Thirteen

There was a moment when all five persons paused, startled. Then—

“I have been teaching Mr. Cunningham the steps of the waltz.”

“Miss Westcott has been teaching me to waltz.”

They spoke simultaneously before moving hastily apart, and it registered more fully upon Joel’s mind who these ladies were—two of them anyway. He had never seen the third before.

“Anna!” he exclaimed, and strode toward her, both hands outstretched. “You are here already.” He had received one of her long letters yesterday morning, and in it she informed him that she and Netherby were expecting to be in Bath by the beginning of next week for her grandmother’s birthday celebrations. But not today.

“Joel!” She met him halfway, set her hands in his, and squeezed them as tightly as he was squeezing hers. “We could see that my grandparents were suddenly homesick and decided to leave a few days earlier than planned.”

Joel’s first coherent thought was that marriage agreed with her. She was dressed with simple yet obviously expensive elegance, as the change in her status had made inevitable, but the most noticeable change since she had last stood in this room as a teacher was the glow of health and vitality she seemed to exude. Her face seemed fuller and her slight figure less thin. Yet another change was in himself. He did not feel immediately heartsick and resentful over the fact that another man must be at least partly responsible for the improvement in her looks. It was a bit of a startling realization. Was he getting over her at last, then?

Camille meanwhile was greeting the other lady, who was holding one of her hands in both her own and smiling warmly at her. She was noticeably older than both Camille and Anna, but she was elegant and had an amiable, good-looking face. He could hazard a guess at who she was since Anna had written a great deal about Cousin Elizabeth, Lady Overfield, in the early days.

“We arrived late this morning,” Anna was explaining, “after taking my grandparents home to Wensbury. We expected that we would be the first of the family to arrive, but it was not so. After luncheon we all went to call upon Mrs. Kingsley. We left Cousin Althea, Aunt Louise, and Jessica there with her and Abigail while Elizabeth and I came here to see Camille, and Avery and Alexander walked back to the hotel. Do let me make the introductions. Lizzie, this is my dear friend Joel Cunningham, who grew up here with me and teaches art here a couple of afternoons a week. Elizabeth is Lady Overfield, Joel, Alexander’s sister—he is the Earl of Riverdale, you may recall.”

He had not been mistaken, then. “You are the lady who went to live with Anna in London until she married,” he said as he shook hands with her.

“And you, Mr. Cunningham,” she said, “are the friend to whom she wrote long, long letters every day. I am delighted to meet you.”

“And I you, ma’am,” he assured her.

Miss Ford left the room quietly and closed the door after her while Joel and Lady Overfield exchanged pleasantries and Camille and Anna eyed each other. Part of his attention was on them, these half sisters who had grown up unaware of each other’s existence. Anna had been delighted to discover that she had three half siblings and had wanted to love them and share her inherited fortune with them in equal measures. But of course the situation was far less rosy from their point of view, for the discovery of her existence had come simultaneously with the knowledge of their own illegitimacy. It had stripped them of their titles and their homes and fortunes.

“Camille,” Anna said as she turned from him and Lady Overfield. Joel was aware of her hesitation over whether to stretch out her hands, as she had done to him, or to step up closer to Camille and hug her. But she hesitated too long and ended up doing neither. Poor Anna.

“Anastasia.” Camille, he was aware, was enacting one of her less appealing roles—stiff, cold, dignified lady—as she clasped her hands at her waist and inclined her head, the language of her body setting a shield about herself that firmly discouraged either a handshake or a hug. Poor Camille.

It surprised Joel that he could see both points of view, whereas until recently he had been able to see only Anna’s and had been predisposed to dislike Camille.

“Abigail wrote to Jessica and told her you had come here,” Anna said, “first to teach and then to live as well. I have been longing to come and see you here. Just now, Miss Ford has been telling Lizzie and me that she has offered you the job for at least the next twenty years and hopes you do not think she was joking.” She smiled brightly, but Joel could see the strain, the wariness she was feeling.

“I believe,” Camille said, “that is because no one else has applied for the position.”

“I believe rather,” Anna told her, still smiling, “it is because you have endeared yourself to the children with innovative and imaginative teaching.”

