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Chapter 20
Haply, When I Shall Wed
Clara drew in a sharp breath, grimacing at the pain that lanced through her head. Though she was comfortably seated she found her fingers scrabbling to find purchase on the table to keep her from toppling to the floor.
“Are you nearly finished yet?” she asked in as pleasant a voice as she could muster.
“No,” Sophia answered in a muffled voice, her lips holding onto half a dozen hairpins. “Stop moving.”
Clara sighed. Her eyes roved over the reflection before her in the tall mirror. As best as she could tell, she looked rather lovely in her shining new gown, pale blue and simple but exquisitely made, she was assured. She forced herself to overlook the minuscule imperfections she detected in her face, her skin, her hair—well, Clara told herself, her hair would surely look better once Sophia was finished fixing it into the outrageous style she had somehow talked her into trying for the ceremony.
I hope I look elegant enough for this occasion, she thought, tapping her toe to a strange rhythm. Actually, I could not care less about the occasion—I just hope I look pretty enough for Edward.
Even the thought of Edward was enough to make Clara fear she was about to fall into a swoon. Unable to help her curiosity, she imagined what he might look like while waiting for her at the altar. And then later, as they celebrated with their friends and family when they were man and wife. And then still later, when they returned to their room…
Clara saw the blush that had risen to her face and felt the world sway about her worryingly. She bit her lip, trying to remain still even as she felt her muscles twitch in time to whatever that sound was.
With a sudden smile of recognition, she realized what she was hearing was a woman’s voice singing a strange song under her breath.
“What is that you are singing, Françoise?” Clara asked brightly. The maid swooped into view, happy as always for the excuse to put down her work for a moment.
“Ah, it is an old French song, my lady,” Françoise chirped.
“No, it isn’t. It’s Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,” Sophia said through her mouthful of pins.
“Star? Humph!” Françoise said dismissively, making that strange facial shrug that had always made Clara laugh. “Maybe for you English.”
“What are the words, then? In French?” Clara asked, hoping to distract herself from the images that threatened to play out before her face once again and send her into a fit of blushing.
Françoise paused to puzzle out how to explain herself. “There are different words,” she said slowly. “One version is a song about a man who takes a woman and give her flowers to love her.”
“It sounds like a very fitting song for this occasion!” Clara laughed.
With a sly grin, the maid continued, “The other version, it is a girl who does not want to grow up. She does not want reason, she only want bonbons.”
“Sounds like the girl has plenty of reason already,” muttered Sophia, tugging at an errant strand of Clara’s long, dark hair.
“Should I ask which you were singing?”
By way of answer, Françoise only gave that strange shrug again, returning to tidying up the room. Then she stopped and laughed, pointing to the birdcage by the window. “Alors, and Mr Pomodoro, he sing for you also.”
Clara spared a glance for the faithful red canary, singing merrily in his cage. Even in the depths of her despair in this room, his steadfast song had always kept a light burning in her heart, no matter how faint. I should see if Christopher would like to take the little thing back into his chambers, she mused. I think he has grown entirely confident enough in himself to put his foot down, especially for such a harmless little pleasure.
“I tell you, you must stop squirming,” Sophia snapped.
A knock at the door startled Clara an inch into the air, provoking an exasperated sigh from Sophia.
“Will you see who that is, Françoise?” asked Clara. Casting her eye up to the tangled mass atop her head, she said in a quiet voice, “Are you sure about this hairstyle, Sophia?”
“Of course! It looks almost the same as it does in the picture in the newspaper.”
Before Clara could open her mouth to object, the door opened and the grim visage of Miss Forsythe floated into the room. In the mirror, she could see the old woman had the same expression as always, as though she smelled something foul just underfoot.
“Good afternoon, Miss Forsythe,” Clara said politely, turning her head to greet her chaperone and ignoring the frustrated grunt that came from behind her.
“Miss Clara,” said Miss Forsythe, her walking stick quivering in her gnarled fingers. Then she paused, smacking her gums together in an oddly self-conscious way Clara had not seen before.
“I shall keep this brief, as I have no desire to waste either of our time. As today is the day of your wedding, my services as a chaperone are no longer required. As such, I will be leaving to return to my home anon.”
