The night had been at its darkest when she’d laid down with David in the crib beside her. Sleep hadn’t come as she’d fretted over what she’d written, if she’d written enough, if she’d missed anything.
By the time the light came gray through the curtains, she had given up on sleep entirely, dressed herself, and gone downstairs.
She was on her second cup of tea when Mrs. Holt appeared in the drawing room doorway with Molly on her hip. She stopped when she saw Clara.
“My Lady, forgive me, I did not know you were here. I finished feeding David and put him down for a nap. Nell is with him. I’ll take her to the garden.”
“Please don’t.” Clara set down her cup. “Come in. Sit with me.”
After a brief hesitation, Mrs. Holt came in and settled in the chair across from her, Molly investigating the buttons on her mother’s sleeve with the focused intensity of a very small scholar.
“I should like to apologize,” Mrs. Holt said, “for the deception and keeping the truth from you.”
“There is no need to apologize,” Clara said. “You did what Arabella asked. You came here, and you kept her son fed and safe, and you did it at considerable cost to yourself. You lost your place in Islington after all,” she paused. “I know what it is to do something because Arabella asked. She has a way of making things seem very clear and very reasonable at the time.”
Mrs. Holt smiled at that. “She does.”
“Tell me what she was like,” Clara said. “When you knew her at Dover. Before Italy. What was her state of mind?”
The woman looked down at Molly for a moment. “She was happy,” she said. “Or she seemed it. She was excited; you could see it in the way she moved, the way she spoke about the future. She thought herself in love with this Bash.” She glanced up. “Shewas very adventurous in spirit. Everything seemed possible to her.”
Clara gulped, for the words painted a perfect picture of her friend. “Yes,” she said. “She always was. Once, when we were children, Arabella had decided that the old stone wall at the edge of the east field was climbable and that the view from the top would justify the trouble. I told her the wall was too crumbled and too high. Arabella pointed out that I was not required to climb it. Then she climbed it herself, reached the top, called the view magnificent, and came back down without once mentioning the blood on both her palms.”
Mrs. Holt looked up. “She climbed onto the roof of the inn at Dover. To watch the boats come in.”
“Of course, she did.”
“I told her she would break her neck.”
“And she told you the view was worth it.”
“Indeed. She told me I ought to follow her up. It was, arguably, safer than the wall you mentioned as it only required climbing a ladder. I did as she asked.” Mrs. Holt shook her head, but she was smiling. “She was not wrong.”
They sat with that for a moment. Outside, the garden was pale with early light.
“I hope she is still like that. Strong. Determined,” Clara said, her hand wrapped around her cup.
Mrs. Holt did not hesitate. “I am certain she is. Whatever has happened to her, she is not broken by it. I would stake my life on that.”
Clara nodded. She did believe it. She also knew that wanting something to be true and knowing it to be true were not always the same.
“I don’t even know your real name,” she said then.
“My real name?”
“Your Christian name.”
The woman smiled at her. “Marianne,” she said. “Marianne Holt. Miss Holt, really. The Mrs. I made up.”
“Marianne.” Clara repeated it. “That suits you.”
“I thought it unwise to use my real name when I came here. I was not certain how much anyone knew or what they would think of me. But being a Miss with a little one seemed excessive.”
“What I think of you,” Clara said, “is that you are a woman who helped a friend. That is all.”
Marianne looked at her daughter for a moment.
“May I ask something?” she said at last.
