Coming Home

Jennifer Moore

Chapter One

Spring 1890

Isle of Wight, UK

Grant Mason frowned, pulling away as his mother’s elbow poked into his arm.

“Do you hear that?” she hissed. “Right behind us.”

The instant the hymn had begun, the unknown woman’s voice sounded clearly among the others in the congregation. Of course he’d heard. It was impossible not to when she sat directly behind them, only a few pews back. Grant did not consider himself an expert on music by any stretch of the imagination, but even he could tell her singing was remarkable.

His mother continued to squirm. “Have you ever? That voice. Such perfect pitch.” The feathers on her wide hat brushed his face as she turned her head for a better view. “Who is she?”

“Mother.” Grant’s whisper was rather loud, but he had no choice if he wanted to be heard with the congregation singing on all sides. “Turn around.”

The woman’s voice stopped, though the hymn continued.

Grant rolled his eyes. Obviously Mother’s backward glances had not been discreet.

“She is sitting with the Wickershams,” his mother whispered. “Do you suppose she is a relative?”

He shrugged, hoping his mother would imitate his silence. Her not-so-quiet whispers were drawing glances from other parishioners.

“I have never heard them speak of extended family, and surely they would have told me if a relative was coming for a visit,” she continued.

“We can ask them after the service.” Grant cocked his head, listening, but the woman’s singing had not resumed.

“How long is she here, do you suppose?”

He touched his forefinger to his lips, then pointed down at his mother’s hymnal, indicating for her to stop talking and sing.

“The choir festival—”

“I know, Mother.” He put a hand on hers. “But we can do nothing about it until after the service.”

She nodded and sat back, finding her place in the song just in time to sing the last words, and then closed the hymnal with a sigh.

Grant knew she must be disappointed. “It Is Well With My Soul” was one of her favorite hymns, but she had naught to blame but her own snooping for the missed opportunity. He wondered if the woman behind him felt the same regret. From the resounding sound of her voice, she must be a person who enjoyed singing. If only his mother’s curiosity had not embarrassed her into silence.

Throughout the sermon, Grant’s thoughts returned to the mystery singer. He had been enchanted by her voice and, though he’d not admit it to his mother, or anyone else for that matter, he was curious. His mother was right; he’d never known the Wickershams to have relatives visit. Their only son died years earlier, and none had come for the funeral. Grant assumed none existed, which was a pity indeed, because of any couple he knew, Walter and Deborah Wickersham possessed enough kindness and goodwill for an army of relatives. And he felt a tingle of suspicion at this newcomer, not liking the idea of a stranger among his people.

Truth be told, he was suspicious of all overners, or mainlanders. The island was a popular tourist destination, even more so since Queen Victoria had claimed it for her own vacation home, and in Grant’s experience, tourists were full of criticism, condescension, and complaints.

There were plenty of other concerns to occupy his mind, and he pushed away thoughts of the stranger behind him, glancing around the congregation. The company of locals was scant, even for the off-season. Whooping cough had ravaged the parish this winter, leaving hardly a family untouched. Though the sickness had thankfully not resulted in many deaths, recovery had been slow, and Grant’s tenants would need more help than ever with their spring planting. He’d already spent nearly the entire winter caring for animals whose owners were too weak to do much more than thank him.

But such was the way with caulkheads—island residents. They helped one another. When any challenge reared its head, the community rallied, caring for children, bringing meals, and assisting with chores. The people of Brading Parish were family, and though they had no choice but to welcome outsiders, they would always be just that—outsiders.

When the final hymn began, both Grant and his mother tilted their heads again to listen.

“Why isn’t she singing?” his mother asked, twisting fully around.

He batted away the feathers with an irritated sweep of his hand. “Perhaps your attention has made her self-conscious.”

She sat back against the bench, looking petulant. “She must be used to the attention.” She thumbed through the hymnal until she reached the correct page. “With such a talent, of course people take notice.”

The service concluded, and the congregation rose, moving to the aisles. Grant scanned the crowd, hoping to catch a view of the mystery singer, but only saw the back of her as she exited the church.

When they stepped outside, Grant’s mother made a beeline for the Wickershams and their companion. The three were across the churchyard, talking with Mrs. Barlow, the vicar’s new wife, and her friend Mrs. Pinkston, who held her youngest, Arthur, on her hip.

Grant followed at a more sedate pace, greeting neighbors and friends as he went. As he drew closer, he took the opportunity to study the unfamiliar woman. She wore a blue dress with a bustle and a high collar and upon her head a small hat set with a few silk flowers. Practical attire, he thought, yet upon her, it looked soft and feminine. Perhaps it was the thick, honey-colored curls just brushing her shoulders, or her pink cheeks. He concluded that she was young, not yet in her twentieth year. And she appeared very uncomfortable, shifting from one foot to the other, her shoulders tight. Was she wishing to be away from the company? He frowned.

A child darted through the crowd and dashed right in front of Grant, nearly causing him to lose his balance. Grant recognized his tenant’s son, Barty Newbold. “Careful there.”

“Beg your pardon, Mr. Mason. Didn’t mean to trip you, sir.”

“No harm done.” He ruffled the boy’s hair.

When Grant reached the group, his mother was, of course, speaking. He tipped his hat toward Mrs. Wickersham and the other women, winked at Mr. Wickersham, and tickled little Arthur beneath his chubby chin.

“. . . loveliest parish in all of the island,” Mother said to the newcomer with a flourish. She looked up at Grant and waved him closer. “And here is my son now, if I may introduce him, miss.”

The young lady nodded.

“Grant Mason.” Mother lifted a hand toward him, then spread it back in the other direction. “And Grant, it is my privilege to introduce Miss Clara Brightly.”

She curtsied. “How do you do, sir?”

“A pleasure.” Grant tipped his hat.

“Miss Brightly is my cousin,” Mrs. Wickersham said, her face lighting with a smile that lifted her round cheeks and crinkled the skin around her eyes. “Come to live with us after the death of her father.”

“My sympathies, Miss Brightly,” Grant said.

“Thank you.” She spoke in a soft voice and rubbed her arms.

Grant thought Miss Brightly seemed standoffish, and her indifference to the people around her raised his defenses.

“Mr. Mason and his mother reside at Haverstone Park.” Walter Wickersham jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “East of the town.”

Miss Brightly glanced behind him. “I see.”

Arthur Pinkston grabbed on to Mrs. Barlow’s beads, sticking them into his toothless mouth.

“The Masons are our very good friends,” Deborah Wickersham said in her gentle voice. She gave Grant and his mother a loving smile.

Grant smiled back and renewed his opinion that she was the kindest of women.

After a few moments of exchanging pleasantries, Walter cleared his throat and pushed his fingers into his waistcoat pockets. “Now that we’ve the formalities out of the way, Mrs. Mason, what was it you wished to speak with us about?”

“Actually, it is Miss Brightly whom I hoped to speak with.” Grant’s mother turned toward the young lady. “You see, I heard you singing during the service, and my dear, your voice is lovely. Isn’t it lovely, Grant?”

“It is.”

Miss Brightly gave a small smile. “Thank you.”

“You are very accomplished,” Mother continued. “I assume you’ve had professional instruction?”

Miss Brightly glanced between Grant and his mother. “I studied under a voice tutor,” she said.

“I knew it.” Mother’s eyes widened, as did her smile, and she leaned toward Miss Brightly. “We need you.”

The young lady’s brows pulled together. “You need me?”

Another of the Pinkston children, Lucy, ran to her mother, tugging on her skirt. Mrs. Pinkston handed baby Arthur to Mrs. Wickersham and bent to tend to her daughter. The baby didn’t release his hold on Mrs. Barlow’s beads, so she moved closer to Mrs. Wickersham as if she were being pulled on a leash.

“Yes,” Grant’s mother continued to Miss Brightly. “You see, the May Day celebration in Wippingham is a long-standing tradition here on the island. Choirs from every parish perform at the festival.” She gestured with her hands as she spoke. “Well, over the years, it has become something of a competition, and . . .” She trailed off, pulling her lips to the side as if unsure of her next words.

“And you wish me to join the choir?” Miss Brightly asked.

“Yes, well, what remains of the choir. Many of our parishioners have been ill this winter and are still recovering. Our very best tenor, Bentley Durham, is in Brighton with his daughter until summer. Gertrude Nuttal, our lead soprano, broke her ankle.” Mother wrung her hands, and Grant recognized the look of anxiety that talk of the festival had caused over the past months. “And with the Ladies’ Charity Society sponsoring a booth at the festival, I’ve simply had no time to dedicate to the choir, and neither have most of the parish women.”

“We know, Mrs. Mason,” Mrs. Barlow said as she pried the beads from the baby’s fat fingers. “You have been so busy.”

Mrs. Pinkston and Mrs. Wickersham nodded their agreement.

“I’m not sure how I can be of help,” Miss Brightly said.

“Well, I’d very nearly made up my mind to give up on the choir altogether this year, since we are already quite into April, but when I heard you sing . . .” Grant’s mother placed a hand on her breast and sighed. “It was as if the Lord himself sent you to Brading as an answer to prayer.”

Mrs. Pinkston and Mrs. Barlow exchanged a glance, Walter grinned, and Grant rubbed his brow. Mother was laying it on rather thick.

Miss Brightly’s cheeks turned pink. “What exactly do you need me to do?”

“Well, everything, dear.” Mother spread her hands to the side. “We must recruit new members, as our choir is so dwindled that I think only a few will come to rehearsal. And of course you must choose a song to sing, one that will not suffer for lack of a crowd, and then teach it to the choir.”

Miss Brightly’s eyes were round, and Grant did not blame her for being overwhelmed. May Day was less than three weeks away. He had half a mind to whisk his mother away and save the young lady. But doing so would only postpone the conversation.

“I do not know if I am the person for the job, Mrs. Mason.” Miss Brightly rubbed her arms again. “I only just arrived and—”

“Oh, but you must.” Mother linked her elbow with Miss Brightly’s, turning her to face the churchyard and spread her arm toward the parishioners. “It cannot be a coincidence that you arrived at Brading just as I had given up hope of a choir. And we can’t disappoint everybody.”

Miss Brightly looked around the churchyard for a long moment, then removed her arm gently from his mother’s grasp. “May I have a moment to consider?”

“Yes, of course, dear.” His mother took young Lucy’s hand and moved toward the other women. “Take your time. We have plenty to discuss.”

“The Ladies’ Charity Society will be making its rounds this week.” Mrs. Barlow held her beads away from the baby. “I thought beef stew or possibly lamb . . .”

Miss Brightly leaned closer to Walter. “Do you mind if we move to stand in the sun?”

“Certainly.” Walter offered his arm and led her out of the church’s shadow to a sunny spot on the grass.

Not wanting to listen to a discussion about stew, Grant followed. “I hope my mother did not overwhelm you, Miss Brightly.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “She can be, ah . . .”

“Earnest,” Walter said. His grin spread his thick mustache.

Grant smiled. “I was going to say aggressive.”

“Nonsense.” Walter clapped a hand on Grant’s shoulder. “Her heart is in the right place, but when she gets an idea in her head . . .”

“Then we should all beware,” Grant finished with a grimace.

Walter smiled his agreement, then turned to the young lady. “And Clara, you do not have to do anything you don’t wish to do. Mrs. Mason will understand if you choose not to lead the choir.”

“Eventually,” Grant muttered.

The men laughed, and Miss Brightly smiled, though her brow remained furrowed as if she were still contemplating.

“However, my dear,” Walter said, “it might be just the thing. A fine way to meet people. I think it very important to be involved in a cause.”

“I agree,” said a voice behind them.

The three spun at the sound and greeted Harrison Barlow, the vicar and Grant’s closest friend, who’d approached without their notice.

“From the sound of it, Mrs. Mason has been recruiting a new choir director,” Harry said.

“She has.” Grant gave a knowing look to his old friend.

Harry’s lips twitched. He knew firsthand how Grant’s mother operated. “And what are your thoughts on the matter, Miss Brightly?”

“I am . . .” She glanced between the men, then to where the ladies were still, no doubt, discussing the benefits of beef versus lamb stew. “I am thinking it over.”

Barty Newbold darted past again, running to join a group of children sitting in a ring on the grass. One of the older girls led them in a chant, and the others followed in a clapping game.

Grant remembered playing on the same patch of grass after Sunday service as a child. Most likely, he’d been waiting for his mother to finish her church business, he thought. Some things never changed.

The women joined them. Mrs. Barlow slipped her hand into her husband’s elbow, giving him a warm smile. The couple had been married less than a year and were very affectionate. Emmeline Barlow was from Shorwell, just fifteen miles away. The entire parish was quite taken with the vicar’s wife, and Grant was pleased to see his friend happy. Walter smiled at his wife, then patted Lucy’s head and tickled baby Arthur’s chin.

“Mr. Barlow, Mrs. Mason, have you ever considered a children’s choir?” Miss Brightly said, her gaze still on the game.

The vicar blinked.

Grant’s mother frowned, then tipped her head to the side. “Oh, well, I don’t know . . .” She turned with the others and watched the children at play.

“In India, parents sent home their school-age children to England,” Miss Brightly said. “I am not used to so many in church, and I noticed their voices among the congregation.” She faced the vicar, her expression relaxing into a gentle smile. “There is something very special about hearing children’s voices, especially when they sing about Jesus.”

“Witness of truth borne by innocents has the power to soften hearts.” Walter nodded and scratched his neck. “The idea is unexpected.” He looked at his wife, then back to the young lady.

“Delightful,” Mrs. Barlow said.

“It would certainly be unique,” Grant’s mother said.

