But he did need to talk to her, to apologize again, to try to clear the air between them if at all possible. They still had to share a schoolroom occasionally, after all, and he had to paint her portrait. Besides, yesterday might have had consequences, and he would not close his mind to the possibility, just as he had not—to his shame—even yesterday. He knew a great deal about illegitimate, unwanted children, and neither of those adjectives would ever apply to any child of his.
His chance came when the former Countess of Riverdale, Camille’s mother, decided that it was time she and her younger daughter returned home and Netherby raised a hand—actually it was one languid forefinger—to summon a servant and instruct him to have the ducal carriage brought around.
“It will deliver Camille to Northumberland Place first, if that meets with your approval, Aunt Viola,” he said, “before taking you and Abigail up to the Royal Crescent.”
“It really is not far for me to walk,” Camille said.
“Nevertheless,” Netherby said with a sort of haughty weariness, clearly expecting that the one word was enough to settle the matter. It never ceased to amaze Joel that Anna had married him. He was all splendor and affectation. However, Joel knew there was a great deal more to the Duke of Netherby than met the eye. There were those Far Eastern martial arts he had perfected, for example, which apparently made him into a lethal human weapon. And there was the fact that he loved Anna, though that was not something that had particularly endeared him to Joel at first.
“I will be passing Northumberland Place on my way home,” Joel said. “I will happily give you my escort to your door, Camille, unless you prefer to ride.”
Anna beamed across the table at him, and Lady Overfield turned her head toward him and smiled too for no apparent reason.
“I will walk home with Joel, Avery,” Camille said stiffly.
Joel stood exchanging pleasantries with Lord Molenor while she took her leave of her relatives and promised her mother that she would walk up to the Royal Crescent tomorrow afternoon.
“I shall probably see you there, Camille,” Anna said. “I know that Aunt Louise and Aunt Mildred want to call upon Aunt Viola. There is something I wish to tell you.”
Camille gave a brief, chilly nod, Joel saw.
The outside air had cooled with the descent of darkness, but it was still almost warm. The stars were bright. There was not a breath of wind. The silence of the street seemed loud after the clamor of voices in the dining room.
“You were not expecting to see your mother?” Joel asked, clasping his hands behind his back as they walked.
“I was not,” she said. “I did not believe she would come at all. She gave no hint of it in the letter she wrote me this week. She feels herself to be an outsider.”
“Yet she must have been a close member of the Westcott family for more than twenty years,” he said. “She still is in the minds of the others. That was clear to see. So are you and your sister.”
“Alexander said a strange thing to me before dinner,” she told him, “and before you arrived. It was in the nature of a suggestion—that I allow myself to be loved. I have never thought before about the difference between loving and being loved, though I learned early in my schooling the distinction between the active and passive voices of verbs. I think I have always behaved in the active voice. It is easier to do something oneself than wait for someone else to do it. One might wait forever, and even if one did not, the thing might not be done as well as one could do it oneself. I have always liked to be in control. It is easier to love than wait to be loved—or to trust that love even if it is offered.”
“You love your Westcott relatives, then?” he said.
“Yes, of course,” she said, shrugging. “Though I tend to avoid using the word love, for it is used to cover a multitude of different emotions and attitudes, is it not? They are my family. The fact that I will no longer allow myself to be dependent upon them does not alter that.”
“Was the Earl of Riverdale suggesting that you do not allow them to love you in return even though they wish to do so?” he asked.
“I do not know what that means,” she said.
He remembered her telling him that throughout her girlhood she had craved her father’s love, that she had tried to shape herself into the sort of perfect lady he would love. She had been far more damaged by that man than she realized. The fact that he had knowingly made her illegitimate was the least of his sins against her.
“It was clear to me tonight,” he said, “perhaps because I am indeed an outsider and could judge dispassionately, that your family members have been hurt by what has happened to you and your mother and sister and brother. The pain they feel is perhaps the deeper for the fact that they feel largely helpless to lessen your burden. They want to cherish you and make your lives easier again, less painful, but there are limits to what they can do. They can and do love you, however. Your sister seems willing to accept that. You and your mother hold yourselves more aloof, and it hurts both yourselves and them.”
She did not immediately reply, and he listened to their footsteps on the silent, deserted street.
“Not that it is any of my business,” he said belatedly.
“I must do this alone,” she said. “I need to do it alone.”
“I know,” he said, and he unclasped his hands and reached out without conscious thought to take one of hers. “But perhaps you can find some sort of middle ground. Perhaps you are already doing it, in fact. You went to spend the evening with them tonight. Tomorrow you are going to see some of them again at your grandmother’s house. Then afterward you will return to your room at the orphanage, and on Monday you will teach again. Independence and an acceptance of love offered need not be mutually exclusive.”