*
Hamish quit theroom, leaving Camille to drag herself from the settee before Charlotte stopped her with a soft hand.
“That’s not everything, is it?” she asked.
Camille smiled at her friend’s knowing tone. Hamish had to watch himself; he’d never get away with so much as sneaking a biscuit from the kitchens without his duchess figuring it out.
“It’s not,” Camille said.
“You don’t need to tell me, but I am here if you need to talk.” Her smile was kind. “There are no rules that say women must suffer alone. That’s for ridiculous men to believe.”
The mention of rules drew the buried scars of Camille’s past from the depths of memory, the drama of the day giving way to trauma of a young girl whose existence had balanced on how well she managed the rules that dictated every moment of her life.
“It’s an ugly story,” Camille said.
Charlotte wrapped her arms around her, her new set of spectacles framing her kind, green eyes. “I already know some of it,” she offered.
Camille smiled. That’s right; Charlotte knew pieces and had never admonished her actions. “The rest is worse.”
Charlotte pulled her to the settee by the fire and waited until they both sat before she said, “Tell me.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Camille went tothe window to look out on the garden, hearing Charlotte quietly follow. “I learned what a bastard was when I was ten.” After her not-to-be-named father had bloodied her mouth when she’d made the mistake of asking why she couldn’t meet her brother.
“You are a bastard! A mistake. Without that mind of yours, you’d belong nowhere. Be grateful I have use for you.”
Camille’s fingers curled into white-knuckled fists on the windowsill, the duke’s words as fresh and ugly now as they’d been fourteen years ago. A bastard was all she’d ever be, the only title she’d ever earn. And one she’d been cursed to share alone.
Her hands slipped to her stomach, and the ache there felt like the absolute absence of hope. “I was pregnant when I ran.”
Charlotte made a strangled noise behind her.
Camille knew without turning that her friend understood. Charlotte’s mind was quick and made connections like no one else she’d met. If it had been a matter of an unwanted child, there were orphanages and herbs a woman could take, but there was no mistaking the anguish in her voice.
“Did you . . .?” Charlotte’s whisper tapered off.
Camille’s armor ripped open, spilling her heart at her feet. She choked on a sob and hit the sill with her fist.
A baby. Another bastard to a duke, a painful and ugly cycle she’d vowed she’d never repeat. Anyone else in her situationwould have been relieved. But she’d wanted that child,herchild. It wouldn’t have mattered if the babe had been born with her eyes or Renard’s nose. Red-blooded or blue. She’d loved that baby growing in her, with her, and she’d known her mother and not-to-be-named-father had been wrong.
When the bleeding hadn’t stopped that night, not two months after she’d gone into hiding at the Camine Townhouse, she’d paid off one of Hamish’s seasonal hires to take her into St. Giles and to the free clinic, a lad not likely to stick around long enough for proper gossip.
The pain had grown worse with every mile. Minutes, hours later, she’d fallen at Mrs. Banner’s feet, barely conscious, and begged the woman to save her child.
When she’d woken, Mrs. Banner, stone faced, had offered her condolences with a pat on her hand and the words, “These things happen,” before leaving Camille to her torn body and broken heart.
“I didn’t get to say goodbye,” she whispered through her tears. “She took the body away before I even got to hold him.”
Through her memories, Camille heard the library door open and shut with Charlotte’s departure.
Camille closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the cool glass. She didn’t fault Charlotte for making her escape. As far as society demanded, women didn’t lose anything so precious. And if they did, it was never mentioned. She’d not even been allowed a proper mourning period.
She bit her tongue and tasted blood. Her mother’s words, controlling and wrong—and worse, right—cut through her grief as only the woman’s venom could.
“A good girl wouldn’t sniffle over small things.” “A good girl never shows she’s in pain.” “You got what you deserved. A good girl would have known better.”
How many mothers were out there now, suffering alone with a grief too profound for anyone else to understand? How many were told ‘these things happen,’ as if having lost a bonnet or parasol to a windy day? How many bastards were left alone and ashamed, not realizing they deserved love like any God made creature?