“A children’s choir.” Mrs. Pinkston shifted the baby on her hip and glanced down at Lucy, smiling.

“A wonderful idea, dear.” Mrs. Wickersham nodded.

“I think I like it.” Grant’s mother’s face lit in a grin. “Perhaps it is just the advantage Brading Parish needs at the festival.”

Walter patted Miss Brightly’s shoulder, giving a crooked smile. “By Jove, but it might just win the competition.”

“How fortunate that you’ve come to us, Miss Brightly,” Mr. Barlow said. “A fresh idea and a talented musician to carry it out.”

“You will, of course, lead the choir,” Grant’s mother said.

She glanced between them. “I can assist, certainly, but not lead.”

Grant pursed his lips, not liking her reaction—as if coming up with a brilliant idea were all the contribution she cared to give and the implementation of it was beneath her.

Miss Brightly folded her arms. “I do not have much—any—experience with children, and I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

“Nonsense.” Mrs. Pinkston shifted the baby to her other hip. “It is easy as you please.”

Grant was becoming tired of the fickle Miss Brightly. She seemed extremely arrogant. If she did not wish to lead the choir, so be it. His mother could certainly find a person better suited for the job, and one who did not require the entire parish to beg her.

Miss Brightly met his gaze and looked away quickly, no doubt startled by the displeasure in his expression.

The vicar patted her arm. “It is a daunting task, Miss Brightly, and we certainly do not expect you to do it all alone.” He raised a finger as if an idea had just occurred to him. “Grant will assist you.”

He must not have heard correctly. “Pardon?”

Walter and the vicar grinned, and the ladies all chattered their agreement.

Grant’s stomach sank. “I can’t . . . Harry, you’re aware of how busy I am this time of year.”

His mother linked her arm through his. “You know all the children, dear. And like Mr. Barlow said, we can hardly expect Miss Brightly to undertake the entire project alone.”

The vicar continued to grin. He clasped Miss Brightly’s fingers in one hand, and Grant’s in the other. “It looks as if we have a plan. A choir-directing team. I will announce the first rehearsal shall take place directly after the children’s Bible Study meeting on Wednesday.”

Mother grinned and clapped her hands. “Oh, it has all come together, hasn’t it, Grant?”

“Indeed.” He spoke the word through clenched teeth.

The Barlows made their farewells, and the others chatted excitedly about the festival and the children’s choir. Grant’s mind scrambled to think of a way out of the situation, but with each passing second, he grew more resigned to his fate. He looked at Miss Brightly, who was rubbing her arms and watching the children.

As if she could feel his gaze on her, she glanced toward him.

He gave a cool stare, then looked away. Miss Brightly may have a beautiful voice and a pretty face, but she was still an overner—one who thought herself above the simple people of the island. He tightened his jaw. He would work with her for the sake of his parish, but that didn’t mean he would trust her.

Chapter Two

An invitation from the queen changes nothing. I am still leaving. Clara Brightly tucked the heavy parchment card back into its envelope, fingering the royal seal for a moment before handing it across the carriage to Deborah.

Deborah took it with a smile and slipped the invitation back out, reading over it with Walter for what Clara thought must have been the hundredth time.

She and the Wickershams were headed to Brading. As it turned out, the Ladies’ Charity Society met at the vicar’s cottage on Wednesday evenings during the children’s Bible Study. Clara’s fingers tingled with nervousness as she thought of leading the choir. In addition to the shyness she already fought against, she had no idea how one went about teaching children, and based on her impressions of Grant Mason, her partner wasn’t going to offer any help. She didn’t think it possible for a person to look less pleased about the prospect of working with her. The memory of his unhappy expression made her stomach burn.

Deborah clasped her hands together, bending the fancy paper. “To be invited to a ball at Osborne House is such an honor. You know, Walter and I went to London for Queen Victoria’s Golden Jubilee celebration. Absolutely marvelous.” She shook her head fondly, the colorful plumes on her hat blowing in either direction, then turned back to Clara. “Isn’t it gracious of the arrangement committee to extend the invitation to include you as well?”

“It is indeed,” Clara said. Though she was becoming tired of the topic, she was glad for the interruption of her thoughts. She would much rather think of . . . well, anything other than Mr. Grant Mason’s rude behavior.

“Such a benevolent ruler, our Queen Victoria.” Deborah pressed the letter to her bosom.

Walter sat up taller in the seat next to his wife and raised a finger toward the ceiling. “And I shall be accompanied by the two most beautiful women on the island.” He grinned, his crooked incisor poking out beneath his furry top lip at a curious angle. “Won’t the other gentlemen be jealous?” He chuckled, and his wife joined in, her giggles sounding like they belonged to a young girl.

Clara couldn’t help but smile at the merry pair. Deborah and Walter were both plump, their cheeks, chins, and tummies bouncing with every bump of the carriage wheels, and in the week since her arrival, they’d been nothing but cheerful. In their presence, Clara’s shyness and the horrible anxiety that came with speaking to strangers was nearly forgotten.

Deborah was a distant cousin of her mother’s and among the few living relatives the London solicitor, Mr. Poppy, had been able to locate. Clara felt a mixture of gratitude for the couple’s kindness, as well as guilt for the imposition. Taking in an unknown relation could not have been a desirable situation for the two. But the Wickershams assured her again and again that her arrival was an unexpected ray of light in their dull lives.

As pleasant as Clara found life with the Wickershams, Wardleigh Manor wasn’t home, and her heart ached to return to India. She was determined to do so as soon as the opportunity presented itself, which was another reason she’d been reluctant to lead the choir. Committing to something she may have to abandon before its time felt like a betrayal, and if there was one thing Colonel Brightly had taught his daughter, it was to be true to her word.

As she thought of her father, the ache grew into a pain she could never get used to, squeezing her heart and compressing her throat. She looked through the window, blinking away tears. What had begun as a marvelous adventure eight months earlier—a steamship journey to England by way of Cairo, Athens, Rome, Venice, and Paris—had turned into a series of misfortunes. The foremost being her father’s sudden death in Egypt.

Clara shivered, remembering the months of uncertainty in Cairo, the journey to England with strangers, and the long, cold winter she’d spent with her father’s great-aunt (twice removed) and her family in London. She’d been told how very different British society was in England compared to the close relationships of expatriates, and her firsthand experience only convinced her that she did not care for the community one bit. She missed her friends at the residency compound.

Deborah reached across the carriage, tapping Clara’s hand, and pulling her from the dismal memories. “Here we are.” She pointed to the other window.

The carriage crested the top of the hill, and the town of Brading spread out before them, looking like a page from a fairy tale book. The town was filled with blossoming trees and surrounded by rolling hills and acres of freshly planted fields, dotted here and there with farmhouses and an occasional manor. White buildings with pointed roofs and wooden trim clustered around a stone church.

“Glorious!” Walter sighed. “One never gets tired of such a sight.”

“And just wait, Clara,” Deborah said. “In a few weeks, spring will be in full bloom, and there is nowhere lovelier. Many claim the Isle is the Lord’s personal garden.”

Clara forced a smile and wiped her wet eyes with the tips of her gloved fingers. She hoped, at the very least, that the Lord’s personal garden would produce some sunshine. She hadn’t been warm in months. The streets of the town were quiet, so different than the crowded bustle of Calcutta with its colorful markets and noisy chaos.

When they reached the churchyard, Walter helped the ladies from the carriage, then bid them farewell as he left to spend an hour with other husbands of the Ladies’ Charity Society members at a local tap house.

Deborah left to her meeting at the Barlows’ cottage, and Clara entered the church. She waved at the vicar, who read to the children seated on the front pews. Mr. Barlow acknowledged her with a nod and continued with his lesson.

Clara shivered inside the cool building, pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders. For a few days after she’d arrived in London, she’d thought it fascinating how her breath turned into a white cloud in the cold, but the novelty of the phenomenon had worn off quickly. Being cold all the time was exhausting.

She counted the children, and her nerves tensed as the number grew. Nineteen in all. How shall I ever do this? She started toward a pew to wait, but seeing Grant Mason, she changed direction, joining him where he stood on the side of the nave.

His arms were crossed, and he leaned on one shoulder against the stone wall. He dipped his head to her but did not extend a greeting.

Clara tried not to let his coolness bother her. She had business to discuss. “I-I wondered if I might speak with you for a moment, Mr. Mason.” Why couldn’t her voice sound more self-assured?

He straightened, turning fully toward her, and Clara hadn’t realized until she faced him in the candlelit shadows how very imposing he was. Mr. Mason was tall and broad-shouldered with an athletic build. He wore a dark blue coat and a black necktie. As even in the dim light, his tanned skin stood out against the white of his shirt collar. His hair was cut short and side whiskers grew on his jaw. But it was his blue eyes that captured her attention. The light color gave the impression that he was looking at something far away or, more disconcerting, directly through her.

She forced herself not to duck away. “Sir, I did not want to say as much in front of the Wickershams and the others on Sunday, but since this affects you as a fellow choir director . . .”

His expression gave no encouragement, and the cool way he stared made her lose her train of thought. Her father would tell her to “stop rambling and come out with it.” She cleared her throat. “Mr. Mason, I was reluctant to accept the task of choir leader because I intend to l-leave the island, and I did not want to . . .”

He continued to watch her, and her nervousness was joined by irritation. “I am informing you out of respect, sir. I did not wish to abandon you without warning to conduct the choir alone.”

His expression did not change. “When do you depart?”

Clara glanced toward the Bible class, wishing for some interruption. Mr. Mason was making her quite uncomfortable. She tightened her shawl. “Well, I am not certain. But I intend to return to India as soon as an opportunity presents itself.”

“So you are leaving, but you have no plan in place to do so.”

Perhaps it was a trick of the candlelight, but she thought she saw a smirk. Clara lifted her chin. “Not yet, but I will leave.”

“You have family there,” he said.

“No, I . . .” She clasped her hands together, hating to have to explain herself, especially when it was none of this man’s business. “I have no family there.”

“Ah.” Mr. Mason’s brow ticked upward. “A suitor?”

Clara shook her head. “India is my home. I . . .” She swallowed at the tightness in her throat. “I belong there.” She looked away from his piercing gaze, embarrassed that her emotions were getting the better of her. “You wouldn’t understand. People here are not like . . .” She shook her head, frustrated at her inability to finish a sentence. “You do not know how it is to live so far away from your homeland and have to rely on the people around you. They become closer than family.”

He furrowed his brow. “You’re right, Miss Brightly. I do not understand. But I do see that you are keeping this from the Wickershams, and you do so to protect your own feelings, not theirs.”

Her cheeks heated. “I do not see how that is any of your concern.”

His eyes tightened, and his expression grew, if possible, more disapproving “The residents of Brading Parish are my people—my family, though we are not related by blood. We look out for one another.” He folded his arms. “Perhaps I understand better than you realize, miss.”

Clara was tempted to wither under his gaze, but she stood firm, though she had to hold her hands tightly to keep them from shaking. “I do not mean to hurt anyone. I simply want to go home. And I do not deserve your censure, nor do I particularly care for your thoughts on the matter. I m-meant only to inform you because it affects my leadership of the choir. And so I have. Excuse me.”

She hurried away to wait at the other side of the church. Her entire body shook. She breathed to calm herself and didn’t glance toward him again, though she could feel him watching her. It was only her imagination, but Mr. Mason’s icy stare seemed to make the temperature drop even lower.

Half an hour later, Mr. Barlow closed the Bible and motioned for the choir-directing team to join him.

“Children, this is Miss Brightly. She and Mr. Mason are going to teach you a song for the May Day festival. Please give them your attention and sing your very best.”

Mr. Barlow patted Clara’s arm as he passed, nodded at Mr. Mason, then departed through the church doors.

A small girl with dark curls followed behind the vicar, and Clara wondered if she was his daughter, or perhaps she needed to get home to bed. Curiosity about the little girl vanished when Clara saw all the children staring at her. Suddenly, her skin felt extremely heated, and she started to sweat. Her breath even felt hot and difficult to draw into her lungs. She removed her shawl and laid it on the front pew.

“H-Hello.” She formed her mouth into what she hoped was a convincing smile. “As the vicar said, I am Miss Brightly.” She took a calming breath, knowing that if she became too nervous, her stammer would grow worse. She looked toward Mr. Mason, but he had taken a seat on a pew across the aisle, apparently not planning to participate.

“Is it true you’ve come from India?” an older boy with curly blond hair asked.

Clara turned back to the children. She nodded, discreetly wiping her damp palms on her skirt. “Yes, that is true. Now before we sing, I’d like to speak to you for a moment about chorale performance. The goal of a choir is to sound like one voice. Each vocalist matches his or her—”

“Did you ever see a tiger?” another boy asked.

“And a snake charmer?” a girl asked.

Clara halted the speech she’d prepared, feeling a drip of sweat slip down her back and reminded herself to breathe in and out steadily. “Yes. I saw snake charmers quite frequently in the Calcutta marketplace, and I did see a tiger once. He was in a c-cage.”

The children spoke among themselves, and she clapped her hands to quiet them and hopefully recapture their attention. “Now, children, we have only a short time to rehearse, and―”

“Have you ridden an elephant?” the curly haired boy asked.

She held up her hand to forestall any other interruptions. “If you would please save your questions until—”

“Elephants live in Africa, not India.” A smaller boy with freckles leaned forward over the pew, whispering loudly to the blond boy.

“They live in both,” the first boy replied in an equally loud whisper.

“As I was saying . . .” Clara tried to ignore the boys’ conversation, but their distraction derailed her train of thought. “I . . .” She swallowed. “The festival is very soon, so I thought we should sing a hymn you already—”

“Africa.” The freckled boy punched the other on the shoulder.

