Chapter Six
“ ‘He who sings frightens away his ills.’ This is literal in your case, Clara. You have other talents.”
Mr Daniel Lockwood – classical scholar, philosopher and bachelor / Miguel de Cervantes.
Reaching out her fingers into the bed, Hestia realised she had spent the night alone again: there was neither warmth nor indent – even at the far edges.
Hosting the party was exhausting. She had thought it would bring her and Nathan closer, but the entire time she was rushing around organising the events and discussing meals with the housekeeper. Lady Minkworth was also complaining that she was being kept awake at night by ‘detestable owls’ and wanted them ‘shot’ – Hestia’s patience was wearing thin.
“Cruel, old harridan,” she muttered harshly into her pillow. Previously, Hestia would laugh with Nathan about such an appalling woman, and then her good humour would be restored. Instead, she silently seethed, whilst day dreaming about the owls gathering an army –rifles under wing and taking aim at Lady Minkworth. Hestia never knew she was capable of such vicious thoughts.
The house party had made her like that.
The only highlight to yesterday, was that she found out where Nathan was sleeping. Thankfully, not in the same bed as the young widow – unless the woman liked an extremely small bed. Hestia had asked her maid, Nellie, whom she trusted with her life, to investigate. Nellie couldn’t bear her mistress’s distress, and didn’t believe her besotted employer would dally elsewhere, and so she had promised to find out.
There was a small box room at the end of the west wing. It was usually used as storage, as it wasn’t large enough for guests, but it appeared Nathan had ordered a truckle bed to be placed there. Nellie who was sweet with the footman, who in turn was cousin to Nathan’s valet, Pritchard, let it be known that his master had spent the previous night there. Pritchard was also very perturbed: apparently, it was very difficult to remove boots in such a cramped space.
Hestia, bit her fingernails. Tonight, she had plans to waylay Nathan, when he went to his solitary bed. She needed him on his own – reasonably sober and with his guard down.
ΦΦΦ
Clara awoke with a sense of dread. Her fingers ached considerably, and in the night had become quite swollen. She had already been asked by a few ladies why she kept her gloves on all the time – and she’d replied that they felt the cold acutely. This was partially true, as the added warmth did keep the stiffness at bay. The gentlemen did not comment – they would not be so crass.
On a good day, to the mild onlooker, the fingers merely looked slightly misshapen; on a bad day, to the keen observer, they were swollen, clawed and bent. She’d wear the skin-coloured gloves to breakfast: people, she found, very often only saw what they wished to see. That included proper ladiesnotpartaking of food with their gloves on.
Mentally, she ran through the schedule of events for today. The men were off shooting, although she didn’t know what, as it was only May, and it sounded as though it was drizzling outside. The ladies were indulging in bonnet trimming, painting or reading.
At least she could look forward to a calm morning, as she had decided on the third option. A maid appeared to help her dress, and she gathered her aunt on the way to breakfast, wondering if she would see Rook.
He was there, but he sat next to the attractive widow again. When she entered the room, his gaze rested on her, and Clara gave a tentative smile. He nodded, unsmiling and imperious, before returning dismissively to converse with the widow. Clara frowned: she had at least expected a smile. She thought they’d reached a level of friendship last night, during the chess game.
Heaviness settled in her chest, as she followed her aunt to the sideboard to gather breakfast. Honestly, the man blew hot and cold, and she was better off ignoring him. However, she couldn’t easily shake off this attraction she felt for him, especially after the chess last night. She heard the lady next to Rook laugh, and then his deep, hearty reply. She looked around, hating herself for doing so, and saw his hand brush her arm. It wasn’t by accident – she wasn’t that naïve – and neither was the widow, as Clara watched her give him a dazzling smile.
He was a rake. That was the only conclusion. Had she not learnt her lesson when he thought her to be Lady Pinesdown?
Clara turned back to reach for a plate, but the tortured digits of her right hand gave way, and the plate toppled off the sideboard, crashing to the ground. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Rook stand, as she bent down instinctively to help the footman tidy up the mess. Strong hands suddenly gripped her shoulders, and she jumped in shock, catching her left-gloved hand on a shard of china. Good grief…she should have just sat down and allowed the servants to fetch her breakfast today.
The firm hands lifted her to standing, and she realised straight away that it wasn’t Rook. Wrong sensation and wrong scent, although it was pleasant: a smell of citrus and leather. But it wasn’t Rook.
“Let the footman deal with it, Clara. No need to get upset over a plate, lovey.” Jack’s concerned eyes met hers, and she let out a relieved chuckle.
“I know Jack; I’m just feeling out of sorts today.”
“You’re not the only one, Clara.” And he squeezed her hand.
“Ouch!” Clara cried, as he squeezed the shard of china deeper into her gloved palm.
“What have we here?” Jack asked, and before she could protest, he had removed the shard and then taken her glove off. Relieved, Clara kept her right hand hidden in her skirts.
“Just a nick,” he confirmed reassuringly, and kissed her palm. Most people were concentrating on their breakfast or avoiding the china on the floor, and so did not see the outrageous gesture.
“Jack,” she stuttered. “You can’t –” She was looking at the back of Jack’s head, and when he turned back he was smiling.
“To breakfast, I think. It’s a stupendous morning. Sausages, eggs and maybe…yes, some of cook’s delicious honey-glazed ham. What do you think, Clara?”
He grabbed plates from a servant and hunted down some food for the both of them. Clara didn’t know what to think. Surely, Jack didn’t have a romantic interest in her? Her aunt nudged her.
“Could do worse you know,” she whispered. Clara glared at her aunt and hoped Jack piled her plate high. She felt like she may need it.
