He barely glanced up. “You shouldn’t speak to me,” he said in a low voice.
“Why not?” she asked, hurt.
“It would upset my friend.”
Now Lia was confused. “Do you mean Mr Townsend?” Why would Elliot care if Finn spoke to her?
Finn’s expression was closed, carefully neutral. “He intends to ask for your hand as soon as possible.”
Camellia stopped short. “He does?”
How terrible! she thought. Yet, how could she be upset? Wasn’t that what she wanted, to attract a man just like Elliot to be her rescuer, her escape from her oppressive life? So why did the thought bring only confusion and sadness?
“That was your goal, was it not?” Finn asked. His sardonic look was back. “To catch a fine husband?”
“Well, yes, but…” That had been before she learned so much about Finn, before he’d kissed her.
“I wish you the best of luck.” Finn turned away, resuming his perusal of the three-day-old news.
She had an awful day.
Elliot Townsend was always there, for the whole day. His attentions might have gone unremarked if Finn hadn’t bluntly told her of Elliot’s intentions. But Camellia knew that his smile and frequent comments all had a particular aim. A few days ago, she would have been quite pleased with the way things were working out. Perhaps not ecstatic—Elliot did not inspire ecstasy. But now, she knew Elliot Townsend was not the type of man she was looking for. As Finn said, a sensible marriage would not satisfy her.
But what could she do?
In the afternoon, several of the party gathered in the bright and sunny parlor where the tables had been festooned with holiday greenery. The atmosphere was quiet, since most people were thinking of the ball to be held in a few hours’ time. Camellia pretended to read a book, but she knew Elliot was watching her from across the room. Mrs Bloomfield had gone off somewhere, and Camellia felt very alone. Finn had been absent ever since morning, and she missed his presence. If only he could talk to Elliot.
She got up and walked around the room to clear her head. She looked at the mirror over the mantel, and blinked as a sense of vertigo took over. The light was all wrong. There were not enough people reflected. Only three or four, and they were… Camellia took a step back as one figure in the mirror, a man dressed in an elaborate brocade frock coat, turned toward her and drew the sword at his waist. Another figure, a woman in a panniered gown of equal splendor, put up her hands in warning.
Run, a voice seemed to urge her. Run. He’ll kill us!
The man advanced. The mirror seemed to fade, dissolving the barrier between the past and present. Run.
She screamed. The world wavered in front of her. She closed her eyes, determined to make the vision go away.
When she opened her eyes, she saw only the plastered ceiling, with the bas-relief roses and vines circling the center of the room.
“Where…” she began.
“You fainted, Miss Swift.” It was Elliot’s voice. Concerned. Possessive.
“I never faint,” she protested…faintly.
“First time for everything,” another voice said. “We moved you to the couch, miss. Is there anything else we can do?”
“Send for Mrs Bloomfield,” she said, hardly daring to think. And where was Finn? She had to tell him what she saw! “I must talk to…” She moaned as a headache blossomed.
What a mess.
Mrs Bloomfield took charge when she was told about Camellia’s fainting spell, and had her taken to her bedroom.
“You’ve been outside in the cold too much. Have you taken ill?”
“I’m not sick,” Camellia insisted. “I saw something that startled me.”
In low tones, Camellia told Mrs Bloomfield of the mirror and her odd dreams. She did not mention Finn or the kiss, but Mrs Bloomfield still understood that something had changed.
“Why did you ask Mr Townsend to leave? He was quite concerned about you. What better way to attract his notice?”
