Avase filled with fresh tulips and lilies picked that morning from Mr. Turlip’s renowned garden filled the air with a sweet fragrance. A light scent touched Camilla Rohman’s letter to Mr. Alex Ivanov laying in amongst other letters neatly stacked in Mr. Osbourne’s black lacquer tray on the entrance hall table, awaiting the return of the master and Mr. Ivanov.
More letters were delivered and stacked in the lacquer tray. The tulips and lilies were changed to roses, bringing a new scent to perfume the air.
CHAPTER 22
Aunt Deveraux’s townhouse
Royal Crescent
Bath
Cam pressed her nose against the rain-streaked window in her bedchamber, felt the cold of the glass. Sighed.
The bosom had won.There was a very clear message in that, but alas, Cam doubted she would ever have Averil’s awesome upper works in her weapon arsenal since she was nineteen years old and full grown. These awesome upper works could not only feed a babe but also manipulate a husband or any man with eyes and sufficient vigor. Did a man her grandfather’s age still have sufficient vigor? Did a man have to be dead to lose this vigor?
She knew her father hadn’t wanted to send her away, but Averil wanted her gone. She didn’t want her on a train, she might sneak off, and so she’d been nicely ensconced in her father’s newly refurbished carriage and sent on the two-and-a-half-day drive to her aunt Deveraux’s, Cilly with her, of course, serving as both her maid and her chaperone. Cillyremarked as they ate grapes and apple tarts Cook had prepared for them, “Do not forget, Cam, I am your chaperone, an order directly from Her Highness, your stepmama. She ordered me to smack your hand—with my knuckles—if you don’t stay in my shadow and keep your mouth shut.”
Cam wanted to laugh, but couldn’t. She chewed on a sweet grape.
Both her sister and Averil had stood on the top steps of Whitsonby House, each smiling, waving vigorous good-byes, looking so pleased it surprised Cam they didn’t burst into merry song and dance a jig.
Cam sighed again. What was done was done and she was now here in Bath until the day before her sister’s wedding at St. Paul’s in the fall. She opened Mr. Ainsworth’sThe Miser’s Daughteragain, but she found she really didn’t care about poor Hilda and if she managed to get away from her dreadful father. She laid the book on her lap and pressed her nose again against the glass, colder now with the heavy rain slashing down. She knew of course she was being an ungrateful wretch. She wasn’t living in a dungeon or in a back alley; her bedchamber was lovely with its wide window looking out over her aunt Deveraux’s well-tended back garden. The walls were a light blue silk paper. The lovely soft bed was set on a dais and covered with a darker blue satin quilt, made by Aunt Deveraux’s mother, her grandmother, a grand old lady Cam remembered smelled of violets. The dresser and armoire dated from Louis XVI and looked very stylish sitting on the blue and cream Aubusson carpet. The oak logs in the Carrera marble fireplace burned brightly, keeping out the chill from the heavy rain.
And everyone was kind to her.
She was an ungrateful wretch, but she couldn’t help feeling her life was on hold. She was marking time, doing nothing at all to count for anything, and wasn’t that pathetic? But marking time for what? Of course Alex’s face immediately flashedin her mind.I’m marking time before I can see him again.Butwhy didn’t he at least acknowledge my letter?She’d only known him a week, no, less than a week, and he’d already managed to park his lovely self in the center of her brain or her heart or her liver, who knew? Or all of them. She missed him, no way around it. Talking to him, laughing with him, goodness, maybe even feeding him one of the sweet grapes she and Cilly had shared in the carriage, if only he would but present himself or write to her, acknowledging her letter. But he hadn’t. She had to accept it, accept he obviously didn’t care enough. He had more important things to do, things that would change the future of train travel while she sat on a window seat looking out at the rain, acting like a lachrymose heroine in one of Radcliffe’s romances, daydreaming about him, her prince. She was a useless wretch, that’s all she was, wearing lovely gowns because she’d been born of a wealthy father.
She disgusted herself. But what could she do to make any difference to anything in this world?
A knock on the door. Cam called out, “Enter.”
It was Finch, Aunt Deveraux’s butler of nearly a year, a handsome young man of twenty-five who was basically more Aunt Deveraux’s companion than her butler. Cam hadn’t met him on her last trip to Bath, he’d been away, attending to an elderly uncle in Bodmin. She knew he would protect her aunt with his life. Cam quite liked him and agreed with all the female staff he looked very fine indeed in his black suit and white linen, proudly washed and ironed for him by Libby, the parlor maid, whose job it wasn’t, and it burned Marigold whose job it was.
Finch said in his lovely deep voice, “Lady Cam, Lady Deveraux requests your presence at tea. She told me to inform you she will advise you on how to use your assets to attract the most reluctant of gentlemen since you were too young and ignorant to know anything.”
She’d rather have lessons on repelling the species. Well, all except for one, who hadn’t bothered to even acknowledge her letter. “Thank you, Finch.”
“She also instructed me to emphasize that tea is now, not ten minutes from now and therefore in the future. Ah, her voice is in fine fettle today. Of course as you know I always close the parlor door when Lady Deveraux gives me instructions since many of our people have sensitive ears and are not necessarily wearing their cotton earpads.”
“I shall be down in a moment, no longer than a bare minute. Finch?”
He turned at the door, gave her a lovely white-toothed smile, arched a thick brow. “Yes, Lady Cam?”
“Mrs. Tartle told me you’re proficient at sign language. It occurred to me perhaps you could teach both me and my aunt. She is very smart, she could be proficient by Christmas. It would spare not only the unpadded ears in our house, but in the rest of the Royal Crescent as well.”
“Alas, my lady won’t hear of it.”
“Was that a joke, Finch?”
He looked surprised, then smiled. “I suppose when one is gifted, one doesn’t necessarily recognize when one makes a clever remark.”
“I understand. I occasionally don’t recognize when I’ve made a clever remark either. We will persevere. How do you come to know sign language?”
Finch said, “A much-loved cousin is deaf, and so I learned with the rest of his family. When I visit, there is silence throughout the house but fingers are flying. It is a pity, but it seems the Old Ones prefer their ear trumpets. Of course because they can’t hear, they do not realize they are shouting, as you well know.” He smiled again. “But there is progress. I quickly learned whenever I talk to Lady Deveraux I get close to her face and speak slowly, exaggerate each word. I will sayshe is becoming adept at reading my lips. Perhaps you can also try it.”
Cam nodded. “I will, but I’ve always tried to stay at least twelve feet away from her. If she answers me and I’m that close to her face, my ear drums will burst.”
He nodded, said philosophically. “That is always a possibility even with the cotton balls. Try never to forget them.” He added with a smile, “I am relieved to say my hearing is still fine. Did you know Mrs. Tartle made them herself? Oh dear, at least a minute has passed. If you are ready I shall escort you.”
