Someone to Hold
Page 87
“Not Anna?” she said stiffly.
He sighed aloud. “I did not think of her even once while I was there,” he said. “I wanted you.”
“I plan to be busy today.” She looked down sharply at her hands.
“Doing what?” he asked.
“That is not your concern,” she told him.
“Yes, it is,” he said. “There is no school today and no family. You are planning to be busy doing nothing merely to punish me. I deserve to be punished. I have been shy about coming to see you since Sunday, but I ought to have done so, especially as I wanted to come. And if I am sounding horribly confused and contradictory and idiotic, that is because I am all those things. Camille, please come.” He had stooped down on his haunches before her and reached for her hands before apparently remembering the playing, shrieking children all about them and setting his hands on his knees instead. “Please?”
He had been shy about coming?
She looked at him for long moments. “I am going home,” she said abruptly. “My mother is going back to Hinsford Manor to live—Anna has persuaded her. Abby is going with her. And so am I.” She had no idea if she spoke the truth. Surely not. But how could she stay . . .
He frowned as his eyes searched her face. “Come this afternoon anyway,” he said. “Come with your family. You have only a few days left here with them, and it is a lovely spot for a picnic. It looks as if it is going to remain a beautiful day too. Come, Camille, if not for my sake, then for theirs and yours.”
She frowned back at him and he suddenly smiled.
“But come for my sake too,” he said. “The earth really did move on Sunday. I think it did for you too.”
“I will come,” she said stiffly. “I will ask someone from the family to take me up in one of the carriages.”
He stood up. “Thank you,” he said.
But she noticed something suddenly and grabbed his right hand with both of hers. His knuckles, if not quite raw, were red enough to look sore.
“I would guess,” he said, “that his mouth looks and feels considerably worse.”
“I hope,” she said, “he really did lose a tooth.”
* * *
Judge Fanshawe had called upon Joel on Wednesday just after he returned from being measured for new clothes and boots. The judge was an elderly gentleman much bent by age and had sent his servant to summon Joel down to the street, where he stood waiting outside his carriage. He had told Joel that he had never been more offended in his life than when he discovered that Viscount Uxbury, Mr. Martin Cox-Phillips, and Mr. Blake Norton were contesting the will.
“I look forward with great glee to crushing them to powder beneath my bootheel, should they persist, which, alas, I fear they will not do when they take a closer look at the list of witnesses,” he had said. “I was one of them, and even the others are formidable. You may safely consider your inheritance your own, Mr. Cunningham.”
He had shaken Joel’s hand with a surprisingly strong grip before climbing back inside the carriage with his servant’s help and going on his way.
So, on impulse, Joel had gone up to see his new property, which he would probably sell as soon as all the business of the will had been settled. He had spoken with the butler—Mr. Nibbs—and assured him that all the servants might remain until further notice and that Mr. Crabtree would be directed to pay their salaries. Nibbs had shown him about the house before summoning the head gardener to take him through the gardens. Afterward Joel had spent another hour wandering about the house on his own. It was all far larger and more imposing than he had realized, and intimidating too. But something had happened when he had stood at last in the library behind the chair where his great-uncle had sat, his hands resting on the high back. He had felt . . . a connection, a longing, though he could put neither feeling into clear words in his mind.
His mother had grown up here. His grandparents had lived here as well as his great-uncle. He had not felt the presence of ghosts exactly, but he had felt . . . well, a connection. It was the one thing that had always been absent from his life. Not that he was complaining. His life so far had been remarkably blessed, even if he omitted the happenings of the last couple of weeks. But . . .
Well, he had fallen in love. And, perhaps by an association of thought, he had wished Camille were with him. He had been fairly bursting with thoughts, ideas, needs . . .
He had informed Mr. Nibbs of Friday’s picnic and warned him that the guests would wish a tour of the house. He had asked that some chairs and blankets be carried out to the front lawn, weather permitting, and that arrangements be made for horses and carriages. He had assured the butler, however, that he had engaged the services of a caterer in Bath so that the cook and kitchen staff need not be thrown into consternation. He had not been sure they would be up to catering to a large party of aristocrats after having worked for some time with an ailing old gentleman who probably had not entertained a great deal. He had given only one other direction before he left.
“If you could arrange to have those blind-eyed busts removed from the hall as soon as humanly possible, Mr. Nibbs,” he had said, “I would be much obliged to you.”
The butler was too well-bred to smirk, but Joel would have sworn he was doing it inwardly. “I shall give the order, sir,” he had said. “They were a wedding gift to Mr. and Mrs. Cunningham, but Mr. Cox-Phillips was never overfond of them.”
And now Joel was back, pacing the terrace before the house, noting that the lawns had been freshly scythed, that five chairs had been set out in a semicircle on the lawn so that no one would have to face away from the view. There was a neat pile of blankets to one side of them. And what the devil was he doing? Joel wondered. He had no idea how to host anything more grand than an evening gathering of his male friends in his rooms. When the caterer had asked him what specifically he wanted for food and drink, he had gaped—he hoped he had not literally done so—and asked for advice. He had had enough money to pay for the picnic, but only just. His meager savings were wiped out, and he could only hope that Judge Fanshawe was correct.
