Camille set the card down against the bag of sweets. “You are angry,” she said unnecessarily. And now she felt foolish. But she had had no way of knowing, had she? And she felt accused, despised, as though she had been looking down upon these children as inferiors and of no account. She had been trying to do just the opposite. She might have been one of them, instead of Anastasia.
“Yes,” he said.
“I am not one of the wealthy and privileged,” she told him.
“Neither,” he said, “are you an orphan, Miss Westcott.”
No. Only a bastard. She almost said it aloud. But he probably was one too. So surely were most of the children here—the offspring of two people who had not been married to each other. Why else would most of them have been brought here and supported in secret? He was telling her she could never understand. And perhaps he was right.
“You knew Anastasia not just as a fellow teacher, then,” she said.
“We grew up together,” he told her.
Somehow his words depressed her and made her feel even more of an outsider. But an outsider to what? “You were friends?”
“The best,” he said. She had the feeling he was going to say more, but he did not continue.
She turned to look at him and thought unexpectedly of how different he was from Viscount Uxbury, to whom she would have been married by now if her father had not died when he had. Lord Uxbury was undeniably handsome, immaculately groomed, dignified, the epitome of gentility. No one would ever catch him perching on the edge of a desk, one foot swinging, his arms crossed, hands tucked under his armpits. No one would catch him with boots in which he could not see his own reflection. And no one would catch him with closely cropped hair that had not been styled in the newest fashion. It was strange, given the fact of his looks, that she had never really thought of Lord Uxbury as a man, only as the ideal husband for a lady of her rank and fortune. He had never kissed her, nor had she expected him to. She had never thought of the marriage bed except in the vaguest of ways as a duty that would be fulfilled when the time came. Yet she had thought of him as perfection itself, her perfect mate.
She looked at Mr. Cunningham’s firm lips and chin and found herself thinking about kisses. Specifically his kisses. It was really quite alarming. His appearance offended her, yet it was perhaps the very absence of the veneer of gentility that made her so aware of his maleness. She was offended by that too, for there was something raw about it. A gentleman ought not to make a lady aware of his masculinity.
He was not a gentleman, though, was he? And she was not a lady. She looked into his eyes and found them gazing directly back into her own. They were very dark eyes, as were his eyebrows and his hair. Even his complexion had a slightly olive hue, suggestive of some foreign blood in his ancestry. Italian? Spanish? Greek? Mediterranean men were said to be passionate, were they not? And wherever had she heard such a shocking thing?
Passion was vulgar.
He had known Anastasia, had grown up here with her, had been her friend—her best friend. He had taught in this schoolroom with her. Had he perhaps loved her? How had he felt when she went away, when the great dream had become reality for her while he had remained behind—with the full knowledge that though I will always call this place home and the people here my family, in reality I am without home or family.
It disturbed her that he might have loved Anastasia. It almost hurt her. It reminded her of her own terrible loss.
“Why are you here?” he asked abruptly, breaking a rather lengthy silence. He sounded as though he was feeling offended about something too.
“Here at the orphanage school, do you mean?” she asked. He did not answer and she shrugged. “Why not here? I live in Bath with my grandmother, and I must do something. An idle existence is no longer appropriate to my station. And the salary, though a mere pittance, is at least all mine.”
Her grandmother, true to her word, had insisted upon issuing a generous monthly allowance to both her and Abigail. It was larger than their father had given them. Camille had stuffed the money for this month into a little cubbyhole in the escritoire in her room, where she was determined it would remain. She had not accepted the quarter of a fortune Anastasia had offered, and she would not use what her grandmother gave, though of course she was accepting Grandmama’s hospitality every day she stayed at the house in the Royal Crescent. She did not know quite why she would not accept the money, just as she did not quite know why she had come here as soon as she heard of an opening at the school. But at least the salary she earned by her own efforts would give her some money to spend.
It would give her some self-respect too, some sense of being in charge of her own life.
“If you object to my being here,” she said, “you ought to have spoken up after I left last week. Perhaps Miss Ford would have written to cancel our agreement to a two-week trial.”
He had been examining the boot on his swinging foot, perhaps noticing how disgracefully worn it was. But his eyes came snapping back to hers at her words.
“Why would I have an objection?” he asked her.
“Perhaps because I am not Anna Snow,” she said.
She did not know where those words had come from. She was not . . . jealous, was she? How absurd. But the words had a noticeable effect. His foot was suddenly still, and they gazed steadily at each other for several uncomfortable moments.
“Do you hate her?” he asked.
“Do you love her?”
His eyes turned hard. “I could tell you to mind your own business,” he said. “Instead, I will remind you that she is married and that it would be wrong of me to covet another man’s wife.”