Someone to Hold

“It did not occur to me,” Joel said, “that he would not take me at my word.”

“Joel,” Camille said, “I am so sorry.”

Avery’s quizzing glass swung in her direction, all the way to his eye this time. “Extraordinary,” he said. “It must run in the family. You refused a share of your father’s fortune a few months ago, Camille, as did Harry and Abigail; Anna would have refused the whole of it if she had been able; now you are commiserating with this poor man because he has just inherited a fortune. It is enough to make me quite rejoice that no Westcott blood runs in my veins—though some will in my children’s veins, I recall.”

“I beg your pardon,” Joel said again. “Had I seen you, Netherby, I would not have blurted my news as I did.”

“And I have the distinct impression that my continued presence here as my stepcousin’s escort would be decidedly de trop,” Avery said. “I shall assume she has been delivered safely home and take myself off.” He proceeded to do just that without another word, returning the way they had come.

“It must seem peculiar,” Joel said, frowning after him, “that I did not even notice he was with you.”

“I am flattered,” Camille told him. “Avery usually draws all eyes wherever he goes. It is that extraordinary sense of presence he has cultivated. Everyone else might as well be invisible. But that’s not what’s important now. Joel, how do you know about the will?”

“Those three kinsmen of my great-uncle’s have insisted that the will be read tomorrow morning,” he told her, “even before the funeral on Tuesday. But he left specific instructions that his solicitor seek me out beforehand and inform me privately of the contents of the will rather than summon me to the official reading. Perhaps he hoped to spare me any unpleasantness my presence might arouse.”

“One could only wish,” Camille said, “that my father’s solicitor had exercised similar discretion.”

“Mr. Crabtree—my great-uncle’s solicitor, that is—came to my rooms this afternoon,” Joel told her, “even though it is Sunday.”

“So the other three will not know until tomorrow morning,” she said.

“No.” He frowned. “I do not imagine they will be thrilled. But Crabtree assured me that if they try to contest the will, they will not succeed.”

“I do wish I could be hidden somewhere in that room tomorrow,” she said, “as Anastasia was hidden in the branches of a tree in Hyde Park on the morning of the duel. I wish I could see Viscount Uxbury’s face when the will is read. Are you very unhappy about inheriting?”

He hesitated for a few moments. “I am almost ashamed to admit it,” he said, “but I do not believe I am.”

Anastasia grew up at this orphanage, Camille thought, glancing ahead at it, and had recently discovered that she was sole heiress to great wealth. Joel grew up here and had just discovered that he was sole heir to a fortune. What were the odds? They must be millions to one—perhaps billions. Or perhaps not. It was, after all, an orphanage at which a number of the children were supported by rich benefactors, mothers, fathers, or other relatives. It had happened, anyway. She, on the other hand, had gone in quite the opposite direction. But she was not about to sink into self-pity.

“Then I am happy for you,” she said, even as she realized that everything would change now, that she was probably about to lose this newfound friend whom she had only just begun to think of as such.

His eyes searched her face. “It has turned into a lovely day after all,” he said, glancing upward at blue sky, from which all the morning’s clouds had disappeared. “Shall we go for a walk? Or have you walked enough already? You have just come from the Royal Crescent, I suppose. But . . . along by the river? It is not far and there are some seats there.”

“Very well,” she said, and they made their way past the orphanage. But instead of crossing the Pulteney Bridge when they came to it, they turned down onto the footpath to stroll beside the river, past the weir, which was like a great arrowhead across much of its width, in the direction of Bath Abbey. The sun sparkled off the water and beamed warmly down upon them. A few ducks bobbed on the surface of the river. Children darted and whooped along the path, their accompanying adults coming along behind them at a more sedate pace. A couple of children on the other side were pulling a toy boat on a string parallel to the bank. Two elderly men occupied the first seat they passed. One of them was tossing bread crumbs to the ducks. A middle-aged couple vacated the next seat just before they reached it, and they sat down.

“You really are quite happy with what has happened, then?” Camille asked, almost the first words either of them had spoken since they had started to walk.

“It is very base of me, is it not?” he said. “I rejected what I thought was an offer a few days ago because I did not want to be used as a pawn in a game of Cox-Phillips’s devising and because I abhorred the idea of allowing my affections to be bought when I would have given them freely and gladly all through my boyhood. He left everything to me anyway. I do not know why, and I never will know now. My first reaction this afternoon was horror and denial. But I must confess it was only a momentary reaction. Then reality struck me—I was rich. I am rich. At least, I believe I am. Crabtree could not tell me how large the fortune is, but he assured me it is sizable, and it includes that mansion on the hill and even a house in London. How could anyone resist a fortune when it is thrust upon him? I keep thinking of how it might change my life—of how it will change my life.” ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">