Page 37 of A Duke's Keeper
Camille winced at her mother’s voice coming from the bedroom—a luxury in this part of the rookery when most families had to share a single room or floor with sisters, brothers, fleas, and worse. Knowing she’d look guilty with her boots underarm, Camille laid the worn, leather footwear in front of the door and threw back her shoulders before walking to the opening, where a door should have stood.
Her mother, rail thin and looking more and more like one of the hangers that used to suspend her shimmering costumes than the actress who’d once worn them, sat up against the pillows already dressed in her signature scowl and every meager blanket they owned.
Camille went to the open window to cut off the harrowing chill.
“Leave it,” her mother said, a wisp of stringy, graying hair escaping her nightcap. “I won’t be poisoned by our air.”
Camille left the window ajar but pulled the torn and holed curtain over to block more of the morning breeze. There wasn’t much movement between the buildings at least. Idiots like Doctor Arnott, spouting that a window must be left open or else the air turn sour, were responsible for countless cases of frostbite and pneumonia. Even if their claims of air quality held true, she’d take labored breathing over the dampness anymorning, especially as they had no coin to spare for fuel or rug by the fire. Leaving windows open overnight was ludicrous. It may have been June, but London held a perpetual draft when the sun went down throughout the year.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Camille said.
Her mother sniffed. “I’m thirsty.”
Camille crossed to the nightstand. After pouring a half-glass of previously boiled water from the pitcher, she handed it into her mother’s waiting hands.
When she’d finished, she held the glass out without looking, expecting Camille to put it back despite the nightstand being less than a foot away.
Camille took and replaced the glass without comment.
“Punishment.”Madam Clarice’s fascination with and pleasure from asserting control over another person was unsettling. Camille wondered, not for the first time, if her clients felt as helpless and worthless as she did.
“Would you care to wash?” She nodded to the near-full pitcher. “I can fetch the flannel.”
Mother clutched the blanket tighter and shook her head.
“Are you hungry?” she asked.
“I want meat pie.”
Camille nodded. “I’ll pick up some on my way home.”
They both knew she wouldn’t eat anything until she was well too drunk to taste the cheap meal.
Her mother lifted her chin towards the empty bottles in the corner. “And more brandy.”
Camille nodded again, deciding to forgo this morning’s outburst by reminding her mother she wouldn’t be paid for two more days.
The clock in the main room sounded the hour. Camille waited until the eleventh chime concluded before saying, “I have to go to work.”
Her mother stared at the corner and her collection of bottles in answer.
Camille didn’t offer a kiss or farewell, not wishing to feel her mother pull away. She made it to the door before glancing back at her mother’s gaunt face and dead gaze, and her guilt pressed down on her like an overturned carriage.
*
“I had amost interesting talk with Victoria yesterday,” Madam said from the panel door between offices. “Seems the Duke of Lux never signed his membership contract.”
Camille didn’t flinch, didn’t pause. She read the file before her, jotting notes in the journal to her right. “Unfortunate.”
“It is,” Madam said. “Seeing as how you were asked to step in and interview him.”
“Victoria should never have asked me to do her job, and you should never have lied and told her Lord Reiner was here. Victoria told me she waited, but he never showed.”
“Are you accusing me of meddling?”
“I’ll accuse you of worse things.”
“But not to my face. Turned into a coward since yesterday, Angel?”
