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Prologue
1851 London
Every day that Clara Robertson’s pregnancy advanced, the happier she was, even as the discomforts grew. After all the losses, nothing could erase the worries entirely—not until this child was born and drawing air.
Sitting at her dressing table set up against the silk-covered wall in her dressing room, she glanced at the new, larger bowl of hair pins.
Her maid Molly met her gaze in the mirror with a knowing smile. “I needed more pins for your hair, my lady. It’s so thick now. So lovely.”
Indeed, ever since joining her household a decade ago, Molly Hawkins had excelled in anticipating her requirements and wishes even before she knew them herself. Molly thrived on knowing precisely what to expect and being prepared for whatever the day brought.
True, being with child had resulted in more voluminous hair, but that wasn’t the only cause of her dwindling stock of hair pins. Clara tried not to blush as she thought of her husband James’s passionate ways, including his persistent penchant for freeing her errant curls. Eventually, Molly recovered most of the pins from whatever places they flew in their chamber, but a certain number remained missing, whatever her determination in hunting them.
“Thank you, Molly. As ever, you are most diligent.”
“Of course, my lady. Other things are changing as well. You’ll need new shifts and gowns soon, you will.”
Clara’s hands covered her burgeoning abdomen, but joining the love and hope was an undercurrent of trepidation. If all proceeded as hoped, a great deal would change—including her plans for Molly.
The maid’s loyalty to Clara and dedication to her work were beyond question, making this decision—and how to explain it to Molly—all the more difficult.
She quietly observed Molly in the mirror as the maid hummed, inserting U-shaped pins around Clara’s braids coiled into a bun. The two of them shared sable-colored hair, but there ended the similarities.
When she hired Molly, the woman was gaunt after years of foregoing food in favor of her younger siblings. Her widowed father had struggled to feed his surviving fourteen children, and Molly, the eldest, had remained at home long enough to raise the youngest.
Now thirty-eight, Molly didn’t have Lady Clara’s tall frame and voluptuousness, but her hair shone with health and her cheeks were sunken no longer. She had the eyes of a doe and could be just as skittish. Beyond her tendency to worry, though, was an admirable gift for order and predictability.
Hiding her decision from the woman was not a kindness, Clara realized. Change was exceedingly difficult for her, all the more so when she was unprepared for it.
When Molly finished dressing her hair, Clara turned in the chair to face her. Taking in the set of Clara’s shoulders and the guilt in her eyes, Molly’s face tightened.
“Thingsarechanging, as you say. When it’s time for my full confinement, I’ve decided to retire to Anterleigh Hall.”
Her maid showed no surprise that she’d selected the seat of her family’s earldom, Anterleigh, where she’d grown up. James had likewise understood her choice. As pleasant as it was to visit his lavish country estates, they didn’t feel like home.
“Yes, my lady. I’ll see to the preparations. How soon would you like for us to depart?”
“You’ve always carried out your duties with the utmost diligence. The greatest care. When I leave for the country this time, I shall need you to remain in town. I’m entrusting you with new tasks here. Projects where your—Molly! Breathe!”
The maid appeared to retreat into a place where she couldn’t hear Clara’s words, and within a minute, they traded positions, with Molly sitting in the chair and staring blindly into the mahogany-framed mirror.
Clara patiently rubbed Molly’s slender back while the woman folded down over her knees, clutching her legs through her white apron and black skirts. They both knew from experience that the vapors would pass.
Offering genuine comfort, Clara was at once sorry for Molly yet all the more confident in her decision. Molly was so caring, but her worries about Clara’s well-being could overwhelm them both. The miscarriages had been heartbreaking enough; coping with her maid’s fretting and sometimes gloomy outlook was more than her own spirits could bear.
Once Molly sat up, she still struggled to catch her breath, but she turned in the chair to face Clara. “What did I do wrong, my lady?”
Tears sparkled in Clara’s emerald eyes, and she shook her head. “Nothing! A punishment this is not, Molly.”
“Then what? For you to leave me behind, I must have failed you somehow.”
“Oh, how you’ve cared for me faithfully these last years! I’m ever so grateful for it. I know it wasn’t easy for you when I married and we moved into this house. All the changes. James and I will travel to Anterleigh, and this time, it will aid me to know that you are in London and faring well.”
“Begging your pardon, my lady, isn’t my place where you are? If you have the babe, I wish to help. If you don’t—”
The maid enveloped Clara’s warm hand with her own cool hands. After a moment, Clara swallowed. “After seeing what your mother experienced, you have your reasons to fear the childbed. And I understand how distressing it’s been to see me with child and lose it. But my heart’s been broken every time. This is the farthest along I’ve been, and I’m scared. I know you mean well, Molly, I do. But I can scarcely hold all of my own suffering.”
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