“They live in both.” The blond boy reached back to return the punch.

“B-Boys, please . . .” Clara’s voice caught, and she clenched her hands into tight fists to keep calm.

Perhaps they should just sing, and she’d speak to them later about their vowels and sound. “The song I’ve chosen is ‘Gentle Jesus, Meek and Mild.’” She purposely avoided looking at the two boys arguing about elephant habitats, though they were very distracting. “Before we sing, I’d like you all to stand and move to the choir seats. Arrange yourselves by size, taller in the back.”

As if she’d opened a box of puppies, the children tumbled out of the pews. Boys wrestled, pushing one another, and girls squealed, jumping out of their way when the shoving got too close. The argument about elephants drew other participants, and before long, pandemonium had taken over the choir rehearsal.

Clara guided a crying girl to one of the choir seats, then turned back, pulling a boy down from the pew and pointing out where he should sit. “Everyone m-move to your correct—” She broke off her words when she realized none of them were listening. Tears stung the backs of her eyes. Her breathing became difficult, her hands tingled, and she feared another attack of nerves would take over if she did not calm herself and the unruly children down.

“That is enough.” Mr. Mason’s voice cut through the turmoil. The tone was not loud, nor was it angry, but it caused everyone to listen. “Take your places.”

He stepped through the crowd and laid a hand on the freckled boy’s and the curly haired boy’s shoulders, leading them to the choir seats. The other children followed, moving quietly to their spots. Mr. Mason sat behind them.

Clara’s stomach was hard with embarrassment, and her thoughts muddied. She blinked rapidly, praying no tears would betray her utter humiliation. She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Stand please,” she said. “And let us begin.” She hummed a note, raised her hands, and led the children through the song.

They sang, and she sang along automatically, but her mind wouldn’t stay with the task. What was she doing? She wasn’t cut out to lead a choir. Just speaking to people was difficult enough. And there was Mr. Mason, sitting smugly in the back row, happy to show her and everyone else that she wasn’t up to the task.

When the song ended, she forced a smile. “Very nice. Thank you. That is all for tonight.” She turned and hurried down the aisle and outside. All the while, her throat grew tighter. The instant the church doors closed behind her, the tears she’d held back all evening overcame her defenses and burst out in a torrent. She wanted her ayah, she wanted her friends, she wanted to go home. But more than anything, she wanted her father.

Chapter Three

The morning following choir practice, Grant dismounted in front of the Wickershams’ house. He gave the horse’s reins to the stable boy, then stepped up the front stairs of Wardleigh Manor, but paused before knocking. He fingered the soft wool of the shawl Miss Brightly had left behind at the church and considered for the hundredth time exactly what to say.

He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling extremely ashamed for his treatment of the young lady and for his narrow-minded assumptions. He’d assumed her haughty and had attended the rehearsal hoping to see her fail, thinking Miss Clara Brightly needed a dose of humility. But as he’d watched her speak to the children, it became increasingly clear that her temperament was not so much conceited as it was nervous. Though she’d tried to hide it, her hands shook as well as her voice. She had been completely terrified.

He knocked, berating himself for his ungentlemanly behavior. He should have stepped in earlier when he could clearly see her dismay.

The housekeeper opened the door and, upon Grant’s inquiry, informed him that Miss Brightly was away with Mrs. Wickersham, making visits with the Ladies’ Charity Society, but Mr. Wickersham was at home if he would please follow her to the library.

Walter rose from his chair, grinning when Grant entered and sent for tea. “A visit from Grant Mason, how fortunate for me.” He shook Grant’s hand, clapping him on the shoulder. “How are you this fine day, sir?”

Grant grinned in return. It was nearly impossible not to do so. The man exuded cheerfulness. “I am well. I’d hoped to find Miss Brightly at home.” Seeing the knowing twinkle in Walter’s eye, he hurried to explain. “She left her shawl at the church last night.”

Walter glanced down at the folded cloth in Grant’s hand. “I see. Very good of you to return it. She will be happy to have it back. Poor dear is always cold. Used to jungle climates, I suppose.”

The housekeeper arrived with a tea service.

Grant accepted a cup and poured in a spoonful of sugar, taking a grateful sip.

Walter stirred his tea, then set the spoon onto the saucer. “And how goes the children’s choir?”

“Rehearsal went . . . well,” Grant said, fully aware that his words were a lie. “Miss Brightly is quite a competent musician.” That, at least, was the truth.

“Oh, I am glad.” Walter’s shoulders relaxed. “I admit I was rather worried. Clara didn’t speak much on the way home from town last night.” He sipped his tea. “But that is nothing new. She doesn’t speak much at all. Very shy, you know.”

The bitter taste of shame rose in Grant’s throat. “I see.”

“Young lady’s been through difficult times.” Walter set his cup onto the low table in front of him, then leaned back, knitting his fingers together over his ample belly. “From what I’ve been able to piece together, her father’s passing was quite tragic. He died suddenly on a tour in Egypt. Poor Clara was stranded for months without family or friends as the consul general sorted things out.” Walter shook his head. “He finally made contact with a relative and sent Clara to London to live with a distant relation she didn’t know, and from what I gather, the situation was . . . difficult.”

“How so?” Grant set his cup onto the table and rested an ankle on his knee.

Walter wrinkled his nose and tapped one of his fingers on the others. “Well, she didn’t say as much. She is a private person, you know. But when Mr. Poppy, the London solicitor, came to us, inquiring about taking her in, he mentioned that she’d sought him out. We understood, though he didn’t say in so many words, that she was unhappy with her situation, lonely. She’d actually inquired about returning to India, but of course he couldn’t send a young lady not yet of age halfway round the world alone.”

“Obviously not,” Grant agreed. “And so instead of sending her back to India, the solicitor located you.”

Walter’s face lit in a grin. “We’re so very pleased he did. We adore Clara. Deborah thinks of her quite as her own daughter, and I think she is a delight.” The light in his eyes dimmed. “I know she’d rather be in India, but if any place can mend an aching heart, it is our beloved Isle. I hope she can find happiness here.”

Grant smiled at his old friend. Clara Brightly was lucky to have landed here with the Wickershams. “Do you know where the Charity Society is today? Mother mentioned visiting Mrs. Nutall.”

“Yes, and Deborah planned to visit Philip Herd as well.”

Grant nodded. A blind widower, Philip Herd was a regular beneficiary of the Society’s visits. He lived on a farm with his son Marcus, one of Grant’s tenants. He imagined if the ladies paid Mr. Herd a visit, it wouldn’t last long. The man was notoriously ill-tempered and had been ever since Grant could remember.

“I thank you for the tea and for the company.” Grant rose. “But I must be getting on.”

“You’re welcome anytime.” Walter shook Grant’s hand with both of his own. “And thank you for your friendship to Clara.”

Grant departed and rode back toward the town. His heart was heavy as he contemplated what Walter had said. He remembered the devastation of his own father’s death, but he hadn’t been alone. He’d had his mother and the entire town for support during those dark weeks and months. Clara had been alone. No wonder she wished to leave, to return to a place where she felt loved. It was what anyone would want. He didn’t blame her at all.

An unfamiliar feeling moved through him, and he analyzed it. A hope—or perhaps a desire? When he considered it further, it surprised him. He wanted Clara to stay. Though he examined it from all angles, he couldn’t quite grasp where the feeling had come from, nor could he understand the reasoning behind it. Perhaps it was pride. He hoped she would come to realize the Isle was a true treasure. Maybe he felt guilt for his earlier actions and sought to make things right. Or he may just feel compassion for the young lady and what she’d endured.

He considered further, but neither of these explanations felt . . . complete. He may just be taking to heart Walter’s hope that Clara could discover what she sought here in Brading. She could find friendships and feel cared for. But that didn’t feel complete either.

He rode toward Haverstone Park but turned up a side lane when he saw through the trees that his mother’s carriage was still at the Herds’ cottage. As he rode closer, he heard a piano playing and the unmistakable sound of Clara Brightly’s singing. He dismounted and stopped, listening closely to another voice that joined Clara’s—a man’s voice he didn’t recognize. It couldn’t be . . .

Marcus came around the side of the house and waved when he saw Grant.

Grant dismounted and motioned toward the house with his chin. “Is that . . . ?”

Marcus shrugged. “Couldn’t believe it myself when I came in from checking the herd. The pair’ve been at it for an hour.” His smile was wistful. “My father hasn’t sung a note since I can remember. Forgot how he used to love it.” He took the horse’s reins and, when he heard Grant was looking for the ladies of the Charity Society, offered to water the animal while Grant went inside.

Grant stopped in the doorway of the drawing room, even more surprised to see that Philip Herd was not only sitting beside Clara on the bench of the old upright piano, singing a duet of “Lavender’s Blue,” but that he was the one accompanying them. He had a vague memory of his mother telling him that Philip had been very fond of music, but he’d never seen the man play, nor had he any idea the man possessed such a rich-sounding voice.

Clara glanced up, and their gazes met for a brief instant. Her eyes widened and she blushed, but her singing did not falter. She looked back toward the sheet music that sat on the shelf, turning a page, even though the blind pianist obviously did not require it.

When the song ended, Philip smiled. “We make a good pair, young lady. Now what—” He cocked his head, turning his unseeing eyes toward the doorway. “Who’s there?”

“Grant Mason, sir. How do you do this morning?” How the man was able to detect him was a mystery that had long been a source of speculation among the parishioners in Brading. Some attributed it to a supernatural ability, but Dr. Hurst claimed that when a person lost one of their senses, the others became stronger. Grant wondered if it was the old man’s sense of smell that had detected him—the smell of his horse, of course.

“Well, come in, then. Don’t particularly care for folks lurking in doorways.” He scowled. “Suppose you’re here for your ma.” He jerked his head to the side. “In the kitchen with the others, arguing about lamb stew or some such nonsense.”

This attitude was much more in line with the Philip Herd that Grant knew. “Thank you, sir. But I’ve actually come to see Miss Brightly.”

Her cheeks went, if possible, even darker.

“You left your shawl at choir practice, miss.”

She moved her gaze to the shawl, not meeting his. “Thank you.”

“Set it on the sofa.” Mr. Herd motioned with a wave of his hand, then set his fingers back on to the piano keys. His features softened into something that very nearly resembled a smile. He played the first chords of a familiar seafaring melody.

“You’re a sailor. I should have known.” Clara spoke in a teasing tone that made Philip’s clouded eyes light up and his face beam.

“I’ll wager you aren’t familiar with a rowdy sea shanty, miss.”

“What shall we do with a drunken sailor?” Clara sang the words to the tune he’d played. “I hope you don’t worry about offending my delicate sensibilities, Mr. Herd. I was raised in the army. My father hosted naval officers quite often.” She giggled and bumped him with her shoulder. “I’ll wager I know more verses than you do. And some might just make you blush.”

“A wager I’ll gladly take!” Philip’s smile spread into a grin that showed his missing teeth.

Grant gaped. The old saying about music’s ability to tame the savage beast came into his thoughts, making him shake his head in amazement. Removing his hat and gloves, he sat on the sofa. He couldn’t wait to report every detail of this marvel to Harry Barlow.

Philip played again, and he and Clara sang the shanty, taking turns answering the age-old question of what to do with a drunken sailor “ear-lay” in the morning. Grant could only stare in amazement at the transformation. It was as if the years fell away and the crotchety old man became a merry young sailor singing with his shipmates. His voice was robust, his face alight; he even sat straighter.

Miss Brightly sang just as loudly, though her voice could not be described as anything less than exquisite, proving that any song could sound beautiful with the right singer.

After a few rounds, Grant couldn’t remain seated. He crossed the room and joined in. The lyrics weren’t difficult to follow, and the others seemed happy to have him. The song continued with each verse becoming sillier, some downright bawdy. Both men burst out in laughter when Clara’s verse about the drunken sailor suggested they “shave his belly with a rusty razor.”

“What on earth is going on in here?” Grant’s mother came in from the kitchen, putting her hands on her hips.

Philip laughed so hard that he had to stop playing to wipe his eyes.

Deborah Wickersham entered behind her. “You are supposed to be resting, Mr. Herd.”

“Resting won’t bring back my sight.” He waved his hand as if to banish the idea. “Singing with Miss Brightly today has improved my constitution more than any stew ever did.”

Clara smiled.

Deborah nodded proudly.

“I am very pleased to hear it.” His mother’s gaze met Grant’s. She raised her brows but didn’t ask aloud why he’d come. “We’ve others to visit today, Miss Brightly. It’s time to leave.”

“One more song before you go?” Philip asked.

Clara looked back and forth between the ladies who were clearly ready to leave and the elderly man who looked as if his heart would break if she went with them. “I . . .”

“I’ll see Miss Brightly safely home,” Grant offered. “If that is acceptable to you, miss.”

“Thank you.” Miss Brightly’s gaze darted to him, then away quickly, and Grant felt the familiar sinking feeling. He definitely needed to apologize.

Grant accompanied his mother and Mrs. Wickersham to their carriage, helping them inside, promising to take good care of Miss Brightly and not allow her to remain too long.

When he reentered the house, Philip turned toward him. “Mr. Mason, do you have a request?”

Clara watched him expectantly.

“‘Greensleeves,’” Grant said, sitting on the sofa. “It’s my favorite.”

Philip nodded. “Always a good choice.” He played a short introduction and opened his mouth as if he’d start to sing, but when Clara began, he didn’t join in.

