Chapter 29 #2
“She was a terrible artist, at first,” Raph said roughly. “Once she drew me on a horse with my head the size of a pumpkin. And she insisted it was ‘artistic proportion.’”
Pamela’s laugh bubbled up, real and startling. Camelia’s eyes stung with unshed tears as she watched the girl break out of her shell completely.
“She drew me too.” Pamela looked at Camelia with the biggest grin.
“She did?” Camelia cocked her head, thinking how it was possible for Josephine to draw Pamela when she hadn’t spent time with her.
“Yes, she drew a baby riding a pony backward and said it was prophetic.”
Camelia’s heart squeezed. “I would love to see that one.”
Pamela turned fully to Raph, emboldened. “What else, Father? Please. Anything.”
Raph’s fingers tightened around his fork. For a moment, Camelia thought he would retreat behind his walls again. But then, he exhaled, slow and shaky.
“She used to sing when she rode,” he revealed. “Off-key, always, because it helped her get over her fear.”
“What songs did she sing?”
“I can’t remember them all, but there was one that stuck with me.
Some bawdy hunting song she’d learned from the grooms. It scared the birds for miles.
” His gaze softened, fixed somewhere beyond the candles.
“She never walked when she could run. Never cried if she could laugh louder. She burned bright, Pamela. Too bright for the world we gave her.”
Pamela’s eyes glistened, but her smile was radiant. “I think I would have loved her.”
Raph’s voice dropped to a whisper. “She would have loved you beyond reason.”
Camelia watched them and felt the poison in her veins recede, just a little. The candles still burned too hot, the air still crackled, but for one fragile moment, the dining room was big enough to hold all their ghosts.
Pamela leaned forward, breathless, her eyes shining with intrigue. “Father… you haven’t told me how you met her. What was Mother truly like with you?”
Camelia’s gaze flicked to Raph.
Raph set his wine glass down, buying time. “Your mother was a lady in every sense of the word,” he said, his voice measured and almost gentle. “She was graceful, kind, and she had a fire in her. Any man would have counted himself blessed to have her in his life, even for a moment.”
Pamela blinked, the answer drifting past her like smoke. Her brow creased in gentle confusion. She opened her mouth, hesitated, then closed it again and simply nodded, accepting the half-truth because it came from him.
A heavy beat of silence settled over the table.
Then, Pamela lifted her chin and almost shyly asked, “And what can you tell me about my father?”
Raph froze.
Camelia’s fork slipped from her fingers and hit the plate with a sharp, metallic clang that rang through the room like a gunshot.
“What do you mean?” Raph asked hoarsely.
Pamela met his eyes steadily, though she was afraid. “My real father. The one whose blood I carry.”
“Pamela,” Raph said, a deep frown creasing his brow. “I am your father. Why would you question that?”
Camelia remained silent, although she had much to say. It was Raph’s job to tell the girl the truth.
“I’ve known for a while now that you are not my father by blood,” Pamela whispered, as if she was afraid to speak out.
Camelia’s hand flew to her mouth, but she could not suppress a gasp.
The silence that followed was deafening. Raph looked at a loss for words as Pamela’s eyes remained fixed on him, bright with tears she refused to let fall.
“I sometimes hear the maids speaking about how my birth makes no sense. How no lady claimed you as the father of her child. I would love to know the truth and to one day meet my real father if he is still alive.”
Raph’s throat worked, and his fists clenched around a napkin. Camelia longed to reach out to him, but she feared he would reject her advances.
“Raph, if you will excuse me.” She stood up to leave, but Raph motioned for her to stay. “This is between you and Pamela, Raph.”
“You will not go anywhere, Camelia. This is a family matter, and you are family.”
Camelia sat back down. After their morning spat, she wasn’t sure what she was to him. She stayed stock still as the silence enveloped them again.
“So, it is true?” Pamela looked between them. “I just needed you to say it,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Once. Just once, I needed you to look at me and not lie.”
The silence that followed was a living thing, savage and suffocating.
“But you are my daughter!” Raph said passionately, the words torn from somewhere raw and bleeding. “Blood or no blood, you are mine.”
Pamela flinched as if struck. Raph’s words came from a place of love, but he executed that love in a way that a young girl would not understand.
He was already moving, rounding the table, reaching for the girl. “Pamela—”
Pamela leaned back, trembling. “Don’t touch me.”
“I will tell you everything, I swear. But you have to trust me that I did it all to protect you.”
The hurt was plain in her hazel eyes. She pushed her chair back and made for the exit.
“Pamela!” Raph called out to her.
“Is everything about my mother even true?”
“Yes, everything about her is true.”
“But there’s more, isn’t there?”
“I will tell you everything, I promise.”
“And did you know the truth, too?” She looked pointedly at Camelia.
“Yes,” Camelia admitted. She was done with the lies.
Tears spilled from Pamela’s eyes. “I trusted you. I trusted both of you!” she cried.
“Pamela, please sit down, and I will tell you everything you need to—”
Before Raph could finish, Andrew appeared in the doorway, his face ashen, with a letter outstretched like a death warrant. Raph snatched it from his hand, ripped it open, and read it. The paper shook in his fist as though it might ignite.
Camelia watched the color drain from his face until he looked like he was carved from marble.
“Raph,” she breathed, “what does it say?”
Pamela made a sound and pressed both hands to her mouth before she ran out of the dining room.
Camelia’s vision blurred with tears, but her voice cut through the room like a blade.
“Pamela!” She ran after her, but stopped midway. “Raph, did you hear me? What does it say?”
Raph’s eyes met hers over the wreckage of their dinner. “It says we have one day.”
“One day for what?” She frowned, confused.
“One day before Montague tells the world that Pamela isn’t mine. That she’s his.”
Camelia stepped forward into the candlelight, tears streaking her face, but she kept her chin high. “What is going on, Raph?”
He made a broken sound, something between a laugh and a sob, and crossed the room in three strides. He poured himself a glass of brandy and downed it in one sip. Camelia stood frozen, watching as fury overtook him.
“He will never hurt Pamela. Never!” He threw the glass against the wall, and the crystal shattered everywhere.
Camelia felt torn between running to him and running after Pamela.
As if reading her mind, Raph turned to her and said, “Go to Pamela. She needs you.”
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going to plan the downfall of Montague.”