When several of the children asked her what they were going to knit now that the purple rope was completed, she suggested a baby blanket made of squares, and, after a visit to Miss Ford’s office, she went off to the wool shop with one boy and two girls to purchase supplies. Winifred, who was inevitably one of them, informed her she included Miss Westcott in her nightly prayers because she was a good and caring person.
The child was getting on Camille’s nerves with her everlasting righteousness. She was not exactly unpopular with the other children, though she had no particular friend. But Camille had been somewhat horrified to recognize something of herself in the girl, and she wondered why she was as she was. Was she trying to be very good, even perfect, so that someone would love her? And having the opposite effect upon people than she hoped for? The thought somehow hurt Camille’s heart.
She did a thousand and one other things during the course of the day, including one quiet half hour of reading in her room, during which time she did not turn a single page. She wrote to Abby, remembered that she would be seeing her this evening, and tore the letter up.
And all through her busy, restless day, her mind was plagued by two things. Yesterday—she tried not to let her thoughts stray beyond that one word. And tonight. She had not seen most of her father’s family since that disastrous day that had changed her life forever. She dreaded seeing them again. Yet all day she resisted the temptation to hurry up to the Royal Crescent to choose something more elegant to wear than anything she had with her in her room—and to beg her grandmother’s personal maid to dress her hair becomingly.
Her heart was pounding by a little before seven o’clock, when she was ushered into the private dining room at the Royal York Hotel, for which reason she held herself stiffly erect, her chin raised, her features schooled into a mask of gentility. The room was already full of people, most of whom got to their feet and greeted her with hearty enthusiasm. But Camille saw only one of them.
“Camille.” Her mother was hurrying toward her, both hands outstretched.
“Mother!” There was a moment when they might have hugged each other, but her mother’s arms were stretched to the front rather than to the sides and they clasped hands instead. Rather than a joyful embrace, there was a strange awkwardness. And Camille heard the word she had used—Mother—as though there were an echo in the room. Not Mama. “You came.”
“I did,” her mother said, squeezing her hands tightly while her eyes searched Camille’s face. “It seemed like a good idea to see my daughters again and celebrate your grandmama’s birthday at the same time. I arrived this afternoon.”
“Can you believe it?” Abigail, eyes shining with happiness, hugged Camille. “I was never more surprised in my life.”
But Camille had no chance to respond except to hug her sister in return. Others were crowding about and telling her how well she looked and how delighted they were to see her, and everyone was hearty and smiling and probably as uncomfortable as Camille.
Aunt Mildred and Uncle Thomas—Lord and Lady Molenor—had arrived earlier in the day. They were a placid, good-natured couple, except when their boys got into one of their not-infrequent scrapes, and showed no outward sign of fatigue after the long journey from the north of England. They soon appropriated Camille’s mother and sat conversing with her. Aunt Mildred was holding her hand, Camille could see. The former sisters-in-law had once enjoyed a close friendship. Aunt Louise, the Dowager Duchess of Netherby, and Cousin Jessica, her daughter, had been here since the day before yesterday, having left Morland Abbey at the same time as Avery and Anastasia and the latter’s grandparents. Jessica and Abigail were soon sitting happily next to each other, their heads nearly touching as they talked. It looked quite like old times.
And oh, it was good to see them all again, Camille thought. Despite everything, they were family.
Cousin Althea had arrived yesterday morning with Alexander, the Earl of Riverdale, her son, and Cousin Elizabeth, Lady Overfield, her daughter. Aunt Louise and Cousin Elizabeth, Anastasia and Avery settled into conversation with one another while Alexander drew out a chair from the table for Camille, though dinner was apparently not to be served for another fifteen or twenty minutes yet.
“I hope,” he said as he seated himself beside her, “you do not bear any lasting grudge against me, Camille.”
“Why should I?” she asked him, though the answer was, of course, obvious.
“I took the title away from Harry,” he said.
“No,” she assured him, “you did no such thing. My father did that when he wed Mama while he was still married to Anastasia’s mother. Nothing that has happened was your fault, Alexander.”
“You must know,” he said, “that I never, ever coveted the title and looked forward to the day when young Harry married and produced a dozen sons and removed me far from the awkward position of being the heir. I wish a simple refusal could have solved everything.” His smile was a bit rueful.
Cousin Alexander was an extremely handsome man, and tall and dark too—the three requirements for the quintessential prince of fairy tales. He was also a thoroughly likable person. Perhaps it was that fact that had stopped Camille from resenting him as she had Anastasia, who was equally blameless. Not that she had ever given her half sister the opportunity to be likable or not.
“Even if I could have refused the title, though,” he said, “it would not have remained with Harry. I understand he was wounded in the Peninsula but is making a swift recovery?”