Page 20 of Ravishing Camille
“Three!” He clasped his stubby little fingers together in utmost glee. “I know your friend is honored.”
Brianna cast a jaundiced eye at Camille. “Honored that my mother, my maiden aunt and my older sister cannot live without their autographed copy of the next Camille Bereston gothic romance. And that I need the last copy for myself. My cat, you see, will be quarantined.”
Camille had crossed her arms at her friend’s soliloquy and stood back against the edge of the signing table. “Hmmm. We here simply hope that Wilkie Collins is proud of how we have amplified his suspense tales.”
“So say nothing of Charlotte Bronte and herJane, eh?” Brianna gave them both a wince.
Ladies of all ages, heights and demeanors approached Camille and circled round them.
“Oh, Miss Bereston! I am so honored to meet you.”
“My, my, Miss Bereston. Your novels are my most wonderful enthusiasm.”
“Comforting,” said another lady.
“You must write more. I simply cannot live without you in my day.”
As the women formed a cadre near Camille, she began to make her way to the back of the table. Taking her chair, she brushed out her white linen skirt and tucked in—once more—her errant curls.
She caught Mister Winslow’s eye and nodded. He was very good about letting her know when to begin. She’d told him her preference for a one-hour event, and he had always kindly agreed. The group before her continued to buzz in expectation and the bell at the front door kept ringing nonstop.
When at last all seats before her were full, Winslow rose up on his toes and lifted his bushy brows. He nodded and made his way to the front to one side of the desk where she sat. A stack of her new novel was piled at her right hand. Four copies of each of her previous nine were arrayed to her left hand, so that any readers who had missed one might buy a copy and have a complete library of her works.
He began with an introduction, citing once more that she lived with her family to the east in Hove. He always began that way, as if to note for his modest, middle class clientele that she was acceptable, moderate, a woman of substance and some virtue. His introductions always evoked a sense of pride in what she was, what she appeared to be and yet, pricked at her conscious of what she was not. Not yet, in any case. Not totally independent.
She shook off her reflections. She was working toward her goal. She was.
“Good afternoon, ladies!” She began with her hands and heart open to those like her who loved to get lost in the written word and especially those who put their hard-earned pin money into a few hours of pleasure reading her novels. Among those here, she recognized a few who’d attended these readings before. Many now brought their friends with them to meet her and listen to her read from her own pages. “I’m delighted so many of you are here. I thought I’d begin by reading a passage of the newest.”
Murmurs of approval rose up from her crowd.
“Marvelous!” She opened a copy of the book and leafed through it. The fragrance of ink on paper, the crisp sound of pages pried apart for the first time sent shivers of excitement through her. The satin texture of the cover beneath her fingertips aroused frissons of delight she’d experienced as a child when she first took a new book, a new treasure, a new adventure in her hands.
“Shall we take a peek at Harrowgate Aerie?”
“Indeed!”
“Yes, please!”
“I hope it is as chilling as Mannerton Court,” one woman confided to her friend beside her.
Camille loved it when her readers remembered her previous works. “I hope so too! Ahem. Oh, let me see. Here we are! The aerie.”
She cleared her throat.
“‘Above the treetops, upon a black jagged cliff, something drew my eye. Tall, pointed, reaching for the swirling thunderous clouds. I sat forward in the coach and trained my eyes on the needle. Oh! No needle, but a spire. And not just one but two…three. As the coachman drew us forward along the serpentine drive, I marveled that anyone found his or her way in or out amid the neglected overgrowth that scraped and poked at the sides of the carriage. Sleet and wind buffeted the coach. I shivered in the chill.
But sat straighter, taller. I would not be cowed!
At one turn, the brush cleared, the house appeared. And oh, it was no mere house, but a mansion of Minoan proportions.
How could I live here with a man I did not know?’”
* * *
Pierce stepped down from the Hanniford curricle. He hadn’t been to the shops in the Lanes in years. The sight of the bustle along the winding passages through shops and hawkers of every kind reminded him of the chaos of the merchants and beggars in the Chinese quarter of Shanghai. Here the sounds were understandable, English. The attire, western. The manners of the women more sedate. The manners of the men, what few there were out shopping, milder still. Folks buying and haggling with each other, others stopping to admire goods in the windows or to handle fruits and vegetables for sale from seated gypsies.
“Do return home, Sam,” he told his father’s groom. “Fetch me at Lord Victor’s office at three.”
