If not, the brandy had been farewell enough.
“How are Margaret and Iris?” Pamela’s eyes sparkled brighter than the candelabra. She was practically bouncing in her seat with happiness. “Are they still arguing over their ball gowns? Did Iris finally beat Margaret at archery?”
Camelia’s heart swelled at the sight of that rare, unguarded smile that dimpled the girl’s cheeks. She ignored the look Raph gave her at the mention of her sisters. She did not inform him about visiting them today, but she’ll deal with him later.
“Oh, they’re worse than ever,” she said, leaning in conspiratorially. “Last week, Margaret declared herself ‘undefeated champion of all things sharp and pointy.’ Iris responded by nailing Margaret’s favorite bonnet to the stable door with three perfect bullseyes. I believe they are going mad without me.”
Pamela gasped and giggled. “She didn’t!”
“She did. From fifty paces. Margaret retaliated by throwing every single arrow in the lake. I cannot even imagine what my father must be going through.”
Pamela clapped both hands over her mouth, laughter spilling between her fingers. “What did Iris do?”
“They’ve declared a truce until Christmas,” Camelia replied, her voice warm with affection. “Mainly because Papa threatened to lock them both in the wine cellar until they learned to behave like the ladies they’re meant to be. Though between you and me, I think he was secretly proud.”
Pamela’s eyes shone as she whispered, “I would like to have sisters.”
The dining room had never felt so suffocating. Every candle blazed too high, too fierce, as if the flames themselves were furious at being forced to witness this charade.
The silence pressed down like a lid on a boiling pot, and Camelia sat rigid, spine straight, hands folded in her lap so tightly that her knuckles turned white. She had spent the afternoon rehearsing composure, yet still felt the tears clawing at the back of her throat.
To her left, Pamela glowed with a shy, radiant happiness that made her chest ache with love and dread in equal measure. The girl kept stealing glances at her as though waiting for permission to keep smiling.
To her right, Raph was carved from ice. He had not looked at her once since joining them. His jaw was locked, his shoulders rigid beneath his black evening coat, every line of him screaming distance.
The memory of his mouth on her skin, his whispered promises in the dark, now felt like a fever dream that belonged to another woman entirely.
She swallowed hard, tasting iron.
Pamela’s soft voice broke the silence. “I… I learned about my mother, Camelia.”
Camelia forced her lips into a smile. “Oh, yes! I want to hear all about it, Pamela. Tell me, what did you learn about her?”
Raph set his glass down with deliberate care. The small clink sounded like a judge’s gavel, and the space between them crackled. She could still feel the ghost of his hands on her body, and the knowledge that it had meant nothing to him was a slow poison seeping into her veins.
She would not cry. Not here, and not in front of Pamela.
So, she smiled, cut her pheasant into precise pieces, and let Raph’s silence devour her while Pamela’s voice warmed her.
“Mother loved to draw! Just like I do.”
“Did she?” Camelia beamed. “Did she also enjoy drawing the willows as you do?”
Pamela’s eyes shone. “No.” She seemed disappointed.
“But I’m sure her sketches were as brilliant as yours—and look at that, you’ve got her artistic skills! The only skill I learned from my mother was how to handle my sisters’ moods!” Camelia rolled her eyes.
Pamela giggled. “Have you tried sketching before, Camelia?”
“I have.”
“Oh, you must show me!”
“They are absolutely terrible, Pam. I would rather burn them all. But I would love to see your mother’s sketches someday.”
“Father gave me her sketchbooks. They are full of horses and birds. Pages and pages of them. They were beautiful, and some were… funny,” Pamela admitted with a shy laugh. “Sometimes she drew their legs too long, or their necks like swans, but she drew them anyway. And she used to say that horses were freedom on four hooves!”
Camelia gaped. “And you believe the same thing, too?”
