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Chapter Seven
Clara could ordinarily count on a visit to Violet House to pull her out of her own reality. Concentrating on the needs of others allowed her to shed her sensibilities, to ignore the suffocating rules of her upbringing.
She was distracted and withdrawn today, mending in a side room rather than visiting with residents. Her excuse was the pile of linens and gowns needing attention, but she knew she was hiding.
She waved almost without looking up when Stella passed on her way out. She sensed Stella’s frown of concern and unspoken inquiry.
Clara looked up guiltily. “All is well. I’ve a fair amount on my mind, that’s all.”
Stella didn’t look perfectly satisfied, and she hovered a moment before stifling whatever concerns or curiosity she had.
Clara breathed a sigh of relief when she left, appreciating the privacy.
Her mind was elsewhere; for night and day since Mr. Robertson’s visit, she relived their passionate moments in her parlor.
The tip of the needle glanced off the thimble and sank into her unprotected forefinger. Jerking the needle out, she threw the shift she was mending against the wall, thread and needle flying with it.
She wanted toscream. She burst up from her chair like a cork released underwater.
Your comportment! she reminded herself.
Those were Aunt Violet’s words, spoken with firm resolve, when Clara became too spirited.
Tamping down her frustration, she retrieved the half-mended shift from the floor and stuffed it into the sewing hamper.
She closed her eyes and took in a slow, steady breath. After another, Clara swallowed, forcing herself out of the mending room and upstairs to make her rounds.
The mantle in the first room wasn’t terribly similar to the one in her parlor, yet it provoked the memory of being lifted by Mr. Robertson when he deemed she ventured too close to the fire.
The high-handed man thought so highly of his own judgment! Her eyebrows rose with longing as she recalled the flex of his meaty arms.
Polly’s weak greeting jolted her back to Violet House.
“How fare you today? Sores healing?” asked Clara briskly.
The resident groaned and lifted her blanket with a grimace. Clara suddenly had a task, someone else to care for, and the image of the Scotsman retreated…for the moment.
Caring for Aunt Violet during her last years taught Clara that no matter one’s background or material wealth, a failing body humbled a person.
Her aunt, once such a dynamic person, had wasted into a broken body incapable of following the commands of her brain, resulting in needing humiliating help from others. Clara adopted a practical attitude about it, her love and compassion for Violet making it easy to help.
Illness and looming death stripped away the artifice of the rank of birth, as well as the prudish prohibitions about acknowledging one’s own body. Before her aunt was ill, Violet hadn’t uttered the bodily term “leg” to her niece.
Violet House reminded Clara that illness didn’t render wealth and position irrelevant. It took resources to care for people too sick to help themselves. And without the LLS, the occupants of Violet House would die alone among filth or subsist in wretchedness.
The residents were in poor health, but they had safety and shelter, each other’s company, and no worries about their next meals or medicine.
After leaving Polly to rest, Clara changed into a fresh apron before visiting the next room, tying it at the back of her waist with practiced ease. Her hand caught the roundest part of her hip—the spot that had fascinated Mr. Robertson—on the way to her front.
I wantyou,Mr. Robertson had declared as he gripped her there.
Holding her breath, Clara curved her own hands around her hipbones, trying out the adoring touch. Her fingers splayed around the wide bones and into the resilient flesh covering them. Supple.
Her fingertips smoothed over the front of her apron, over her belly, causing a little tug of sensation between her legs.
She exhaled in a rush. She rubbed her thighs together under her skirts.
Your comportment!
