Chapter 15 #3
“Oh! Forgive me, Miss Camille,” Ertha exclaimed in surprise, stepping back and abruptly pulling her right arm behind her back, as if to conceal something.
Her wide-eyed gaze skipped to Adam and then back again to Susanna.
“I came to talk to Mr. Thornton. Prue told me I’d find him here, but I thought you had already retired for the night.
Prue said she heard that you were only going to be in the library for a few moments—”
“I was just leaving, Ertha,” Susanna broke in, wondering at the housekeeper’s strange behavior. Why was she studying her face so intently, as if seeing her for the first time?
“You don’t have to go, Miss Cary,” she heard Adam say firmly behind her. “I’d like it very much if we continued our business discussion. I’m sure whatever Ertha has to say can wait until morning.”
“Oh, yes, of course it can wait,” the housekeeper blurted, looking extremely uncomfortable. “I’m sorry I interrupted you, Miss Camille. Tomorrow morning will be fine…”
“That won’t be necessary,” she insisted, brushing past her into the hall. “I have to rise early if I’m going to be ready by the time Matthew and Celeste Grymes arrive.”
As Ertha sharply wheeled around so that her back was to the paneled wall, her arm still twisted behind her, Susanna wondered again what was the matter with the woman. Then her desire to flee Adam’s compelling presence overcame her. Bidding them both a hasty good night, she escaped up the stairs.
Adam closed the door to the library, his gaze narrowed as he studied the silent housekeeper. Damn, if he and Camille weren’t forever being interrupted in this house!
He moved to the front of the desk, attempting not to sound too irritated. He knew the housekeeper had meant no harm. “All right, Ertha, what did you want to speak to me about?”
“Well, Mr. Thornton, I didn’t know if I should bring this to your attention. It might not mean a thing…”
“Bring what to my attention?” he demanded, watching as she drew what looked to be a rolled piece of parchment from behind her back.
“This.”
As she handed him the cylinder, he saw that it wasn’t parchment at all but stiff, fine-grained canvas such as artists used for oil paintings.
“It’s a portrait, Mr. Thornton,” Ertha added in a nervous rush.
“I found it in Miss Camille’s closet when I went up there yesterday to put away the things she bought in Yorktown.
I was setting her new hat up on the shelf when another hatbox fell to the floor.
A straw bonnet tumbled out and along with it came this canvas.
I can’t say for sure, but I think this painting was hidden beneath a false bottom. ”
Adam carefully unrolled the canvas, his breath catching as the portrait of a pretty, emerald-eyed woman was revealed.
For a fleeting instant he thought it was Camille, but on a second look, he doubted his initial judgment.
The features were similar but not remarkably so.
The main resemblance lay in the color of the eyes and in the hair, which was honey-blonde and worn in the same style, swept back from the forehead and tumbling in ringlets over the woman’s shoulders and down her back.
Then he wondered if it might indeed be a portrait of Camille, but executed by an artist who had failed to accurately capture her features.
“I don’t understand, Ertha. It looks to be Miss Cary, not the best portrait of her, I agree, but it is her.”
“That’s what I thought, but not anymore.
Too many things are different,” the housekeeper said, appearing confused herself.
“This woman’s expression is calm and peaceful, but Miss Camille’s is always so lively, even on that first day when she came to the house.
And look how this woman holds her hands, so restful-like.
I noticed early on that Miss Camille doesn’t seem to like to sit still much.
Look at the tilt of this woman’s chin and that gentle smile.
Everything’s different, I tell you. Don’t you see it, Mr. Thornton? ”
“Yes, I suppose I do, but I still don’t understand what you’re trying to say—”
“This is my baby! I know it! I remember her as clear as the day she left for England. My little Camille was always a quiet, reserved child, and this portrait shows that the years hadn’t changed her.
” Ertha sighed with exasperation, as if knowing she was making little sense.
“I didn’t realize how completely different Miss Camille was until I saw this picture. ”
“Ertha…” Adam began, his head beginning to hurt. What the hell kind of nonsense was she uttering?
“Please hear me out, Mr. Thornton,” she insisted, her deeply lined face anxious.
“I don’t know what all of this means and, God knows I could be wrong, but I believe there’s something strange afoot here at Briarwood.
Something in my bones is telling me that the young lady upstairs is not the rightful Miss Camille Cary. ”
Now Adam’s head was actually pounding. He wondered if the frantic preparations for Camille’s welcome ball had pushed the housekeeper into hysteria.
“You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”
“Not crazy, Ertha. Just overtired.” Adam chose his next words carefully. He didn’t want to offend her. He knew there wasn’t a more faithful servant at Briarwood than this woman.
“We’ve had a lot of upheaval here during the past months,” he continued.
“Mr. Cary’s death and then Miss Cary’s arrival home.
I’m not saying you’re imagining things, Ertha.
You’ve a right to your feelings. But this idea of yours is impossible.
The portrait is a bad one, it’s as simple as that.
I suggest you have the other maids take on some of your duties for a few weeks so you can get some extra rest.”
The housekeeper heaved another sigh, suddenly looking much older than her years as she shrugged wearily.
“Lord help me, maybe I am overtired, saying such foolish things,” she muttered almost to herself, then she met Adam’s eyes.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Thornton. Must be my age finally catching up with me.
” She glanced at the partially rolled canvas in his hands.
“I’ll put the painting back in the bottom of that hatbox tomorrow morning after you both leave for the Tates’.
If Miss Camille wants it there, then it must be for some good reason. ”
“Leave it in here for the night,” Adam suggested gently. “There’s no sense in taking it all the way to your cabin and then bringing it back again.” He nodded at the desk. “I’ll put it in the top left-hand drawer.”
“As you say, Mr. Thornton. I’m sorry to have troubled you.”
As Ertha left the library, Adam sat down behind the desk and, shaking his head over everything he had just heard, he unrolled the painting again.
After studying it carefully, he came to the same conclusion.
Whatever artist had done the work certainly didn’t deserve the money he must have been paid for it.
Camille’s true likeness hadn’t been captured at all.
He turned over the canvas, looking for the name of the incompetent portraitist since none was visible on the painting itself.
His heart lurched painfully in his chest when he saw an inscription in the lower right corner, written in a skillful, feminine hand. It wasn’t the message itself that had caught him by surprise, making him feel a little sick inside. It simply read To my dearest father, a gift with all my love.
He traced his finger in disbelief over the closing, Your beloved daughter, Camille, then quickly pulled from his coat pocket the note Camille had left for him that morning. Laying the paper next to the inscription, he felt an eerie intuition in the pit of his stomach.
The handwriting was similar, neat and delicate, almost as if taught by the same teacher. But the two signatures were different, one smoothly executed while the other appeared awkward beside it.
Something told him that they could not have been written by the same hand.