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I can’t breathe were the only words Clara could discern. Finding her body unresponsive in this duty, she instead compelled her limbs to carry her out the open doorway and straight towards the nearest exterior door.
Breathe, Clara, breathe, she urged herself. Do not give them the satisfaction of dropping dead here and now.
Through her tear-filled eyes, Clara could see that she was standing amid the blossoming rose bushes on the west side of the great house. But their beauty was lost on her, so consumed was she with her own self-pity.
Stupid girl, she said to herself with a bitter shake of her head. What made you think you had any business being here in this house, let alone at this party? You will never get anything less than that horrid treatment from this society. You would have made everything so much simpler if you had just stayed a maid for the rest of your days—or better yet, thrown yourself into the Thames, where the upper class tosses all its refuse.
The sound of the door opening behind her sent her heart up into her throat. Clara was filled with a desire to flee, to hide herself behind the nearest hedge, but by the time she took a single step she froze, hearing a different voice than what she had expected.
“Miss Clara?”
Standing in the doorway, handsomely dressed in his usual black coat and high collar with a snowy white cravat, was that strange Mr Edward Morton. “Are you all right?” he asked, closing the door behind him and stepping closer to her.
With a heroic effort, Clara turned her head away and dashed away her tears with a quick swipe of the back of her hand. She looked back to Mr Morton with what she hoped was a brave face, unwilling to burden him with her problem and risk making the situation worse.
But somehow, just as she turned back to look at him, her attention was caught by something in his expression. She could not be sure what it was—his arched eyebrow, perhaps, or some strange glimmer in his dark eyes. Whatever it was, it instantly demolished that emotional buttress, and instead of a brave face, she found a fresh pool of tears spring up within her. “Oh, Mr Morton!” she cried, raising a handkerchief to her face. “I fear I must have made a terrible mistake!”
Mr Morton stepped still closer to her until they stood not five yards apart on the garden path. “What do you mean?” he asked gently.
“I just…they…” she stammered. Biting her lip, Clara struggled to keep her attention on her own plight rather than say anything that might make things still harder with her half-sisters. “I am just completely lost at sea here, sir,” she said with a sigh of defeat. “I do not belong here.”
“Here at this party, you mean?”
“At this house!” she sputtered, gesturing broadly with her arms. “I don’t care who my father was or what I may have had the accident to have inherited—this is not my world! I don’t know how to behave or what to do with myself, and from everything I can see, it would be easier for everyone if I had never been born!”
Dropping her arms limply to her sides, Clara repeated in a near-whisper, “This house is not mine. I do not belong here.”
Careful to stifle any sound lest she become even more of a bother, Clara’s tears silently showered the soft earth at her feet. A breeze flowed through the warm spring evening air, and some strange impulse made her wish it might carry her off and away from this place.
Then Clara drew in a breath in surprise as she felt her hands wrapped and lifted up by strong fingers. She looked up, her eyes suddenly clear, to see Edward gazing at her with a look of sympathy. Not pity—she had become quite acquainted with piteous looks at the orphanage—but true sympathy, even encouragement.
“Miss Clara,” he said in a low, even tone, lifting her hands up between their chests. “With all respect, that is a complete load of rubbish.”
She released a burst of surprised laughter, caught off guard by this remark. What on Earth is this man playing at? she thought.
With a sad smile, he said, “You are a St. George. Legally, biologically—factually. By all laws of God and man, that means this house is yours. You are a part of this family, and while that fact will not bring you any kind treatment from a few miserable women, it does mean that no matter how much they try to make you as miserable as they are, they cannot drive you out. Only you can do that.”
Clara looked up at Edward. It felt as though he were holding her entire form within his grasp—a simultaneously terrifying and compelling sensation that left her stricken speechless.
Fortunately, Edward had more to say. “You do not have to go to a single dinner party or ball if you do not wish to,” he continued. “In fact, you can stay right in your room and never leave for as long as you live. There are more noblewomen who do just that than you might think.”
He gave a strange sigh, mouth turning up at the corners. “But I will say that if you choose to do so, a great many people will miss out on getting to enjoy your truly excellent company. Besides which, the only ones who will benefit from it are Helena and Judith, and I cannot imagine you wish to hand a victory to those two.”
“Why are you being so nice to me?” she found herself asking. She regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth, seeing a blush come to Edward’s cheeks. He released her hands and rubbed the back of his head.
“Lionel, the old Duke? He was a friend of mine, and…well, he asked me to promise to be kind to you. I know he wanted you to have a good life, and I intend to live up to that desire. I may not be able to compel your sisters to do the same—in fact, I may be able to do only very little, being but a commoner lucky enough to be given a temporary position of trust in this family.”
Clara’s eyes widened, hearing a heavy note come into Edward’s voice.
“Yet if all I can contribute is my own kindness toward you, then that is just what I will do,” he finished forcefully. “And dash it all, you deserve that, Miss Clara, at the very least.”
Then Edward looked away, his face clouded with some obscure thought. There is that…that something strange in his eye again, Clara thought warily. He is not telling me the whole truth, somehow.
A strange impulse came into Clara then, seeing the turmoil that had overtaken Mr Morton’s features. Though she was still not entirely sure she could trust this man or his kind gestures, she was overtaken by a desire to comfort him, to wrap him in her arms and hold him as tightly as he had just held her hand.
Instead, she took his hand in her own, and just as she had looked up in surprise when he first touched her, so he did now. “Thank you, Mr Morton,” Clara said quietly, a sympathetic tear rising to her eye once more. Edward gave her a warm, grateful smile.
“Now, will you accompany me back to the party?” she asked before she could regret being so forward. “As you suggested, I would not like to hand a victory to my half-sisters—not even as small a victory as my place at the dinner table.”
Edward put out his arm, and with a gentle smile, Clara found herself taking it. Arm in arm, they left the garden behind them and walked back into battle.
