Half-past two in the afternoon
Clara could notstop shaking. Her fingers trembled as she removed the torn jesses from Maid Marian’s legs and replaced them with the ones she had made two days ago. The peregrine had been gone for three days, since Honora had trashed the mews and cut the bird free, forcing the falcon to flee into the wild, with just enough of her jesses remaining to be a danger to her safety. Clara had searched every day, roaming the fields and tree lines on Aethelred, returning only when it was too dark to see and both woman and horse were exhausted. She had not spoken to her mother since.
But she understood Honora’s rage, more than she wanted to admit. They had not been allowed to attend her father’s funeral—aristocratic women seldom did—and her brother had insisted they leave the townhouse before they even pulled their mourning clothes out of storage. He blamed them both for the scandal that had descended on the family as well as the earl’s death. And he had inherited Honora’s strict sense of protocol and propriety as well as the entire estate. He allowed them to retreat to Beckcott Abbey but reminded them it was a temporary arrangement. He had declared that only if he deemed it feasible and proper, Honora could move into the dowager house.
Clara, on the other hand, would have to make other arrangements by the end of the year.
It made her look twice at Wykeham’s final offer, but in the end, Clara had decided she simply could not, even in pure desperation. And in a moment of weakness, she suggested to Honora over tea that perhaps Sutland’s mother could find her a position as a falconer.
Her mother’s reaction had been... unfortunate.
“Do you need help, my lady?” Sutland’s voice was kind.
All the servants had been extraordinarily kind to her since their arrival. All of them, it seemed, understood great loss. A common but unfortunate bond across the classes.
Clara had managed to secure one of the jesses, but Maid Marian continued to respond to Clara’s state with her own brand of nervousness. Clara lowered her hands to her sides in frustration, the remaining jess dangling from her fingers. “I cannot—I cannot seem to—”
He stepped in beside her. “Let me, my lady.” He gently tugged the jess from her hand and wrapped it around the falcon’s foot in barely a moment.
Clara chewed her lower lip. “Thank you.”
“I am glad you found her.”
She nodded, swallowing hard.
“Did something happen while you were out?”
“I saw—” She broke off.
“What, my lady?”
She blurted the words. “I saw Michael Ashton.” She pointed over her shoulder. “In the southwest. Near the boundary with Ashton Park.”
“Lord Michael. He is the gentleman who...”
Clara nodded.
“Ah.”
“It was so unexpected.”
“So you have had a shock.”
Another nod. “He never wanted to see me again, so I suspect it was a shock to him as well.” She twisted her fingers in her skirt, trying to halt the quivering.
“Perhaps, when the shock wears off—”
“No!” She shook her head. “I do not believe anything will happen beyond this.” She backed away. “I should—I should go. Thank you for your help.” Clara stumbled rushing out of the mews but caught herself and slowed her steps. She passed by the stables and entered the grand house by the kitchen, pausing to nod as a few of the maids curtsied at her passing. The increased kindness and deference to her during this stay only agonized Clara further, reminding her that she was not their friend—as she had believed in childhood—nor their mistress.
Clara was now a stranger, one merely passing through to her next destination.
Tears blinded her as she tripped up the backstairs and made for her bedchamber, where she found Radcliff waiting outside the door.
“Your mother wishes to speak with you, my lady.”
Clara wiped her eyes. “Will you help me change?”
“Of course, my lady.”
