No matter the heartbreak of the night before, no matter the sleepless hours Clara had spent staring up at the ceiling in a futile attempt to forget Quincy and what they might have had, the world kept turning. It seemed impossible that it could do so. And yet there was the proof of it, the sunlight streaming in through Clara’s window as the following day dawned bright.
Rising from her bed was the very last thing she wanted to do. So she pulled the covers up over her head and curled into a ball on her side instead. Mayhap if she pretended the day hadn’t begun, it might hold off indefinitely. And she need not face Quincy again.
That hope was dashed minutes later when her maid entered.
“Lady Clara, the sun is shining on this wonderful day,” Anne chirped. “Let’s get you up and dressed; I’m sure there’s much to do.”
Clara only closed her eyes tighter. Beyond her cocoon of blankets the maid moved about the room, her cheerful whistle accompanying the closing of doors and the rustle of clothing as she set out Clara’s gown and things for the day. The pathetic hope that Anne might leave when Clara stayed stubbornly tucked under her fabric mound died a swift death when the maid yanked the covers back. The sunlight assaulted her senses and she recoiled from it with a low moan, pressing her face into her pillow.
“Come now, Lady Clara,” Anne said with a bright smile. “It’s a beautiful day, and you’ve only so many hours in it to enjoy.”
Normally Clara appreciated Anne’s optimism. Now, however, it grated on her. It seemed nothing should be happy again, not while her heart was in tatters.
But she couldn’t put off the day indefinitely. Heaving a sigh, she rose from her bed, wincing as her muscles protested. She had not realized just how tense she had been throughout the night, how stiffly she’d held herself in an attempt to contain her heartache.
Anne quickly went to work, and in no time Clara was nearly ready for the day. As the maid put the finishing touches to her hair, however, Clara’s mind began to wander. And what should it wander to, but Quincy.
She would never forget the stark hurt on his face last night. Or how badly she had wanted to call him back and retract every cold, untruthful thing she had said.
But this was for the best, she told herself firmly. They needed a clean break. Surely he would leave her in peace now.
She nearly let loose a bitter laugh. Peace. As if she would ever find peace with this.
“My lady? Excuse me, Lady Clara?”
Clara blinked, focusing on her maid in the looking glass. “I am so sorry, Anne. I’m afraid my mind has wandered.”
The other woman smiled in understanding, patting Clara’s shoulder. “What with Lady Phoebe’s marriage quickly approaching, and your own upcoming nuptials, there must be much preying on your mind. But which of the hair adornments did you want today? The silk flowers or the ribbons?”
Upcoming nuptials. Clara gave Anne a weak smile, not wanting her to see how affected she was by those innocent words. “The silk flowers I think, thank you,” she managed.
The woman prattled on as she worked, tucking small white blooms into Clara’s curls. Only now that her attention had been diverted from Quincy, Clara could not help but hear what Anne had been talking about minutes ago. And its subject was far from welcome.
“And that Duchess of Reigate’s maid is a maddening piece of work. Always questioning, sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong. I ask you, what business is it of hers where you might have gone off to when you were a girl? Or why you were so ill for so long when I first came on?”
Clara’s heart stalled in her chest. There was only one reason for the maid’s questions: the duchess was still after the truth of Clara’s past, and like a dog on the scent of blood she had sent her maid to infiltrate the people who knew the most in a household—the servants.
Forcing herself to breathe, Clara asked as casually as she could, “And what did you tell her?”
“That it was none of her business,” Anne scoffed, tucking a particularly unruly curl in place. “But she’s a persistent thing, kept badgering me and anyone else who would pay her the least mind. Finally I said to her, ‘I came on when Lady Clara was just sixteen, when her previous maid done ran off. If you want to know the details, find her.’”
How Clara kept from casting up her accounts right then and there she didn’t know. The maid in question, Flora, had stayed by Clara’s side throughout the whole ordeal of going into hiding and living through the hellacious pregnancy and stillbirth that had followed. Clara had thought their bond was unbreakable.
Until Flora had gone and offered the scandal up to the first man who waved money under her nose. It had taken Clara’s father everything in him, including a good chunk of the Dane fortune, to keep the whole thing quiet. No doubt if she could be found she would be more than willing to offer up that information again, especially if a duchess came to her door with the promise of more money.
In that moment she realized with devastating certainty that the fear would never end. Eventually the truth would out. And once it did, she would lose everything she held dear.
No, she reminded herself bitterly, she had already lost something that was infinitely precious to her. This would only complete the job.
Impotence washed over her. She was so damn tired of living this way. She clenched her hands in her lap, anger rearing up, replacing her helplessness. Well, no more. She’d lost enough to that one devastating mistake; she’d be damned if she lost anything else.
