wrinkled of the cravats. Camille would not consider actually dressing the man, but perhaps she could lay out his clothing of an evening. She would make sure to create appealing ensembles of tidy appearance.
Most gentlemen of the court considered it of utmost importance.
Camille opened the next trunk. Unlike the careless way his clothing had been packed, the contents of this chest had been lovingly arranged, with white sheets of paper separating the books.
Books.
What kind of man went to the difficulty of lugging about his book collection?
Camille picked up the first leather-bound volume and read the title gilt in gold, The Unfortunate Traveler . She resisted the temptation to open the pages and read. She had missed Molly’s story last night, and did not know when the next opportunity might arise to hear another… although Camille heartily prayed it would not be anytime soon, no matter how much she longed for a whimsical tale.
She rose with book in hand and glanced about the room. A set of shelving sat next to the bed, currently occupied by a few artful boxes of gold, a clock with sculpted angels surrounding the face, various other items obviously left behind between visits so the place would not look bare. She took down the pieces and arranged them on a table, and set the book upon the first shelf.
It looked as if it belonged there.
She imagined a man so enamored of his book collection would prefer to have them easily at hand, and hoped to please him by arranging the entire contents of the trunk upon the shelves.
He had saved her life, after all.
Camille had half the contents emptied before she could resist temptation no longer. The clock told her the noon hour had passed, and Augusta had not appeared. Nor anyone else, for that matter.
It was not necessarily forbidden for slaves to know how to read, but their time and duties certainly made it unlikely. If not for Molly, Camille never would have learned.
Still, she held her breath for a moment, listening for any sound, and could not stop the feeling of guilt that arose when she opened a volume titled, Mr. William Shakespeare’s Comedies, Histories & Tragedies , and the book fell open to the play, Much Ado About Nothing . Despite having to puzzle over some of the words, she soon became absorbed in the story, a smile playing about her mouth at the banter between the hero and heroine.
Molly wrote charming stories, about a world that had never been invaded by elven lords, an England gay with parties and debutants and admiring beaus. But this story, which she first thought to be a frivolous love story, involved complexities that lay beneath the surface, deceptions that reminded her strongly of those used by the elven lords.
Camille did not hear anyone enter the apartments. Indeed, when she looked up and saw him standing at the door, it gave her such a start she dropped the expensive book.
“Where is Augusta?” asked Viscount Hawkes, one arm across his chest to grip the other, his face paler than usual.
“I… I do not know, my lord. I haven’t seen her since last eve.”
He slumped against the door frame, exposing the frowning face of Captain Talbot just behind him, and glanced over his shoulder.
“You shall have to fetch the healer,” Lord Hawkes told his man. “And twice bedamn what the court fools say, fetch that old woman, not the palace healer.”
“Aye, sir. Perhaps I should see to the bleeding—”
His lordship shook his head. “Camille will tend me.”
Captain Talbot gave her a doubtful look, one that made her bristle with indignation.
“I am not unfamiliar with the sight of blood.”
“I should rather think not,” answered Lord Hawkes. “Go on, Edward.”
Without another word, the captain turned and quit the apartments, leaving Lord Hawkes standing there with his gaze fastened upon her once again. The tender way he looked at her made her feel peculiar inside.
“As much as I would enjoy standing here and looking at you forever,
Most gentlemen of the court considered it of utmost importance.
Camille opened the next trunk. Unlike the careless way his clothing had been packed, the contents of this chest had been lovingly arranged, with white sheets of paper separating the books.
Books.
What kind of man went to the difficulty of lugging about his book collection?
Camille picked up the first leather-bound volume and read the title gilt in gold, The Unfortunate Traveler . She resisted the temptation to open the pages and read. She had missed Molly’s story last night, and did not know when the next opportunity might arise to hear another… although Camille heartily prayed it would not be anytime soon, no matter how much she longed for a whimsical tale.
She rose with book in hand and glanced about the room. A set of shelving sat next to the bed, currently occupied by a few artful boxes of gold, a clock with sculpted angels surrounding the face, various other items obviously left behind between visits so the place would not look bare. She took down the pieces and arranged them on a table, and set the book upon the first shelf.
It looked as if it belonged there.
She imagined a man so enamored of his book collection would prefer to have them easily at hand, and hoped to please him by arranging the entire contents of the trunk upon the shelves.
He had saved her life, after all.
Camille had half the contents emptied before she could resist temptation no longer. The clock told her the noon hour had passed, and Augusta had not appeared. Nor anyone else, for that matter.
It was not necessarily forbidden for slaves to know how to read, but their time and duties certainly made it unlikely. If not for Molly, Camille never would have learned.
Still, she held her breath for a moment, listening for any sound, and could not stop the feeling of guilt that arose when she opened a volume titled, Mr. William Shakespeare’s Comedies, Histories & Tragedies , and the book fell open to the play, Much Ado About Nothing . Despite having to puzzle over some of the words, she soon became absorbed in the story, a smile playing about her mouth at the banter between the hero and heroine.
Molly wrote charming stories, about a world that had never been invaded by elven lords, an England gay with parties and debutants and admiring beaus. But this story, which she first thought to be a frivolous love story, involved complexities that lay beneath the surface, deceptions that reminded her strongly of those used by the elven lords.
Camille did not hear anyone enter the apartments. Indeed, when she looked up and saw him standing at the door, it gave her such a start she dropped the expensive book.
“Where is Augusta?” asked Viscount Hawkes, one arm across his chest to grip the other, his face paler than usual.
“I… I do not know, my lord. I haven’t seen her since last eve.”
He slumped against the door frame, exposing the frowning face of Captain Talbot just behind him, and glanced over his shoulder.
“You shall have to fetch the healer,” Lord Hawkes told his man. “And twice bedamn what the court fools say, fetch that old woman, not the palace healer.”
“Aye, sir. Perhaps I should see to the bleeding—”
His lordship shook his head. “Camille will tend me.”
Captain Talbot gave her a doubtful look, one that made her bristle with indignation.
“I am not unfamiliar with the sight of blood.”
“I should rather think not,” answered Lord Hawkes. “Go on, Edward.”
Without another word, the captain turned and quit the apartments, leaving Lord Hawkes standing there with his gaze fastened upon her once again. The tender way he looked at her made her feel peculiar inside.
“As much as I would enjoy standing here and looking at you forever,
Similar Books
