But the houses around her grew nice, then comfortable, until finally they were downright imposing. There could be no stopping. She’d be told to leave the minute she looked like she didn’t know where she was going.
It took her hours to traverse the distance. By the time she arrived, she was half-limping. Still, when she finally stood in front of the white stone building where Theresa had directed her—large and imposing, four stories high, flowers in the windows—she stopped and almost wished she could go back.
Her heart was beating fast, so fast. What if Theresa had been wrong? What if it was a lie? Reality had played cruel tricks on her over the years. Her whole body ached with the cruelty of the last one.
It was almost impossible to believe that this was not yet another cruel trick.
What if they didn’t want her?
Her hand crept to her pocket; she checked the direction on the letter one last time, just to be sure.
Hope was a choice. It had always been a choice, from the first moment she decided to hold on to it. It had been hope that pushed her from bed this last night, and hope that put one bare foot in front of the other all the way here. Camilla inhaled, made fists of her hands, and chose—foolishly, despite all possible evidence—to trust in it one more time.
Her chin went up; she climbed the stone stairs to the entrance. The door did not open for her. Of course; she wasn’t expected. On the other side, she could imagine a footman glaring at her barefoot form.
She rapped the knocker and waited.
No response came. She rapped again.
Finally, the door opened an inch. The man who blocked that narrow gap glared down at her. “The servant’s entrance is round the back. If you have business, apply there.”
Camilla straightened her spine. “I’m not a servant.”
“Then shoo altogether.”
She wouldn’t start this way. She wouldn’t act as if she were begging for scraps.
Deep down inside her, she remembered the child she had once been—the one who might have been entitled to enter here. That girl had been disabused of most of her finer notions, but Camilla would do her best to remember.
“You have to let me in.” She refused to speak quietly or demurely. She refused to let any hint of a quaver show. “I don’t need to go ‘round the back. I wish to have a word with Lady Judith. I must.”
The man grimaced and attempted to shut the door. Camilla stuck her foot—her bare foot—in the way, and winced as the wood struck her abused flesh.
“Move,” the man hissed, “or be moved. And you will refer to the lady of the house as Lady Ashford. Don’t speak of her in such familiar tones.”
“I shall speak of her any way I wish,” Camilla said, “because—”
There was a great clamor in the hall behind the butler. He turned, and Camilla took advantage of his temporary inattention to shove her way into the entry. She looked up.
Judith stood at the end of the hall. Judith.
God. It had been almost a decade since Camilla had seen her sister. Last time she’d seen her, Judith had been selling all her frocks. She’d been dressed in ugly wincey, and she’d looked pale and wan with grief.
This was an older Judith. She was rosy-cheeked and plump once more, dressed in a fine blue day gown and silk slippers. There were pearls at her ears.
Camilla didn’t look down at herself. She knew how dingy her gown was. She hadn’t had a traveling cloak to keep dust off her, and her clothing was stained with soot and smoke from the journey. She was all too aware that she had no shoes, that her feet were black with dirt and…well, she didn’t really want to know what else.
The butler turned back to her.
She looked like a servant. Honestly, that was unfair to servants. At the moment, she looked far worse than one.
Judith’s hands went to her mouth. Her eyes shone. “Camilla?” Her voice was low.
A man came to stand behind her sister. Camilla knew him, too—he’d visited their family often as a child. Christian.
Another woman joined them—tall and blonde and willowy, dressed in a pink gown with frothy lace at the edges. She was—inexplicably—holding a fork in one hand.
“Camilla?” that woman asked.
Camilla didn’t know if she was welcome or not. She didn’t know how to ask. But then Judith ran to her—slipping, barely catching herself on an ornate side-table in an attempt to stay upright. She didn’t hesitate, not for one instant. She wrapped her arms around Camilla, soot and all.
She was warm and clean and—
“Oh, God, Camilla. Where have you been?”
Yet another woman appeared—this one, an elderly lady dressed in a dark purple gown. And another man—no, not a man, despite the height, not with that new fuzz on his cheeks. He was a boy.
That was Benedict, Camilla realized, the chubby five-year-old child she’d loved so well. He had grown taller than her.
That made that blonde, willowy lady who was watching her… Theresa?
Camilla could hear her heart hammering in her chest.
“Never mind,” Judith was saying, taking her arm. “Listen to me. Come in. We have food and towels.”
Camilla felt as if she’d faced down a wall, as if she’d pulled her fist back to punch it to pieces until she broke her hand—and as if the stone barrier that had reached impossibly far above her head had crumpled like paper. She was going to break down, right here. Right now.
She couldn’t lose her nerve. “Judith,” she said. “I need your help.”
Judith was still clinging to her, and Camilla found she could not let go. All for the best; her sister hadn’t noticed that Camilla’s soot had transferred to her gown.
Camilla reserved a silent prayer of apology for whichever servant would have to remove it. She knew from bitter, personal experience precisely how long it would take.
“Anything,” Judith said.
