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“There's a carriage arriving,” Emma said, as she drew back the upstairs' landing curtains to bathe the pale walls in the sun's warm glow.
“Are we expecting company?” Clara asked, as she polished the wooden windowsill until it shone with the radiance of the solar blush kissing it now.
“Not that I know of.” She continued tidying the area and commenced her humming, glancing out the window occasionally as she did.
“Oh dear, don't tell me we will have to draw all of the curtains shut again,” Emma said, observing the shifting light in the room as a cloud passed before the sun, shutting out its light. Clara moved to look out of the window now.
“They do seem to be building,” she said of the accumulating clouds blowing toward them.
“Perhaps, it will just be a quick shower, if there is one at all,” Emma said.
“Perhaps, yes.” Clara's eyes fell to the scene below them, as she spoke. The carriage was indeed pulling up to the house. From the front door, Frederick rushed across the grounds to it. They had not spoken, since last night's encounter.
In the weeks since Clara learned of their engagement, she had watched him at every opportunity hoping to observe some mannerism of the man she was betrothed to. She had discovered he had many amiable traits. He could whistle a pleasant tune, he was of strong stature and he had quick wit bringing laughter to Clara when he would transform an everyday task, such as the dusting, into a hilarious tale. But for all his good points, she had also noted characteristics that she was not as fond of. She still did not know the source of his dislike of Emma. When she had questioned Emma about her opinion of Frederick, she had merely remarked,
“I don't make it a habit of discussing others when they are not present.” For this reason, Clara had decided against asking her for any information about Lord Pemblebrooke and Lady Pemblebrooke's mourning of him.
“I think it's disgraceful the way she keeps those poor children locked up with her,” Clara had remarked to Frederick recently.
“What would you do?”
“I would tell her that grief is a terrible thing, but one must live.”
“Maybe, you should write her a letter,” he had said. She looked for the wry smile that slipped from the left corner of his mouth when he spoke in jest. Seeing no trace of it she said,
“I cannot write her a letter! She would throw me out.”
“Dear Clara, you do not have to give her the letter but perhaps it will help you merely to write it. Besides, your memory seems to be doing better. You are not forgetting nearly half as much as before. You have not forgot that we are engaged. Perhaps writing your thoughts will help you remember.”
Actually, she thought she was now remembering a good deal more than half of everything. Emma seldom had to repeat a request to her any longer, as she had to so many times in the beginning. Her life before the accident was still blank, though, and it would be wonderful to remember. Taking a chance that her memory might be helped, she did write the letter and tucked it away. The entire episode was forgot, not in the sense of a memory lapse but simply that it was put out of Clara's mind, until last night.
Frederick had appeared at her bedside, holding a candle before him that flickered against his dark eyes.
“Frederick! What are you doing here?” she had whispered in surprise.
“I wanted to see you,” he said, reaching for her face with his free hand. He cupped her cheek beneath his fingers, which she noticed felt velvety soft for one who had worked with horses and in fields all of his life. He set the candle down on the side table by her bed.
“What if Emma awakens?” she said, in a worried whisper.
“Emma is snoring. I heard her as I came into your room.”
Something about the way he said “into your room” made her tremble slightly inside, not from fear, but from the nuance of the situation. Unless, this wasn't so new for her.
“What is it?” he whispered, noticing the change in her eyes.
“I was just wondering if you had ever seen me in my nightdress before.”
“Clara, my sweet, you are buried beneath blankets. I am not seeing you in your nightdress now. But yes, we would walk through the gardens at night. I would knock upon your window.”
“But, why did you not visit me in the day?” she said.
His eyes flashed with something that she couldn't quite name, a painful memory no doubt, but the look quickly dissolved as he said,
“Because, it was the only time I could do this. Your father never left us alone for a moment.”
He leaned into her, pressing his lips against hers. She had lately been wondering why he had not kissed her, if they were engaged. Of course, it would seem unladylike and forward to suggest so tender a touch. And now that she had felt his lips upon her she was not sorry, but she was not moved in the way she expected she would be. It felt as if it were an awkward first kiss, rather than the natural embrace of two who had kissed so many times before. Perhaps, it was simply because she did not remember their life together before. Perhaps, memory was required to add warmth to such an embrace. Frederick had not felt as she had though, for as their lips parted he said,
“Ah, I have missed that. Clara, come away with me.”
“What?” she said, her eyes growing wide in surprise.
“I have found you. You remember we are engaged. You are not happy with your life here. You dislike the way that Lady Pemblebrooke acts toward her children. Come away with me. We can be married at once.”
“But— how will we live?”
“What is more important to you, being with me or being here? I thought you wanted to be with me. You promised after all.”
“Yes, Frederick. I suppose I did,” Clara said, surprised at what he proposed and grappling for some sturdy ground to stand on. His look of hurt morphed into elation.
“Wonderful! Then, I will help you pack and we will leave at once.”
He opened the drawer and began lifting items, stuffing bits of clothing into his coat pockets and a burlap sack he pulled from his trouser pocket.
“Frederick, don't you think this is a bit sudden? Why must we leave right now?”
He stopped abruptly and spun to face her.
“Then, you don't want to be with me.”
“I just want some time. Let us save a little money first.”
“Fine, yes, that makes sense,” he said. She looked to his face for signs of what he was feeling. She didn't know whether he was upset or had really consented to her wish so easily. His back was turned to her, marring her view, as he emptied his pockets just as quickly as he had filled them. Without a word, he turned and left her alone in the room, not bothering to take the candle with him. For the better part of an hour, Clara sat up in bed too stunned to sleep. She pressed herself to remember something, anything, but only worked her stomach into knots without producing any answers. Well past one in the morning, she blew out the candle and laid down to sleep.
