He was leaning forward on the seat, his forearms resting on his thighs, his hands dangling between, gazing at the river, his expression intent. Camille could sense his leashed excitement and felt somehow chilled despite the heat of the sun. Yes, his life would change, and he would change. There was no doubt about it.
“I could live in that house if I chose,” he said, “with servants. And with a carriage of my own. I could go to London. I have a house there, though it is leased at the moment. London. I could see it at last. I could go to Wales or Scotland. I could go to Wales and Scotland, and all over the world. I could cut back on portrait painting and paint more landscapes just for myself.”
“You could buy yourself a new coat and new boots,” she said.
He turned his head sharply toward her as though he had just remembered she was there. “You resisted a fortune,” he said. “Or one quarter of a fortune at least. How did you do it, Camille, when the alternative was penury?”
It would not really have been taking charity, would it? Her father had made a will after Anastasia’s birth but had neglected to make another during the twenty-five years that followed. He had always acted as though they were his legitimate family, Mama and she and Harry and Abby, though he had never displayed any real love for any of them. Perhaps he had come to believe it. Surely he had intended to see them well provided for. Perhaps he had forgotten the earlier will. Or perhaps he had always meant to make another but had never got around to doing it. Or . . . perhaps he had deliberately enjoyed the joke of what was bound to happen after his death. Who knew? But surely Anastasia was being fair, not merely charitable, in her belief that the four of them should share the part of his property and fortune that was not entailed. They might have accepted without feeling unduly beholden to her.
“I was not the only one concerned, you see,” she said. “Harry lost far more than I. He was the Earl of Riverdale, Joel. He was fabulously wealthy. He had been brought up to just the sort of life he had begun to live. He would have lived up to his responsibilities even though he was still sowing some rather wild oats. Everything, the very foundation of his life, was snatched away. And my mother lost far more than we did. She had married well and fulfilled her duties as countess and wife and mother for more than twenty years before everything, even her name, was taken away. And, quite unfairly, she had to bear the guilt of having given birth to three illegitimate children. She was left with nothing, though she did tell us today that the dowry my grandfather gave my father when she married has been returned with all the interest it has accrued. She will be able to live independently, though modestly, after all. I suspect it was Anastasia rather than her solicitor who thought of that way of helping us. Even Abby lost more than I. She was to make her come-out in society next spring with all the bright prospects that would have offered for her future. Instead she has had her youth taken from her and all her hopes.”
“Hope is something that lights her eyes from within,” he told her. “She has not given it up, Camille. Perhaps she is fortunate to be so young. She will adjust her hopes to her circumstances. And youth has not been taken from her. She exudes youthfulness.”
He was looking very directly at her, his head turned back over his shoulder. She was going to miss him, she thought, and berated herself for having allowed herself to become attached to him in so short a time. Was she that needy? Of course, there was the complication that she had lain with him and that she had enjoyed the experience and that he was powerfully attractive.
“You are an incredibly strong person, Camille,” he said. “But sometimes you build a wall about yourself. You are doing it now. Is that the only way you can hold yourself together?”
She was about to utter an angry retort. But she was feeling weary. Her feet were sore. “Yes,” she said.
His eyes continued to search her face. “Yet behind the wall,” he said, “you are amazingly tenderhearted. And loyal hearted.”
A little boy dashed past at that moment, bowling a metal hoop and making a great deal of noise. A woman—his governess? his mother?—called to him from some distance behind to slow down.
Camille felt a bit like crying. It was becoming an increasingly familiar feeling, as though the tears she had not shed from the age of seven until a week or so ago were determined to make up for lost time.
Joel sat back so that his shoulder was touching hers, and looked out toward the river. “Or,” he said, “I could sell the houses, invest all the money somewhere, and forget about it. Would it be possible? Would it always be there, beckoning and tempting me? Or I could give it all away. But would I then forever regret having done so? What do you think, Camille? Do you ever regret having said no?”
Did she? She had never allowed herself to think about it. But the thought had seeped in anyway, specifically the realization that she had turned her back on more than just the money. She would not easily forget that fleeting look of yearning on Anastasia’s face earlier when Camille had congratulated her on being with child. And she would not forget Avery’s scold as they walked down the hill on the way home—and that was what it had been. And she would not forget Alexander’s suggestion that she allow herself to be loved. Was that what the money meant to Anastasia? Love? Was that what she, Camille, had rejected?
Joel turned his head again when she did not immediately answer. Their faces were very close—uncomfortably close. His eyes looked intensely dark beneath the brim of his hat. “An honest answer?” he said.