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Clara set her chin resolutely and reached out her hand. “Then if you will give me my dress, Françoise, I shall be dressed and leave for breakfast right away.’
The maid withdrew with a cluck of her tongue, moving back toward the door. “Quelle horreur, in these rags? My lady, you cannot! I will bring you your new things and we shall have you dressed at once.”
“My…new things?” Clara furrowed her brow in confusion.
A twinkle came again to the eye of Françoise even as she threw open the doors and walked into the next room, Clara shuffling behind her. “Mais bien sûr! Monsieur Finch spoke with me yesterday before leaving, and I tell him your sizes as best I can guess.”
The maid looked her over carefully, a thoughtful finger on her chin. “I believe I may have…how to say…underestimated the size of my lady’s bust. But it will do for today, I hope. The shop men, they bring your new things this morning, but my lady sleeps so late.”
Clara blushed, self-consciously crossing her arms. “Where…ahem, where are these things, then?”
Françoise made a peculiar face at this, something between a frown and a shrug, then gestured with her hands on either side of her. Clara looked around the room and her jaw dropped. She put a hand to her chest, reminding herself to keep breathing.
The previous evening, she had barely registered that this salon was hers—it was smaller than the grand salon downstairs but still many times larger than any of her tiny shared bedrooms, and the thought of having more than one room to herself was still somewhat overwhelming. It was a charming place, as well, with sunlight flooding through the tall windows and a beautiful bright-red canary singing from an ornate cage in the corner.
But there were also two new things in the room, things Clara had not seen before. One was the sleeping form of a gentlewoman in rumpled, old-fashioned clothes sitting in an armchair by the window. An ugly brown scarf lay half-finished on a set of wooden needles on her lap, and she snored loudly from under her lacy bonnet.
“Ne t’inquiète pas,” Françoise said with a dismissive wave. “Fortunately for us all, Miss Forsythe needs her sleep, and does not hear well anymore.” Clara nodded her understanding.
The other, significantly more exciting addition was the collection of three enormous armoires, each one of them bursting with gowns and chemises, hats and gloves and turbans, undergarments and shoes and things she could not identify. Everything was beautiful, and if Françoise could be believed, everything was made to fit Clara.
Hesitantly, she stepped forward and took hold of a sheer white dress, pulling it delicately toward her. She ran the smooth fabric between her fingers, watching the sunlight pour through its gossamer weave.
I have never seen such beauty, let alone been allowed to touch it with my own hand.
“Of course we bring these closets into your bedchamber later, if you like,” Françoise said from behind her with a smile in her voice.
“I…I can choose what to wear from these, then? Any of them?” Clara stammered, uncomprehending.
Françoise made that face once again. “Well, anything my lady does not like we can send back, I suppose. But Monsieur Finch said it is done and paid for. They are yours if they are not unsuitable.”
Clara smiled, feeling tears well up. “No, no,” she said quietly. “That’s all right. I think…this will be quite suitable.”
* * *
The grandfather clock in the grand downstairs corridor began to chime.
“Oh, hell,” Clara muttered under her breath. “Let us hurry, please, Françoise!”
Françoise muttered something under her breath in French, picking up her pace ever so slightly as she led Clara through the hallways of the manor.
If only I had not spent so blasted long getting ready, she thought as a worried frown spread across her face. I had no idea it took a lady such a long time to dress…especially with a maid helping her!
Still, the image of the woman she had seen looking back at her from the mirror was a sight worth giving some consideration to. In place of her usual maid’s uniform or old, threadbare dress she now wore a shining dress in a simple if attractive white. Though her mud-brown hair had not been washed in some time, Françoise had helped her lift it in a quick and attractive style, and Clara could not ignore how much prettier this style made her look than she remembered.
Her face still looked too thin to her eyes, but her high cheekbones and pointed chin of her heart-shaped face seemed less unacceptable due to some interaction between her hair and her new clothing. Clara had broached the subject of cosmetics with a curiosity she had long harboured, but Françoise was adamant that powders and rouges were for actresses and ladies of the evening.
“This way, my lady,” Françoise said without pausing. The two had entered yet another corridor—How many blasted corridors are there in this enormous house? Clara wondered to herself—that led past familiar kitchen sounds.
Each of the dozens of servants they passed along the way greeted Clara with a gracious “Good morning, my lady” while they hustled on to their own tasks. It seemed she was already quite well-known here, though she had not been at the house a day.
“Et voila,” François said, indicating a doorway that opened into a grand dining room. Clara gave a grim nod, swallowed her fear, and walked in with as fearless an expression as she could summon.
Just try not to be ill right in front of them, if possible. At least not on the carpet.
As she walked further into the grand dining room, which looked an even more ridiculous scale as its long table was empty save for only the young Duke at the far end and Mr Morton at his side, Clara felt her muscles relax as she realized her half-sisters were not in attendance. At least, not as far as she could see—they could have been hiding under the table, she supposed. Christopher sat with a full plate beside him and an unfolded newspaper in his soft hands, and Mr Morton gave her a friendly wave as she drew nearer, his breakfast still half-finished.
“—see anything of value in this, Edward,” the Duke said in a creaky voice, heavy with complaint. “Surely there is more pressing business than poring over a rag like this.” He put down the newspaper dramatically, huffing as he folded his arms.
