“I can’t tell you what to do,” she says softly, “but I can tell you this—what you’re feeling is real. You’re alive in it. That’s no small thing.”
I stare at the folds of the handkerchief, words catching in my throat. “He’ll stay here. I’ll go home. And when I do, I’ll have to pretend this was nothing.”
Irene squeezes my hand. “Sometimes what we carry shapes us more than what we’re allowed to keep. Don’t pretend it was nothing, Clara. Remember it. Even if you can’t take it with you.”
I press my handkerchief to my mouth, trying to quiet the sob rising in my throat. “I love him, Irene. I love Marcel, and I don’t know how I’ll survive leaving him behind.”
Her eyes shine, and she nods, her own voice thick. “Then promise me this: whatever happens, don’t let anyone tell you that what you feel isn’t real. Because I’ve seen the way he looks at you, Clara. And I daresay he loves you just as fiercely.”
I collapse against her shoulder, letting the tears come. For once, I don’t try to hold them back.
Irene strokes my hair, murmuring little comforts, and when my tears ease, she tilts her head, studying me. There’s something sharp and knowing in her gaze now, a spark that makes me wary.
“You say you don’t know how you’ll survive leaving him,” she says, her voice softer, almost coaxing. “But Clara, you still have time. A few days, yes? That’s more than enough for one thing.”
I sniff, dabbing my eyes with her handkerchief. “One thing?”
“To say goodbye properly,” she replies, matter-of-fact, as though she’s suggesting another luncheon rather than the dangerous edge she’s nudging me toward. “To give yourselves a memory to carry. An evening that belongs to just the two of you.”
I stare at her, the thought hitting me like a jolt. “Irene…I couldn’t. It wouldn’t be?—”
“Proper?” she interrupts, a smile tugging at her lips. “My dear, propriety is the shield others use to keep us penned in. You already know your heart. Don’t deny yourself one night of honesty because the world insists on chains.”
Heat floods my cheeks, shame and longing wrestling inside me. “And how exactly would I even manage that? I live under this roof. My aunt will return in two days.”
“Which is why the timing must be just so.” Irene leans closer. “Wednesday, your aunt and uncle won’t return until the afternoon. I’ll see to it that the staff are dismissed early on Tuesday. Everyone needs a break from time to time. That leaves you with an empty house and an open door.”
My stomach flips violently, part dread, part thrill. “You’d do that?”
“Of course,” she says, as though it’s the simplest truth in the world. “I know love when I see it. And I won’t stand by while you let it slip away without so much as a fighting chance.”
I clutch the handkerchief tighter, my pulse racing. “But what if…what if he doesn’t want that? What if he thinks less of me for even suggesting it?”
Irene gives me a look both tender and firm. “Clara Albright, that boy looks at you like a man parched in the desert who’s just found water. He’d walk through fire if you asked him. Trust me, he won’t think less of you. He’ll only thank God for the gift.”
My chest trembles, hope warring with fear. “And if anyone finds out?”
“They won’t,” Irene says simply. Then, with a conspiratorial smile, she continues, “Because I’ll make sure they don’t. Now—finish your tea before it grows cold. We’ve got scheming to do.”
Tuesday evening settlesover the house with a heaviness I can’t shake. The hall feels cavernous, the polished floors echoing every step I take as though amplifying my nerves. The lamps glow softly in their sconces, casting long shadows across the wainscoting. My heart hasn’t stopped hammering since Irene told me, with a wink and far too much calm, that Marcel would be arriving shortly.
I sit on the settee in the parlor, fingers fussing with the hem of my dress. Irene insisted I wear something soft, nothing ostentatious, ‘because men remember the way a woman makes them feel, not the lace on her sleeve’.Still, I can’t help but smooth the fabric over and over, the restless motion the only thing keeping me from unraveling.
I hear it then—the sound of boots on the porch. The knock that follows is firm, familiar, and it sends a shiver straight through me.
Irene appears in the entryway, her smile blooming wide. She opens the door herself.
“Marcel,” she greets warmly, her tone light and welcoming. “You made it.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, his voice carrying a brightness I’ve missed even in its absence. I can hear it in every syllable, eagerness, maybe even something that sounds like joy.
Irene steps aside, ushering him in and I stand. He’s dressed in his Sunday best—clean shirt, pressed trousers. His hat is in his hands, fingers working the brim nervously. But his eyes—Lord, his eyes are fixed on me, and I can’t breathe under the weight of them.
Irene gives us one knowing look, sly and affectionate, before she declares, “Well then, I’ll leave you two to it.”
And just like that, she sweeps out the front door, her skirts whispering against the floorboards, her presence vanishing into the twilight.
Marcel blinks after her, then turns back to me with a bewildered half-smile. “She…just left?”
