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“Why not sleep in a bit tomorrow, Your Grace?” he asked gently. “You haven’t any appointments until eleven o’clock, and you look like you could use the rest.”
Christopher hesitated for a moment, then nodded his assent. “Thank you, Mr Morton,” he replied. The boy gave a nod to Clara and bid her good evening, then was out and walking quickly to the front door of the manor.
Edward followed Clara out onto the shadowy lawn of the manor, and said before she could follow the Duke inside, “You don’t deserve that kind of treatment, you know,” picking up the thread of their conversation as best he was able.
Clara gave a bitter laugh. “I can’t see what bearing that fact has on the treatment I get, unfortunately, but I appreciate the sentiment.” With that, she lifted the corner of her skirt and began walking briskly to follow her brother into the manor.
“I mean it, though,” Edward said, jogging to catch up with her. “Your circumstances may have changed rapidly, granted, and that fact must be disorienting for your former employers. But that’s no excuse for treating you like a pariah.”
“Or a ghost,” Clara murmured.
“There you are!” croaked Miss Forsythe, standing at the foot of the interior stairway like a black-clad vision of death. Edward gave her a respectful nod and a “Good evening, Miss Forsythe,” but the elderly chaperone was evidently too incensed to hear.
“Miss Clara,” she said, wagging a finger in Clara’s face, “I simply cannot abide this manner of disrespectful behaviour. Staying out until this late hour, and without your chaperone’s knowledge or permission!”
To Edward’s wondering eyes, Clara seemed the very picture of patience as she smiled at her chaperone and explained, “Miss Forsythe, I did inform you that I would be at a dinner party this evening. You were invited to join us, if you’ll remember.”
“Rubbish!” the old woman spat. “Bringing a proper lady out with your kind of hoodlum friends! His Grace would never stand for such a thing.”
“His Grace was in attendance as well, Miss Forsythe,” Christopher said from the top of the stairs. Miss Forsythe peered up at him through her thick spectacles, as though she had not noticed him walking in a moment before. Then she muttered something noncommittal and gave a slight gesture that might have been an attempt at a curtsy before laboriously turning to follow him up the stairs.
“I will be upstairs presently, Miss Forsythe,” Clara said in a quiet voice. “I just have to…”
But as Miss Forsythe had given no indication she was listening, and continued her weary shuffle up the stairs, Clara did not bother to finish her excuse. Instead, she turned back toward Edward, her eyes cast down to the floor. “Good evening, Mr Morton,” Clara said before slowly walking off toward the salon.
I can’t say I blame her, Edward thought with a scowl. The poor girl. She deserves far better than the world has given her—she always has, and I’m sure it must be quite a blow that it is no kinder to her now than it was a month ago.
“Will you be retiring for the evening, sir?” Mr Momplaisir asked. Edward checked his watch—half-past nine.
“No, thank you. I will be in my study,” he answered distantly. “Still some work to be done. But see that Miss Clara is made comfortable before you turn in, if you would.”
“Of course, sir.”
