Page 12 of Love Wasn’t Built in a Day

She lifted her hand, an almost shy acknowledgement that she saw him, though they had already spoken their polite goodbyes.

Gideon gazed up at her. As a child, he’d had a picture book with an illustration of a princess locked in her ivory tower. It returned to him then, the lovely image—pity for the poor princess shut away from the world, accompanied by the strange longing for something he could not have, had never wanted before.

He quelled it and turned away from the house, striding hurriedly back down the path.

Hetty dropped her hand, unwillingly acknowledging the disappointment she felt that he had not returned the gesture. She ought not to be surprised. He had taken her criticism with remarkable grace, but no man liked to be shown up for having made an error of judgement. That she had done so before the dowager and his employers was bound to have vexed him.

Yet, she had instantly realised it was an error demanding correction.

She wondered if there was any possibility of the two of them spending over five minutes in each other’s company without doing or saying something provoking. Her lips quirked as she realised the truth. No, it wasn’t. There was some indefinable thing between them, some inexpressible desire to poke and prod and gain a reaction.

Well, she had proven something today at least, and he had acknowledged it too. She wasn’t the henwit he believed her to be. What’s more, she had proven something of far greater interest.

Mr Bramwell needed her.

He might not like her, he might not want her around, but if he wanted his Grand Hotel to be everything Mr and Mrs King and the dowager expected it to be, he would just have to grow used to it.

Willow House, Little Valentine, East Sussex, 16th July 1816

“It’s lumpy,” Aunt Edna groused, scowling up at Clara.

“Let me try again,” Clara soothed, leaning down and plumping the pillows behind her aunt once more. The old lady was becoming increasingly frail, and sometimes Clara was uncharitable enough to wonder if it was pure spite keeping her alive. She seemed to take no pleasure in anything, not in the books Clara read to her, or in the cakes or little treats she brought—though she ate them willingly enough. Since Miss Beatrice had married and moved away, her only regular visitor was the Reverend Honeywell, for she had driven everyone else off with her mean-spirited comments and barbs.

Well aware that she owed this woman the roof over her head, and the clothes on her back—worn and serviceable as they may be—Clara tried her best to be patient.

This morning she’d had the newspaper thrown at her head—because it was creased, had been castigated for not opening the window far enough—did she wish for her aunt to suffocate? — and then shouted five minutes later as it was open too wide, and she clearly wished her aunt to die of pneumonia.

Added to the usual complaints about her tea being too hot, too sweet, her porridge too plain, a fly in her room, a strange noise coming from downstairs… well, it never ended.

Clara reminded herself at regular intervals of Reverend Honeywell counsel: that those people who seemed to delight upon inflicting pain upon others were usually suffering themselves and lashing out because of it. She did not know what had befallen her aunt to make her so angry at the world, but Clara did her best to make her comfortable. She would not, however, allow the woman to make her miserable, too.

“There, that’s much better,” Clara said with satisfaction.

“No, it isn’t, but I suppose I shall endure it,” Edna grumbled.

“You are very patient, Auntie. Now then, do you have all you need? There is a glass of water on the nightstand and a plate of biscuits if you feel peckish?”

“Oh, leave me. I’m sure you have far more interesting things to be doing,” Edna said in martyred tones.

Clara bit back the temptation to demand what precisely her aunt supposed there was that she could do? Instead, smiling and walking to the door, she spoke over her shoulder. “Have a nice nap. I shall bring your tea at four o’clock.”

She hurried out, closing the door before her aunt could think of anything else to ask of her.

Letting out a breath, she stood on the other side for a moment, sending a silent prayer to the almighty. “I do try to be patient,” she whispered, eyes heavenward. “But please send me a bit more of the stuff if you’ve any to spare.”

Shaking her head at her own lunacy—truly, she must watch herself or else she’d find herself Bedlam bound—Clara made her way down the stairs, carefully avoiding the tread which creaked so alarmingly.

Benny sat by the front door and stood, trembling with anticipation, as she descended.

“Yes, my love. We can go now,” she said with a smile, opening the door.

Benny darted out, trotting happily down the path to the gate, little tail waving like a flag. Clara hurried forward, opening the gate and following Benny out. Her skirts brushed the tangle of planting as she walked, lavender, thyme and mint, and the sweet scent of the honeysuckle that scrambled along the garden fence mingled into a delicious concoction. All at once the tension that seemed to squeeze her shoulders, and the back of her neck unwound a degree, and she let out a breath.

Her moment of relaxation fled a bare second later as a deep voice hailed her.

“Miss Halfpenny.”

Clara’s heart leapt to her throat as she immediately recognised the cultured tones of the Duke of Hawkney. Turning, she stared in surprise as she saw the duke riding towards her. As usual, he rode a massive black horse, the beast's vast hooves thudding softly on the damp earth of the path.