Camilla had to marshal her thoughts. There were years of explanation to give, and so much to hear in return. Right now, though, all of that distance boiled down to the last hours of her life.
“I’m married,” Camilla said.
Her sister stared at her. “What?”
The elderly woman tilted her head. “To whom?”
Christian frowned, glancing at her bare feet. His question came out a little more of a growl, almost a warning. “When?”
Judith shook her head, brushing all that aside. “Do you love him?”
Adrian would be awakening just now. She could imagine him blinking in the sunshine. Reaching for her across the mattress. Not finding her.
Her breath seemed hot inside her, burning her lungs.
Adrian would look around the room. He’d wonder if she had gone to get something to eat. He’d find her note in the study…
She hoped he found the note soon. She hoped he understood. She didn’t know if he would read it with relief or sorrow. She wouldn’t know if he would understand the difference between fleeing him and fleeing the situation.
“It hardly matters,” she said. “You see, I want—no, I need—an annulment. And you’re the only one who can help me.”
After all these years, her sister should have hesitated. She should have frowned, perhaps, or asked for more information. After all these years…
“Of course,” Judith said. And she held her close.
* * *
A whirlwind descended before Camilla could understand what was happening.
Judith sent for a solicitor, and then—before she did anything else—she sent Camilla off for a bath in her private room. Because apparently that was the sort of thing her sister had now—an entire private bath.
The water was deliciously warm; the Marquess of Ashford (“Christian,” he had said, “we knew each other when we were children, and you’re not about to start calling me by my title now.”) had plumbing and taps in the house, and there was as much hot water as Camilla could ever want.
The soap smelled of roses; a jar of bath oil
released the scent of vanilla. Camilla changed the water twice, until it was almost clear when she rinsed.
A towel had been placed on a marble-topped table next to a dizzying array of glass jars. They were all labeled—skin cream that smelled of cherries, hand cream that smelled of oranges, foot cream that smelled of peppermint, eye cream that smelled of lavender.
Who knew there could be so much cream in the world?
She dipped her finger in each one. Aside from the scents and faint hints of color, she could not detect a difference between any of the creams. They all felt equally creamy.
Her feet hurt; tiny little cuts had broken the surface. She had bled and bruised. It was nothing that wouldn’t heal in short order.
In an act of defiance, Camilla applied the hand cream to the soles of her feet. It was probably a dreadful faux pas; they would know her for the imposter she was the instant she set her orange-smelling feet outside of the bathroom.
It felt appropriate.
The towel had a sachet of lilac folded inside; the soft, fluffy robe hanging on a hook smelled of cinnamon and cedar.
She’d forgotten how the wealthy could surround themselves with scent, so much scent. They hardly had to smell the real world at all.
When Camilla finally opened the door to her sister’s dressing room, she found Judith and Theresa awaiting her with two maids—Beth and Jenny, she was told upon inquiry.
Camilla had more in common with Beth and Jenny than Judith. If they’d worked in the same house, they would have thought themselves above her.
Camilla tried to protest that she didn’t need help dressing, but Beth looked hurt and Jenny looked worried. She gave in.
One of the maids combed her hair, then vanished to obtain hair pins. The other brought in gowns that were too long.
“You’re so short,” Judith said. “When did that happen? Goodness.”
But between the two maids, they pinned the hem in mere minutes.
A third maid arrived with a tray; she deposited a teapot, then a plate of sandwiches, and finally, biscuits.
“The biscuits are currant,” Judith said. “The sandwiches are beef, pickled onion, Wensleydale, and a bit of horseradish. One of my creations.”
Camilla stared at them for a moment. “I had forgotten about you and sandwiches.”
“Yes, well. If one is going to grow plump, it had best be on sandwiches.” Judith offered her the plate.
Camilla picked one up and took a bite. Her stomach growled as she did, and oh, God, how had she not known how hungry she was? She hadn’t eaten since the night before.
The sandwich was divine—the savory flavor of the beef mingling with the sharpness of the pickled onion, finishing with that little kick of horseradish.
“So,” Judith said, as one of the maids came back into the room armed with a curling iron and sparkling pins. “Tell me about this marriage that must be annulled.”
She didn’t know how she managed to get through the entire story without sobbing, but she did it without a tear.
The last weeks sounded utterly unreal. Working for Rector Miles. The wedding at gunpoint. Adrian telling her they mustn’t consummate their marriage. Their friendship; then working together. Telegrams, Mrs. Martin, then Kitty and finally, Adrian’s uncle. That last betrayal was where she ended her story.
As Camilla spoke, she began to feel something besides heartbreak—something she’d been feeling ever since she wrote her letter in the middle of the night. She was beginning to be…angry. Actually angry. How dare Adrian’s uncle treat his loyalty in so cavalier a fashion?
And for Adrian himself…
She loved him, but God, now that she’d had a moment to breathe, she wanted to scream at him.
Obviously, he’d been upset when he had come to her last night. She could hardly blame him. But he’d made a decision that he’d suffer through marriage with her, and he hadn’t consulted her about whether she wished to be suffered with. After everything they’d been through? After he’d promised that they were allies and friends?
