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Chapter 4
A New Morning
“Ah!”
Clara awoke with a start and a gasp, jerking bolt upright in a bed that was not hers.
For a moment she struggled to catch her breath, her heart thundering in her chest. Everything was wrong—there was too much light in the room, though it was still quite dark, and it was too warm. There was not enough noise, and she appeared to be lost in a sea of soft sheets and duvets.
I’m late for my morning duties! she thought, hand raised to her throat in panic.
But then her hand found a shining-white lacy collar around the neck of a soft new dressing gown, and memories came flooding back to her.
I am in the St. Georges’ house, she said to herself, blinking her eyes and trying to compel her heart to slow its breakneck speed. I…I am a St. George. I live here now. I am no longer a maid.
Suddenly feeling that she might drown in the enormous soft bed, she flung the covers off herself and hopped onto the floor. The feeling of the soft rug under her bare feet was immensely gratifying—Clara realized she had become accustomed to bracing herself for the early-morning rush of cold tile on her skin instead.
Is this a dream? I feel it simply must be.
Rubbing her eyes and blinking in disbelief, Clara walked through the vast, dark bedroom to the curtains on the far wall and pulled them open. She gasped at the sight before her.
The window looked down upon the rear grounds of the house, which seemed to her to be even grander than the front. The enormous garden stretched out before her like a colourful blanket, and it took her an awestruck moment to realize the small figures she saw moving among the hedges and manicured trees were an army of gardeners and groundskeepers.
Blinking in wonder, Clara turned back to the bedroom and cast about for a clock, wondering how late she had slept. The memories of the day before came to her only grudgingly, as though her mind wished to keep them from her. It seemed to her that she had spent the entire afternoon in her room, and had picked over some cold food before falling asleep before it was even dark.
The time made itself known to her with a soft chime coming from a narrow antique clock in the corner, next to the ashy hearth. “Eight o’clock,” she whispered to herself. Seized with a manic carefree feeling, she gave a sharp laugh at this information. “I wonder if a Duke’s daughter takes her breakfast in her room or if the family will be eating as well?”
At that thought, her stomach twisted. I do not know if I can bear to face those horrid women again, she thought, her heart rising into her throat. The Duke and that Mr Morton did not seem terribly wicked, I suppose…but I should not be surprised if Helena and Judith do not try to poison my tea, the way they looked at me.
Two soft knocks at the door almost sent her scurrying back under the covers to hide. Clara waited for someone to come in, and when none did she realized they must be waiting for her. “C…come in?” she called weakly.
In glided a maid on quiet feet. It was the same maid who had shown Clara into her room the day before, and this morning as before she wore a warm smile.
“Good morning to you, my lady,” she chirped in a sprightly French accent. Clara stared at her, frozen, as she watched the maid open the curtains the rest of the way, pick up her discarded clothes from the floor, and generally engage in the same activities she had performed herself for the last several years.
“Ah…yes, good morning, er…” she paused, embarrassed. “I beg your pardon, but what was your name?”
“Françoise, my lady,” the maid hummed, keeping her eyes turned away from Clara’s in deference.
Clara reached out a hand to stop her as she saw Françoise approach her bed to make it. “Oh, you don’t need to—”
The maid gave a jocular smile and cock of her head as she stopped in her task. “my lady mustn’t worry. Such things are my duties as your maidservant, no?”
Clara dropped her hands to her sides with a helpless shrug and a chastised laugh. “Of course, I’m sorry. I…just am not accustomed to such things, you understand.”
“Oh, yes, yes,” Françoise muttered, turning back to her task. After a momentary quiver of energy, however, she turned back to Clara and cooed, “Oh, but mon Dieu, it is such an exciting thing, is it not? To think, just yesterday you were a maid like I, and today you are the lady. Hah!”
Clara shared in the laughter with her short, dark-haired maid. “Yes. Yes, I’m still reeling at the news myself.”
Françoise laughed a moment longer, reaching out a hand to touch Clara on the shoulder before pulling it back sharply, the laughter suddenly gone. “Pardon, my lady. I do not wish to be too familiar.”
The maid took a breath to collect herself, then asked in a more subservient tone, “Would my lady like her breakfast here in her chamber? Or if she prefers, His Grace has given an invitation for her to join the family for her meal in the Duke’s dining room.”
The family? Clara thought with a rising sense of panic. She began to shake her head in negation, but then she recalled Mr Finch’s words to her in the carriage. The Duke invited me. Whether this is a meaningless gesture or not, it would be rude on my part to refuse the invitation, surely.
“Yes,” she found herself saying, summoning whatever courage she had this early in the day. “If I am not too late, I will join the Duke for breakfast, thank you.”
Françoise glanced at the clock. “Non, His Grace dines at half-past eight each morning. Not too late.”
