Clara jerked, staring up at Philip, who gave her a slight smile. “It’s a two-edged sword.”
“And you have no idea the damage Eleanor Carlson caused,” Robert said.
“I have opened old wounds.” Clara sighed. “I promise you I did not intend—”
“We know. He does not.” Robert gripped her arm as Radcliff neared with their horses. He pulled the cloak she had left draped over her horse and stopped. “There’s no saddle.”
“Bareback was faster.”
He looked back at her. “You ride bareback.”
“Now is not the time,” Philip muttered.
Robert shook his head and swung the cloak around her shoulders. He helped her mount, then almost scooped up Radcliff as if she were a child and set her on the pony, which did have a saddle, one the maid clung to as if it were a lifeline. Clara had to smile at Radcliff’s squeaking protests, but she felt little amusement.
“Go. Get away from the city. And hold your head up.”
Clara did, urging her mount, a strange one borrowed from their stables before the grooms awoke, out of the park. They walked, more for Radcliff’s comfort than her own, because she knew they would be back to Beckcott Hall well before anyone but the servants was awake. They returned the horses to the stable, leaving instructions with one very sleepy stable boy that they should be groomed that morning.
Inside Beckcott Hall, Clara sent Radcliff to the kitchens for a tea tray, to check for a response to the message she had sent to Madame Adrienne Sunday afternoon, and to ask Jennings to let Clara know when the duke arrived. Then she sat at her escritoire to examine the notes that had arrived over the course of the last two days. As expected, they primarily were rescinded invitations to various Society events. Most were stiff but polite, although more than a few were blunt “Please do not plan to attend” notices. Clara knew she should be offended, even horrified, but all she felt was a deep sense of relief.
Radcliff did return with a note as well as the tray. Madame Adrienne expressed her condolences and agreed to cancel the remaining orders. She also agreed to take back the previous gowns. The ones not yet worn would be sold, and the ones worn but not soiled would be reworked for customers on more restricted budgets.
After tea, they began going through every piece of apparel in Clara’s dressing room. The day before, two of the hall boys had brought down a trunk and two portmanteaus from the attic. Although the first banns had been read that Sunday morning, everyone knew Clara’s appearances in Society had ended. The immediate plan, worked out in an hours-long battle with her parents Sunday afternoon, was for Clara and Honora to withdraw to Beckcott Abbey to await the last readings. Whatever happened after that would be up to the duke.
Now that Clara knew the duke would be ending his suit, she expected her stay at the Abbey to be extended. But she had a wardrobe there, and only planned to take the basics with her.
“Place all the gowns to be returned to Madame Adrienne in that one.” Clara pointed to the portmanteau on the foot of her bed. “That one for drawers, stays, and night rails, as well as items from the dressing table and wash basin. Save the trunk for everything else.”
“They will not hold much.”
“I am not taking much.” She gestured at the escritoire. “It is rather apparent I will not be venturing out much. Stained gowns can be burned. Out of season frocks can be offered to any of the servants who want them. Focus on the sturdiest day gowns and boots. My days of satin slippers are over.”
Radcliff paused, studying a day gown clutched in her hands. “My lady...”
“Do not worry. You will go with me to Beckcott Abbey. After that, depending on where they send me, you may or may not be able to go. If not, I will make sure you get a good reference. I’ll ask Lady Newbury to help as well. She will care less about scandal than finding you a proper place.”
Radcliff let out a long breath. “Thank you, my lady.”
They continued to work until a light tap on the door got their attention. Clara glanced at the clock. Just after ten. The duke was prompt but considerate of aristocratic sleeping habits. Few arose before ten. Radcliff tidied her hair, and Clara headed downstairs.
She heard the shouts before she reached her father’s study—not shouts of anger but of alarm. Clara had barely entered the hallway before the door flew back and Wykeham stood there, pale and shaking. He saw her but turned to Jennings, crying out, “Send for the doctor! Now!”
Stunned, Clara pushed by him into the study. Jerome Durham stood by the desk, leaning over it, coughing to the point that he could not breathe. Blood spewed from his mouth as he pounded the desk with one fist, the other clawing at his chest. Outside the door, the shouts spread, a clamor echoing throughout the house.
“Papa!” Clara flew to his side. Pulling at his arm, she pointed at a chair. “Please sit! Papa!”
Behind her, Wykeham grabbed a wingback chair from near the fireplace, spinning it closer to Durham. Tears flooded her eyes as she begged him to sit. But he shook his head, his face growing dark red as his lips faded to blue. With one last blood-laden cough, Durham’s knees gave way and he dropped to the floor.
“Keep him on his side,” Wykeham ordered, struggling with Clara to turn the earl. “So he does not choke.”
But Clara watched as her father clawed at the carpet beneath him, a harsh, gurgling rattle deep in his throat. He tried twice more to gasp for air, then the red in his face became mottled... then gray. His eyes became glazed and fixed.
“No!” Tears flooded Clara’s face until she could not see. “No! Papa!” Wykeham attempted to pull her away, but she shrugged him off, shaking her father. “Papa!”
Behind her, a wail arose from the doorway, as two footmen tried to steady Honora on her feet, to no avail. The wail became a keening cry, which ended abruptly as Honora slumped in her helpers’ arms. One picked her up to place her on nearby settee, as Wykeham again gripped Clara by the arms.
“Come away, Clara. He is gone.”