“It is kind of you to say so,” Camille said stiffly, and though she did not curtsy, she came dashed close to it, Joel thought. He could have shaken her—and Anna too, for while Anna was trying hard to say something kind and generous to her sister, she was coming very close to sounding condescending. Their relationship was not going to improve if they continued this way.

Lady Overfield must have had the same thought. “It is just like you, Camille,” she said, “to take on something so very challenging and to do it well. I applaud you, though you may find the rest of the family more disapproving. You were learning to waltz, Mr. Cunningham?”

“It was one dance Anna had to learn when she went to London,” he said. “I had a full account of the lessons in her letters, including your part in them, ma’am. I believe you demonstrated the dance with your brother.”

“Oh goodness, yes,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “Anna’s dancing master was ridiculously pompous. He would still be teaching her how to position herself correctly if Alex and I had not stepped in to demonstrate how it is actually done—with some enjoyment as well as a little bit of grace.”

“And if Avery had not arrived to insist I waltz with him instead of with Mr. Robertson, the dancing instructor,” Anna said. “I had not even heard of the waltz before I went to London.”

“I had never heard of it until you went to London either,” Joel said. “But Miss Westcott was teaching the children a country dance this afternoon, and after they had been dismissed I begged her to teach me the waltz. I account both her instruction and my efforts an unqualified success. I did not tread on her toes even once.”

They all laughed except Camille, who was impersonating a straight-backed, tight-lipped marble statue. Good God, if they had not been interrupted, he would have ended up kissing her—and she him if he was not very much mistaken. The air between them and all about them had been fairly crackling. Had it been noticeable? But how could it not have been?

“Avery has reserved a private dining room for the family at the Royal York Hotel,” Anna said, addressing Camille. “Grandmama and Aunt Matilda will not be here until next week, but Aunt Mildred and Uncle Thomas are probably on the way and may even arrive tomorrow. Abigail has agreed to dine with us tomorrow evening. Mrs. Kingsley unfortunately has another engagement. Will you come too, Camille? We would like it above all things.”

Camille’s demeanor did not change, but she hesitated for only a moment. “Thank you,” she said. “I will.”

“Oh splendid.” Anna looked again as though she might rush forward to take her half sister’s hands in her own, but she did not do so. Joel wondered if they would ever be comfortable with each other. Not that Camille was even trying, though she had accepted the invitation. Anna turned toward him. “And will you come too, Joel? Abigail told us that you are to paint her portrait and Camille’s and have already been to her grandmother’s house several times to make some preliminary sketches. I want to hear all your news. It must be almost two weeks since I last heard from you.”

It was to be a family dinner, Joel thought. He would be an outsider. He glanced at Camille, who was looking steadily back at him, her expression giving him no indication of whether she would welcome his presence there or resent it. But did her approval matter?

“Abigail told us something of your methods as a portrait painter, Mr. Cunningham,” Lady Overfield said. “They sound very different from the norm. I too would love to hear more. Do please come.”

“Very well,” Joel said. “Thank you.”

“Avery will send the carriage for you, Camille,” Anna said. “And there is no point in protesting, as I can see you are about to do. I would agree with you that the distance from here to the Royal York Hotel is not a great one. But he told me to inform you—did he not, Lizzie?—that he would send the carriage, and you know him well enough to understand that he will not take no for an answer. If I were to carry a refusal back to him, he would be sure to say, looking infinitely bored, that you may choose to walk if you wish, but that the carriage will be moving along beside you anyway.”

For the first time Camille’s lips quirked into what was almost a smile. “Thank you,” she said.

“Seven o’clock, then?” Anna said. “Seven o’clock, Joel?”

“I will be there,” he promised.

The ladies made their farewells soon after, and Joel strode to the door to hold it open for them.

“It has been a pleasure, Mr. Cunningham,” Lady Overfield said, extending her hand to him again as she paused in the doorway. “I shall beg Anna to seat me beside you tomorrow evening.”

Anna was at last extending her hands to Camille, who took them awkwardly. “I am so glad you will come,” Anna said. “Everyone would have been disappointed if you had not.”

Joel closed the door after them.

*   *   *

“Oh, that was uncomfortable,” Anna said with a sigh as they set out in the carriage for the Royal York Hotel on George Street. “But what do you think, Lizzie?”

