Someone to Hold

“Can I be beautiful?” Winifred asked.

“Yes, of course,” Camille said. And perhaps even pretty in time, with an elfin, dainty sort of look. “You are already well on the way.”

“Would I be Winifred Cunningham?” the child asked.

“I believe we would like that,” Camille told her, “though the choice would be yours. Hamlin may seem too much a part of your identity to be abandoned.”

“Winifred Cunningham,” the girl whispered. “Would I call you Mama?”

“I would like that above all things,” Camille said—though she was only thirteen years older. “Do you wish to think about it, Winifred? It is a huge decision for you and I do not want to press anything upon you that you may regret later. I do want you to know, however, that you will be loved regardless.”

“I do not need time.” Winifred was back to clasping her hands very tightly in her lap, and Camille withdrew her own. “When I heard you were going to marry Mr. Cunningham and leave here so soon after Miss Snow left and married the Duke of Netherby, I cried a bit and prayed for the strength to be glad for you. But I could not feel quite glad. It was selfish of me, but I am being rewarded anyway. Miss Westcott . . . I am going to have a mama and a papa? And a sister? I am going to be Winifred Cunningham, part of the Cunningham family?”

“And the Duke and Duchess of Netherby will be your aunt and uncle,” Camille said. “And there are others too.”

Winifred’s face looked even more pasty, if anything.

“Would you like to be held?” Camille asked her. “Would you like me to hug you?”

The child nodded and squirmed into Camille’s arms and clung tightly. She ended up somehow on Camille’s lap, all gangly legs and thin body and urgent arms. Camille kissed the very white, very straight parting along the top of her head and rested her cheek there. She would do what her father had never done, she thought, closing her eyes. And because he had been the loser in his inability to love or accept love, she forgave him for all the pain he had caused her and loved him anyway.

* * *

Joel was familiar with Bath Abbey, inside and out. He had always admired its beauty and studied its architecture and intricate decoration with great attention and awe. He had wandered inside, and had often sat there for long minutes, absorbing the atmosphere of peace and exaltation he had not felt anywhere else, even in other churches. He had been to a few services there, but had always sat as close to the back as possible, more an observer than a participant.

In his wildest imaginings he could not have pictured himself being married there, the pews almost filled with people both humble and fashionable who had come to witness the event and share his joy and his bride’s. Several rows were occupied by children close to bursting with excitement but on their best behavior under the eagle eyes of Miss Ford and their housemothers and the new teacher. Even so, a few of them bounced in their seats and waggled their fingers at Joel and smiled broadly at him as he walked to the front with Martin Silver, his best man, to take his seat and await the arrival of his bride.

Winifred and Sarah, in crisp new dresses, sat on the other side of the aisle from him, Sarah on Abigail’s lap, sucking on two fingers and looking as if she was about to fall asleep, though she did remove the fingers and beam a wide smile at Joel when she saw him. Winifred, her braids wound in a coronet about the crown of her head, gazed at him with wide eyes and looked taut with anxiety. He felt a bit the same himself and winked at her before sitting down.

He thought with longing of his faithful old coat and boots and the old cravats, which had never been starched to death as this one had been. Everything had changed since he had put himself under the care of Mr. Orville, his great-uncle’s erstwhile valet, now his own. He might never know comfort in his clothes ever again unless he learned to put his foot down, something he was finding virtually impossible under the fond, reproving eyes of the professional gentleman’s gentleman. He had to admit, though, that the smart young gentleman who frowned back at him from the looking glass these days looked really quite dashing. Today, he thought with an inner grimace of discomfort, he appeared nothing short of magnificent. And he could check that impression anytime he wished by gazing down into the high gloss of his new Hessian boots. He carefully did not look down.

“She is here,” Marvin murmured to him, leaning a little closer, and sure enough the two clergymen—one was the Reverend Michael Kingsley, Camille’s uncle—both magnificent in clerical robes, had arrived at the front, the congregation was rising, and the organ was launching into something solemn and thrilling. Joel stood and turned.

She was approaching along the nave on the arm of the Earl of Riverdale. She was dressed with simple elegance in an ivory-colored dress and a small-brimmed straw bonnet with flowers about the crown. As she drew closer Joel could see that the bodice and hem of her dress were encrusted with pearls. She wore slippers and gloves of dull gold. In truth, though, he did not spare much attention for her appearance. He saw only Camille. She was wearing none of her recognizable personas today. Today she was without masks, without defenses, or so it appeared to him. Today she was simply herself. Today she was a bride, his bride. Her eyes singled him out and focused upon him as she approached, and she smiled.

Someone must have lit a dozen candelabra overhead. The fanciful thought banished his terror, and he smiled back at her. He was in Bath Abbey, surrounded by people of great importance and people who were simply important to him. His daughters were across the aisle from him and his bride was almost at his side, and there really were no words . . .