Camellia curtseyed to the dark-haired man. “How do you do, Mr Townsend.”
“This is Miss Camellia Swift.” Hortense explained to Elliot, “Her father was my father’s youngest brother, and she is my cousin and very great friend.”
“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Swift,” Elliot said, bowing in a stiff, much-practiced movement. His expression held a certain appealing innocence, and his eyes were merry. Camellia already decided she liked him. He continued, “Oh, and this is Mr Phineas Ryder, late of the 50th Regiment of Foot. Served under Moore at Corunna! And Finn’s my very great friend. Oh, drat. I’m not supposed to say Finn, am I?” he muttered, flustered.
“How do you do, Mr Ryder,” Camellia said, gliding over the flub. She gave a careful curtsey. She was not at all sure she liked this gentleman, even if his eyes took her breath away. Hortense also showed a subtle change in demeanor. Her bubbling warmth cooled a bit. Whoever he was, Mr Ryder was not quite approved of.
“How do you do,” he replied. His bow was as attenuated as her curtsey, and she sensed he knew she’d notice. Unaccountably, she was a little offended. Why were her emotions going so topsy-turvy all of a sudden?
Mrs Bloomfield was introduced too, and then Hortense turned to the room at large. “Well,” she said. “That’s everybody! Now, I think we should play a game.”
Camellia was glad of the distraction. The feeling of recognition had not gone away. She would have to consider Elliot Townsend carefully, and his friend more carefully still. It hadn’t taken more than a moment for her to realize something important about Mr Ryder. He was a man who saw exactly what was in front of him…not what he wished to see. And he had been looking closely at Camellia. Why?
Though Hortense wanted a game suitable for yuletide merriment, it was difficult to decide which one to play, and a lively discussion ensued. While they waited to hear which diversion would be selected, Camellia and Mrs Bloomfield sat down. Camellia found herself sitting near Elliot, so she smiled and politely asked him how he found the castle so far.
“Oh, we left that to the coachman. I’m no good with maps.” Elliot’s expression was open, and there was no hint that he was joking.
Not trusting such innocence, she stepped cautiously, asking him more questions. To most of these, his replies were quite normal, even boring. But sometimes, he showed a remarkable naiveté, not understanding if a phrase had a double meaning, or a joke inside it. Yet there was something about him… Have I met him before, somewhere? she thought. Is this feeling important? Was it possible her reaction indicated she was meant to be with him?
Camellia sighed inwardly, berating herself for even thinking of romance. Elliot was a kind person. She could tell that straightaway. But could she imagine a life with someone who had no sense of humor? She looked for Mrs Bloomfield, but she had gone to speak with another guest. So she kept the conversation going, odd as it was.
Camellia raised an eyebrow at Elliot’s latest awkward comment about her less than impressive income, but restrained herself from making a caustic reply. Instead, she murmured, “Well, we must all make our way in this world, Mr Townsend. Tell me, how do you know the Fitzgeralds?” she asked, hoping the subject change would divert him from more awkward questions.
Elliot began to prattle on about his father and the families’ links. His meandering explanation let Camellia take her mind away for a precious moment. She nodded occasionally, listening to Elliot as she surveyed the room.
Mr Ryder, who had been elsewhere for a while, appeared again. He leaned toward Lia. “Townsend is giving you every last detail, is he?” he asked in a low voice.
Camellia didn’t know if the man was making a sly comment about Elliot’s rather limited conversational skills, but she didn’t wish to encourage him if he was. “I found his explanation most comprehensive,” she returned coolly.
“I expect you did,” he said. His dark eyes sparkled, though, as if he was amused by how she endured Elliot’s rambling. Nevertheless, his presence made Lia’s nerves jangle. She had to get out of there.
“I enjoyed our chat,” Camellia told Elliot, who beamed at her. “But you must excuse me. I have a few letters to write that are dreadfully overdue, and I should finish them before dinner.” She stood up, and Elliot bobbed up right after, looking for all the world like a rabbit popping out of its hole. Camellia nearly laughed at the image, but stopped herself in time.
“It was a pleasure, Miss Swift,” he said. “You are as nice as your cousin. I do hope to speak to you again.”
She merely smiled at Elliot. It would not do for a lady to appear forward.
His friend spoke up again. “Perhaps at dinner.”
“Perhaps, Mr Ryder.” Camellia nodded shortly to him. She left the room as quickly as she could. She did have a few letters she ought to write, but they weren’t as urgent as she claimed.
Upstairs, she pulled out her stationery, fully intending to write to Heather, another of her best friends from Wildwood Hall. But instead of completing the note, she found herself sketching, idly drawing imaginary coastlines and wishing she were somewhere warm and tropical. Mr Ryder knows all about traveling the world, she thought. He’d be the first to jump at the suggestion of catching a ship to sail to the Indies.
Then she pinched herself. Why was she even thinking about Mr Ryder? He was not marriage material. And she didn’t really want to marry anyone. And so what if his eyes had such a deep, soulful ache in them?
* * * *
After several false starts, Camellia finished the letter to let her mother know she had arrived safely, but she was too distracted by her surroundings to concentrate more. The castle had its own sounds, and drafts, and shadows. It always took a little getting used to. She felt a chill up her spine every time she turned her back to the door, no matter how tightly she wrapped her shawl around her shoulders.
She changed into a gown suitable for dinner, an emerald green jaconet with a high waist and lace around the neckline. She chose long white gloves, and prayed she wouldn’t stain them.
Mrs Bloomfield came to Camellia’s room to help arrange her hair in a more formal style. As she did so, Mrs Bloomfield related what news she’d gleaned about the guests. Quiet, proper Mrs Bloomfield was an expert at gathering information. A few veiled questions to Hortense told her nearly all she needed to know of Mr Ryder. He had little to his name, and he appeared to be a hanger-on of Elliot Townsend. Mrs Bloomfield mused aloud that the friendship was what kept Mr Ryder afloat.
Mrs Bloomfield went on, “There’s some mystery about Phineas Ryder, but I wasn’t able to get a real story out of anyone yet. From what I learned so far, he was involved in some scandal while on the Peninsula. It’s been said he murdered a fellow soldier.”
“Oh, my Lord!” Lia gasped. Ryder possessed a dangerous edge, but she’d not dreamed he was that dangerous.
“It’s not proven,” Mrs Bloomfield added. “There wasn’t enough evidence to bring a case against him. But his name is certainly tarnished thanks to the rumor mill—trust a soldier to gossip more than any woman. One of the other ladies I spoke with thought he is here because of his disgrace. He can’t rely on his old regiment cronies, so he’s reduced to hanging around Townsend, hoping for crumbs from the table.”
