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Chapter 11
What Comes Naturally
Lit only by the flickering orange light that burned in the hearth, the salon was a dark and gloomy place, its shadows long and deep. Yet Clara found she liked it much better that way, somehow—at least, at the moment. There had always been something rather reassuring in a grey, rainy day or dreary winter’s night when she was in a sombre mood. It was almost as though the heavens themselves shared in her misery.
And while her new position of privilege did not afford Clara the power to affect such a state in the weather, at least now she had the chance to sit on her own and mope in a dark, quiet room. Drinking a glass of wine, no less. Her misery never would have been afforded these luxuries in her previous life. That was something, she supposed.
Clara sipped the wine as she stared into the glimmering orange sparks that danced up the chimney. The clock had struck midnight some time ago, and the room was silent but for the strange, enormous sounds the house uttered as it settled in the evening cool. For a moment Clara wondered if there would be some way to understand the language of this great house. What secrets did it hold? Did it see her as a usurper, too, as all the others did? Did the goings-on of London society hold any more appeal for the house than they did for her?
Then she dismissed this thought as a child’s fantasy, tossed a fresh log on the fire, and poured herself another glass of wine.
It’s strange…she thought, watching the wood catch fire. There was something so much crueller in how the Fitzroys regarded me tonight than when I was a maid in their employ.
It had taken her much of the night to figure out the distinction, but she fancied she finally had it. Before they had looked at her as if she were a rat—more specifically, it had been as though she were a rat in the sewer. Distasteful to them, but reassuring inasmuch as it was in its proper setting, even tolerable on some level. Now, however, seeing Clara dressed in the finery of her new station must have been like seeing that same rat pull a chair up to the dinner table and tie on a bib.
Even absent my sisters or anyone else actively working to bring about my downfall, still, I must suffer at the hands of my social betters, Clara reflected grimly. Her jaw tightened as she continued this investigation of the unjustness of her predicament. And for what? What crime have I ever committed against James and Eleanor Fitzroy? I certainly never asked to be born to a Duke—must I be punished for his transgressions?
She sighed deeply, suddenly feeling very tired. Will this just be the way my life goes, from now until death comes for me? As she tended to do when in such a dark mood, she found herself rolling about in a puddle of self-pity, bemoaning her utter lack of friends or supporters in this cold, cruel world.
Oh, stop that, you overdramatic girl, Clara chided herself, frowning. You have friends, for pity’s sake. Even if they didn’t do you much good tonight, you still have Sophia and Glenys. Even the Duke seems to be warming to you, I think. And of course, there’s—
“Clara?”
At this unexpected sound, she stood from the sofa in a rush, nearly spilling her glass of wine on the carpet in her surprise.
Standing as an island of illumination amid the darkness of the house behind him was the tall, dark-haired form of Mr Morton, holding a candle in one hand. He was still dressed as he was at dinner, albeit with the addition of a handsome deep red banyan or dressing gown. His face was a picture of curiosity, with a hint of concern playing about his eyes.
Clara was unsure what it was—the lateness of the hour or the wine she had drunk or the contrast between the light he carried that beat back the blackness of the room—but for whatever reason, she fancied she had never seen a more beautiful sight. And for a moment, as she wondered whether she was dreaming or awake, she was stricken speechless, her mouth agape.
“I am surprised to see you still awake,” said Edward, still standing in place on the empty floor like a heavenly statue.
Clara licked her lips, trying to restore some sense to her faculties. “Yes,” was all she managed to reply at first. Dissatisfied with this answer, she tried again, “I am, that is. Still awake. And I am surprised to see you awake, also.”
The sting of embarrassment at the foolish words that poured from her was alleviated when she saw a smile spread across his face. He raised a hand, and as soon as she realized he was gesturing to the empty seat, Clara stammered, “Please, yes, join me, if you will.”
Edward walked around her to sit at one end of the long, plush sofa she had been reclining upon, and before she could stop herself, she sat on the other end, as far from him as possible. Just as it had been in the library, Clara was seized by the thought that she was sitting all wrong—too stiff, too far, looking at the wrong thing.
How can I feel so wrong just by sitting?
She cleared her throat, then let that awkward sound linger in the warm air by the fireside. As Mr Morton set down his candle on a side table, he stared at the fire that burned cheerily in the hearth, so Clara tried to do the same as casually as possible.
“I know it is a simple thing,” Edward said in a quiet voice, “but I have always thought fires were such magical things.”
“Really?” Clara answered. Then she realized the surprise, even disdain that had crept into her voice and wished she could run off into the dark.
But Edward’s voice betrayed no judgment she could detect as he mused, “I suppose you must have grown quite tired of them, having built so many in your life. But to me, they’ve always seemed so…I don’t know, unearthly. They are so like living things, aren’t they?”
Clara nodded, though within she had moved beyond being puzzled at his words and gone back to being distracted by his physical proximity.
“They grow,” Edward continued, “and they move like any animal. They consume food and leave waste behind. And in their living, they shed their light upon the world.”
He gave a warm laugh and rubbed at the back of his head. “I remember when I got it in my head that I wanted to build a fire on my own. I was seven, I think, or maybe eight.”
“You didn’t build your own fires, Mr Morton?” Stop asking stupid questions, you foolish girl!
“Oh, no, Father wouldn’t hear of it. Thought it was beneath us to stoop to such toil as lighting fires or preparing food. Even walking anywhere wasn’t good enough for his son, we had to travel by carriage.” Edward adopted a mock scowl and a blustery tone to his voice as he said, in an apparent imitation of his father, “‘I haven’t broken my back working at the bank for thirty years just so my only son can squander his potential playing at being a bloody coolie!’”
She hesitantly joined in with Edward’s laughter at his mimicry. After a moment more of silence, she asked, “What happened then?”