It was too much. Far too much. She had deserved better than to discover that she was his second-place prize after she opened her body to his. She had deserved better than to kiss him with her entire heart, only to discover that she’d only had half of his. She had deserved better, damn it.
She finished her sandwich and her story—skipping the parts about kisses and consummations because really, it wasn’t any of Judith’s business—and looked at her sister.
Judith had taken her hand about two sentences in and had not let go.
Judith didn’t speak, not for a full minute. “All those years.” Her voice shuddered. “All those years, every time you moved. Why didn’t you find me?”
Camilla had managed to avoid tears all this time. But those years of loneliness choked around her now. Those years of hoping, dreaming, wanting, and never being fulfilled. She had to look away.
“You told me you never wanted to see me again.”
Judith sniffled. “I didn’t mean it. I was young. I was scared. I thought you’d go away forever unless I convinced you to stay.”
“You told me I had to choose. You told me that it was either luxury or love, and I chose luxury.”
“No, no.”
“I thought I had bargained away all right to your love. I threw it all away. Willingly. How could I demand what I’d discarded?”
“Easily,” Judith said. “Always.”
“And how was I to find you? I wrote and you never answered.”
Judith looked haunted. “It’s a long story. I should have tried harder, but… I did write. I did not realize you were not in your uncle’s care until a little over a year ago. That’s when we discovered he wasn’t passing on letters. He thought you were better off not hearing from us; I assume it must have gone both ways.”
Camilla shut her eyes. “Dear God.”
“As for the rest, we tried to find you. We traced you from place to place, until we finally heard that you’d left with some person—a rector whose name started with P? I suppose you must have gone from him to this Rector Miles.”
Camilla shut her eyes. “That was Miles. He knew who I was; he knew that Benedict was going to Eton. He convinced me to change my name so nobody would use me to embarrass you.”
“And you agreed to that?”
Camilla looked up. “Of course I did. I wanted you to have all the chances in the world to reclaim what we’d lost. Why wouldn’t I?”
Judith stared at her. “Cam.” She reached out and touched Camilla’s face. “Wait here.”
She stood. Camilla could hardly have moved. Beth was curling her hair, putting it up in little wisps. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had made up her hair.
Judith came back a few minutes later, holding a packet of papers tied up in string.
“Here.” She held it out to Cam. “Here they are. It’s not all the letters I wrote you. But when you didn’t respond, after a while I started saving them instead of sending them.”
Camilla stared at the stack.
“There’s letters from Benedict and Theresa mixed in there, too,” Judith said. “Every Christmas. Every birthday. Every month, for years. I have a terrible temper. It’s one of my worst qualities, and I try to rein it in. But when it breaks, I indulge in it spectacularly. I hold the worst grudges, I do. You know that about me.”
Camilla nodded.
“But my sisters are my heart. How could I hold a grudge against my own self? What can I say, except that I’m sorry? You should never have felt that you didn’t deserve love. That you had to hide who you were to keep us safe. I’m so sorry.”
Camilla couldn’t help it. All the emotion that she’d kept tightly wadded inside herself started to leak. Her eyes stung, then her nose ran, until she was crying in earnest, sobbing against her sister’s shoulder.
“I kept imagining what would happen if I showed up and you didn’t want me. This is like a dream,” Camilla admitted, “one I will wa
ke from at any moment.”
“I can’t imagine what you’ve experienced,” Judith said. “I can’t even try. But I love you. I love you, I love you. There is no alternative. There has been no waking world in which I did anything but miss you. You deserve to be loved, and I’ll make up for every last year we’ve missed together.”
They didn’t speak for long minutes. They just held each other. Camilla felt her sister’s hands on hers, her shoulder against hers. She leaned her forehead against her and breathed in all of her scents—rose, orange, cinnamon.
She deserved love. She did. And she wasn’t going to miss out on it simply because the man she’d fallen in love with had made a mistake.
After a while, there was a rap on the door.
“Judith.” It was Christian. “The solicitor has arrived. Shall we speak with him?”
Camilla dried her tears. A maid wiped away all evidence of them with a rosewater wash and dabbed at her eyes with one of Judith’s fancy creams.
“Yes,” Camilla said. “Yes. I’ll be ready.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Camilla had known Adrian would come. The only question had been how long it would take him.
Adrian Hunter had arrived at four in the afternoon, after the solicitor had left, right in the middle of the appointment that Judith had made with a seamstress to take Camilla’s measurements.
“Mr. Adrian Hunter is here to see Lady Camilla,” a servant announced, as Camilla stood in her underthings, patiently allowing the woman to measure every inch of her body.
Judith—who had stayed in the room with her, as if she feared Camilla would disappear—frowned at this. “Do you know a Mr. Hunter?”
Biblically, Camilla did not say. Just last night.
“Technically speaking, we have been married for almost a month.” Camilla looked upward. “Although you heard what the solicitor said—we’re not supposed to hold ourselves out as married. But yes. I suppose you could say we are acquainted.”