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The foul-smelling man harrumphed, picked up his soup spoon, and proceeded to wave it about in the air dramatically as he resumed his complaint. “Yes, well, instead of the lovely happy ending we all know and love, some idiot went and turned it all grim.”
“Oh, yes,” said one of the other guests. “I saw it, too. Most dreadful.”
With a tut-tut, Cousin Thomas shook his head and said, “Can you believe they killed both the king and his daughter? Entirely wrong, if you ask me.”
“Immoral, even!” the gouty woman piped in. “Wrecked the whole purpose of the play. All wrong.”
“Don’t you think, Your Grace?” asked Mrs Fitzroy.
“Well, I…” Christopher mumbled.
Thomas interrupted before the Duke could choke out another word. “Said something about it being more authentic to the playwright’s original version if you can imagine such a thing. Bunch of poppycock, that.”
“But that is the ending to King Lear.”
It was not until the conversation was ground to a halt once more and all eyes were again levelled at her that Clara realized she was the one who had said this. What’s more, she detected from the bead of sweat gathering at her brow, she had made this pronouncement in a rather aggressive tone.
“That…that’s how the play ends. Originally, I mean,” Clara continued. “It’s a tragedy, after all. And a most beautiful one. I can’t imagine why anyone would ever change the ending.”
After a quiet moment that seemed to stretch on for hours, the dinner party attendees turned back to their food. As Clara felt the pit in her stomach yawn wider still, they each went on to slurping their soup and mumbling about the weather without any acknowledgement of what she had said.
Save one, of course. With a click of her teeth, Mrs Fitzroy said in a low voice, “It is a shame Miss Clara seems to doubt His Grace’s taste in the classics.”
“Quite a shame, yes,” her husband echoed.
“Most unbecoming of her, contradicting her betters.”
Clara looked up, anger flashing in her eyes. It seemed no one but she had heard these comments, and she felt herself puffing up with indignation. All the money in the world can’t buy manners, it seems, she said to herself. Nor appreciation for literature.
This struck her as an entirely unproductive thing to say aloud, but she was horribly tempted to say it anyway. She stared at Mrs Fitzroy, feeling all the frustration she had bottled up towards her previous employer throughout the years. But as she crumpled her napkin between her fingers, gritted her teeth, and got ready to loose this volley and anything else that might come to mind, Clara felt a gloved hand reach out and grab hers. She looked over to see Sophia, giving her a quick sympathetic look out of the corner of her eye.
“Don't pay them any mind,” Sophia whispered. “They aren’t worth the trouble.”
“Easy for you to say,” Clara whispered in response, but she felt her muscles relaxing slightly at these encouraging words.
“Don’t let them get you down. They don’t know what they’re talking about.”
“Don’t mumble, Sophia,” her mother snapped. “And keep both your hands on the table. Honestly…”
Her hands free once more, Clara felt herself reaching for her wine and taking a long drink. There may not be room for good sense at this table, come to think.
* * *
The carriage ride home to the St. George estate was a quiet one. Unsurprising considering the quality of the party, Edward mused. I have been to livelier funerals.
The hour was late, and the London night crept in through the window like a thick, choking mist. Quietly, Edward surveyed the interior of the carriage. Christopher’s face was dour and troubled as always, and tonight it was matched by the grim air that hung over Clara.
“It’s—” Edward began before he paused to cough into a handkerchief. Clara looked at him expectantly, as though there were some great hope hanging on his words. He hoped she was not too disappointed when he only managed to cough out, “It’s a pity your previous employers are such misguided theatre patrons.”
Clara smiled softly, then resumed staring out the window. “You are kind to say so, Mr Morton.”
“I wish I had heard just what it was they said to you,” he found himself saying. “I happened to see Miss Sophia reassuring you as we were leaving…” Edward paused, feeling a bout of sympathy rise in his throat. “I hope it wasn’t much more rude than the other things they were muttering.”
“Hmm,” she answered.
The carriage lurched to a stop, and Christopher moved to hop out the door as soon as the footman opened it. Before he exited, Edward extended an arm to stop the eager young man.
Lord, he looks so tired, he thought, seeing the dark circles under the boy’s eyes, the droop of his eyelids.
