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Chapter Sixteen
Clara eyed the steaming infusion in the teacup, mixed exactly as Mr. Patton instructed, tasting exactly as bitter as Mrs. Patton warned. Setting aside her embroidery hoop with a sigh, she faced her daily chore. She was grimacing accordingly when a knock sounded.
“Enter.”
The housekeeper, Mrs. Taylor, stepped in. “My lady, the Marchioness of Candleton has sent word that she’ll be staying in this evening. She’s not feeling well.”
Before Clara’s liaison with James, the loss of social plans might have disappointed her. This afternoon, it provoked sympathy for her friend, Beatrice—and she felt excited.
“Thank you, Mrs. Taylor.” She struggled to maintain a neutral expression. “I’ll dine at home this evening, then. Tell Cook I shall not mind at all if it’s asparagus soup and mutton again.”
“Yes, my lady.” Mrs. Taylor gestured toward her tray. “May I?”
Clara nodded absentmindedly, glancing at the carved mahogany-encased clock on the mantle. Plenty of time remained to send a note to James.
Entering, Molly stepped to the side to allow Mrs. Taylor to pass, her eyes tracking the empty teacup out of the room. The maid’s eyes were downcast when Clara settled into the chair in front of her bureau.
She lifted its cylindrical door and pushed it into the bureau, revealing the green leather writing surface, and spoke to Molly over her shoulder. “In a few minutes, I’ll need a footman to deliver a letter.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Ignoring the awkwardness, Clara continued as nonchalantly as she could. “I’m dining in this evening. Mrs. Taylor already has instructions for Cook. I’ll change after dinner.”
As soon as the door closed, she sank back into the chair and sighed.
After several weeks of clandestine visits, every servant had adapted to the new order. Letters traveled between the two households; Clara disappeared at least a few nights a week, returning home before first light.
Those in her service knew her so well that they’d have known before she did of her visit tonight, having guessed upon learning that the marchioness was indisposed.
Clara did her best not to show her embarrassment, just as she waited for Molly to depart before giggling to herself.
She hadn’t seen her lover for four days; he’d gone north to inspect a factory.
James had asked to see her tonight after returning midday, but she’d declined, unwilling to cancel her long-standing plans with Beatrice.
After penning a brief note, she opened the parlor door to find the footman waiting in the hall. Needing no instruction, he moved with purpose, making his departure in haste.
She went through the motions of taking up her embroidery again until dinner. When Mrs. Taylor announced that the meal was ready, Clara pursed her lips at the tea towel. She’d adorned it with one rosette too many.
The clock drew her attention before heading to the dining room for dinner; she should receive word any time from James.
Indeed, knowing that she’d want to see the missive immediately, Mrs. Taylor brought it to her as she sipped her velvety green soup from a heavy silver spoon.
Clara nodded as the letter was placed on the table. She didn’t taste another spoonful, but she took her time finishing the bowl. No one’s demeanor changed, yet she was aware of the servants’ attention.
As soon as she set down her spoon, the bowl and spoon were taken away, and only then did she lift James’s note.
Her heart raced as she broke the wax seal.
She had her answer straight away. He’d scrawled YES—no punctuation, further statement, or even a signature—in quadruple the ordinary size of the now-familiar script.
Clara folded the letter closed abruptly, lest anyone see the boldness. She returned to her back parlor, where a fire still burned in the hearth after a chilly afternoon. Reaching over the screen, she tossed the note into the flames.
No!came the internal cry as the parchment flared, then blackened. Clara knew it was for the best to destroy evidence of their liaison, but longed to go back and look upon it in privacy for a few moments more.
She returned to the dining room for the mutton course. The high color on her cheeks had nothing to do with the fire’s warmth, or the delicious currant pudding that would be served as the last course.
Clara was anticipating her other dessert. Every bite of her meal, every step she took until then, served to pass the time until her secret outing.
