Someone to Hold
Page 81
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He went to the offices of Henley, Parsons, and Crabtree in the afternoon. Mr. Crabtree seemed to take satisfaction in informing him that Mr. Cox-Phillips’s relatives did indeed intend to contest the will with all the vigor of their combined influence. They would not succeed, he told Joel again. They had remained in Bath, however, though they had removed from the house. In the meantime, the solicitor produced some papers and spread them upon his desk, went into a lengthy explanation that Joel would have liked to have translated into intelligible English, and concluded with a rough estimate of the total fortune, which might have had Joel’s jaw hanging if he had not been clenching his teeth so hard.
He would have painted himself into oblivion for the rest of the day if his door had not been almost constantly knocked upon from the moment he returned home. Everyone he had ever called friend, and a few who were mere acquaintances, came to commiserate with him at his loss and congratulate him upon his good fortune. Even Miss Ford came from the orphanage, accompanied for propriety’s sake by Roger, the porter. She had closed the school for the rest of the week, she informed him. She supposed he would have more important things to do on Wednesday and Friday than teach his art pupils, and Miss Westcott certainly did. The Dowager Countess of Riverdale had arrived in Bath with her eldest daughter, Lady Matilda Westcott, and the family was busy celebrating and wished to include Miss Westcott in their activities. Miss Ford herself had been invited to join the family at the public tea in the Upper Assembly Rooms on Thursday afternoon and to attend a private assembly there on Saturday evening.
Anna and Netherby called at Joel’s rooms too not long after Miss Ford left—the first time Anna had ever been there. She hugged him tightly while Netherby looked on complacently, exclaimed with delight at the size of his rooms, examined closely the portrait of his mother, and sat beside him on the sofa, patting his hand and assuring him that if her experiences were anything to judge by, he would soon recover from his bewilderment and reconcile his life to the new reality without losing himself in the process.
“For that is one’s greatest fear,” she said, echoing what he had been feeling. “One starts to believe that one does not know oneself at all. It is a terrifying feeling. But of course you are who you have always been, and you will get through to the other side more or less intact.”
“It is the less part that worries me,” he said, and they both laughed.
Netherby informed him that he had better attend the public tea in the Upper Assembly Rooms on Thursday so that they could all boast of an acquaintance with the man who had become the sensation of Bath.
“There is nothing like the background of an orphanage upbringing to lend an irresistible aura of romance to a story like yours,” he said with a weary-sounding sigh.
Anna laughed at her husband. “And you must come to the assembly on Saturday too,” she said to Joel. “Camille has taught you to waltz, and I simply must see for myself how apt a pupil you have been.”
“I can go up and see the house whenever I wish,” Joel said impulsively. “I believe I would rather not go alone.” But, no, it would not do to invite Anna to accompany him—or even Anna and Netherby. “The gardens seem extensive and well tended, and the view is spectacular. Perhaps some of your family would like to come up there with me—for a picnic, maybe, which I will provide, of course. On Friday afternoon?”
He was struck by the dizzying fact that he could afford such an extravagance.
“Oh, Joel,” Anna said. “That would be wonderful. Would it not, Avery?”
“I can confidently predict,” Netherby said, “that your newly acquired property will be mobbed by Westcotts on Friday, Cunningham.”
That was settled, then, it seemed.
Camille did not come to his rooms. But of course she did not. Had he expected she would? It seemed to Joel far longer than two days since he had seen her. Now, with school canceled for the rest of week, he would not see her until Thursday afternoon. It seemed like an eternity away.
He did not go to her either. He did not know why. He felt a bit . . . shy? That was not at all the right word. But something had happened on Sunday to change everything, and he was feeling a bit—well, panicked. And he was feeling too overwhelmed by everything else to sort out his feelings for her and do what must be done. Except that it was not just what must be done, was it? Surely, it was what he wanted to do. Quite frankly, he did not know anything any longer, least of all the meaning of love. And his obligation to Camille was not only about love, anyway. She might be with child by him. And even if she was not . . .
And so his thoughts chased one another about in his head.
On Wednesday morning, not in the finest of moods, he took himself off with firm step and gritted teeth to a tailor and a bootmaker and a haberdasher.
Twenty
Camille half expected to see Joel on Monday while telling herself she did not expect him at all. She more than half expected him on Tuesday after her attention was drawn to the death notice in the morning paper. It was also the day of the funeral, she knew. He did not come, even though Miss Ford told her she had been to call upon him and that she had seen the Duke and Duchess of Netherby’s carriage approaching the house as she left. Miss Ford also told her that she had canceled school for the rest of the week so that Camille could spend time with her family during their brief visit to Bath.
