She took off her gown; it was dusty from travel. There was a basin and a washcloth; the water slowly turned brown as she rinsed her face.
She had stayed in dozens of rooms over the years—some for months, some for weeks. This was another room just like those. It was larger, though. More room for her hopes.
Every time she had moved, she had let herself love, reaching out despite every one of her last failures—yearning for connections with grandmothers, daughters, women who could have been her sisters, men.
Look forward, Camilla thought. She had been thinking it all day, and every time it happened, she remembered Adrian telling her that sometimes, looking back meant lemon tarts. Camilla was exhausted; she had been weary since she spoke to Mr. Graves that morning. Look forward, she thought, trying to banish the image—but Adrian had been right. She’d been running headlong into the future for so long that she felt off balance.
She’d yearned and yearned and yearned, and she’d never looked back. But if she didn’t learn now, once Adrian left her, she couldn’t allow herself to remember him. Not his smile, not his kindness. She’d have to leave behind all memory of a time when she was happy.
She didn’t want that. Camilla knew herself well enough to know that the love she felt now was the love she always gave—easily earned, tossed at anyone who paid her attention. It didn’t mean anything that she yearned for him. It was just Camilla being Camilla.
It didn’t mean anything that she liked him. It meant everything that he liked her.
Camilla drew in a deep breath.
She opened her valise and there, sitting on top, was that half-scarf she never had finished and her crochet hook. For a second, she thought of the time when she’d learned to crochet. Adrian was right; she would have to look back.
But… Not today. It didn’t need to be today.
She set aside the crochet hook and found one of her new gowns instead. It was serviceable, made of thick cloth, and it fit her as well as could be expected for ready-made clothing. She had thrown her whole heart into love as if she were fishing, tossing her hook out into waters and hoping for a bite. Again and again.
After the storm of this morning, she felt almost calm.
She was contemplating the day, lacing up a clean gown, when there was a knock on the door.
“Ready?” Mrs. Singh’s tones were muted through the door.
She was ready.
In the dining room, a sideboard contained a feast—roast chicken and turnips and greens and oranges. How long had it been since Camilla had an orange?
“We don’t stand much on ceremony,” Mrs. Singh told her. “I hope you don’t mind. Fix yourself a plate.”
“Of course I don’t mind.”
“Good—I’ve given up on these two lunks.”
These two lunks were Adrian and another man. They sat at the table, engrossed in the work before them—the table was filled with dozens of papers, each decorated with patterns. Some were colorful, vibrant reds and golds and greens in stripes on one square, vermilion chevrons on another. Next to those was an interlocking design of green and pink cranes.
“Gentlemen.” Mrs. Singh spoke loudly. “Dinner is served.”
The men looked up.
Adrian blinked. His eyes focused on Camilla; he looked back at the table, then at Mrs. Singh.
“Oh.” He blinked again, then shook his head. “Oh. The time. I had not noticed it at all. My apologies.” He pushed a few squares to the side, making scant room. “We didn’t mean to take up the whole table—we just didn’t notice.”
“Oh.” Mrs. Singh rolled her eyes affectionately. “To be sure.”
“Before I forget.” Adrian gestured at the man to his right. Like Adrian, the other man was black. His skin was darker than Adrian’s, a rich, deep brown. He looked up at Camilla, then over at Adrian. His lip quirked up.
“Could have been worse,” he remarked.
Camilla had no idea what that meant.
Adrian apparently did. He made a face, but pretended nothing had happened. “Camilla, this is Mr. Alabi. He’s our lead artist.”
“Pleased to meet you,” she said.
The plates set out for dinner were a riotous mix of mismatched color. The one Camilla picked up depicted a tree in blossom. The nearest flowers were limned in gold, but the entire thing was marred by an inexplicable red slash.
“Ah,” said Mr. Alabi. “You’ve noticed.”
Camilla looked up. “What have I noticed?”
“The plates,” he said. “After the underglaze, all the plates we produce at Harvil are hand-painted. The rejects get used here. That one’s not the best.”
“Oh?”
“Where’s the one with the two-headed peacock?”
“In London,” Adrian said, turning to Camilla. He served her lamb and potatoes and peas, covering up the tree. “I just hate wasting anything, is all.”
They settled around the table with their food.
“Is there anything I can get for you?” Adrian asked as he took a bite of lamb. “I’ll be busy the next few days.”
Camilla glanced at the designs. She wanted to ask more about them—where they came from, who painted them by hand. “I want something to do. Idleness doesn’t suit me.”
Adrian glanced at Mrs. Singh, then over at Mr. Alabi. “Of course. But—”
“We could use her,” Mr. Alabi said, “For the test audience. We don’t have enough white people here in any event.”
Camilla’s eyes widened. “What’s involved in that?”
“It’s not hard,” he told her. “We show you china designs. We get your reaction. We refine our designs.”
“But you don’t know if I have any taste.”
Mr. Alabi shrugged. “Most white people don’t, and yet they still buy china. That’s why your input is invaluable.”
Adrian let out a snorting laugh, and Camilla found herself smiling alongside them. “That will be nice. Is there not anything else I could do?”
“You’ve been traveling all day,” Adrian said. “Have a rest. Don’t worry about anything; I’ll finish the questions for Mrs. Martin’s affidavit when I’ve returned tonight. It’s just one more thing to do, after all. One more thing can’t hurt.”
He’d been traveling all day, too, and he was leaving to go do more work. Once he was finished, he’d do more work still.
“But—” she started to protest, and then realized that demanding that he help her figure out
how to spend her time would only be more of a burden. She subsided.
“But?”
“But I hope you have a productive time,” she told him. “Best of luck.”
Chapter Fourteen
It felt only natural to assist Mrs. Singh in clearing the table. If the woman thought anything of it, she didn’t say. But she accepted the help, and afterward, the two of them made tea.
“It sounds,” Mrs. Singh finally said, as she drew two chairs close to the small table, “that you’ve had quite the time of it recently.”
Camilla shut her eyes. God. A week ago, she had not suspected what awaited her. “You could say that.” She shrugged. “I try not to complain.”
“Well. That makes you one of a kind.”
“Oh. I want to complain sometimes. I have just never found it to do any good.”
“Then you aren’t doing it right,” Mrs. Singh said briskly. “You need a sympathetic ear and a real conversation. Sometimes the only way to find the route forward is to grumble about all the paths that have closed.”
Camilla looked up at the woman. That lift of hope she felt was familiar—too familiar. For a second, a warm little fantasy filled her heart. They would talk, share secrets, become friends…
Mrs. Singh sighed. “It will be hard for you here, then,” she said. “I’ll warn you—when it comes to Adrian, we are all more than a little protective. This world is a hard place, and for most people, it hardens them or it breaks them or it rots them.” She shook her head. “Adrian, however…”
“He has always been kind to me.”
“Kind.” Mrs. Singh sighed. “Yes—that’s him. Kind to a fault. I surely don’t know where he gets it, because it’s not as if nothing bad has ever happened to him.”
Camilla could listen to Adrian being discussed for hours. She made a sympathetic noise and leaned forward.
“There was that eternally wretched business with his uncle. His middle three brothers were killed in the American conflict. I’ve been with him in London, and I’ve watched what men say to him. It takes a certain gentleness of spirit to not be all scars after that.” Mrs. Singh looked off.