As she looked at Frederick out the window now, she could still feel the pressure of his lips against hers. Confusion weighed heavily in her tired mind.
“Oh! It's Harold!” Emma said now, as she watched him step from the carriage. Clara watched as Frederick shook hands with this man who had brought her here, after rescuing her from the hospital. He moved through her memory as a vague shadow of kindness. He stepped into the sunlight, which had reappeared as the clouds passed harmlessly overhead. His profile looked familiar to her, but his appearance was dulled as if she had only seen him by dim light before. She realized how similar his features, at least from afar, seemed to Emma's. She had been euphoric and encouraged when his appearance seemed familiar to her, but her heart sank now as she began to think that the familiarity could perhaps be attributed to the resemblance between him with a person Clara spent so much of her time with.
She watched to see if Frederick knew Harold. The older man laughed at something the younger said, but whether this was a positive first impression or a joke shared between friends she could not determine. Emma raced downstairs to visit with her brother. Though he did not live so far away, it was too far for a man of his stature and age to walk and with the shortage of horses because of the war, visits were more infrequent than either would have liked. Clara dawdled upstairs, knowing that Harold would surely want to see her and yet allowing the siblings a chance to speak together first. At least, that is the reason she told herself that she did not rush downstairs with Emma. A gnawing feeling in her stomach, as she watched Frederick cross the yard now, convinced her that apprehension over seeing her fiancé also slowed her descent. She prolonged her absence as much as she could, but even very large houses can run out of windowsills to dust. Besides, Emma was calling for her now.
“Clara, come and see Harold.” They were in the wing opposite of Lady Pemblebrooke and so voices carried here without a second thought, in contrast to the austere quiet that they surrounded Lady Pemblebrooke with. Clara had begun to feel as though it was really their house and Lady Pemblebrooke, Albert, and Mary were merely shy lodgers who quarantined themselves to their room.
Clara's stomach protested, as she descended the staircase. At least Emma and Harold would be present, so she would not have to face Frederick alone. She heard Emma's shrill laughter, which made her think of a bird crying for his supper, accompanied by hearty guffaws that she presumed to be Harold's.
Frederick must be keeping them in good spirits.
She took in a deep breath and pushed open the door.
“Oh Clara, hello my dear. You look absolutely lovely. This fresh air seems to be agreeing with you, just as I predicted it would,” Harold greeted her, pleasantly. She really had no reason to worry about facing Frederick, because he was nowhere to be seen.
“Introduce yourself,” Emma said in a whisper to Harold, which was not quite as low as she had intended. A look of confusion filled his eyes at his sister's comments, but he quickly realized that Clara's memory problems must have continued past the time he had met her. A look of sadness for her, which he tried to mask with a wider grin, came across him at the realization.
“My name is Harold. Your grandfather was my best friend and that makes us friends, young lady.” He held out his hand to her and mock-bowed to coax a smile. His strategy worked and Clara's worries melted, as she was drawn into a world of stories and laughter and occasionally a somber piece of news about the war. Harold was quick to veer from too heavy a subject, though, and did not wish to burden “dear Clara” as he continually referred to her as. By the time he left he had completely ingratiated himself to her and promised her and Emma another visit, just as soon as he was able to find a carriage again.
“The war will be over soon, dear Clara, and everything will be made right. Then you shall not be able to rid yourself of me, though I suppose your fiancé might like you for himself. Fine chap you have there,” he said and, with a nod of his cap, the carriage rushed away taking the kind gentleman with it.
Harold's words replayed in her mind, as she lay awake in bed that night. He knew then that they were engaged so perhaps he had known Frederick before and furthermore he seemed quite agreeable to the man whom his sister reserved judgment for. Clara lay awake, listening to the ticking clock on the wall, certain that any moment her door would burst open and Frederick would be standing there illuminated by the candle to continue the conversation. She glanced to her side table and noticed the candle holder was still present.
Oh no, I'll have to return that in the morning.
She knew that it belonged upstairs and Lady Pemblebrooke preferred its design to the others. If there were anything that Emma had taught her, it was that Lady Pemblebrooke's preferences must always be observed to ensure a happy house. Out of the near silence of the night, Clara leaped forward at a shriek of sheer terror. It resonated through the house, lodging itself in her blood and coursing through her. Lady Pemblebrooke's cries in the night had been less frequent lately. Now though the screams reverberated through the halls, sending a gripping chill over Clara as if she were being consumed by a thousand carnivorous spiders.
“Good Heavens! Good Heavens!” a new voice screeched in horror.
“Emma?” Clara said, aloud. She lit the candle and raced into the hall.
“Emma? Emma!” she called before her, as she raced up the stairs. Frederick burst from the room now.
“I'm afraid she's dead,” he said.
“Oh my! Oh my!” Emma said, rocking in a state of despair.
“What is it? What has happened?” Clara asked, fright holding her closely.
“Lady Pemblebrooke is gone.”
“What?” Clara said, horrified.
“What of the children? What of the children?” Emma asked, frantically.
“They too are gone, I am afraid.”
“But, I don't understand—” Clara stammered.
“Clara, where have you been tonight?” Emma said, eying the candle in her hand.
“What? I have been in my bed.”
“Asleep?”
“No, no, I couldn't sleep.”
“Emma, I'm sure she didn't mean to,” Frederick said, softly.
“Wh— what are you talking about?” Clara stuttered.
“Clara, why did you kill her?”
Clara wavered and fell to the ground with a thud.