Funny, how much more striking that contrast of crisp linen was with his brown skin than it would have been for a white man. He made everyone else seem utterly pallid by comparison.
She’d seen black people before—servants and sailors and speakers. She’d never cursed in front of one until now. Camilla had always blushed easily; she felt her cheeks flame. How utterly uncouth he must think her.
“I—” She swallowed. “Just now, you may have heard, ah—”
He looked visibly amused. “I’m absolutely positive that I heard you say, ‘I don’t have time for this trite…’” He trailed off, gesturing.
She couldn’t help herself. It was just a little kindness, to pretend he hadn’t heard her, but little kindnesses were still kindness. She couldn’t help herself; she smiled. “Oh, is that what I said? Of course. I don’t have time for this trite… But now I’m confused. That’s not a complete sentence. This trite what?”
“You didn’t say.” Maybe it was because his eyes sparkled. Maybe it was because Camilla had always bloomed under any sort of attention. Maybe it was because she’d been working furiously without so much as a half-second to breathe for the last hour. But she found herself blushing. Again.
“That doesn’t sound much like me.” She met his eyes, aware that speaking like this was a bit too forward. She was too tired to care. “I’ll have you know that I usually end my sentences with nouns when it’s called for. You must think me entirely ungrammatical. We can’t have that.”
“Ah.” He shrugged. “I assume you would have finished what you were saying had I not interrupted you. The fault is all mine.”
“If you had not interrupted me,” Camilla continued, “you would have heard me say, ‘I don’t have time for this trite bullshit.’”
Uncouth, forward, impatient—everyone always counseled Camilla to hide what she was. She’d never been able to do it properly. If this man hated her, best he discover it quickly—before her imagination caught fire and she let herself get hurt with her own expectations.
But instead of backing away, he actually laughed at this, his eyes crinkling up in a way that made her smile back at him.
“If you haven’t guessed from Cook’s shouting,” she said, “I’m Camilla. That’s Miss…” Worth, she did not say. It had been more than a year since she introduced herself by her real name. She couldn’t be Camilla Worth anymore; Camilla Worth would be an embarrassment to her family. “…Winters,” she finished. “Miss Winters to you.”
“Mister…” He paused, imitating the way Camilla had drawn out her fake name. “Hunter, His Grace’s valet.”
A valet. To a bishop. Well above her current station, she reminded herself, and she had best remember not to be foolish. She really needed to get away before Mr. Hunter made her smile again.
But—“I look forward to speaking with you,” he said, and he sounded as if he meant it.
Camilla always got carried away with herself. It was her worst flaw in what was undoubtedly an unending sea of unmendable flaws. She wanted so badly to be wanted. She’d been told again and again to stop, to have some decorum, and she rarely managed it. Likely she never would.
There was nothing particularly appreciative about the glances Mr. Hunter gave her; she should not allow herself to imagine that his gaze actually lingered on her. For heaven’s sake, she was the only thing in the room. What else was he to look at?
Still, he smiled at her one last time, and she couldn’t help but smile back. He was a valet to a bishop. That put him far above her station, and he was too handsome for her anyway. Besides, how long would he stay? Days, at best.
It was foolish to imagine that a little conversation was akin to flirtation. But Camilla had been foolish before.
Her glance, she knew, was possibly a little too familiar. “Unlikely. We’ll never speak again. I will perish from overwork before we have a chance to exchange another word.”
There it was again. She was flirting.
“I’ll be back to finish the sheets,” she said, because talking of beds would definitely make the situation better. “When I die, make sure that Kitty gets my wire brooch. She’s admired it so.”
“I’ll make up the beds.”
“You’re too kind. I’ll—”
“No,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, “you don’t understand. If you perish, I’ll have to get the bishop’s formal blacks ready for the funeral. It’s far less work to just finish the sheets.”
He wasn’t flirting, she reminded herself firmly. That sparkle in his eyes didn’t mean anything.
“In that case,” she said, “I’ll leave you to it, and maybe we can have that word later.”
He smiled. “Maybe we can.”
God, Camilla was an idiot.