Grant understood his restraint perfectly. Any addition to the sound would diminish the effect. Clara’s voice was emotive, the beautiful words clear and unbearably lovely, touching a place so deep inside that it pulled at his emotions as no music ever had before. He had heard the song often, but when Clara Brightly sang it, it stirred his very soul. He closed his eyes, sat back, and let the music carry him away.

The song ended, the last notes hanging in the air, and Grant sat, frozen. He’d experienced something unexplainable through the music, something moving and very tender, and wanted the moment to stretch on as long as possible.

After a bit, Clara rose. She patted Philip’s hand. “I enjoyed myself very much today, Mr. Herd.”

He caught up her hand in both of his, turning his knees toward her. “Thank you.” He swallowed. “Miss, I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt so . . . so happy. Please say you’ll come again.”

“How could I not?” She bent down and kissed his cheek.

They bid Philip farewell and stepped outside.

Grant placed the shawl over Clara’s shoulders. “I spoke without thinking, offering to see you home. I don’t have a carriage. The walk isn’t far, but if you’d rather, I can borrow a horse or ride to my house for a carriage.”

“I don’t mind walking,” she said, raising her chin and starting in the direction of the village.

Grant considered offering his arm but thought her present feelings toward him would not incline her to accept. He stepped quickly to catch up, then matched her pace. “Miss Brightly, I owe you an apology.”

“It is not necessary, sir.” She pulled the shawl tighter, and he could see by the tension in her shoulders that she was uncomfortable.

“I disagree. At the choir practice, I should have helped you instead of allowing—”

“I told your mother and the vicar, I do n-not know how to teach children.” Her hands were fisted inside the shawl.

He winced at her nervous stammer. “Yes, you did.” He blew out a breath. “I didn’t realize . . . I thought you simply didn’t want to, not that you . . .”

“That I’m ridiculously bashful,” she finished in a soft voice.

“I was going to say, I didn’t realize that you actually needed assistance.” He cleared his throat. “Miss Brightly, my assumption was a shameless misjudgment, and for it, I apologize.”

She glanced at him. “You thought I was being arrogant.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Do not let it trouble you anymore.” She tugged at the shawl. “I know I can seem very aloof, especially to strangers.”

“Perhaps that is our problem. I do not think the children’s choir-directing team should be strangers. We should get to know one another.”

She darted a cautious look at him, as if to ascertain his intention.

“To make the team stronger.” He rubbed his chin and nodded thoughtfully, but winked, hoping to cheer her or at least set her at ease.

Clara gave a shy smile. “Very well.”

Grant took her assent as an invitation to begin the conversation and considered what topic might be appropriate when developing an acquaintance. With some surprise, he realized he’d rarely met new people. He’d known the vast majority—in fact, all—of his friends his entire life. Everyone he interacted with, aside from the occasional tourist, had always lived on the island. Very few people left, and fewer moved here. The thought brought him up short. How exactly did one go about making a new friend? And what should he say that wouldn’t cause further offense?

“Ah, how is it you have no experience with children, Miss Brightly?” Not the most suave beginning, but it could have been much worse.

She shrugged. “I was rarely involved or even acquainted with any. British children are sent home to England for school.” She glanced at him. “Most children.”

“Not you,” he guessed.

Clara shook her head. “I was an exception.” She grimaced. “When the time came, I was so . . .”

“Timid,” he said.

She nodded. “And frightened. We had no close family in England. I begged my father not to make me go, and he allowed me to remain in India and be instructed by a tutor.”

“But you stayed this winter with family in London, did you not?”

She squinted, as if trying to remember whether she’d told him as much.

“Mr. Wickersham mentioned you had remained there during your mourning.”

“I did.” Her face cleared, accepting the explanation. “I lived in a townhouse in Grosvenor Square with my father’s great-aunt and her children.” Clara’s lips pressed tightly together.

“You didn’t enjoy London?”

She rubbed her arms beneath the shawl, and her demeanor became decidedly less cheerful. “London was cold, and my father was dead.” Her voice was nearly a whisper. “I was not familiar with the conventions and complexities of English society. I’m afraid I was not the best company.”

A young lady alone in a strange country, mourning her only family . . . Grant felt a swell of pity as he imagined bashful Clara trying to hold her own with London’s high society.

“Tell me about Mr. Herd,” she said, changing the subject. “He is such a pleasant man, not at all how Mrs. Wickersham and your mother described him.”

Grant clasped his hands behind his back. “Philip Herd was, as you deduced, a sailor. Fought in the Crimea.”

“And is that where he lost his sight?” Clara asked.

He gave a sharp nod. “Head injury.”

“How sad.”

“From what my mother and others of the older generation have said, the explosion took more than his sight. It changed him from a cheerful person to one who is bitter and resentful. Truthfully, I’ve known Philip Herd my entire life, and today was the first time I’ve seen the man smile.”

“Music is powerful,” Clara said. “It can change people.”

“I believe the credit goes to the musician,” Grant said. “I am by no means an expert, but your voice . . . it is special. You have a unique gift, and it touches hearts.”

From the side of his eye, he saw her cheeks turn pink. The personal nature of his declaration made his own ears heat up.

“I don’t feel shy when I’m singing,” Clara said.

The pair walked through the town, shifting to the side of the lane to make way for wagons and horses on High Street. Walking beside Miss Brightly, Grant saw Brading through fresh eyes and noticed details he normally took for granted. Laundry flapping on clotheslines, stained glass in the church windows, storefronts with their hanging signs all seemed to him charming, but did Clara find them so? He felt such pride and love for his home and wondered how it appeared to someone seeing it for the first time. Did she notice the blossoming cherry trees or the cracks in the church wall?

Leaving the town behind, Grant led Clara off the road, taking her in a more direct route through the countryside. They came to a field of tall grass, and Clara stopped, pulling back.

Reflexively, he put a hand behind her back. “Is something the matter?”

Clara looked up at him, then toward the field. “An old habit.” She gave a small smile. “Cobras hide in tall grass.”

“Ah.” He offered his arm. “Well, you probably don’t miss that aspect of India, do you?”

Clara’s smile dropped away. She slipped her hand into his offered arm. “I miss all of it,” she said as they started through the field. “Everything here is so different, so quiet. When I wake, I hear sweet little birds chirping instead of loud squawks or wild dogs barking. The bushes don’t buzz with insects; the trees aren’t filled with monkeys. The very air smells wrong, food tastes different.” She sighed, glancing toward him. “I’m sorry to complain.”

“It’s not the worst place to find oneself,” he grumbled.

“Yes, I’ve heard it is Lord’s personal garden.” The corners of her mouth curled in a halfhearted smile.

“That sounds like one of Deborah’s sayings.”

Clara nodded and her smile grew wider, though the expression remained sad.

“The Isle is beautiful in a different way. Much less . . . poisonous.” He grinned. “Just wait until the hawthorns bloom—white blossoms on dark green hedges set against the background of the sea. Nothing is lovelier. And caulkheads are the best people in the world.” Grant patted her hand. “I can only imagine how it is to be away from home and to feel alone, but you’re not alone, Miss Brightly.” Their gazes met, and the feeling he’d felt before returned. He wanted her to love it here, to see the beauty, to feel at home, to . . . stay. “You have not seen much of the island, have you?”

“Just from the window of the train to Brading.”

He stepped over a fallen log, then held her hand to keep her steady as she followed. “There is your problem. You missed some of the very best parts.”

Clara smirked, and a twinkle lit her eyes. “Brading—the Lord’s personal garden—isn’t the best part?”

Grant smiled. “Of course it is, but there are others almost as glorious—the castle at Carisbrooke, Shanklin Chine, the Needles Lighthouse. Have you even been to the seaside?”

“No.”

He shook his head, making a tsking noise. “Such an oversight must be remedied immediately.”

Certainly if Clara Brightly gave it a chance, the Isle of Wight would work its magic.

Chapter Four

The following Sunday as Clara exited the church, she forced her gaze straight ahead instead of searching for Grant Mason. The man was confusing and unpredictable, and her feelings about him were the same. At the choir practice, he’d been arrogant to the point of rudeness. But his apology the next day seemed genuine, and though Clara reminded herself to be cautious, her instinct told her that he was a person to be trusted. After the visit with Mr. Herd, Grant had been outright friendly. She’d wanted to confide in him and enjoyed his company, but his invitation to see more of the island put her on guard. It seemed too much too fast. Why would he extend such an offer? Did he have an ulterior motive? They were only co-directors of a small choir, not friends precisely. Would Grant revert back to his earlier rudeness the next time she saw him? Was he irritated that she’d spent their entire walk complaining about being on the island? And why was it necessary to employ every bit of her self-control to keep from looking for him?

A motion caught the edge of her gaze, and Clara glanced up. The girl with the dark curls who’d left the church before choir practice stood on the grass with a group of children. When she caught Clara’s gaze, she waved shyly.

Clara hesitated for a moment, wondering if the girl were indeed waving at her. She glanced around but saw nobody nearby looking in the girl’s direction, so she crossed the churchyard toward her. When she arrived, Clara felt silly, not knowing what to say.

The girl smiled up at her, then looked down at the ground.

“Hello,” Clara said. “I think I saw you at Bible Study Wednesday evening.”

The girl nodded.

“My n-name is Clara Brightly. What’s yours?” Clara almost whirled and ran when she saw the other children watching. She was making a fool of herself. What must they be thinking? A fully grown woman stood before them, stammering like a nervous schoolgirl.

“Annie Warner.” She curtsied, tugging on her skirts.

“How do you do, Annie?” Clara smiled at her bouncing curls and rosy cheeks. “You left before choir practice began, didn’t you?”

Annie nodded, tucking her chin against her chest. “I don’t want to sing.”

Her voice was so quiet that Clara had to turn her head to hear. The girl’s shy words touched her heart. She knew exactly how it was to be that girl, too shy to join in with the others. She crouched down to the Annie’s level, catching the girl’s gaze and smiling. “You know, a choir has other jobs besides just singers. I was hoping to find a helper who will hold signs to remind the choir of the correct verse.”

Annie studied her for a moment. “Isn’t Mr. Mason your helper?”

Clara kept her face serious, though she wanted to grin at the bluntness of the question. “He is, but—”

“But he will be busy making certain you are all behaving,” Grant said from behind Clara.

She and Annie looked up.

“How do you do, Mr. Mason?” Annie curtseyed again.

Grant reached out a hand and lifted Clara to her feet. “What an excellent choice for an assistant, Miss Brightly,” he said. “Annie is just the person we need.”

His words sent an unfamiliar wiggling feeling through Clara’s middle. She smiled at Annie’s beaming face but for some reason couldn’t meet Grant’s gaze. She pulled away her hand. “We’ll see you at rehearsal on Wednesday, Annie?” Clara felt her insides squirm again. It felt strange to speak for herself and Grant, as if they were a couple.

Annie nodded.

Clara bid her farewell and walked toward where the Wickershams were speaking with Mrs. Mason. Grant fell into step beside her. She snuck a glance at him, but based on his calm expression, he didn’t appear to think it unusual to follow her around the churchyard.

“The weather is nice today, isn’t it?” he said, clasping his hands behind his back. “Warmer.”

Clara wore her shawl, and though there was a slight breeze, she wasn’t excessively uncomfortable, a rare occurrence over the past months. “It is very pleasant,” she agreed.

Grant smiled, closed his eyes, and tilted back his head, drawing in a deep breath. He peeked at her from one eye. “An ideal day to visit Carisbrooke Castle, if you would care to join me?”

Clara twisted at her fingers. Her confusing feelings regarding Mr. Mason left her both panicked and extremely bashful. She walked faster. “You told the vicar you are very b-busy this time of year,” she said.

Clara stopped beside Deborah, wishing she were fifteen years younger so she could hide behind the woman’s skirts. Her heart was racing.

“One is never too busy to take a Sunday afternoon ride to Carisbrooke in the springtime.”

“What a lovely idea,” Mrs. Mason said.

Deborah nodded in agreement. “Oh, yes.”

“For propriety’s sake and to prevent either of us from having an opportunity to speak, I will, of course, bring my mother.” Grant winked and put an arm around his mother’s shoulders with a squeeze.

Mrs. Mason swatted him with her fan. “Grant, Miss Brightly will think you’ve no manners at all.” But her smile revealed that she didn’t mind the teasing.

“Would you join us, Mr. and Mrs. Wickersham?” Grant asked.

“We would indeed, wouldn’t we, my dear?” Walter turned to his wife.

Deborah was studying Clara’s face, her brows raised as if making certain the plan was agreeable.

Clara nodded, feeling much more comfortable about the outing now that the party was expanded. She turned to Grant, fighting against a threatening blush. “A castle visit sounds delightful.”

***

Two hours later, after Sunday luncheon, the group set off in Mr. Mason’s landau. Due to the pleasant weather, both the front and back of the hood had been retracted to give a full view of the landscape.

The men sat facing the rear, and Clara watched the scenery pass from her seat between Mrs. Mason and Deborah. The unfamiliar trees bursting with blossoms, the fields of wildflowers, and the hedgerows were all beautiful, but it was a different beauty than she was used to. England was proper and manicured, whereas India was wild and unkempt. The birds sounded sweet; the little squirrels chattered. Taking an excursion without sepoy escorts to protect from bandits and tigers felt strange. But although England seemed tame, Clara didn’t feel secure. She was still a stranger, no matter how gracious her companions were. She still didn’t belong, and she still missed her home.

Mrs. Mason nudged her out of her ponderings with a bump of her elbow. “See that lane there?” She pointed off to the left. “It leads to Alverstone, where I grew up.”

Clara leaned forward and looked in the direction she indicated. “Oh, and how far away is Alverstone?”

“A mile or so. Not far. My family attended church in Brading before the church in Sandown was built.”

