Page 16 of The Winter Companion

Clara couldn’t imagine such a lady having ever been subservient to anyone.

“Because I don’t look the part?” Mrs. Finchley arranged her glittering skirts. “My former manservant has set up as a dressmaker in London. He’s an utter magician with a needle, and has made it his mission to see I’m fashionably turned out. I believe he could make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.”

“You’re very hard on yourself,” Lady Helena said. “I don’t recall you ever looking anything less than neat and proper.”

Mrs. Finchley’s blue green eyes twinkled. “Was it that bad?”

“I think,” Mrs. Archer said, “that Miss Hartwright was referring to your temperament, rather than your dress. You’re not the quiet, retiring sort one generally associates with the profession.”

“Which is precisely why I failed at it. I have a mind of my own, and wasn’t afraid to express my opinions.”

Lady Helena gave Mrs. Finchley a warm look. “She was an excellent companion. I owe her my very life.”

“In other words,” Mrs. Finchley said, “I bullied her and made plans for her. Not at all the kind of thing a companion is meant to do.”

Mr. Finchley approached with two glasses of sherry in his hands. He gave one to his wife. “What’s this about bullying?”

“Miss Hartwright and I are discussing the position of lady’s companion.”

Mr. Finchley looked at Clara. He had an incisive gaze. Oddly world-weary, and yet too keen by half. It seemed to see straight through her. “Have you been a lady’s companion long, ma’am?”

“For four years,” Clara said. “Since I turned twenty.”

It felt like a lifetime. And it was, really. Most of her adult existence had been spent living in other people’s homes and doing other people’s bidding. All to earn a meager recompense, the bulk of which she never laid eyes on, let alone spent.

“And before that?” Mr. Finchley asked.

Her heartbeat briefly lost its rhythm. She took a hasty drink of her sherry. It burned the back of her throat. “I was a teacher.”

Mrs. Finchley’s face lit with interest. “A governess, do you mean?”

“No, I—” For a moment, Clara’s words failed her. She reminded herself that she’d done nothing wrong. Not in a legal sense. “I taught at a school.”

“Any particular subjects?” Mr. Finchley enquired.

“Reading, writing, and a little ciphering.” Clara paused before adding, “It was only a village school. My pupils were the children of local farmers and laborers.”

“Miss Hartwright came highly recommended,” Mrs. Archer said. “My aunt is lucky to have her.”

“Undoubtedly.” Mr. Finchley’s eyes remained on Clara. “Will you be traveling to the South of France with Mr. and Mrs. Archer in the spring?”

At that moment, a young footman in blue-and-gold livery materialized at the doors of the drawing room. “Dinner is served, my lady.”

Clara could have embraced the fellow. Had the servant not appeared, she may have been forced to do something drastic. To swoon or feign a megrim. Anything to put an end to Mr. Finchley’s line of questioning.

“Thank you, Robert.” Lady Helena moved to rise.

Mr. Thornhill was instantly at his wife’s side to help her from her seat. She clutched tight to his hand. It was the only sign that her advanced state of pregnancy was in any way difficult. The two of them exchanged a look—an unspoken question in Mr. Thornhill’s eyes.

Lady Helena responded with a nod. “I’ll just take your arm, shall I?”

Her husband’s voice was a gentle command. “I insist upon it.”

“Come everyone,” she said. “We needn’t worry about precedence.”

“We’d have a dashed difficult time figuring it out,” Mr. Archer murmured to his wife as they joined Mr. Hayes.

Clara went to assist Mrs. Bainbridge, but there was no need. Mr. Boothroyd was already there, offering his arm. Mrs. Bainbridge took it, allowing him to lead her from the room. Clara was, once again, left on her own.