“I think she must have been wearing the plainest, drabbest dress she possesses,” Elizabeth said, “that her hair was untidier than I have ever seen it, that her face is thinner than it used to be, and that she was a bit flushed and uncomfortable with our sudden appearance. I also think we interrupted a waltz lesson that was about to culminate in an embrace.”

“I was not the only one who thought so, then,” Anna said. “But really, Lizzie—Joel and Camille?”

“You think it an odd pairing?” Elizabeth asked.

“Odd does not even begin to describe it,” Anna said.

“Could you possibly be a little jealous?” Elizabeth asked. “No, pardon me. Jealous is quite the wrong word, for if anyone has ever been more totally besotted with her husband than you are with Avery, I would be surprised to hear it. Protective, then. That is a better word. Are you a little protective of him, Anna?”

“Oh, perhaps.” Anna admitted after thinking a moment. “I long to love Camille, Lizzie, but I find it so difficult to like her. Does that even make sense? Joel surely deserves better. And now I feel disloyal to my sister for saying so. No, it is not jealousy, Lizzie. I never loved Joel in that way. But I did and do love him nevertheless.”

“I do not believe anyone really likes Camille,” Elizabeth said as the carriage slowed on the uphill climb to the hotel, “except, I would hope, Abigail and probably Harry and their mother. But . . . when Miss Ford was describing her as a teacher, I could scarcely believe she was describing the Camille I know. Dancing with the children? Singing with them? Getting them to knit a purple rope? Becoming emotionally attached to an abandoned baby? Is it possible she is becoming human?”

“I have not known her for long,” Anna said unhappily. “Indeed, I have met her only a few times in all. She does not like me, and that is quite understandable. But I admire her immensely for what she is doing. It must be very difficult for her. Yet she is doing it well. Oh, Lizzie, I long to like her as well as love her. Will it ever be possible? But Camille and Joel? I cannot for the life of me see them as a couple.”

“He really is rather gorgeous, is he not?” Elizabeth said, smiling sidelong at her companion.

“Joel?” Anna looked at her in surprise.

“You grew up with him, “Elizabeth said. “To you he is a sort of brother. It took me a while to realize how devastatingly handsome Alex is in the eyes of other women. To me he was always just my tall, good-looking young brother.”

“Joel is gorgeous?” Anna frowned. “Is he really?”

“And Camille would be remarkably handsome,” Elizabeth said, “if she would not always be so intent upon looking like a prune.”

“Perhaps she is not always so,” Anna said. “She is doing well as a teacher. The children like her. I know just how demanding a job teaching is, Lizzie, and how difficult it is to earn the liking and respect of one’s pupils. They must have seen aspects of her you and I have not. And that baby lights up with joy when she sees Camille, according to Miss Ford. Perhaps Joel has seen these other sides of her too.”

“For a brief moment after Miss Ford opened the door,” Elizabeth said as they arrived at the hotel, “I did not recognize the woman as Camille.”

“Oh,” Anna said, “neither did I.”

*   *   *

Camille hastened over to the bookcase to finish straightening the books. Except that the task had already been completed and there was nothing left to do.

“I must look a fright,” she said.

“In contrast with your cousin and your sister?” he said. “That is because you have been too deeply involved in your day’s work to worry about your appearance. A look of slight dishevelment does not necessarily make a person look a fright, though.”

Slight dishevelment. His words were not reassuring. “Half sister,” she said, frowning. “Does it hurt you to see her looking so happy?”

“No,” he said. “Does it hurt you?”

Happiness—a deep sort of contentment—had surrounded Anastasia with a glow that was almost visible, and Camille did not believe it was just the acquisition of property and fortune that had caused it. Avery had had something to do with it. Whatever could she see in Avery except bored affectation? Except that he had felled Viscount Uxbury with his bare feet—in defense of her, Camille’s honor. There must be something terribly wrong with her, Camille thought, that she could neither feel nor attract love. Was it possible that her quest for perfection had somehow deadened an essential part of herself?

“No,” she said, switching the positions of two books for no other reason than that it gave her something to do. “Why should it?”