He sighed aloud. “I did not think of her even once while I was there,” he said. “I wanted you.”
“I plan to be busy today.” She looked down sharply at her hands.
“Doing what?” he asked.
“That is not your concern,” she told him.
“Yes, it is,” he said. “There is no school today and no family. You are planning to be busy doing nothing merely to punish me. I deserve to be punished. I have been shy about coming to see you since Sunday, but I ought to have done so, especially as I wanted to come. And if I am sounding horribly confused and contradictory and idiotic, that is because I am all those things. Camille, please come.” He had stooped down on his haunches before her and reached for her hands before apparently remembering the playing, shrieking children all about them and setting his hands on his knees instead. “Please?”
He had been shy about coming?
She looked at him for long moments. “I am going home,” she said abruptly. “My mother is going back to Hinsford Manor to live—Anna has persuaded her. Abby is going with her. And so am I.” She had no idea if she spoke the truth. Surely not. But how could she stay . . .
He frowned as his eyes searched her face. “Come this afternoon anyway,” he said. “Come with your family. You have only a few days left here with them, and it is a lovely spot for a picnic. It looks as if it is going to remain a beautiful day too. Come, Camille, if not for my sake, then for theirs and yours.”
She frowned back at him and he suddenly smiled.
“But come for my sake too,” he said. “The earth really did move on Sunday. I think it did for you too.”
“I will come,” she said stiffly. “I will ask someone from the family to take me up in one of the carriages.”
He stood up. “Thank you,” he said.
But she noticed something suddenly and grabbed his right hand with both of hers. His knuckles, if not quite raw, were red enough to look sore.
“I would guess,” he said, “that his mouth looks and feels considerably worse.”
“I hope,” she said, “he really did lose a tooth.”
* * *
Judge Fanshawe had called upon Joel on Wednesday just after he returned from being measured for new clothes and boots. The judge was an elderly gentleman much bent by age and had sent his servant to summon Joel down to the street, where he stood waiting outside his carriage. He had told Joel that he had never been more offended in his life than when he discovered that Viscount Uxbury, Mr. Martin Cox-Phillips, and Mr. Blake Norton were contesting the will.
“I look forward with great glee to crushing them to powder beneath my bootheel, should they persist, which, alas, I fear they will not do when they take a closer look at the list of witnesses,” he had said. “I was one of them, and even the others are formidable. You may safely consider your inheritance your own, Mr. Cunningham.”
He had shaken Joel’s hand with a surprisingly strong grip before climbing back inside the carriage with his servant’s help and going on his way.
So, on impulse, Joel had gone up to see his new property, which he would probably sell as soon as all the business of the will had been settled. He had spoken with the butler—Mr. Nibbs—and assured him that all the servants might remain until further notice and that Mr. Crabtree would be directed to pay their salaries. Nibbs had shown him about the house before summoning the head gardener to take him through the gardens. Afterward Joel had spent another hour wandering about the house on his own. It was all far larger and more imposing than he had realized, and intimidating too. But something had happened when he had stood at last in the library behind the chair where his great-uncle had sat, his hands resting on the high back. He had felt . . . a connection, a longing, though he could put neither feeling into clear words in his mind.
His mother had grown up here. His grandparents had lived here as well as his great-uncle. He had not felt the presence of ghosts exactly, but he had felt . . . well, a connection. It was the one thing that had always been absent from his life. Not that he was complaining. His life so far had been remarkably blessed, even if he omitted the happenings of the last couple of weeks. But . . .
Well, he had fallen in love. And, perhaps by an association of thought, he had wished Camille were with him. He had been fairly bursting with thoughts, ideas, needs . . .
He had informed Mr. Nibbs of Friday’s picnic and warned him that the guests would wish a tour of the house. He had asked that some chairs and blankets be carried out to the front lawn, weather permitting, and that arrangements be made for horses and carriages. He had assured the butler, however, that he had engaged the services of a caterer in Bath so that the cook and kitchen staff need not be thrown into consternation. He had not been sure they would be up to catering to a large party of aristocrats after having worked for some time with an ailing old gentleman who probably had not entertained a great deal. He had given only one other direction before he left.
“If you could arrange to have those blind-eyed busts removed from the hall as soon as humanly possible, Mr. Nibbs,” he had said, “I would be much obliged to you.”
The butler was too well-bred to smirk, but Joel would have sworn he was doing it inwardly. “I shall give the order, sir,” he had said. “They were a wedding gift to Mr. and Mrs. Cunningham, but Mr. Cox-Phillips was never overfond of them.”
And now Joel was back, pacing the terrace before the house, noting that the lawns had been freshly scythed, that five chairs had been set out in a semicircle on the lawn so that no one would have to face away from the view. There was a neat pile of blankets to one side of them. And what the devil was he doing? Joel wondered. He had no idea how to host anything more grand than an evening gathering of his male friends in his rooms. When the caterer had asked him what specifically he wanted for food and drink, he had gaped—he hoped he had not literally done so—and asked for advice. He had had enough money to pay for the picnic, but only just. His meager savings were wiped out, and he could only hope that Judge Fanshawe was correct.