“Does your family still live there?” Clara asked.

Mrs. Mason nodded. “My brother’s son and his wife occupy the house now.”

While Deborah and Mrs. Mason chatted about the Mason’s extended family and the Sandown Parish, Clara looked back at the farmland, wondering what would grow in the newly plowed fields. As she watched the landscape pass, she felt rather than saw Mr. Mason’s gaze on her.

Her nerves buzzed, and she folded her hands together, attempting to look calm and ignoring the sensation. After a long, uncomfortable moment, she glanced toward him and saw he was indeed watching her. The icy-blue color of his eyes always made his gaze seem intense, and she looked away quickly. His expression felt expectant, and she wasn’t certain how to react. Clara shifted, pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders.

When she finally got up the nerve to glance his way again, he was looking in the other direction. Allowing her gaze to linger a bit longer, she saw a white line around the base of his hairline, as if his hair had been recently cut. Against the white of his shirt, the skin of his face and neck were very tan. She wondered how anyone could possibly get tanned in a place with no sun.

Clara wondered what occupied Grant Mason’s days. He had mentioned being busy this time of year. Was he a member of a sporting club? Judging by his broad shoulders and lean body, she could imagine him playing cricket or perhaps polo. He certainly would cut a striking figure on horseback.

Grant glanced toward her, and she turned her gaze downward, realizing he’d caught her staring. A blush burst on her face at the thought that her expression may have given away her contemplations.

“How do you find the view, Miss Brightly?” Grant asked.

“Very beautiful,” she said.

“There is nowhere on earth more lovely than Brading Down in spring.” Deborah held up her palm toward the vista beyond.

“Hear hear,” Walter agreed.

“And just wait until the hawthorns bloom.” Mrs. Mason pressed her hands over her heart and sighed. “You’ll think yourself in paradise.”

Clara smiled at their enthusiasm. “So I’ve heard.”

Mrs. Mason elbowed Clara again. “You see that tree there—that grand sycamore?” She pointed forward along the road to an enormous tree with limbs that stretched wide from the trunk. “You remember that tree, don’t you, Grant?”

He shifted in the backward-facing seat, craning his neck to look ahead of the carriage, then turned back around. His expression had changed. Darkened. His brows were furrowed and eyes pensive. He appeared . . . sad. “I remember.”

Walter turned to get a view as well. “A majestic tree, to be sure.”

“Do tell us the story,” Deborah said.

Mrs. Mason’s gaze remained on the tree, and her expression was thoughtful. She smiled wistfully as if remembering something both pleasant and sorrowful. “Grant was very young, perhaps five or six. I do not quite remember his age exactly, but small enough that he fit between Bernard and myself in our little victoria carriage.” She leaned toward Clara. “Bernard was my late husband.”

Clara nodded her understanding.

Grant’s gaze flicked to his mother, then he turned back to watch the tree as the carriage approached.

“We were driving on a warm summer afternoon to Carisbrooke,” Mrs. Mason continued. “Your father did so love to visit the castle, didn’t he, Grant?”

Grant moved his head in a very slight nod.

“Just a bit farther ahead down the road, a wheel hit a loose stone, slid into a ditch, and cracked the axle in two.”

“Oh my,” Deborah said.

“You must have had quite a fright,” Walter said.

“Yes, well luckily, none of us were hurt, and neither were the horses.”

“Thank heavens,” Deborah muttered.

“We spread out a blanket in the shade to wait while the coachman went for help, and that little mishap led to one of the most pleasant days in memory.” She smiled, her eyes unfocused as if they were watching something far away. “We ate the picnic we’d prepared for the castle lawn, then Bernard and Grant climbed up into that tree like a pair of squirrels.”

“Or monkeys,” Clara said, imagining the young father and his boy laughing as they scampered up into the branches.

Mrs. Mason raised a finger. “Exactly like monkeys. Bless me, I thought my heart would beat clear out of my chest when I saw my darling little boy sitting up on a limb fifteen feet above the ground.”

“Bernard was a fine man,” Walter said. “And an excellent father.”

Grant turned back to face the group. He swallowed and cleared his throat. “He was at that.”

The choking in his voice brought tears to Clara’s eyes, and she blinked them away. In all this time, she’d been so occupied with her own grief that she hadn’t even considered the others had all lost family as well.

They rode in silence for a long while, and Clara wondered if the memories of her father would bring her pain or comfort when she returned home to India. She knew thoughts of him would be all around in the places they’d gone together, and she would miss him. But at the same time, she longed to be where he’d been, to remember. She felt very far away from him here.

At last, the castle came into view. Set high upon a hill, Carisbrooke was a medieval stone structure with a surrounding wall. The coachman stopped before the gatehouse, and Grant assisted the ladies from the carriage. The group walked up the pathway and stopped before the enormous stone entrance.

Clara looked up at the turrets on either side and the battlements above and was immediately reminded of the Red Fort in Delhi. This castle was much less ornate, and older—built for defense instead of beauty.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Walter said, coming up beside her.

“It looks like a castle from a fairy tale,” she said. “I half expect to find a sleeping princess inside or a medieval jousting tournament.”

She took Walter’s offered arm, and they walked through the archway, beneath the portcullis, and into the fortress.

“Now, my dear.” Walter motioned around them with his walking stick. “This site has been a refuge from invading armies for almost two thousand years, protecting island residents from the Vikings, Normans, Spanish, and most recently, the French. You can see the different building styles used over time—some medieval, some much older, and the chapel over there was built in the last century.” He led her around, pointing out various architectural differences. “And did you know this is where Charles I was imprisoned to await his execution?”

“I did not know,” Clara said. She’d, of course, studied European history but struggled to remember exactly who Charles I was and what he had done to deserve his fate.

As if hearing her thoughts, Walter launched into an explanation of the House of Stuart and the English Civil War.

“Walter, come now.” Deborah joined them, interrupting his discourse. “Clara doesn’t want to hear all that. We’ve come to enjoy ourselves, not listen to a lecture.” She took his arm and gave him a warm smile to soften her reprimand. “Join us on the lawn, dearest.” She led her husband away, turning back to give Clara a wink.

Clara smiled in return and followed across the courtyard to where the ladies had spread a blanket. Mrs. Mason sat beneath her parasol, taking out parcels of wrapped refreshments from a basket. Deborah joined her, tucking her skirts around her legs. Walter set down his walking stick and eased down next to his wife, unwrapping a bundle and biting into a finger sandwich.

Clara moved to join them, but a hand on her elbow stopped her.

“Perhaps you’d care to explore a bit more.” Grant raised his brows and smiled.

She wondered if he was just being polite or if he truly wished to walk about with her. “I’d like that.” She returned the smile and took his offered arm.

“She’s not seen the Norman keep.” Walter pointed across the castle lawn with his sandwich. “Or the gardens.”

Grant led Clara away from the others.

“Make sure you point out the rooms where Charles I attempted to escape.” Walter’s voice came from behind them.

Clara couldn’t help but smile at the man’s passion for the castle history, and she felt rather than heard Grant give a soft chuckle. They walked across the lawn, following along an ancient foundation that was now only a line of stones on the ground.

She glanced up and saw Grant watching her, then fumbled for something to say to alleviate the fluttering feeling in her middle. “Your father brought you here often?”

Grant pressed his lips together and nodded. “He loved this castle.” A smile tugged at one side of his mouth. “And everything else about the island.”

“You miss him,” Clara said, her heart swelling with compassion, remembering the story his mother had told.

Grant raised his gaze to the top of the high walls. “That’s the strange thing about grief. The pain eases, sometimes you hardly feel it, but there are other times, when you don’t expect it, the intensity overwhelms you.”

His voice was low with a tightness that made Clara’s heart ache. She missed her own father so badly that there were times she didn’t think she’d survive the pain. “How old were you when he died?”

“Fifteen,” Grant said. He let out a breath, then turned toward her. “But I had my mother, of course. And men like Walter to act as father figures. I cannot imagine how it must have been for you to endure your father’s death alone.”

Clara’s throat clogged, and she tried to push away the tears stinging her eyes. But it was no use. She took Grant’s offered handkerchief and wiped her eyes.

“I’m sorry.” He stopped beside the remains of a crumbling old wall. “It wasn’t my intention to upset you.”

She shook her head, not trusting her voice. Her heart hurt. She thought of her father, of their friends back home, and she longed for India. Her ayah, Pari, had been more than a nursemaid; she was as close to a mother as Clara had known. Did Pari miss her? Had she gone on to care for a new family?

She pushed away the painful memories, knowing that indulging them would only make them grow, and her weeping would become unmanageable. “I—” She choked and cleared her voice, forcing herself to speak calmly. “I don’t mean to ruin our outing.”

Grant tapped beneath her chin, lifting her face. “Do not apologize.”

Her heart jumped at his touch. Swallowing hard, Clara closed her eyes and pushed out a calming breath. No more tears. She slipped her hand into the bend of Grant’s elbow and gave a little tug, forcing a smile. “Now then, where is the Norman keep?”

He watched her face for a moment, then turned to walk beside her. “Directly ahead.” He waved his hand toward what appeared to be the very oldest part of the castle. Stone steps led up to a roofless structure, and ivy grew over the old walls.

“Shall we climb up?” she asked in a cheerful voice, hoping he would forget about her weeping.

“Carefully,” Grant said. “The steps may be loose.”

They climbed up into the keep, then once inside, climbed the steps along the wall leading to the very top of the ramparts. Grant kept a strong hand on Clara’s arm, and when she leaned forward to look over the edge of the battlements, his grip became tighter.

“I’m not going to fall.” She considered his furrowed brows and tight jaw. “Are you afraid of heights?”

“Not heights.” He glanced toward the edge. “Falling. Or more specifically, you falling.”

“Don’t worry. It’s strong.” She moved closer and gave the edge of the wall a push to demonstrate.

Grant sucked in a breath through his teeth.

His worry sent heat radiating from Clara’s chest, making her feel soft and very safe. She wondered if this was how Grant had felt climbing in the tree with his father. Had he felt secure, knowing someone strong was watching over him?

She moved away from the edge, content to enjoy the view from the center of the walkway. Grant loosened his tight hold on her arm, sliding his hand down to take hold of hers.

“What is it that you do, Mr. Mason?” she asked as they strolled around the top of the keep’s battlements. “Why is it that you told the vicar you are busy this time of year?”

“Spring is always busy in farm country,” he said. “Crops to plant, animals being born. And so many of my tenants were ill this winter.”

“It is kind of you to help them,” she said.

“Healthy livestock and a productive crop benefits all of us,” he said.

She could tell he was downplaying his generosity. “I don’t think many landowners participate in the physical aspects of their tenants’ labors,” she said. “But perhaps I’m mistaken.”

He shrugged. “Perhaps not. But I enjoy the work.”

“And you care about them.” She smiled when he turned to her. “I’ve seen how kind you are to the children.”

“Landowners, tenants, children, choir directors.” He smirked and winked as he said the last example. “We’re all caulkheads, and all neighbors. That’s how it is on the island. We look out for one another.”

They continued along the narrow walkway, and she thought of the Ladies’ Charity Society and their weekly visits to the members of the parish who needed assistance or, in Mr. Herd’s case, a friend. “I’ve noticed it,” she said. “You are fortunate to be part of such a community.” The homesickness returned—the loneliness and feeling of not belonging. When she glanced up, she saw he was watching her again, holding her gaze as if he were waiting.

She blinked. “Are you . . . I mean, what am I doing wrong?”

Grant squinted. “I’m just waiting.”

“Waiting for what? Am I expected to do something?”

He raised a brow. “I’m waiting for you to fall in love with the island, to say you never wish to leave.” He gave a teasing smile. “I don’t know what’s taking so long.”

Clara laughed at his joking manner. “I didn’t realize it was required.”

“Not required. It is inevitable. One cannot help oneself.” He led her down the steps, turning to assist her once he reached the bottom. He held both of her hands as she took the last steps. “But you are an unusual case. I’ve never seen it take so long.”

She smirked in return, then her expression spread into a genuine smile. “The island is beautiful, truly. And the people are warm and kind. But—”

“But you still intend to return to India.”

Did she see hurt in his eyes or was it imagined? She hadn’t meant to cause offense. She released his hands. “I must, Mr. Mason. I must go home.”

His chin tipped upward the slightest bit as he studied her. “Very well.” He blinked, and the seriousness was gone. He offered his arm and led her from the keep and down into the castle courtyard. “Now, if you don’t mind, I think it’s high time the children’s choir-directing team conducted an official meeting.”

Taken aback by the sudden change of topic, Clara didn’t know how to respond.

“First order of business.” He tipped his hat to an older couple as they passed. “I propose that when alone, the choir directors call one another by their Christian names . . . to make things simpler.”

Clara’s heart thumped, and her cheeks went hot. She didn’t dare look at him and instead kept her gaze on the groups of picnickers. “Very well.” She pushed the words through a dry mouth.

“Good.” He patted her hand that rested on his arm. “Now that the formalities are out of the way, Clara, let us form an action plan.”

Hearing him say her name felt like an electrical jolt through her chest. Heat spread from her cheeks down her neck and burned her ears.

Grant turned toward her, apparently having no idea of the intensity of her reaction. “First of all, our newest team member . . .”

“Oh, Annie.” Clara was relieved to have a neutral topic. “I should have consulted with you before extending the invitation. She just seemed so . . .” She considered exactly what it was about the girl that had affected her. She looked up. “She needs this.”