She had a moment to look up, dazedly, into his eyes. They were brown, flecked with gold, and when he smiled, it felt as if the whole world was smiling with him. Idiocy.
It took a particular sort of perverse obstinacy to fall in love at first sight. It took absolute pig-headedness to do it again and again and again. To imagine affection from nothing and then hope for it repeatedly.
It was, in short, Camilla’s usual rebelliousness—to believe, after all this time, that someone would like her. It wasn’t the first time she’d been taken with someone simply because he was kind and handsome and a stranger.
None of the people familiar with her liked her at all. It would have to be a stranger who decided she was worth something, if it were ever to happen. And it had been so long, her chance had to come up—
“Camilla! Tea! Now!”
The shriek up the stairs jolted her out of her state of daydreaming. Camilla jumped and ducked her head. “I’m—that is—”
“Goodbye, Miss…Winters,” he said softly.
She shouldn’t. She really should not. “Au revoir, Mr…Hunter.” She could not help her hopeful smile, the lift in her heart. She could not help grinning as she ran down the stairs.
He was only going to be here for a short time. Then he’d leave. Besides, if he was employed by a bishop, he had to have an impeccable character.
She was flighty, flirty, and terribly good at fooling herself. Camilla knew this about herself. She’d learned it all too well. But a few hours, maybe a few days.
How could it hurt her to be happy for a few days?
* * *
Five minutes later, Camilla ducked into the rector’s office, where the two men were ensconced deep in conversation.
Summer sun was shining through the window, laying a cross-hatched pattern on the surface of Rector Miles’s desk. She set the large tray there, then gathered up the teapot.
“As far as charity works for the parish,” Rector Miles was saying, “I honestly cannot imagine doing more than we are doing at the moment.”
Camilla did not think much of the rector’s plans for charity. It was flaw number forty-nine in her, she supposed—a tendency to judge others when she had more than her own share of defects to correct. She tried not to judge—a little bit—but alas.
That would no doubt be engraved on her tombstone: Camilla tried to be good, but not for very long.
It was particularly hard for Camilla not to judge Rector Miles on the matter of charity, though. She and Kitty were both his charity projects, and while she did see some charity in his actions, she was still essentially an underpaid servant. She knew she should to be grateful to him, but…
“No,” the bishop replied. “I’ve seen what you do, and there is no benefit in devoting any more funds to the matter.”
Camilla was
grateful to Rector Miles. She was. She had been in trouble when he rescued her. He’d made her see all the possible consequences of her behavior. He’d taken her in, and he patiently spent time thinking of her.
No point returning to what she had been. She’d made a mistake—several mistakes—but she was trying to do better. She’d focus on that.
“Then we are agreed.” The two men nodded at each other.
Camilla set spoons and saucers down, aligning them precisely, then arranged the little ceramic dishes of milk and sugar between them.
It had not been trouble trouble that the rector had saved her from. At least, it had not been immediate danger. Just the kind that put her immortal soul in peril, even if it had made her mortal being temporarily happy.
“I’ve been thinking of the best way to handle the situation,” Rector Miles was saying. “It could potentially become a larger issue.”
Mr. Hunter had seemed kind. Just thinking of a man’s shoulders could not endanger her mortal soul, could it? They were just shoulders. Shoulders were above the waistline. Far above the waistline. Surely it would be entirely innocent to think of them. Would it not? Camilla fetched the sugar biscuits and set them above the tea things.
“And here I thought the matter was already decided,” the bishop said.
The tea-tray had been laden with treats today, but who had put it together, Camilla didn’t know. One didn’t serve sandwiches tossed higgledy-piggledy on a plate to a bishop. She shook her head and arranged them into a spiraling star.
The bishop was right, even if he hadn’t been addressing Camilla. She’d already made her decision. She was trying to be good. She didn’t want to have to think of her mistakes, and that meant no flirtations. No shoulders. No nothing.
Down that path lay danger to her immortal soul. If she were a better person, she’d accept what she ought to be with a glad heart. But there were times Camilla quite resented her immortal soul.