He would have a tailor’s bill and a bootmaker’s bill to pay within the next week or two.
Fortunately, he did not have long to brood. One carriage was crunching over the gravel of the driveway and another was coming right behind it. Joel moved onto the steps outside the front door and stood with his hands clasped behind him, trying to pretend that he was the grand master of all he surveyed. He wished his boots were not quite so scuffed.
Everything proceeded remarkably well after that. Everyone was in high spirits, and they all admired the house and the view and the garden. The housekeeper gave them a tour of the house, though the Dowager Countess of Riverdale decided to remain in the drawing room after they had arrived there, and Lady Matilda Westcott chose to stay too to ply her with smelling salts despite her mother’s vociferous protests. Everyone went their separate ways after the tour was over, most of the family strolling outdoors across lawns, through the rose arbor, down onto the steeply sloping rock garden, behind the house to the woods through which a carefully cultivated path ran.
“Joel,” Anna said, linking an arm through his just before they all gathered on the main lawn for the picnic tea, “this is a quite exquisite jewel of a place, is it not? And to think that we grew up down there within sight of it and were never aware of it. Do you regret . . . Oh, never mind.”
“Yes, I do,” he said. “If only one could reach back in time and know. But it cannot be done, and it was their choice to remain unknown to me. I do, however, owe the decency of my upbringing to them—it might have been very much worse. And I owe my grandmother my career. It would not have happened if I had not been able to go to art school.”
“You were always very talented,” she said. “But you are probably right. What are you going to do? Are you going to live here?”
“Rattle about alone in such a vast mansion?” he said. “It is hard to imagine.”
“Alone, Joel?” she said, and he was aware that her eyes were resting upon Camille, who was looking remarkably pretty in a light muslin dress and straw bonnet Joel had not seen before—and who had scarcely glanced his way since her initial stiff greeting when she had arrived with her maternal grandmother and her mother and sister.
“I have not decided what to do about the house,” he said. “I was determined to sell it, but . . . Well, my mother grew up here, and . . .”
She squeezed his arm. “Take your time to decide,” she said. “All will be well. I promise.”
“Oh, you do, do you?” he said.
“I do.” She laughed and released him in order to join two of her aunts.
The picnic fare seemed like perfection itself to Joel, and everyone appeared to agree with him. Everyone complimented him, and he laughed and told the truth.
“I left everything in the hands of the caterer,” he said. “When I was shown a list of possibilities, I did not even know what most of the items were. They all had fancy names. So I had to leave the choice to the experts and have been relieved to discover that I recognize the foods even if not the names.”
Everyone laughed with him and it was time for his little surprise. Servants came from the house with trays of champagne and Joel proposed a toast to the dowager countess, who was sitting upon one of the chairs beneath the shade of a tree, though Lady Matilda had made several attempts also to hold a parasol over her head.
“I do not know the exact date of your birthday, ma’am,” he said. “But I wish you a happy birthday week.” And everyone clinked glasses and echoed the toast.
“My birthday is today, young man,” the dowager said, “and so far it has been perfect. I cannot imagine a more delightful setting for my birthday tea or more delicious food or more congenial company. Thank you.”
The toast and her words signaled the end of the visit. The carriages were summoned and everyone gathered on the terrace waiting for them, talking cheerfully among themselves, thanking Joel again and complimenting him on his new home.
And still he and Camille had exchanged no more than that initial greeting. She had avoided him all afternoon. Or perhaps he had avoided her.
“Camille,” he said, “can I persuade you to stay a little longer? There are some things I would like to show you. You may return home with me later.”
He had not spoken loudly. He had not expected anyone else but her to hear. But it seemed everyone did, and a general hush fell on the gathering as everyone, it seemed, looked first at him, then at Camille, and then back at him.
“It is hardly the thing, Mr. Cunningham,” Lady Matilda said, “for a single lady—”
“I believe my granddaughter is quite capable of making her own decisions, Matilda,” the dowager countess said.
“Of course she is,” Lady Molenor agreed. “If she—”
“Perhaps, Mr. Cunningham,” Elizabeth, Lady Overfield, said, “you will permit me to stay too. I would love to spend a quiet hour in the library looking at all those books. If, that is, Camille chooses to stay.”
All eyes swung her way. The color was high in her cheeks. That stubborn jaw of hers was in full evidence, as were the lips set in a thin line. “Yes, certainly,” she said.
They stood on the terrace, the three of them, watching the carriages move off down the driveway. Lady Overfield turned a smiling face to Joel. Her eyes were twinkling.
“I shall make myself scarce,” she said. “I daresay I could spend a week in that library without running out of books to look at, so you must not feel rushed. And I know the way.” She turned her smile upon Camille, picked up her skirts, climbed the steps, and disappeared into the house.