A smile touched her face. How odd those words sounded together!Mypublisher.Mycartographer. Though she’d signed the contract months ago, Clara’s mind still reeled at the incredible manner in which her dreams were coming true. When Mr. Wyld—creator of Wyld’s Great Globe and Geographer to the Queen—had approached Barton Books with an offer to design custom maps for each of the locations in her book, she’d fainted for the first time in her life. Mr. Wyld’s increasing enthusiasm for the project was a daily source of amazement.
As Papa’s violin commenced with another jig, she reclined once more against the plush sofa cushions. “Is that why you’ve sought me out, Mr. Kingsley? To restore my company to the party for Mr. Wyld’s benefit?”
“I’m loath to admit my motives are without altruism. Rather, I was hoping to claim a moment of your company for myself.”
Her heart gave way to palpitations. Was it her imagination, or did the man’s eyes attain a deeper shade of green when illumined by gaslight? “Why, then, do you linger at the door, sir?” She inclined her head toward the section of the sofa occupied by the perpetually napping hedgehog. “Come stake your claim.”
Grinning at her invitation, Mr. Kingsley removed the prickled hog-cushion to a nearby chair and took possession of the seat beside Clara, drawing her weary feet into his lap. He removed her silken slippers and proceeded to massage her swollen soles without remarking upon how her stockings must reek.
Oh, how she loved this man!
“How goes the party? Mum has things well in hand, I trust.” Since their return to London, Mum had proven herself quitethe hostess. Her spirited soirees had evolved from a curiosity to “the thing” seemingly overnight. Many families had chosen to stay in town, despite the end of the Season, in the hopes they might receive an invitation to the Stanton abode for a taste of Mrs. Stanton’s signature vegetarian cuisine and a peek at her renowned menagerie.
“She does, indeed. Just before I ventured upstairs, Mrs. S. remarked to your father that the house was a merry beehive, buzzing with life and joviality. Then she partnered off with Dudley the Dane for the next dance. As I made my leave, the dwarf and giant were eliciting raised brows from first-time guests and knowing smiles from regular visitors.”
She would have it no other way. “And what of Grand? Is he still holding up beneath the crush of recognition?”
“Last I saw, Drosselmeyer and His Royal Highness were tucked in a corner of the parlor, examining clockwork butterflies and discussing aerodynamics.” Mr. Kingsley nodded toward the table’s pile of gold-gilded envelopes with elaborate wax seals. “More invitations?”
“Dozens. With more arriving every day.” All of London’s most well-to-do families wished to host the Inventor to the Crown and his family at their country estates or townhomes. If they wished it, their social calendars could be booked through next Season. Grand, of course, cared not a whit. His head was too occupied with whimsical notions to spare a thought for his new standing in society.
Clara pursed her lips, noting the pinched lines along Mr. Kingsley’s brow. Poor Theodore. Every missive on that table must cut with the painful reminder that he’d yet to receive a single one from Kingsley Court. Not a letter. Not even a telegram. Just silence, dismissive and resounding. She laid a gloved hand upon his sleeve. “Have you had a reply today?”
The question put an end to her foot massage. “No, and I don’t expect I will. Never did, really. My father is a mountain,stone cold and immovable, once his mind has been decided, and he carved my brothers in his image from birth. Their allegiance to him and remembrance of my mother didn’t exactly cultivate affection toward me.”
A deep breath loosened his clenched jaw. “It’s not in my power to change them. Nor was it my intention. When I posted that letter to Kingsley Court, I did so because the Lord asked it of me. I extended forgiveness where it was unlikely to be received—not in the hopes of gaining acceptance in return, but as an act of obedience. Reply or no reply, I am a child of God, and that is an inheritance no man can revoke.”
Just when she thought she couldn’t possibly love this man to a greater degree, he went and astounded her all over again. “I love you, Theodore Kingsley.”
A lopsided grin relaxed his countenance. “I love you back, Clara Marie Stanton. Which reminds me...” Mr. Kingsley withdrew a rectangular box from his pocket. “This is for you.”
A foot massage and a present? How had she become so thoroughly blessed? Clara snatched the box with a squeal, tore off the ribbon, and threw back the lid. A shining gold chatelaine rested on a bed of red velvet. The medallion was fashioned into the head of an owl, and from it dangled three chains, each attached to a unique treasure. Her mouth fell agape. Completely bereft of words.
“Drosselmeyer helped me with the detailing.” Mr. Kingsley’s complexion reddened, lending his smile an endearing nervousness. “I wanted you to have the essential gadgets for travel and no other burden. Just a pocket watch for catching every train and ship on time, a compass for navigating cities unknown, and a retractable telescope so you can always find your way home by the North Star.”
If her heart swelled any more, it would burst. “It’s perfect.” Alighting from the sofa, Clara dashed across the library’sthick carpet with the strains of Papa’s violin fast on her heels. “Let’s try the telescope.”
As she pushed aside the curtain and opened the door to the balcony, a December wind rushed in, raising gooseflesh on her exposed skin. The marble balcony was frigid beneath her stockinged feet, but she was too excited to be bothered with shoes and shawls. If she froze in this happy state, all the better.
The night sky was clear and the stars bright, as though London’s smog knew better than to interfere with the Magi’s journey. With upturned gaze, she looked through the telescope. “Oh ... Polaris is quite pleased with himself this night. Come, look.”
“I don’t need to, Clara. I found my North Star months ago.”
The violin turned sentimental, beckoning her with heart-stirring notes. Clara turned slowly and found Mr. Kingsley kneeling on the balcony. Stars ... was he about to—
“God has been too good to me already, but I’ve asked Him for one more blessing I don’t deserve. The privilege of calling you my wife.”
Her breath caught, and the strains from the violin seemed to draw closer, building with emotion.
Mr. Kingsley produced a small velvet box and revealed a gold ring. “You have given me the home I’ve always dreamed of calling mine and the loving family I’ve always prayed would call me theirs. Because of you, I no longer have to wander. I can finally build a life for myself, and I want to build it with you.” The violin soared on a series of notes, reaching for the heavens. “I want to wake up every day and know you’ll be a part of it. Miss Clara Marie Stanton, will you marry me?”
Clara cupped a hand to his cheek. “My days are yours, Mr. Theodore Kingsley. Come storm or fair weather.”
The violin screeched to a halt. “Does that poetic falderal mean yes or no?”
Papa? Her head whipped about in time to catch the curtains rustle.
A masculine grunt indicated that a feminine swat had found its mark in a rotund stomach. “Quiet, George. You’re going to ruin our duckling’s romantic moment.”
