Page 4 of The Winter Companion

“I’ve put you in a room next to Mrs. Bainbridge.” The housekeeper stopped outside a wood-paneled door at the end of a narrow corridor, and opened it for Clara to enter. “She asks that you go to her after you’ve repaired your hair and dress.”

“Yes, of course.” Clara advanced into the room. It was as richly papered and carpeted as the hall had been, and equally as warm. At its center was a four-poster bed, curtained in dark green fabric. A wardrobe stood to the left of it, between two velvet-draped windows. At its right was a wooden washstand with a porcelain pitcher and bowl.

“There’s hot water to wash with, and Robert has brought your cases in from the carriage.”

Clara went to the foot of the bed, where her carpetbag and portmanteau had been neatly stacked atop a padded bench. “When will tea be served?”

“In a quarter of an hour.” The housekeeper paused. She gave a delicate cough, her face a studied blank. “You received a parcel yesterday. I’ve put it on your dressing table.”

Clara’s gaze jerked to the dainty walnut table in the corner of the guest room. A large, overstuffed envelope was perched atop it, half propped against the looking glass.

Her pulse quickened.

“Will there be anything else, ma’am?” the housekeeper asked.

Clara willed herself not to apologize. After all, there was nothing irregular about giving out the direction of one’s host. Not when one was staying longer than a fortnight. “No, thank you.”

The housekeeper withdrew, leaving Clara to her thoughts—and to her parcel.

She flew to the dressing table and retrieved it. It was a solid, familiar weight in her hands. Her fingers itched to tear it open. To see if this time Simon had done what he’d promised to do.

But there was no time. Not now. Not with Mrs. Bainbridge waiting, and tea in a quarter of an hour.

She was already on thin ice with her employer.

Companions were meant to be next door to invisible. Rather like genteel ghosts, mutely shadowing the steps of their corporeal benefactors. Quiet and obliging, that was the companion’s motto. Words, when spoken, were best kept to a murmured minimum. Yes, ma’am. No, ma’am. I’ll fetch your shawl, ma’am.

That much Clara knew to a certainty. Her previous employers had known it as well. They’d been happy to overlook her very existence. During the course of the past four years, she’d been regularly trod upon, shouldered out of the way, or addressed by the wrong name.

But not today.

Today, she’d arrived to meet her new employer at the railway station in London with an unauthorized pug in tow. A sign of independence—nay, insubordination—that was unheard of for one in Clara’s position.

That single act had shone a blazing light on her. Had drawn attention to her that was both unseemly, and unwanted.

Though she couldn’t blame it all on Bertie.

The fact was, her disposition was not at all suited to her profession. She was too forthright, that was the problem. It was a formidable flaw. Companions were meant to be good listeners, not good talkers. And they certainly weren’t permitted to speak their mind.

But paid positions didn’t grow on trees. Not for women of her class. She would simply have to cut her dress to fit her cloth. To alter her disposition. To—in short—endeavor to become invisible.

Her parcel would have to wait.

She carried it to her carpetbag. The leather closure was equipped with a simple lock, its key suspended from a long, thin silver chain worn round her neck. She retrieved it from inside the bodice of her gown. The lock was tricky, but after some wiggling, the key turned it with a snick. The carpetbag opened and she dropped her parcel inside. It landed on top of a heap of near identical envelopes, each of them stuffed full to bursting.

She closed the carpetbag and locked it shut.

Soon.

Soon she’d be done with Mrs. Bainbridge. Done with being silent and subservient. With being a ghost. Soon she would shed the trappings of a lady’s companion.

And then her real life could begin.

Clara sat, as still as a statue, in her silk-upholstered chair in the drawing room, a teacup and saucer held motionless in her lap. She wasn’t very imposing to begin with—only five feet three inches in her stocking feet—but she endeavored to make herself appear even smaller. She’d drawn enough attention to herself today. It wouldn’t do to attract any more.

Far better to be still and quiet. To drink her tea, and enjoy the warmth from the blazing fire in the hearth. It crackled and sparked, taking away the chill she’d felt since first stepping down from the train at the railway station in Abbot’s Holcombe.

Mrs. Bainbridge’s nephew, Mr. Edward Hayes, appeared to have the same idea. He sat to the right of her in his wheeled chair, a tartan blanket draped over his legs. He was still a boy, really. Not more than twenty, by Clara’s estimation.