Someone to Care (Westcott #4)(60)

“Mama,” she cried. “Oh, Mama, I have been sick with worry. Oh, Mama. I have been so worried. Wherever have you been?”

“Papa!” Sarah was exclaiming as she held out her arms and leaned away from Camille.

And this was the daughter who had outdone her mother just a couple of years ago in very correct, icily controlled demeanor?

There was a cluster of strangers out on the lawn, huddled inside warm cloaks before their easels as they worked on their paintings.

“She did write, Cam,” Abigail cried, scrambling down from the carriage unassisted, as Joel had been distracted, first by Winifred, who wrapped an arm about his waist and raised a beaming face to his, and then by Sarah, who clasped her arms tightly about his neck and gave him a smacking kiss on the lips. “To us and to Mrs. Sullivan. Somehow both letters were lost. Mama is betrothed, Cam.”

And after all, Viola could not set the record straight, as she had intended to do the moment she arrived. Neither Camille nor the rest of the family when they all came to the house within the hour was thrilled by the announcement, especially when they knew the identity of her betrothed, but none of them protested loudly or demanded or even suggested that she change her mind before it was too late. For there was no hiding the fact that she and the Marquess of Dorchester had lived together for a few weeks before Alexander and the others had found her, though no one spoke of it. Everyone believed, or pretended to believe, the story that they had been betrothed before they decided to go to Devonshire for some time alone together and that therefore their behavior was less scandalous than it would otherwise have been.

It was after all impossible to tell the truth, though she had steeled herself throughout the journey home to do just that. For these were decent, much-loved, respectable people—her mother, well-known for most of her life in Bath society; her brother, a man of the cloth, and his wife; the Dowager Countess of Riverdale, her former mother-in-law, who at the age of seventy-one had made the effort to come all the way to Bath; her former sisters-in-law; Avery, Duke of Netherby, who had once been Harry’s guardian, and his duchess, Anna, who was Humphrey’s only legitimate child; Jessica, Avery’s half sister and Abigail’s dearest friend.

And her own daughters. And her grandchildren. Had they not all suffered enough in the past two years without . . . How had he phrased it? But it took no great effort of memory to remember. Had her children not suffered enough without having their mother known as a slut?

She hated him, she hated him, she hated him.

She believed she really did.

And she would not marry him. But now was not the time to announce that.

When would be the time, then?

Oh, she was being justly punished. She had no one to blame but herself for her own unhappiness. The trouble was that one sometimes dragged innocent people down into one’s own misery and guilt.

Marcel. She closed her eyes for a moment while the noise of conversation proceeded about her in Camille and Joel’s drawing room. Why had they had to be stranded at the same country inn? What were the chances?

Why did you stay instead of leaving with your brother?

Why did you speak to me?

Why did I reply?

She felt a shoulder pressed to her arm and opened her eyes to smile down at Winifred and set an arm about her thin shoulders.

“I finished A Pilgrim’s Progress, Grandmama,” she said. “It was very instructional. Are you proud of me? Will you help me choose my next book?”



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While they were still at the cottage in Devonshire together, Estelle had asked Abigail for a list of all her family members and where they lived. Abigail and her mother were to come for the party, and Estelle’s father had told her that that would be quite sufficient to make the betrothal aspect of the party a grand occasion for their neighbors. Bertrand had agreed that it was all she could reasonably expect when the wedding itself was to follow in just a couple of months and involve everyone from both families in traveling all the way to Brambledean in Wiltshire. Aunt Jane had reminded her niece that this was the first party she had organized and was a remarkably ambitious undertaking even as it was.

“Anything on a grander scale would simply overwhelm you, my love,” she said, kindly enough. “You have no idea.”

Estelle dutifully took the guest list she had made for her father’s birthday party and added Miss Kingsley’s and Abigail Westcott’s names. She would have added her aunt Annemarie and uncle William Cornish, who lived a mere twenty miles away, if she had not noticed that, of course, their names were already there. If everyone came, as surely they would, they would be well over thirty in number. That included the thirteen people who were already living at the house, it was true, but even so, it was an impressive number for a country party in October. It was all very exciting.

But oh, it was not as exciting as it would be if only . . .

Having discovered her wings only very recently, Estelle was eager to spread them again to see if she could fly. She was very nearly a woman, even if she was not quite eighteen. She wanted . . . Well. Without any real expectation of success, she added Abigail’s list to her own and began the laborious task of writing the invitations. She refused all help, even though both Bertrand and Aunt Jane offered, and even Cousin Ellen, Aunt Jane’s daughter.



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