“I could not agree more.” Grant studied her, his expression seeming much too thoughtful for the subject, and Clara got the impression he was thinking more about her perception of Annie than of the girl herself. “You have a particular way of seeing people, Clara, perceiving those who tend to go unnoticed.” He continued to hold her gaze.

Clara’s skin felt hot and her insides jittery at the compliment. “I suppose that is what every person wants,” she said in a quiet voice. “To be noticed, to feel valued.”

He opened his mouth as if he’d answer but closed it. He scratched his chin and nodded, his brows furrowing. “I suppose it is.”

They walked in silence back to the crumbling wall, and Grant leaned against it, crossing his arms. “Now then, Clara, what does our choir need? And how can I help?”

“They know the song, but they need to sing louder.” Clara held up a finger. “And breathe together.” She held up another. “Oh, and they must stand up straight and smile.” Her third finger joined the others.

Grant raised his eyebrows. “Is that all?”

She wrinkled her nose, thinking of all the elements lacking in the small choir. “If we had more time, I would help them to match their vowels and perhaps teach some of the girls a descant. But we only have two more rehearsals, and so we will focus on sound and presentation.”

“And behavior,” Grant said.

Clara tensed, remembering the last rehearsal, and her chest became tight. “Grant, I honestly do not know . . .”

He grinned, sending a flare of anger through Clara. She scowled, furious that he’d make light of something that had been so upsetting to her. “I find no humor in this.”

His expression fell, and worry took its place, wrinkling his forehead. “You misunderstand me. I’m not laughing. Simply pleased to hear you calling me by my name.”

She rubbed her arms, feeling foolish for so easily taking offense.

Grant stepped closer. “We are a team, Clara. Neither of us can do it alone. I am not able to teach music, but I have a very capable partner. I will do what you cannot.” He took her hands in his, squeezing so that she felt the heat of his skin through her gloves. “I left you alone last time, but I promise I will not do it again. Can you trust me?”

Clara nodded, her throat tight. Although she’d only known him for a short time, she found it surprisingly easy to put her faith in Grant Mason.

Chapter Five

Grant dismounted and tied the horse’s reins to a post outside the churchyard. He had come to town ahead of his mother, hoping for some time alone to speak with Harry Barlow before the children’s Bible Study. As boys, the two had been inseparable, even managing to remain close when they went away to university. But the duties of a landowner and a married vicar over the past year hadn’t led to their paths crossing as often as they previously had. And though he was happy for the Barlows, Grant missed his friend. The vicar was cheerful and optimistic, but level-headed, and it was the latter quality Grant was depending on. He needed advice.

He started toward the vicar’s cottage behind the church, but the sound of upset voices and a child crying made him change direction. He followed the source of the noise along the church wall, past the cemetery, and down a side street until he found it.

Mrs. Pinkston was crouched down, helping her son William to stand. The boy had fallen in a mud puddle and was quite distressed. Another of the Pinkston’s children, Lucy, stood close by, the sound of her brother’s tears making her cry as well. The baby, Arthur, was thankfully asleep in his pram.

Mrs. Pinkston balanced at an odd angle with her skirts bunched up in her lap to keep them out of the mud. She held out a hand to keep Lucy from coming too close to the puddle as she wiped at William’s muddy clothing with her lacy handkerchief, which obviously did no good. She looked up when Grant approached. “Oh, thank goodness you’re here, Mr. Mason.”

Grant stepped around the pram, taking Lucy’s hand and leading her to where she could see her mother but wouldn’t be in danger of falling into the mud herself. “Is William hurt?”

“Only his pride, I fear.” Using the back of her wrist, Mrs. Pinkston pushed a lock of hair from her forehead. “And he’s quite torn his stockings.”

Hearing this, William started to cry again.

Grant glanced toward the pram, worried the noise would wake the baby. “How can I help?” He handed Mrs. Pinkston his handkerchief. “Shall I take William home?”

Lucy’s crying intensified along with her brother’s.

Mrs. Pinkston left off wiping William’s clothes. She rose and picked up the girl, soothing her. Grasping beneath his arms, Grant lifted William out of the mud and set him onto the dry road, brushing at his dirty knees.

“He’ll need to change his clothes before Bible Study,” Mrs. Pinkston said. “And I’ll have to wash off his shoes.” She rubbed the boy’s back, comforting her two weeping children. She wiped her forehead again, looking utterly exhausted. “Mr. Mason, will you be in town for a bit?”

“I’m just heading in to see the vicar,” Grant said.

“Would you mind watching baby Arthur—just for a moment? I’ll take the children home and hurry back in time for the children’s meeting.” She looked into the pram. “He should remain asleep, but Emmeline Barlow will know what to do if he wakes.”

Grant prayed that the vicar’s wife would be home. “Certainly.” He smiled and put a hand on the pram’s handle.

Reassuring Mrs. Pinkston once again that the baby was no trouble, he bid the woman farewell and pushed the pram toward the church—something he’d never done in the entirety of his life. Each bump in the road made him catch his breath as he worried it would wake the baby. He steered carefully around the rocks in the churchyard, his muscles tense as he avoided the stones of the path entirely. By the time he reached the vicar’s front door, his shoulders ached, and he felt every bit as worn out as Mrs. Pinkston had looked.

Harry opened the door before Grant even knocked. “Grant, what on earth?” His wide-eyed expression turned into a grin as he looked down at the pram. “This is a good look for you.”

“William Pinkston had a small accident. I told his mother I’d bring the baby to—”

As if he just now realized his mother was gone, Arthur Pinkston woke and began to wail.

The men stared at the baby, then at each other.

“You better pick him up,” Harry said.

Grant felt a twinge of panic. “Isn’t your wife home?”

“Sadly, no.” Harry grinned again. “I’m afraid nursemaid duties fall to you.”

Grant looked into the pram. “The task seems more befitting a member of the clergy,” he grumbled but lifted the baby, holding him at arms’ length.

Harry pulled a wooden rattle from the pram and offered it. The baby snatched it away, sticking the toy into his mouth.

Stepping back, Harry opened the door wide. “Won’t you gentlemen come inside?”

Grant tucked the baby against him, holding him in the bend of his arm as he would a rugby ball, and followed Harry into his office.

Harry sat behind the desk, straightening the already straight stack of papers. “Shall I order tea?”

“Not necessary.” Grant sat, placing Arthur onto his lap and wincing at the string of drool that dripped from the baby’s mouth onto his trousers.

“How goes the children’s choir?” Harry asked in a cheerful voice. “You and Miss Brightly left so quickly last week, I didn’t have a chance to inquire.”

For Clara’s sake, Grant was glad the vicar hadn’t heard about the rehearsal. “It went well enough. And we’ve plans to make it more productive tonight.”

Harry nodded, steepling his fingers on his desk and leaning forward. “And how do you find Miss Brightly?”

“Initially, she is quite timid, but she”—Grant searched for the words—“is actually the reason I’ve come to speak with you.”

“Oh?” Harry raised his brows.

“You may or may not know that she intends to return to India.”

“I did not know.” Harry tapped his pointer fingers against his lips. “A pity. She will be missed.”

“It is more than that,” Grant said. “Of course I will miss her, but there is more—”

Harry’s smile grew into a smirk. “I meant by the Wickershams.”

The baby reached for an inkwell on the desk, and Grant moved him to his other leg. When he reached again, Grant stood and paced across the floor of the small office, holding Arthur against his shoulder. “I think Miss Brightly should stay. Brading is good for her. She can heal here, be happy.” He shifted the fussing baby around, fitting him into the bend of his elbow and handing him the rattle. “And she is good for the town. Do you know she befriended Annie Warner? Asked her to help with practices, to hold signs, and told her she wasn’t required to sing.”

“Mrs. Warner mentioned something about it,” Harry said.

Grant paced quicker, frustrated that Clara still wanted to leave when Brading was clearly the place for her.

“And I’m sure you’ve heard about Philip Herd,” Grant said. “Brading needs Miss Brightly, and she needs this town.” He stopped pacing and bounced the baby in his arms. “I hoped to convince her. I took her to the castle, thinking she could not help but fall in love with the island after seeing the downs in spring, but it wasn’t enough.” He shifted the baby into his other arm. “This is why I need your advice, Harry. Maybe the seashore? Or do you think a visit to Shanklin Chine would do it?”

Harry shook his head, the infuriating smile remaining. “Grant, you don’t wish Miss Brightly to fall in love with the island.”

“How else do I convince her—?”

“You want her to fall in love with you.”

Hearing the words, Grant’s impulse was to argue, but he froze, staring at his friend. Could Harry be right? Unable to think of a response, he closed his mouth and looked through the window toward the churchyard. Was he in love with Clara? He hadn’t even considered the possibility. “How? I barely know her.”

“It hardly signifies.”

“But—”

Harry held up a hand, stopping his words. “Grant, aside from the three months after my birth, I’ve known you my entire life, and all of yours. I think in this, I can draw a reasonable conclusion.” He leaned back in the chair, rubbing his palms on the armrests. “I’ve rarely known you to feel this distressed about anything, let alone an overner wishing to leave.”

“Dearest, it’s almost time for Bible Study.” Emmeline Barlow poked her head into the office. “Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Mason, I didn’t see you there.” She blinked. “And with Arthur?”

Harry rounded the desk and kissed his wife’s cheek. “Welcome home, darling. Little Arthur is just waiting for his mother.” He winked at Grant. “And Grant would be very pleased if the child could wait with you.”

“Of course.” She reached out her hands.

Grant felt a tug at his neck as Emmeline took the baby from him, and looking down, he saw his necktie had replaced the rattle in Arthur’s mouth. He grimaced and reached into his pocket, then remembered he’d given his handkerchief to Mrs. Pinkston. “Thank you,” he said to the vicar’s wife, holding his soaked necktie away from his shirt.

Emmeline and Arthur left the room, and Harry walked toward the door. “Remain as long as you’d like, Grant.” He motioned to the office. “I imagine you’ve some thinking to do.”

Grant wasn’t certain how to define the mess of emotions churning inside him or the spinning thoughts in his head. One overshadowed the others, and it filled him with an anxious dread. Clara was leaving, and he was powerless to stop her. “Harry, what do I do?”

Harry turned from the doorway. His smile was genuine and full of concern. “Ask her to stay.”

Grant sank into a chair, rubbing his brow. The solution was hardly that simple.

***

When Grant entered the church, Clara was already seated in a pew near the back. He sat beside her, setting his hat in his lap. “Good evening,” he whispered. Grant’s recent revelation left him feeling self-conscious, and he wondered if he should have said something different.

Clara smiled and returned the greeting. “I brought all our supplies.” She pointed at the satchel at her feet.

“I anticipate a successful rehearsal,” he said. “Thanks to your planning.”

“Our planning.” She smiled again, and he noticed a dimple in her left cheek. He wondered if he’d simply not noticed it before or if her previous smiles had been guarded. Either way, she was lovely this evening. Her eyes were bright, twinkling in the candlelight, her hair shone softly, curling over her shoulders, and her demeanor appeared relaxed, which was the best indicator that she was not feeling anxious. He felt very pleased that her bashfulness around him had eased.

“I saw Mr. Herd today,” she whispered.

“And how did you find him?”

“Happy,” Clara said. “He insisted on singing ‘The Coasts of Old Barbary.’”

Grant removed his gloves, put them into his hat, then set it on the pew beside him. “He is fortunate to have your visits.”

“I enjoy singing with him.” She tipped her head to the side, looking up at him. “I enjoyed singing with you as well.” She looked down at her hands. “You have a pleasant voice.”

“Perhaps I will accompany you next time?”

“I would like that.” She ran her fingernail over a pleat in her skirt, watching the fabric as her cheeks colored. “And Mr. Herd would too, I’m sure.”

Grant doubted it. He had seen the way the older man’s face shone when Clara kissed him farewell and expected Philip would consider an addition to their merry singing party to be an intrusion. But he did not care one whit for what the old man thought. Clara’s invitation and her compliment lit something warm inside him, and he savored the sensation.

Once Bible Study ended and Harry left them alone with the children, Clara’s easy manner changed. Her face paled, and she held her shoulders tight. She instructed the children to take their places in the choir pews, and Grant ushered them to their seats, climbing up onto the row behind the older boys.

Clara opened her satchel, removed the prepared signs, then crouched down, giving instructions to Annie. When she stood and faced the choir, she held her hands together tightly. “I’m so happy to see all of you at rehearsal.” Clara’s smile looked more forced than natural. “Since we do not need to learn the words to the song, we will work on singing together. The goal is to sound like one voice. So, as you sing, you should always hear the voice of the people beside you.”

In the row ahead of Grant, Freddy Pinkston whispered something to Barty Newbold. Barty responded with a jab of his elbow. Before Freddy could get in a jab of his own, Grant leaned forward and patted each boy’s shoulder. They quieted immediately.

Clara gave Grant a grateful smile. “Tonight, we’ll practice breathing all at the same time throughout the song. But this means you need to watch me. When it is time to take a breath, I will make a motion like this.” She raised her hands in front of her and at the same time lifted her chest as if she were breathing in. “If you forget the words, you can glance to the cards Annie is holding, but keep your eyes on me to know when to breathe. I’ll demonstrate with the first lines.”

Clara sang the first verse of “Gentle Jesus, Meek and Mild,” drawing in an exaggerated breath between the phrases. She chewed on her lip, her brows furrowed as she looked at the choir. “Now, let’s do it all together.”

She raised her hands, and the children sang along with her. When they finished, she nodded. “Very good.”

“You didn’t breathe.” Barty pushed Freddy.

“I did!” Freddy slapped his hand away.

Grant cleared his throat, and the argument stopped.

Clara motioned to Annie to switch signs. “Now, the second verse.”

