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Clearing her throat and frowning at an imaginary insect on the interior wall, she asked, “You…knew my father well, then?”
Edward grimaced, and for a moment she feared she had asked the wrong thing. “As well as any man did, I suppose. He was…”
Clara looked at him sharply, as if to compel his next words. Detecting this, he continued.
“He was…one of the best men I have ever had the pleasure of knowing, if I may say so,” Edward said slowly. “Kind, good to those who knew him. Solid in his principles, through and through. Had a keen sense of humour, as well. Always joking, especially with his family.”
“Was he really?” Clara chirped in surprise.
“Oh, yes.” Edward broke into a laugh of remembrance, then looked to Clara meaningfully. “Does that surprise you?”
“To be honest, I have not even been able to picture him clearly,” Clara admitted. “I have seen his portrait, though, and…well, he did not look the sort to be cracking jokes.”
Edward frowned, putting a finger to his chin. “Portrait…not the one in the upper hallway of the east wing? With that awful green hunting costume?”
As Clara nodded, Edward broke out in laughter once more. “Oh my, I had completely forgotten it was still hanging. His Grace detested that portrait. He only sat for it because his mother-in-law paid for it, and displayed it for the same reason. Every time he came for another session, the Duke had changed his facial hair. Drove the artist absolutely mad.”
Clara joined in his laughter, and for a moment the library was suffused in light. Then a shadow fell over her, remembering the circumstances that had brought her here in the first place. “I do wish I could have known him.”
The space that came after her words filled the room with a crushing presence. Her eyes fixed on her shoes, she detected Edward once more walking along the bookcase.
“You know, I think he would be most happy to know that you have found yourself in the library,” said Edward with a strange smile in his voice. “He would be quite glad to have you reading his books. To say nothing of how happy he would be that you are here in the house at all.”
Clara sighed, feeling a rush of sadness from within her chest. “That…is very good of you to say.” Then why didn’t he bring me here while he was still alive? she added internally, but was at last possessed of wisdom enough to keep these words to herself.
By the response on Mr Morton’s face, though, she was unsure if she actually had spoken her complaint aloud. “He really did want to keep you here with him, Miss Clara. I know that must be very hard to believe, but it is the truth.”
“How could you know that?” she asked, her eyes filling with tears.
“I cannot claim to know everything in the man’s heart. But I was the first one he told about you, and I could see just how much of a relief it was for him to unburden himself of this secret. And when he told me of his desire to provide for you in his will, to bring you into the house as soon as possible…”
Edward sniffed, his eyes shining at the memory. “Miss Clara, I know you may never believe this, but he told me that giving you up was the greatest regret of his life. And as I said, I knew His Grace as well as anybody did, and he was not a man to say such things lightly. I believe it took a terrible toll on him to keep away from you. Make of that what you will.”
“…Thank you, Mr Morton,” Clara answered at last. She gave a short, humourless laugh as she sniffed the tears away. “I seem to keep finding myself saying that to you.”
“And it is still my pleasure, Miss Clara,” Edward answered somewhat unsteadily. “Whether for evading your sisters’ mistreatment or getting on in society—or even just finding something to read in your own house—I hope you know you can absolutely rely on me.”
“I mean it, though. You have helped me feel at home here in a way no one has—really, no one has ever treated me the way you have. No one has ever wanted me to feel comfortable or supported or anything like that.” A dim, dark memory of her previous life on the London streets flashed menacingly in her mind. “Not once. Not unless they wanted something from me in return.”
Licking his lips slightly, Edward answered in a quiet voice, “All I want is to make things easier for you.”
Another queer silence settled upon the room. Clara suddenly felt the library to be quite stuffy and airless once more, though the window was still wide open. She looked about for some avenue of escape, afraid of what she might start babbling again if she remained in Edward’s presence much longer.
“If you do find yourself looking for something to read, might I suggest this?” Edward asked, holding up a blood-red leather-bound book. Clara looked over the ornate gold lettering on the cover.
“The Castle of Orantro. Horace Walpole.” She shook her head, uncomprehending.
“You would not offend me if you chose not to read it, of course. I hope you don’t find it too disturbing a story—it is a bit bleak, I admit. But I finished it recently, and somehow I thought it might speak to you, if you are indeed searching for a story that might provide some insight into your own situation. Although,” he added with a shy smile, “I do not think there has ever been a story quite like your own.”
She swallowed, hoping to push back the blush she felt coming upon her like a tidal wave. “What is the story about?” Clara asked, hoping to distract herself from whatever this feeling might be.
“Oh, many things. Vast, terrifying houses of old noble families, confusion over inheritance and…er, love…”
Clara smiled. “It sounds wonderful. Thank you, Mr Morton. I look forward to reading it, and to speaking with you about it.” She reached out her hand to take it from his outstretched hand, but as her fingers approached the dark leather, something altogether unexpected happened.
Clara’s thoughts would revisit this moment dozens of times, if not hundreds, just within the next twenty-four hours. It was so hard for her to reconcile just how brief an encounter it was, considering the immensity of the feelings it stirred within her. Yet it truly was just a moment, she could not deny—a few seconds, no longer.
As Clara reached out for The Castle of Orantro and Edward extended it towards her, her fingers brushed against his. In fact, it was little different from the way their skin had met in the garden just a few nights before. But now, the sensation of his warm, soft skin against hers made Clara’s knees quiver.
