Page 43 of A Taste of Miss Honey

Chapter 15

Driving Miss Honeywell (Round the Bend) and Clara’s Confrontations.

Seagull Heights, Little Valentine, 24th March 1816

Clara shifted uncomfortably on the chair as Benny, curled on her lap, gave an indignant huff at being woken from his sound slumber.

“All right, that will do for today,” Eustacia said, peering around the canvas with a smile. “You’re getting fidgety. Not that I blame you. An hour is a long time to sit still.”

Sighing with relief, Clara stretched her arms before gently encouraging Benny from her lap. She stood, brushing dog hairs from her gown. It was one of her better dresses, though that wasn’t saying much. The collar and cuffs had been turned or replaced times past counting, and there was a darn where she had torn a hole on a bramble whilst out walking. Rubbing the small of her back to ease the stiffness there, she watched as Eustacia tidied her paints and cleaned her brushes. How gorgeous she was, even with her coiffure coming undone and paint on her cheek. Clara thought she had even forgotten the paintbrush stabbed through the untidy knot of her hair. It ought to look ridiculous, but her rumpled state only seemed to increase her beauty. She wore a pinafore over her dress, which Clara knew was one she reserved for painting, and yet was far better quality and more stylish than anything Clara herself owned. A little stab of envy pierced her heart, and she pushed it away. There was no point in repining, for she had not the money for such things, and when she relied upon her aunt for the roof over her head and every morsel she ate, she never would have.

Once upon a time she had dreamed of marriage, of a family, but she knew her chances were slipping away. She was no beauty, she had no particular talents, and she was too shy to be an asset of any kind. With no dowry, what possible incentive could any man have to marry her? Perhaps an older man who wished for a companion and housekeeper might take her. That was the best she could hope for, supposing she could ever meet such a fellow.

“Is it nearly done?” Clara asked, resisting the urge to steal a glance.

Eustacia smiled at her. “Are you tired of slogging up that hill to get here? I’m sorry, my dear, but no. Not yet. But I think I have something wonderful in hand, so I shan’t rush it and scare it away. You shall be famous one day, I think.”

Clara blanched. “Oh dear,” she said faintly.

Eustacia glanced up from the paints she was rearranging. “Don’t be so silly. It will be a wonderful thing. I shall exhibit it at the Royal Academy’s summer exhibition, and we shall both be there to enjoy our success.”

“B-Both?” Clara stammered. “In London? Oh, no. No, no, no. My aunt… I could n-never—”

Eustacia set down the brushes she was cleaning and crossed the room, taking Clara’s hands. “My mother told me there is no such word as can’t. I know there are obstacles, and we shall overcome each one of them in turn. But the first is your fear of doing anything out of the ordinary.”

Clara sucked in a breath, feeling some emotion she could not name rising inside her, but as ever she could not find words to express all she felt, so she just sighed in frustration. Eustacia was so sure of herself, of her own worth, of her place in the world. Could Clara not borrow just a bit of that courage? Perhaps the future was as bleak as she feared. Perhaps she would end her days an old lady in the workhouse, because there would be nowhere else to go once her aunt passed away. But for now, Eustacia was offering a chance for something else, for a little bit of excitement, perhaps even happiness. She would be a fool not to take it.

“Very well.”

Eustacia beamed at her, squeezing her fingers tightly. “That’s the spirit. You know, Clara, you’re so much more than you realise. I see it in you, a flame that refuses to be extinguished. I know your life is not an easy one, but if you would only believe in yourself, just a little, and grab hold of the opportunities life offers you—they are there, love, now and then. If you’re brave enough to reach for them.”

Clara laughed, unable to do anything less in the light of her friend’s enthusiasm. Her friend. What an unexpected thing that dull little Clara Halfpenny should be friends with anyone half so glamorous and extraordinary.

“Excellent,” Eustacia said, looking delighted. “Well, now the hard work is done. Time for cake!”

As usual, the cake and the company were wonderful, and Clara left the elegant house perched high on the hill in far brighter spirits. Benny gambolled at her side, sniffing all the interesting smells and wagging his tail merrily. Clara picked up her pace as the cold air bit through her coat, and she tugged the shawl—a cast off from her aunt—a little closer about her. Once more her mind drifted to Eustacia, to her beauty, her confidence, and her lovely gowns. Whilst Clara did not begrudge her loveliness one bit, she felt a wistful longing to be like her, to have the courage to speak her mind, and to be seen as a woman of worth, to be valued. Eustacia would never be short of offers of marriage, and certainly not only from desperate old men.

Before she knew it, they were at the gates to Hatherley Hall when a familiar figure upon a large black horse appeared between the imposing carved stone gateposts.

Clara’s heart gave an uneven thud, and she bent to pick up Benny, but too late. His delight in seeing a man he seemed to consider his new best friend overtook his good sense, and he ran pell mell towards the great horse, barking joyfully.

“Benny! No!” Clara cried, envisioning scenes of her poor little dog getting kicked or trampled.

The duke brought his mount to a halt and the enormous beast huffed, gazing down at Benny and his antics with much the same air of polite curiosity as his rider.

Mortified, Clara ran forward and gathered Benny into her arms, but he wriggled fiercely, too happy to see Hawkney to be stilled. Looking up, Clara met eyes of unfathomable blue, and a face that seemed to become more impossibly handsome each time she saw it. “I beg your pardon, your grace,” she said, struggling to contain her ridiculous canine. “He has no notion of the distinctions of class or propriety and is determined to view you as his favourite person. Other than myself, that is.”

To her shock, instead of giving her a tremendous scolding for not keeping her dog under control, the duke reached out a gloved hand. Benny snuffled and licked his fingers, trembling with happiness.

“Yes, yes, you ridiculous creature. I know you are beside yourself with joy to be in my august presence once more, but there’s no need to make such a cake of yourself.” Hawkney ruffled the dog's ears, his cool gaze moving to Clara. “Good afternoon, Miss Halfpenny.”

As he looked from Benny to Clara, his hand brushed hers, and he pulled it back sharply, as if she’d stung him.

Startled, Clara dipped an awkward curtsey, mindful not to let Benny escape her grasp. “Your grace. He’s never usually so badly behaved. Indeed, he never barks as a rule.”

Hawkney looked sceptical at this. “A small dog who never barks? Doing it a little too brown, Miss Halfpenny.”

Clara stiffened, indignant at the rebuke. “Indeed, I am not. I believe he knows he is a secret, and whilst my aunt is rather deaf, she would hear him bark, so he hardly ever does, and he never goes upstairs. She is bedridden, so she never comes down, you see.”