Once they sang the entire song and the children seemed to have mastered their breathing, Clara told them to sit.

“I am very pleased with your progress.” She smiled, looking less nervous and revealing her delightful dimple. “In only a short time, you’ve begun to sound like an accomplished choir.”

She motioned for Grant to join her. “Next week, we will work on presentation—how to walk to your places, how to stand, that sort of thing—but there is one last skill we need to practice today.”

She turned toward Grant.

He nodded. “Yes, and this is where I come in. Our choir sounds beautiful here in the church, but the festival is out of doors, and you all need to sing much louder if you are to be heard.” He reached into Miss Brightly’s satchel and drew out a stuffed toy tiger the size of a small cat.

The children’s eyes went wide. Some whispered and others gasped.

He cleared his throat and made a show of petting the toy while waiting for the children to quiet. “This tiger has come to us directly from India,” he said, using the narrative he and Clara had come up with at the castle. “What is his name, Miss Brightly?”

“Her name is Sita.”

He nodded, seeing he had the children’s undivided attention. “Sita is going to help me today as we practice singing loudly.”

“Singing in a loud voice isn’t the same as yelling,” Clara said, holding up a finger. “You must still sing as a choir, without anyone louder than the others.”

“Sita goes higher when she hears a choir singing loudly, breathing together, and sounding as one voice,” Grant said. He lifted the tiger high above his head. “But when Sita hears one voice louder than the others or thinks the choir is too soft . . .” He lowered the tiger and frowned, shaking his head as if it were a true pity to disappoint the toy tiger.

“Shall we see how high we can get Sita?” Clara said.

The children smiled, some whispered to one another, but all looked excited to see whether Sita would go up or down. Grant had thought the idea silly when Clara first proposed it, but seeing their eager expressions changed his mind. This simple game was precisely the thing to encourage them.

“Everyone stand, please,” Clara said. She glanced at Annie, then at Grant. She raised her hands to begin.

As the children sang, Grant raised and lowered the tiger with their volume. He’d never have believed something as simple as a stuffed toy lifting up a few inches would have the effect it did. All the children sang in strong voices that rang out through the church.

He walked backward along the aisle, holding one hand behind his ear, and with the other, he lifted up the toy tiger, moving her a little higher as the voices grew. When he reached the back of the church, the choir started the last verse of the song. Their sound swelled, and he held up Sita as high as he could reach, then stepped onto a pew to hold the toy even higher. The choir’s sound was enormous as the children sang with all their hearts.

The song ended, and the last note resonated.

The children’s cheeks were rosy, their faces glowing with pride. Clara clasped her hands together, looking back at Grant as if he were a hero who had just slain a dragon instead of a choir director who had waved a stuffed toy above his head.

The church doors opened, and the vicar entered, followed by the Ladies’ Charity Society. And though he heard the applause and felt the cool air, Grant didn’t look away from Miss Brightly. Her smile was full and her eyes shone, and in that moment, Grant knew Harry Barlow was right. He was in love with Clara Brightly. He only had to tell her, to ask her to stay, and he resolved to do so, but the moment must be perfect.

He smiled when the idea came to him. The perfect moment was just under a week away. He would declare his feelings at the queen’s ball.

Chapter Six

Clara looked through the window of the East Cowes hotel suite, watching boats sail in and out of the River Medina. Gazing toward the Solent, she could see the battleship guarding the port as it did when the queen was in residence. Earlier that day, Walter had pointed out the queen’s yacht—not that it needed pointing out. It would have been impossible to miss the enormous steamship with its royal pennants flapping on the masts. She let her gaze travel back to the street below. Night was falling, and gas lamps were coming to life. They would leave for the ball soon.

She and the Wickershams had arrived by train the evening before and taken rooms in a town close to the queen’s summer home at Osborne House. The trip had been very different from her lone journey a few weeks earlier. Traveling with the Wickershams—being with the Wickershams—was a delight. The pair were happy, and their conversation always uplifting. Clara could not imagine anyone loving their home as much as the Wickershams loved this island.

She centered the pendant on her necklace, her fingers brushing the filigree gold and dangling pearls. The ornate necklace was a gift from her father. Her throat tightened as she remembered her first ball at the Government House in Calcutta. Papa had looked so regal in his dress regimentals, his boots shined, and his medals sparkling in the light. He’d claimed her first waltz and kept a close eye on the younger officers who asked for a dance as the night went on. She swallowed hard, pushing down the tears that would leave her eyes puffy and cause her companions concern.

Hearing a knock, she crossed the room and opened the door.

Deborah entered in a flurry of feathers and lavender ruffles. When she saw Clara, she gasped. “Oh, don’t you look lovely?” She took Clara’s hands and held them as she stepped back to admire her. Her gaze traveled from the top of Clara’s head to the tips of her shoes. “And Emily arranged your hair beautifully.” She gave a satisfied nod. “Not that much work was needed.”

“She did a lovely job.” Clara turned back to study the hairstyle in the dressing table mirror. She was pleased with the style. The servant had pulled her tresses back into a complicated braided arrangement, leaving curls to fall over her shoulders and cheeks. A simple white orchid completed the presentation.

“And your dress . . .” Deborah let out a theatrical sigh. “Utterly splendid.”

“Thank you.” Clara adored the white gown with its lace-trimmed sleeves and full skirts. And Deborah’s attention reminded her so much of her ayah that she couldn’t help but smile. “You look very beautiful yourself.”

Deborah flounced the ruffles on her skirt. “It is not every day one gets to attend a royal ball.” She craned her neck to see the back of her dress in the mirror. “I’ve heard the queen’s residence has undergone some renovations since we were last invited. I am very curious to see what has been done.” She adjusted a sparkling bracelet.

“I didn’t realize you’d been to Osborne House before.” A quiver moved through Clara’s insides as it always did when she faced the unfamiliar.

Deborah turned back, but when she saw Clara, her grin died away. She shook her head and made a tsking sound. “You’re nervous.”

Clara grimaced. “I am, a bit. I shan’t know anyone at the ball.”

“Do not worry yourself.” Deborah wagged her finger. “Walter and I won’t leave you alone for an instant. And of course Grant Mason will be there. And his mother.”

Clara’s cheeks heated, and she kept her face turned down as she pulled on her gloves. Knowing Grant would be in attendance gave her both comfort and apprehension. Over the past weeks, she’d grown easy in his presence, feeling safe when Grant was near. But tonight was different, and she couldn’t pinpoint exactly why. Instead of feeling calm, nervous shivers moved over her skin. What would Grant think of her gown? Would he ask her to dance?

One moment, she hoped he would, and the next, the very idea made her heartbeat race in panic. She pushed away the confusing combination. She was being silly. She’d seen Grant only five days earlier at choir practice. There was no reason to feel anxious. Grant was her friend, and she would be happy to see him. In spite of her self-encouragement, the nervousness returned, making her stomach feel even more constricted than when Emily had pulled tight her corset strings.

“The ball will be an intimate affair. The house has a small gathering area, not an enormous ballroom like you’d find in a palace,” Deborah said. “I think you will discover it is quite magical.” She came near and fluffed Clara’s sleeves. “You know, Walter and I danced our first time at Osborne House.” Her brows bounced, and her smile grew mischievous. “The setting is very romantic.”

Clara fought a giggle, turning it into a smile. “I am glad to hear it. You found your true love at the queen’s ball. Just like in a novel.”

Deborah sighed and clasped her hands. “My dear Wally really is charming, isn’t he? And such a graceful dancer.”

“Ladies, it is time.” Walter’s voice came from the passageway outside Clara’s bedchamber exactly on cue. When Deborah opened the door, he kissed her cheek. “My dearest, you are a vision.”

“Thank you, darling.” Deborah fluttered her lashes.

Clara couldn’t help but feel warm, seeing the two so happily in love.

Walter looked past his wife and smiled when he saw Clara, his crooked tooth making its appearance beneath his mustache. “Beautiful, my dear. I do believe you shall turn quite a few heads tonight.”

The party rode the short distance to Osborne House in a hired carriage. They turned down a tree-lined road and emerged into a courtyard with a garden in the center. The carriage lane encircled a raised planter filled with purple bushes Deborah identified as heather. When they stopped before the grand house, Clara took Walter’s hand and stepped down out of the carriage.

The house itself was made from yellowish brick and arranged with smooth columns, balconies, and a flat roof in a style Clara recognized as Italian. A tall tower rose from one corner, reminding her of a mosque. Dark mahogany wood surrounded the windows, and an arch held up by columns crowned the main door. Beautiful, but hardly imposing, she thought, a bit disappointed.

“The backside is much more impressive,” Deborah said, as if reading her thoughts.

Footmen in regalia held open the doors, and the trio entered into a wide corridor. Elaborate tile designs covered the floor, paintings in carved frames decorated the walls between colored trim, and marble sculptures added life and dimension. They walked slowly, and Clara studied the artwork as they passed. Royal guards in their red coats with polished brass buttons stood at intervals along the passageway.

Walter left Clara and Deborah at the door to the ladies’ dressing room. When they entered, all the ladies turned. Clara’s muscles tightened and her nerves hummed with anxiety when she saw so many gazes looking in her direction.

Deborah began chatting immediately, introducing Clara as she went.

Clara searched the crowd for a familiar face and sighed in relief when she saw Mrs. Mason. The woman approached, having to elbow and squeeze all her bustles, feathers, and petticoats through gaps in the crowded room.

“I am so delighted to see you.” She clasped Clara’s hand, waving a feathered fan with the other. “Very warm tonight, isn’t it?”

Clara nodded. The small room was stifling.

“Grant will be happy to see you as well,” Mrs. Mason said. “Made me promise not to tell—” Her eyes went wide, and she closed her mouth so quickly that Clara heard her teeth click together. Her brows furrowed, and she looked to the side. “I . . . well . . . you’ll enjoy the ball, Miss Brightly. I am sure of it.”

If the room had been hot before, that was nothing to the heat spreading over Clara’s neck and chest. What was Mrs. Mason not permitted to tell her? Did Grant intend to ask her for a dance? Why would he keep such a thing secret?

The air in the room buzzed with excitement. Seamstresses and maids tended to tears in skirts and unpinned curls, and ladies inspected their presentation in the mirrors. Clara attempted to concentrate on the conversations around her but only managed to give an occasional answer when asked a question directly. Her thoughts tumbled, and her insides trembled. Mrs. Mason’s words had sent her already tensed nerves into a nearly manic state. She fisted her hands together tightly, knowing that leaving was not an option. It was, of course, an insult to the queen, and it would also ruin the Wickershams’ enjoyment of the evening.

She could do this. But what had Mrs. Mason meant? What did Grant ask his mother not to tell her?

The floor manager entered, calling for everyone’s attention and informing the ladies that the procession was to begin.

Clara straightened her shoulders, following the crowd to the outer passage where they’d meet the men and enter all together into the ballroom. She gave Walter a smile when she took his arm, but inside, her heart pommeled.

He patted her hand where it rested on his arm. “No need to worry, my dear.”

Deborah took his other arm, and they walked the remainder of the passageway to a pair of double doors that led outside onto a terrace. A rush of cool night air went over Clara’s heated skin. The crowd thinned, spreading over the area, and she got a better look at her surroundings.

Lights illuminated the planters and balustrades, showing Italian fountains, statues, and gardens stretching off into the darkness.

“I told you,” Deborah said. “The terraced gardens are utterly stunning.”

“And farther down the path is the Swiss Chalet.” Walter motioned with his chin off into the darkness toward the sea. “A charming playhouse built by Prince Albert for the royal children.”

Some of the guests, Clara was happy to see, wore regimental uniforms, but most of the men were in dark coats and top hats. The ladies’ dresses were a rainbow of colors, some with trains and head veils. The ball attendees clustered in groups on the far side of the courtyard near a door leading to another wing to the right of where they exited.

“This is the newer section of Osborne House.” Deborah leaned forward around her husband to speak to Clara.

Clara nodded, scanning the crowd, hoping for a glimpse of Grant, but between the crush of people and the uneven lighting, she was unable to distinguish between all of the similarly dressed men. Trumpets sounded, and the crowd organized itself into a line. The doors were flung open, and the procession began.

Aside from the people directly in front of her, Clara couldn’t see much as they made their way through the door and along a passageway. They emerged into a ballroom, joining the crowd to await the queen’s arrival, and she continued to scan between the other guests, searching for Grant. How could such a tall man blend so completely?

She’d been inside the ballroom for a full thirty seconds before she noticed her surroundings. And when she did look up, she froze. The room was an exact replica of a Sikh palace.

The walls and ceiling were stark white, every inch detailed in intricate plasterwork. The floor was a dark wood, matching the trim of the doors and the rails of the upper galley. Gold fixtures shone in the lamplight. Turning around, she saw a carving of Ganesh on the wall above the entrance, and over the enormous fireplace was an elaborately carved white peacock.

The emotions Clara had tried to push down came in a rush. India with all its ornate beauty surrounded her, and she felt overwhelmed, missing her father and her home all over again. The trumpets sounded, and the entire company turned toward the upper gallery. A herald called out, “Her Royal Majesty, Queen Victoria.”

He stepped aside to reveal a small, wide woman. Even though Clara had only seen drawings, there was no mistaking Queen Victoria. The woman held herself with a regal bearing. She wore a black dress with wide petticoats, and a black lace veil covered gray hair beneath her jeweled crown. Diamonds hung at her neck and dangled from her ears.

Queen Victoria raised a hand, and the silent company lowered in bows and curtsies.