He would not need to come on Wednesday, then, with the school closed. And, indeed, he did not come. Camille tried to tell herself that she was not disappointed. She tried, in fact, not to think of disappointment as a possibility. Why should he have come at any time during those three days, after all? Just because she had invited him to take her to bed and he had obliged her?
He would have painted himself into oblivion for the rest of the day if his door had not been almost constantly knocked upon from the moment he returned home. Everyone he had ever called friend, and a few who were mere acquaintances, came to commiserate with him at his loss and congratulate him upon his good fortune. Even Miss Ford came from the orphanage, accompanied for propriety’s sake by Roger, the porter. She had closed the school for the rest of the week, she informed him. She supposed he would have more important things to do on Wednesday and Friday than teach his art pupils, and Miss Westcott certainly did. The Dowager Countess of Riverdale had arrived in Bath with her eldest daughter, Lady Matilda Westcott, and the family was busy celebrating and wished to include Miss Westcott in their activities. Miss Ford herself had been invited to join the family at the public tea in the Upper Assembly Rooms on Thursday afternoon and to attend a private assembly there on Saturday evening.
Anna and Netherby called at Joel’s rooms too not long after Miss Ford left—the first time Anna had ever been there. She hugged him tightly while Netherby looked on complacently, exclaimed with delight at the size of his rooms, examined closely the portrait of his mother, and sat beside him on the sofa, patting his hand and assuring him that if her experiences were anything to judge by, he would soon recover from his bewilderment and reconcile his life to the new reality without losing himself in the process.
“For that is one’s greatest fear,” she said, echoing what he had been feeling. “One starts to believe that one does not know oneself at all. It is a terrifying feeling. But of course you are who you have always been, and you will get through to the other side more or less intact.”
“It is the less part that worries me,” he said, and they both laughed.
Netherby informed him that he had better attend the public tea in the Upper Assembly Rooms on Thursday so that they could all boast of an acquaintance with the man who had become the sensation of Bath.
“There is nothing like the background of an orphanage upbringing to lend an irresistible aura of romance to a story like yours,” he said with a weary-sounding sigh.
Anna laughed at her husband. “And you must come to the assembly on Saturday too,” she said to Joel. “Camille has taught you to waltz, and I simply must see for myself how apt a pupil you have been.”
“I can go up and see the house whenever I wish,” Joel said impulsively. “I believe I would rather not go alone.” But, no, it would not do to invite Anna to accompany him—or even Anna and Netherby. “The gardens seem extensive and well tended, and the view is spectacular. Perhaps some of your family would like to come up there with me—for a picnic, maybe, which I will provide, of course. On Friday afternoon?”
He was struck by the dizzying fact that he could afford such an extravagance.
“Oh, Joel,” Anna said. “That would be wonderful. Would it not, Avery?”
“I can confidently predict,” Netherby said, “that your newly acquired property will be mobbed by Westcotts on Friday, Cunningham.”
That was settled, then, it seemed.
Camille did not come to his rooms. But of course she did not. Had he expected she would? It seemed to Joel far longer than two days since he had seen her. Now, with school canceled for the rest of week, he would not see her until Thursday afternoon. It seemed like an eternity away.
He did not go to her either. He did not know why. He felt a bit . . . shy? That was not at all the right word. But something had happened on Sunday to change everything, and he was feeling a bit—well, panicked. And he was feeling too overwhelmed by everything else to sort out his feelings for her and do what must be done. Except that it was not just what must be done, was it? Surely, it was what he wanted to do. Quite frankly, he did not know anything any longer, least of all the meaning of love. And his obligation to Camille was not only about love, anyway. She might be with child by him. And even if she was not . . .
And so his thoughts chased one another about in his head.
On Wednesday morning, not in the finest of moods, he took himself off with firm step and gritted teeth to a tailor and a bootmaker and a haberdasher.
Twenty
Camille half expected to see Joel on Monday while telling herself she did not expect him at all. She more than half expected him on Tuesday after her attention was drawn to the death notice in the morning paper. It was also the day of the funeral, she knew. He did not come, even though Miss Ford told her she had been to call upon him and that she had seen the Duke and Duchess of Netherby’s carriage approaching the house as she left. Miss Ford also told her that she had canceled school for the rest of the week so that Camille could spend time with her family during their brief visit to Bath.
He would not need to come on Wednesday, then, with the school closed. And, indeed, he did not come. Camille tried to tell herself that she was not disappointed. She tried, in fact, not to think of disappointment as a possibility. Why should he have come at any time during those three days, after all? Just because she had invited him to take her to bed and he had obliged her?
