They sang with gusto.
“Come landlord fill a flowing bowl,
Until it does run over.
To-night we will merry be,
To-morrow we’ll be sober.
He that courts a pretty girl,
And courts her for his pleasure,
Is a fool if he marries her,
Without stores of treasure.”
Jack and Rook yelled to the barmaid for another pot of ale and joined in with the celebration of love.
ΦΦΦ
Upon entering the breakfast room, Clara tried to ignore Lady Minkworth’s wink and Hestia’s concerned face. She had, despite it all, slept well.
The previous night, as Lady Minkworth had desired, Clara had danced every dance and flirted with every available male. By the time the evening had come to a very late end, Clara had reached various conclusions.
Firstly, she was in love with the Earl of Rookdean; although she had enjoyed the men’s attentions the previous night, they did not make her feel the same deep emotion or passion that she felt when she was with Rook. Secondly, she realised, although he did ‘want’ her in some form, she couldn’t really entertain any ideas that he loved her. Thirdly, there wasn’t anything she could do about any of it, so she heaped her plate with kippers and made her way to the breakfast table.
Hestia smiled at her and bade Clara to sit in the vacant space next to her, which she did with pleasure.
“I hope you have put the dreadful situation with Rook out of your mind,” Hestia whispered conspiratorially. “You did seem to enjoy the rest of the dance.”
“Quite frankly, I didn’t dare go against Lady Minkworth’s wishes. She terrifies me,” Clara whispered back.
“Yes, the old girl was surprisingly nice last night. Not enough to make me want to shoot owls, but –” Clara was about to ask why anyone would want to shoot owls, when the lady stopped talking and took a large gulp of coffee.
Looking over, she observed Hestia’s husband entering the room. He looked…awful. Dark, bruised eyes peered at the ham, as though it was still a pig about to bite, and a heavily-bandaged, shaky hand reached out to take a plate. He grabbed a piece of dry toast, shuffled over to the other end of the table, sat down and proceeded to take miniscule bites of said toast. Clara could tell he was forcing the food down, and she only hoped it stayed down – his face was a most hideous shade of grey.
“Hestia, if you need to talk to anyone…about things. I am a good listener,” Clara whispered softly.
“Thank you, Clara. That is most kind, but I am fine. I decided a few things last night, and I feel much better now. I believe I will retire from the Season early this year with Harry, my son. We have an estate in Somerset. It’s a beautiful place, and I love to see the apples slowly ripen over the summer. The estate has a number of orchards, and there is nothing better than sitting amongst the trees, smelling the scent of the wild meadow and watching the fruit hang heavy on the trees. Perhaps, you would visit me Clara? For as long as you like.”
It was a lovely invitation, and Clara was both surprised and thrilled. She could almost smell the apple orchard from Hestia’s description.
“That is so kind, Hestia,” Clara replied honestly. “I would dearly like to visit you and Harry.”
“Good. In return, we will find out where Rook is this morning. The least I can do is to wring an apology from him, before you go.”
“Honestly that’s not necessary,” Clara protested, but Hestia had already risen and was heading for the door.
“We’ll ask his valet where he is,” she was muttering, “probably hiding in his study.” Clara reluctantly left her half-eaten kippers, murmured a platitude to the other breakfasting guests and followed the viscountess out the door.
Clara hung back as Hestia swept down the main family-wing calling for, “Daniels,” who Clara presumed was Rook’s valet. She didn’t really want to ‘wring’ an apology from Rook. She had thought this morning merely to greet him with civility and an icy smile and hope that his own innate sense of gentlemanly conduct would produce an act of contrition.
She was sure that Jack would talk to him about his shameful accusations, and maybe they could start again, without the awful pressures of the house party. Clara was positive she would never again attend a house party – it wasn’t natural to be all cooped up in the same house for a week, with people you hardly knew.
Suddenly a door was opened and a tall, dark man in his early twenties emerged from a room.
“My lady. How may I help you?” Clara heard the man ask.
