Avery, the Duke of Netherby, was not strictly speaking a member of their family—of Papa’s family, that was. Aunt Louise, Papa’s sister, had married Avery’s father, and they had had Jessica, an undoubted first cousin. Abigail and Jessica, who was one year younger than she, had always been the closest of friends and still wrote frequently to each other. She was not Abby’s only correspondent, however. Letters flowed into the house in a steady stream, addressed to both of them. Once upon a time, in another lifetime, reading letters and replying to them at some length had been a regular part of Camille’s day, as it was for any genteel lady. Now she read the letters but replied to none.
Her mother wrote of how busy she was at the vicarage, where she lived with Uncle Michael, and at the church and in the village. Her letters were full of cheerful news of a full, happy life. Camille could not bear to answer in a similar vein. Consequently she merely sent her love through Abby.
The rare letters from their brother were disappointingly short—but what was one to expect of a man, and a young one at that? They consisted of cheerful news of marching with his regiment all over Portugal and even into Spain, seeking out the elusive French while the elusive French sought them out. It really was a splendid game and a great lark. He was surrounded by loyal, amusing friends and colleagues and was having the time of his life. He was already next in line for promotion from ensign to lieutenant, and did not doubt it would happen before autumn, though he had to wait for a suitable vacancy.
Camille knew that officers acquired promotions far more quickly if they could afford to purchase them. Harry could not. She knew too how vacancies came about, and her stomach churned. Someone would have to die before Harry could be a lieutenant. Several someones, in fact, since the first to fill any vacancies were those who could purchase them. If Harry was close to being promoted anyway, men were dying in significant numbers. And that meant that at least occasionally the regiment caught up with the French, or the French caught up with it. And at least occasionally there were skirmishes, even pitched battles. Yet it was all such a lark, like a picnic. Camille could not bear to answer in the same light tone. She had Abby send her love.
And there were all the letters of which her grandmother had just reminded her from people who used to be her family and still were in a strictly technical sense. They were her father’s family, including the Dowager Countess of Riverdale, Papa’s mother; and Aunt Matilda, his unmarried sister. The dowager always seemed to Camille to be in robust health, though Aunt Matilda chose to believe otherwise and sometimes seemed determined to fuss and worry her into an early grave. Then there was Aunt Louise, the Dowager Duchess of Netherby, who liked to set herself up as family leader, though she was the middle of three sisters. And Cousin Jessica, her daughter, Abby’s particular friend, Avery’s half sister. And there had been letters from Aunt Mildred, the youngest of Papa’s sisters, and Uncle Thomas—Lord and Lady Molenor. The only relatives who did not write, in fact, were their three sons, all of whom were still at school and wrote to no one except, apparently, their papa when they needed more money. All the others wrote with unrelenting cheerfulness of happy lives.
Even Cousin Alexander, the new Earl of Riverdale, had written one brief letter of courteous pleasantries and polite inquiry into their health and happiness. He had signed the letter merely Cousin Alexander, with no mention of the title that Harry had so recently lost to him. His mother, Cousin Althea Westcott, and his sister, Cousin Elizabeth, the widowed Lady Overfield, had also written kindly and cheerfully about nothing in particular.
Everyone wrote cheerfully. Nobody wrote any significant truth. As though denial could eliminate reality. As though tiptoeing about a disaster would leave it forever undisturbed. Camille sensed a great embarrassment in her erstwhile family. Not hostility or rejection, but just . . . awkwardness. She answered none of the letters. She sent her regards with Abby.
There were no letters from anyone outside the family. None from any of the myriad ladies who had once been her friends.
And none from Viscount Uxbury. Now, there was a surprise.
Abigail had abandoned her cushion and gone to stand at the window, looking out. The silence had stretched for rather a long time, Camille realized. Her sister had asked her why she was so fascinated with the place where Anastasia had grown up.
“I do not know, Abby,” she said with a sigh. “I suppose there are various ways of coping with the sort of change our lives have undergone in the last few months. One can accept and move forward, trying to keep one’s new life as similar to the old as it can possibly be. One can deny reality and carry on regardless. One can hide away and close one’s mind to what has happened—which is what I have been doing until today. Or one can step out and explore the new reality, try to make sense of it, try to begin life again almost as though one had just been newly born, try to . . . Ah, I do not know how else to explain it. I only know that if I am not to go mad, I must do something. And somehow that involves going right back to the beginning or farther back than the beginning to what happened before I was even born. Why did he do it, Abby? Why did he marry Mama when he was already married to someone else?”
Abigail had turned from the window and was regarding her sister with troubled eyes. She offered no answer.
“But of course, it is obvious,” Camille said. “In those days he was extravagant and impecunious and our grandfather was still alive and had cut off his funds but promised to restore them if he married advantageously. And Grandpapa Kingsley was eager to marry Mama to a future earl and offered a dowry with her hand that was irresistible. I suppose Papa must have faced a nasty dilemma when his first wife, his real wife, died and left him with Anastasia. What he did was heinous for everyone concerned, including the as-yet unborn—us. Had he admitted the truth then, perhaps he could have remarried Mama and they could have brought his daughter up as their own and we too would have been born within wedlock. How different all our lives would be now if he had only done that. Why did he not?”