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Chapter 13
Torment
Like an orange squeezed of all its juice or dried roses that had turned a burnished bronze colour, the great St. George manor had been robbed of any splendour it once had. All interest, all life and light had been removed from it completely. Or so it appeared to Clara, at least, as she wandered listlessly through one day after another. Even Pomodoro’s brilliant red feathers had lost their usual lustre, his song a bit less bright and cheery than before.
“My lady did not eat her supper?” Françoise would ask with a curt tone and a cock of her head.
Or, “My lady, the flowers today, they are so beautiful! Will you not go and look at them, before they wilt and become dead?”
Or, “My lady may sleep away the whole day now that she is a lady, but of course, poor Françoise must wait around toute la journée for her to get up so she can clean the bed.”
Clara complied with Françoise’s directives amiably enough. She ate, she walked, she got up. But all of it was done automatically, with neither thought nor emotion—all of that was completely spoken for by the predicament that had overcome her completely.
I don’t want to get romantically entangled with anyone at all at this moment, she told herself, picking over a breakfast in her chamber. My life is in shambles as it is, and adding questions of love to it would surely be enough to send me running off into the hills.
Edward comes from a good family, Sophia told me as much. What would his parents say if he found himself seduced by a baseborn girl, with neither the appropriate background nor breeding? Clara thought, the sight of the garden’s beautiful roses in full bloom utterly lost on her.
After all, her thought continued late into the night, I am still a former maid, and will always be so. It surely matters not who my father was, especially since he is dead and gone. I could never bring shame upon Edward by pursuing him as I want to, by kissing him and feeling him kiss me and hold me in his arms and throw me down onto the bed—if that is what I truly want, that is.
And this thought inevitably led back to the first. On and on this line of thought ran, carrying Clara back and forth between good sense and desire and back gain enough times that she was not sure where she was at any moment.
These days, Clara found herself strangely reassured by the constant presence of Miss Forsythe, though the old woman had grown no more companionable than before. With little else to occupy her time and few places in the St. George household she felt content to linger, Clara spent much more of her time with her chaperone within earshot than usual, and Miss Forsythe was content to fill this time with her usual uninterrupted string of grumbling and lamentations. Still, there was something soothing about the woman’s constancy, her complete dedication to dissatisfaction with everyone and everything that crossed her path.
The only moments of excitement that came were tinged with a terrible sadness that left Clara retreating to her room. Each time she caught sight of Edward anywhere in the enormous house, she scrambled to find somewhere to hide herself. This did not happen often, as he mainly kept to his study, but to be safe she attempted to stay clear of the dining chamber, entryway, salon, and anywhere else he might pass through.
Every time she found herself ducking into a cupboard or turning a corner suddenly at the sight of distant black-clad shoulders, she would chastise herself. What are you doing, you foolish girl? He is just a man, not a bear. What would someone say if they saw you behaving like this? Go about your day and forget about this whole silly matter.
Regardless, she always stayed hidden until she was sure Edward would not be in sight, her heart pounding hard enough to deafen her.
And, of course, there was the haunted sanctuary of her dreams.
Clara had never dreamed the way she did now. She could not always put a definite narrative to what transpired within her sheets at night, or even a description of any kind. Some nights she awoke in the dark of night with an explosion of warmth and animalistic noises that were disturbing yet unquestionably pleasant. Some nights she awoke before her dream had reached its climax, and tried to force herself back to sleep before feeling her frustrated fingers searching for furtive relief.
But something told her the dreams were always the same. The same strong, powerful hands touching her neck, her thigh, her most secret places. The same lips she had known, kissing every inch of her skin. The same voice calling her name with passion and yearning.
In truth, though it felt as though it consumed years of her life, this torment carried on for less than a week. It was the Sunday after her dinner party with the Fitzroys when things finally changed.
* * *
Hoping to discover some way to distract herself from her conundrum, Clara found herself seeking a suitable book in the St. George library. Her fingers were somewhere between Moll Flanders and Pamela on the library bookshelf when she came to an entirely unrelated realization about her situation.
This is not simply animal attraction, she decided at last, pausing to stare toward the twilight that poured through the window. Mr Morton has not only been kinder to me than anyone in my life—he genuinely is a very worthy individual. He works so hard for this family, gives so much of himself to the young Duke out of the goodness of his heart…such a man is rare in this world, and any woman who could spend her time with him would be fortunate indeed.
Clara smiled, thinking of what it might be like to be with Edward. Not only in the secretive, lustful sense that had consumed her thoughts for her days and long nights, but to truly be with him as his woman—to travel the countryside together, to share meals, to see him smile at her with pride and admiration, to spend every blessed day of her life in his company.
Then she gave a deep sigh, her breath catching as she realized the immense tragedy of what she had just realized.
Even if I do wish to be with him, all my other reservations still hold true, she thought, putting a hand to her mouth as she felt boundless sorrow burble up within her once again. Say I truly do care for Edward—what sort of woman would I be if in my desire to pursue him I dragged him down into the mud of my own cursed, scandal-ridden life?
The question hardly needed an answer. Clara felt herself clench her fingers into fists, her chin set with determination. I must not let my own selfish urges do wrong to that wonderful man. The only thing I can do is to keep my desires a secret until such time as they have passed.
Perhaps someday, she thought with a wistful sigh, when each of us has married someone more appropriate and I no longer feel this way, Edward and I can share a laugh over this foolishness. Until then, for both our sakes, I must bury these feelings and never speak of them.
Her mind made up, Clara took a deep breath and returned to her search of the library shelves, struggling mightily to ignore just how much darker and less kind a place the house looked now to her eyes.
Whether Clara’s resolve would truly last her until that day in the distant future would remain unknown, however, for fate had something different in store.
By the time she had settled on a sufficiently intriguing volume titled Thérèse the Philosopher, Clara heard a cough echo from the far side of the bookshelf. Peering over a row of books, she saw the unmistakable square chin and dark lips of Mr Morton. She was filled with trepidation for a moment, but then a peculiar idea came to her.
