “We didn’t mean to take up the whole table—we just didn’t notice.”
“Oh.” Mrs. Singh rolled her eyes affectionately. “To be sure.”
“Before I forget.” Adrian gestured at the man to his right. Like Adrian, the other man was black. His skin was darker than Adrian’s, a rich, deep brown. He looked up at Camilla, then over at Adrian. His lip quirked up.
“Could have been worse,” he remarked.
Camilla had no idea what that meant.
Adrian apparently did. He made a face, but pretended nothing had happened. “Camilla, this is Mr. Alabi. He’s our lead artist.”
“Pleased to meet you,” she said.
The plates set out for dinner were a riotous mix of mismatched color. The one Camilla picked up depicted a tree in blossom. The nearest flowers were limned in gold, but the entire thing was marred by an inexplicable red slash.
“Ah,” said Mr. Alabi. “You’ve noticed.”
Camilla looked up. “What have I noticed?”
“The plates,” he said. “After the underglaze, all the plates we produce at Harvil are hand-painted. The rejects get used here. That one’s not the best.”
“Oh?”
“Where’s the one with the two-headed peacock?”
“In London,” Adrian said, turning to Camilla. He served her lamb and potatoes and peas, covering up the tree. “I just hate wasting anything, is all.”
They settled around the table with their food.
“Is there anything I can get for you?” Adrian asked as he took a bite of lamb. “I’ll be busy the next few days.”
Camilla glanced at the designs. She wanted to ask more about them—where they came from, who painted them by hand. “I want something to do. Idleness doesn’t suit me.”
Adrian glanced at Mrs. Singh, then over at Mr. Alabi. “Of course. But—”
“We could use her,” Mr. Alabi said, “For the test audience. We don’t have enough white people here in any event.”
Camilla’s eyes widened. “What’s involved in that?”
“It’s not hard,” he told her. “We show you china designs. We get your reaction. We refine our designs.”
“But you don’t know if I have any taste.”
Mr. Alabi shrugged. “Most white people don’t, and yet they still buy china. That’s why your input is invaluable.”
Adrian let out a snorting laugh, and Camilla found herself smiling alongside them. “That will be nice. Is there not anything else I could do?”
“You’ve been traveling all day,” Adrian said. “Have a rest. Don’t worry about anything; I’ll finish the questions for Mrs. Martin’s affidavit when I’ve returned tonight. It’s just one more thing to do, after all. One more thing can’t hurt.”
He’d been traveling all day, too, and he was leaving to go do more work. Once he was finished, he’d do more work still.
“But—” she started to protest, and then realized that demanding that he help her figure out
how to spend her time would only be more of a burden. She subsided.
“But?”
“But I hope you have a productive time,” she told him. “Best of luck.”
Chapter Fourteen
It felt only natural to assist Mrs. Singh in clearing the table. If the woman thought anything of it, she didn’t say. But she accepted the help, and afterward, the two of them made tea.
“It sounds,” Mrs. Singh finally said, as she drew two chairs close to the small table, “that you’ve had quite the time of it recently.”
Camilla shut her eyes. God. A week ago, she had not suspected what awaited her. “You could say that.” She shrugged. “I try not to complain.”
“Well. That makes you one of a kind.”
“Oh. I want to complain sometimes. I have just never found it to do any good.”
“Then you aren’t doing it right,” Mrs. Singh said briskly. “You need a sympathetic ear and a real conversation. Sometimes the only way to find the route forward is to grumble about all the paths that have closed.”
Camilla looked up at the woman. That lift of hope she felt was familiar—too familiar. For a second, a warm little fantasy filled her heart. They would talk, share secrets, become friends…
Mrs. Singh sighed. “It will be hard for you here, then,” she said. “I’ll warn you—when it comes to Adrian, we are all more than a little protective. This world is a hard place, and for most people, it hardens them or it breaks them or it rots them.” She shook her head. “Adrian, however…”
“He has always been kind to me.”
“Kind.” Mrs. Singh sighed. “Yes—that’s him. Kind to a fault. I surely don’t know where he gets it, because it’s not as if nothing bad has ever happened to him.”
Camilla could listen to Adrian being discussed for hours. She made a sympathetic noise and leaned forward.
“There was that eternally wretched business with his uncle. His middle three brothers were killed in the American conflict. I’ve been with him in London, and I’ve watched what men say to him. It takes a certain gentleness of spirit to not be all scars after that.” Mrs. Singh looked off.
After the Wedding Page 15