“We would like to welcome you all to Osborne House and the Durbar Room,” the queen said. In spite of her size, her voice was strong, carrying easily through the space. “Do enjoy yourselves.” Queen Victoria held out her hands, then with an assistant, stepped away from the railing, settling into a chair where she could watch the dancing. At the queen’s nod, an orchestra began to play.

“Shall we, then?” Walter tugged on Clara’s arm to lead her and Deborah from the dance floor.

Clara found it difficult to pull her gaze from the queen. Victoria was at the same time the most beloved and most hated ruler in the world. How could one small woman possibly carry such a heavy charge? Clara decided in an instant that if anyone could, it was Queen Victoria. Power and strength radiated from her, though she hardly appeared physically strong.

The queen’s blue eyes moved over the gathering, and for just an instant, her gaze locked with Clara’s.

Clara looked away immediately, thinking that staring at the queen must be against some rule or another. She followed Walter to the side of the room, and before she could properly study the carvings, Grant Mason stepped into her path. At the sight of him, Clara’s breath caught.

“Miss Brightly.” Grant took her hand. He held her gaze, placing a kiss on her fingers. “You look very beautiful.”

Something about the way Grant spoke tonight was different. He seemed to study her closer than usual. Warmth spread from the spot his lips touched, and Clara’s insides shivered. “Thank y-you.” Her voice came out in a whisper.

Walter clapped Grant on the shoulder. “Mr. Mason. A pleasure to see you, sir.”

Clara blinked, and a blush heated her face as she remembered there were others in the room. She took a step back.

Grant shook Walter’s hand. “I’m always happy to see my old friend.” He took Deborah’s hand and bowed over it. “And Mrs. Wickersham, you are stunning this evening.”

“Oh, do go on.” Deborah swatted at him but smiled, her cheeks reddening.

“How do you like the room, Miss Brightly?” Grant asked.

Seeing his penetrating glance again, Clara was glad for an excuse to look up at the carved ceiling. “Utterly exquisite.”

Grant looked up as well. “I’d hoped to see your face when you first entered. You were surprised?”

She turned fully toward him and waved a hand toward the room. “Is this what your mother promised not to tell me?”

He widened his eyes but nodded.

“I was surprised. And delighted. I . . . I feel like I am in a Sikh palace.” She looked across the room at the peacock carving. “Durbar means both a formal reception and the place where such an event is held. I’ve only been in one other—at an assembly in Lucknow.”

“Then shall we see it all?” He offered his arm, and when she took it, he led her around the edges of the chamber, moving among other guests who were making the same circuit. They gazed into glass caskets that held ivory work, copper vases, and a model of an Indian palace, studied gold vases and a display of Indian armor.

“I’d heard Her Majesty wished for a room to represent her sovereignty in India”—Grant spoke in a raised voice to be heard over the orchestra—“but I had no idea. This is much more spectacular than I pictured.”

Clara nodded but didn’t answer. Seeing these reminders of India and, by extension, her father brought her emotions very close to the surface. They stopped before the entrance, looking up at the elephant-headed god.

“Ganesh,” Clara said, glancing at her companion. “The god of good fortune and luck.”

“I could use some of that,” he muttered.

Clara studied him for a moment, waiting for him to clarify. “For the choir competition?”

He turned his head and looked at her. Seeing his brow wrinkle, Clara got the distinct impression he’d not meant his words to be overheard. “Among other endeavors.”

“Such as?”

Grant glanced behind her, and she heard the music change. “Such as hoping you will agree to a waltz.”

The jittery feeling returned, but it held less fear and more anticipation. “I would love to.”

He led her to the floor, taking her hand and placing the other at her waist. Clara set her fingertips on his shoulder. She had noticed the broadness of his shoulders the first time they’d met, but seeing him in a formal coat, his carriage straight as he bowed, made her heart skip. Surely all the other ladies could not help but stare as well. He really was handsome.

Grant pulled her into the rhythm of the dance. “Tell me about your necklace.”

“My father gave it to me when I turned eighteen.” She didn’t have to speak very loud at all for him to hear. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“I admit I hardly noticed it until now. The wearer’s beauty far surpasses the ornamentation.”

Clara drew a quick breath. She glanced up, but Grant’s gaze was so intense that she stared instead at his necktie. What had he meant by such a compliment? And why had it completely scrambled her thoughts?

“Last time Mother was at Osborne House, she changed the entire color scheme of our home,” Grant said. His lips twitched. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she changes it all again—this time with an Indian theme.”

“I hope she does,” Clara said.

“You prefer that style?” he asked.

Clara nodded. “I quite like it. But of course, it holds sentimentality for me.”

Grant regarded her, and again she got the feeling he had something on his mind tonight. Something had changed, and it felt significant.

“I have never seen your house.” Clara spoke in a cheerful voice, hoping to lighten the mood. “In fact, I am not quite certain where it is. East of Brading, I know, and I assume near Mr. Herd’s, since he is a tenant of yours.”

“How rude of me. I will repair the oversight as soon as possible. Perhaps you’d come to dinner soon?”

“I didn’t mean to solicit an invitation.” She felt flustered, not only by the conversation, but the way he studied her gave the impression he was searching for an answer or expecting her to do or say something. “I was simply curious.” Her arm grew tired, and she rested her hand more fully onto his shoulder.

“We would . . . I especially would love to have you. I believe . . . I hope you’ll approve of it.” For the first time since she’d known Grant Mason, he seemed uncertain.

“I will most definitely approve of the company,” she said.

His hand tightened around her waist, pulling her closer.

The song ended and following Grant’s suggestion, the pair exited onto the terrace. The night was cool but refreshing after the confines of the ballroom. And while she was with Grant, Clara realized, she had hardly noticed the temperature. Grant fetched punch, and they stood near the balustrade beneath a gas lamp. Waves sounded in the darkness, muting the noise of other conversations, and the scent of roses perfumed the air. The evening was as close to perfect as Clara could conceive. She closed her eyes breathing in the sea air.

“Clara?”

Grant’s voice held that same note of uncertainty she’d heard earlier, but it sounded husky as well. Clara’s breath felt thick in her lungs, and her pulse was erratic. She turned toward him, and the sight of his deep gaze sent tingles over her skin.

He took the drink from her, set it on the railing beside his, and grasped her hand. “There is something I wish to tell you.” He touched her cheek, and heat burst across her face. “I know we have only known one another a short time.” Grant slid his hand to her shoulder. Clara’s heartbeat was so loud in her ears that she feared she’d not be able to hear him. He breathed in and out, then leaned closer, his thumb rubbing over her collarbone. “Clara, I—”

“Miss Brightly, is that you?” a familiar woman’s voice called from across the terrace.

The interruption shook Clara from the trance of Grant’s eyes. She blinked, disoriented as she looked around for the speaker.

Grant stepped back.

“It is! It is her! It’s Clara Brightly.” The woman hurried toward them, pulling her red-coated companion into the circle of light.

Clara gasped, pressing her fingers over her mouth as her throat choked with tears. “Mrs. Henry. Major Henry.” She hadn’t seen her old friends since they’d left for England years earlier on military sabbatical.

Mrs. Henry pulled her into an embrace. “We were so sorry to hear about your father, my dear. Such a tragedy.”

“Thank you.” Clara wiped at her tears, accepting the major’s offered handkerchief. “Please excuse my emotions. Seeing you was a bit of a shock.”

“I understand.” Mrs. Henry shook her head sympathetically.

“We were surprised to see you as well,” Major Henry said. “I never heard the colonel mention having family on the Isle of Wight.”

“I was sent here to stay with a distant cousin,” Clara explained. “Oh, where are my manners?” She turned, holding a hand toward Grant. “Allow me to introduce my friend, Mr. Grant Mason. Mr. Mason, these are my dear friends from the residency compound in Calcutta, Major and Mrs. Henry.”

There was no sign of Grant’s former smile. His expression was reserved, and the warmth in his eyes replaced by suspicion. Clara was reminded of how distant he’d acted the first time they’d met.

“A pleasure.” Grant inclined his head, exchanging greetings with the Henrys. “And what brings you to the Isle?”

“We are here on official business,” Major Henry said. “Her Majesty brought in quite a few craftsmen to build the Durbar Room, and now that it is finished, we are to return them back to India.”

Clara’s mouth went dry, and she squeezed the handkerchief. “You are to escort a group? When do you depart?”

“The day after tomorrow.” Mrs. Henry looked at the major, then back to Clara. “We’d be happy for you to join us, my dear.”

“I have been hoping to return.” Clara was finding it difficult to breathe. At last, she’d found a solution to her dilemma. “I have missed India and my friends, but I do not wish to be a burden.”

“Well, of course you shall come with us, then,” Mrs. Henry said. She put an arm around Clara’s shoulders. “And your company will be a pleasure—not a burden in the least.”

“I will need to make some arrangements,” Clara said. She didn’t like the prickly feeling in her stomach. The final choir practice was in two days, and the day after was the festival. She’d come to love the Wickershams, and leaving them would be difficult. And Grant . . .

How would he react to her plan? But when Clara turned to find him, her heart sank.

Grant Mason was gone.

Chapter Seven

Grant set the last pile of quilts onto the Ladies’ Charity Society’s table. He inspected the ropes holding up the canvas tent and, after ensuring his mother and the other ladies didn’t need anything further, he left to join the choir at the center pavilion. He’d cancelled the last rehearsal the evening before but had arranged to meet the children before the competition to show them their places on the stage and where they’d enter—perhaps ease some of their anxiety.

Grant rubbed his eyes. He had no idea what he was doing. If only . . . But he pushed away the thought. He’d spent three days analyzing every second of their interactions. What could he have said or done to change things? How could he have convinced her to stay? He’d hoped the ball would have been a turning point. The Durbar Room seemed the perfect place for Clara to leave behind her old life and begin a new one with—

He shook his head, clearing his throat against the tightness. Clara was gone, and he needed to accept it. He wanted to be angry with her for leaving him to direct the choir alone, but he couldn’t manage the emotion. The only thing he felt was an ache, and if he allowed himself to dwell on it, to consider what might have been, to wish for “if only,” then the ache grew, swallowing everything else. Today wasn’t for feeling sorry for himself. The children, their parents, and his town depended on him.

He glanced at his pocket watch. An hour until the competition began. Did Annie remember the signs? Perhaps he would have the children practice the song one more—

His thought cut off as the sound of singing reached him. Grant froze as the music stirred his memory. It was “Greensleeves.” That voice—it couldn’t be.

He followed the music toward the pavilion, his heart pounding as the familiar voice moved over and through him. He stepped inside and allowed his eyes to adjust.

Clara stood alone on the stage, her eyes traveling throughout the crowd as she sang. When she saw him, her gaze locked on his, and she smiled, her eyes sparkling and her voice growing louder. The beauty of the song surrounded him like a warm quilt.

Grant’s heart stretched until he thought it would burst.

She was singing for him.

The flood of sensations he’d felt when she sang at Philip Herd’s house were nothing to the maelstrom that seeing her released. His insides shook. His heart beating against his ribs was nearly painful. Did he dare allow himself to hope?

When the song finished, Grant met Clara at the steps, taking her hand as she descended from the stage. “You came back.”

Clara looked up at him. “I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t go.”

He took her other hand, feeling her shaking.

“When the time came to step onto the ferry, my feet just wouldn’t move.”

He searched her face. “I thought you wanted to go home.”

She nodded slowly and winced. “I realized India isn’t my home.” Her bottom lip shook, and her eyes shone with tears. “I thought it was. I ached for it. But it was the memories I missed. Without my father . . .” She swallowed, then took a calming breath. “Home isn’t just a place. It’s where I’m loved and with the people I love.”

Grant tipped his head. “Oh? And who might those people be?”

She flicked her gaze to his, then looked back down, apparently fascinated with his necktie. “Well, of course the Wickershams.”

“Of course.” Grant moved closer.

“And Mr. Herd and Annie Warner.”

“Yes.” He released her hands and slid his arms around her waist. “Anyone else?”

“The choir,” Clara whispered the words, her mouth nearly touching his lapels.

Grant tapped beneath her chin, lifting her face. “And the choir director?”

A blush flowed over her cheeks. “I suppose I do rather love him.”

Grant didn’t waste another moment. He touched his lips to hers, and when she responded by putting her arms around him, he pulled her against him. Her mouth was warm and soft, and Grant lost himself in the kiss, thinking how something he’d resented as much as directing a children’s choir had brought him the greatest miracle of his life. Clara, the shy, lost young woman, had found a place here, had found a community, a family, a home. And she’d found him.

He drew back, resting his forehead against hers. “I love you, Clara Brightly.”

Clara opened her mouth to respond, but applause sounded, and her eyes went round as she pulled back. Grant kept his arm tightly around her, not allowing her to flee, even though he knew she wished to run away and hide.

The children’s choir, their parents, and practically the entire town of Brading filled the benches, clapping and cheering for the couple, calling out well wishes. Some of the older boys made faces, as if what they’d witnessed had caused them to become physically ill.

The Wickershams stood beside the stage; Walter wiped at his eyes, and Deborah pressed her hands to her heart, her face shining. Harry Barlow grinned, giving an approving nod while his wife wiped a tear. Even Philip Herd smiled.

“Oh, Grant.” Mother hurried toward them. “And lovely Clara. Just imagine it. A summer wedding.”

“The hawthorns will be blooming,” Mrs. Pinkston said.

“I’m afraid life in Brading Parish does not allow for much privacy, Clara,” Grant said in a low voice.

“I w-wonder if we should give an encore?” Clara said. Her voice sounded timid, but a teasing smile tugged at her lips.

Grant twirled her around, pulling her into his embrace and kissing her soundly. She’d make a fine caulkhead after all.

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