He had been going to kiss her. She had been going to kiss him back. But they had been interrupted. Now she was resentful. Or relieved. And horribly embarrassed. Why did he not just leave? He was over there by the door. All he had to do was open it and step through—and leave her to move the desks and chairs back where they belonged. She looked up at him. He was leaning back against the door, his arms crossed, staring broodingly at her.

“I cannot bring myself to look at it,” he said abruptly.

She stared blankly at him for a moment before realizing his thoughts had not been moving along the same lines as her own.

“I could not bring myself to unwrap it in the carriage yesterday. I thought I needed to be alone. But I was alone all evening and all night and this morning until I went up to the Royal Crescent to make more sketches of your sister. I did not once even glance its way. Now I cannot bear the thought of going home alone and knowing it is there and that I do not have the courage to deal with it. There must be something wrong with me.”

What if she had never known her own mother? What if now suddenly and unexpectedly she had been presented with a portrait of her, all neatly wrapped up? She would surely be all fingers and thumbs in her eagerness to tear off the wraps that kept that image from her view. Or would she? Would she too be afraid to look? To see the face she had never looked upon in real life and never would now? To see the face of a stranger she could not quite believe was her mother? To come face-to-face with the loneliness she had spent a lifetime denying? She thought of her own mother, of her resentment that she had gone, leaving her two daughters behind in Bath. But at least Mama was alive. At least Camille could bring her image to mind, complete with voice and touch and characteristic gestures and fragrance.

“Do you think there is?” he asked. “It is only a painting, after all, and probably not even a good one, if Cox-Phillips was right about my father’s talent.”

“Do you want me open the package with you?” she asked.

He did not immediately answer but continued to frown at her. “I cannot ask it of you,” he said.

But he had not said no. He wanted her—no, he needed to have her with him. She was a bit shaken by the rush of . . . joy she felt. When had anyone ever needed her?

“You did not ask,” she said. “I offered.”

“Then yes,” he said. But he smiled suddenly. “What if I then discover that I need to be alone?”

“Then I will come back here.” She shrugged. “I need the exercise anyway.”

“After all the dancing?” He was still smiling.

“I will fetch my bonnet and shawl,” she said, and left the room.

He had not told Anastasia about his discovery of his identity. He had not told her about the portrait of his mother. He had not asked her to go with him to give him the courage to look at it. Not that he had asked her, Camille, exactly, but she knew he wanted her to be with him. Oh, she wished, wished, wished she did not hate Anastasia. In her head she did not, but her heart would not seem to soften. She must make a determined effort to be civil tomorrow evening and during the coming week. But she already was civil. She must go beyond civility, then. She must initiate some conversation with Anastasia, show some interest in her, find some common ground they might share—the school, perhaps, and the pupils they had both taught. She would learn to like the woman if it was the last thing she ever did. Perhaps in time she would even be able to call her sister without always having to add the word half in order to set the proper distance between them.

They did not talk during the walk to Grove Street or while he unlocked the door of the house and she started on her way upstairs ahead of him. Unlike the other two times she had been here, though, a door on the first floor opened abruptly as she rounded the newel post to continue upward, and a man’s head appeared around the door.

“Is that you, Joel?” he asked. “I wonder if you— Oh, pardon me.” And his head disappeared back inside and the door clicked shut before either Camille or Joel could say a word.

“Marvin Silver, my neighbor,” Joel said. “I am so sorry, Camille. I did not expect he would be home yet. I would not have had that happen to you for worlds, especially when you are doing me such a favor.”

“It does not matter,” she said. “And I offered to come, if you will remember.” She waited for him to unlock the door to his rooms and then hung up her bonnet and went into the living room.

“I will have a word with him,” he said. “He will not tell anyone.”

“It does not matter, Joel,” she said again. “I am sick and tired of the rigid rules of propriety that have always governed my behavior. What have they ever done for me?”

“Well,” he said, “if you can be so brave and decisive, then so can I. It is in the studio. It. You see? I cannot even name it. I fervently wish Cox-Phillips had not even thought of it yesterday.”

“Bring it out here, then,” she said, “and I will look at it with you. Or I will turn my back and look out through the window while you do so alone, if you would prefer.”

“No,” he said. “In there.”

She raised her eyebrows. Into the studio? Was it not his holy of holies? The one place he took no one?

He turned to her outside the closed door and extended a hand for hers. “Come in with me. Please,” he said.