Page 93 of Yielding to Love

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Alice appeared undisturbed by Crispin’s disappearance, even though he’d left without taking leave.

“That is what he always does.” She raised her hand to summon the footman to the table, which was as elaborately set for three as if at a formal dinner party for twenty. “Would you take that plate away and bring Mr. Fogbotham one without the beef and gravy?”

Mr. Fogbotham sighed theatrically, set down his fork, and pushed his plate away. “So close.”

Camellia liked the old gentleman. He was heavyset with kind hazel eyes, and he seemed fondly amused when his daughter coddled him. He walked with an odd limp, favoring his right big toe, but if he was otherwise bothered by gout, he hid it well.

“I think he believes it preserves his air of mystery,” Alice continued.

“Does he have an air of mystery?”

“He thinks he does.” She laughed, her green eyes twinkling.

“Have you known him long?” Crispin had only been gone a few hours, but Camellia missed him dreadfully. As more evidence of her infatuation, she was curious what his friends thought of him. She knew there was a short window where she might get away with probing. By his abrupt disappearance, he’d made himself fodder for gossip.

Alice tilted her head, considering. “Almost three years. We met when Jasper was courting Georgiana.”

“Georgiana?” She thought the countess’s name was Vanessa.

“Yes. Well, Reg won her. It all worked out for the best. Crispin was with Wellington on the peninsula then, so he was only ever home briefly. But whenever he appears, everyone adores him like a demigod.” She paused. “That sounded more negative than I meant it to. It’s only natural that they worried about him at war, and clung to him when he was home.” Then she laughed. “Georgiana is my cousin, did you know? So I’ve spent a lot of time with the Taverstons. They are all exactly what they appear to be, except for Crispin. I suppose he is as mysterious as he pretends to be.” She cut the meat on her plate into tiny pieces. “But you must know him better than I do. Wasn’t he visiting your brother for quite a while?”

“A few weeks.”

“Hmmm. Oh, thank you.” She nodded to the footman who set a new dish in front of Mr. Fogbotham, then went on as if she had not been interrupted. “A few weeks is barely enough to scratch the surface.” She took a bite of her own beef and gravy, then frowned as she chewed and swallowed. “Did he do anything about those pistols?”

“Those…? Oh, the pistols. No. We only went to the churchyard.”

“Now, see, that is strange. Haz says he’s like a terrier. Once he gets ahold of something, he doesn’t let go.”

Did he not?

Alice shrugged, unconcerned. “Perhaps he’ll be back. He arrives as mysteriously as he leaves.”

*

An unexpected benefit of having accompanied the viscountess to Tunbridge Wells was that Camellia was making a fascinating friend. Alice had appropriated the study in the townhouse for her own use. When she returned from taking her father to the baths, she spent at least two hours each evening reading several newspapers. She also combed through every political pamphlet her father was handed in the street. She wrote long letters to her husband, and received equally thick letters in return. Once, Alice invited Camellia to attend a meeting of local suffragists. By the time the speakers were finished, Camellia was completely persuaded. Women deserved the vote.

“Haz is committed to this,” Alice said, as they walked back to the townhouse. “But frankly, we are a long way off. We haven’t even swayed Jasper.” Her brow furrowed. “It’s hard to press Vanessa to push him. Wounded veterans are her cause. And she has a lot else on her mind.”

“Wounded veterans?” Oh, Neville. She had never thought of him as part of a cause, but she was glad someone did. “That’s a worthy focus.”

“Yes, but don’t you see? If women had the vote, they would push for more programs to help the downtrodden. Women have more empathy. Men count their shillings. And the men who have the most shillings count them most carefully.”

That was painting with a broad brush, but Camellia understood what Alice meant. And yet, it seemed helping wounded soldiers was a more direct route than gaining women the vote. More achievable. Even if it helped in a limited way, it was something.

“What does Vanessa—I mean Lady Iversley—what does she do?”

“She supports a boot factory. The workers are all veterans. They make high-priced boots for ladies.” Alice paused and lifted her hem to display Hessians tooled with flitting butterflies. She laughed. “It is now de rigueur for ladies of fashion to own at least three pairs.”

Camellia could not support a factory. She couldn’t even buy a pair of boots.

“What we need,” Alice said, “are more men in Parliament like Hazard. Men who know the meaning of compassion.”

“Are they so rare?” She could list a few: her father, Manfred, Mr. Diakos…she wasn’t sure she could include Crispin.

“Rare?” Alice smiled. “Compassionate men? No, I suppose not. But they are not the type of men who stand for office. That’s what makes Haz so useful.”