Anne finished then. With hardly a word to the startled maid, Clara bolted from the room. She was done being afraid.
Her sharp knock on the duchess’s door was answered with alacrity by a pinch-faced maid. “Yes?” the woman queried, her insolent tone accompanied by a haughty stare down her nose.
“Is Her Grace within?”
“Yes, but—”
“Thank you,” Clara said, pushing past the woman, leaving her sputtering behind her.
The duchess was sitting up in bed, a tray on her lap, a single steaming cup of chocolate clasped between her hands. Her eyes narrowed when she saw Clara. “Goodness,” she drawled, taking a slow sip, eyeing Clara with disdain, “one would think no one in this household has any sense of privacy, the way people continue to barge into my room without permission.”
“Enough,” Clara bit out. “I came here to tell you to stop sending your lapdog to do your bidding.”
“Pardon?”
“I know you’ve had your maid asking questions about me.”
The maid in question gasped. “Lapdog? Why, I never—”
The duchess held up a beringed hand. The maid’s jaw closed with a snap.
“Enough. Leave us.”
The woman did as she was bid. And then Clara was alone with the duchess.
A slow, cold smile lifted the woman’s lips as she considered Clara. “Frightened you with my inquiries, have I?”
“Not in the least,” Clara responded, surprised to realize just how true that was. She was beyond fear. Having to push Quincy away had broken something in her. Now the only thing simmering in her breast was anger.
“Oh, come now,” the duchess said. “You and I both know that’s not true. Else why confront me once you learned of my attempts.”
Clara shook her head in disbelief. “You won’t even deny what you’ve been doing? That you’ve been attempting to bring to light some past scandal you imagine I committed?”
One elegant shoulder lifted. “What is there to deny? I’ve stated before that I won’t have you marrying Reigate. No one crosses me, my dear.”
The confession that she and Quincy were not engaged in truth—and had never been—battered against Clara’s lips, fighting to break free.
But she would not give the woman the satisfaction. Squeezing her hands into tight fists, she glared at the duchess. “You do not get to dictate my life,” she said, voice trembling. “And you will not decree what Quincy does, either. He is a good man, who does not deserve a viper like you for a mother.”
That seemed to finally light something in the other woman. She straightened, pinning Clara with a furious glare. “You have no idea what he deserves.”
Clara gaped at her, stunned by the poison in the woman’s words. There was pain, but also a deep disdain for Quincy. She gave the duchess a mournful look, that she could not see the treasure that her son was. “I do know what he deserves,” she replied quietly. And like a bolt of lightning it hit her just how right she was: she truly did know. Quincy deserved the truth.
As much as she feared his reaction, he did not deserve her hastily patched excuses as to why she couldn’t marry him. He was the best man she knew, so giving, so caring. He had lost his father young, had escaped the house of a woman who should have loved him unconditionally yet had only given him pain, had carved a life for himself. Then, upon returning home, he had learned of the deaths of his brothers, and that he was saddled with debts that could destroy his lifelong dreams.
Yet never in all that time had he lost his optimism for life. He had searched endlessly until he had found a solution, had shown her nothing but kindness in the process. Had taught her how to embrace a joy in life she had thought lost to her.
And what had she given him in return? Lies, and a refusal to allow him to speak his heart. Why? Because she feared that sharing her son with anyone would tarnish his memory? Because it might pain her to see Quincy’s reaction to the truth of her ruination? She was a coward. Just as she was a coward to allow this woman to manipulate her and threaten her. And the duchess would never stop. She would keep at it until Clara was trampled to dust in the wake of her fury.
But instead of the expected despair at such a realization, Clara felt freed. She knew just what she had to do.
She smiled at the duchess. The woman blinked, seemingly not knowing how to take Clara’s sudden change of mood.
Clara laughed, dipping into a deep, mocking curtsy. “Your Grace, I look forward to seeing you later.”
And with that she turned and sailed from the room, her mind already racing ahead to what had to be done.
* * *
A morning’s hard riding over Synne’s hills did nothing to ease the ache in Quincy’s chest. The wounds of Clara’s refusal the night before were still fresh. But he wouldn’t push his horse any farther. Nor could he escape seeing Clara again. And so, no better off than when he had fled at dawn, he turned his mount’s head back to Danesford.
The one thing he did not expect to see when turning his horse into the stable yard, however, was Clara, seemingly waiting for him.
His hands must have tightened on the reins, for the horse gave an agitated whinny and stumbled to a halt, its shoulders quivering. Quincy patted its neck, murmuring comfortingly to it before dismounting and handing the reins over to a groom. The whole while he could not keep his eyes from Clara. She stood ramrod-straight, her face arranged in its typical calm lines. But there was a nervous energy about her, showing clearly in her tightly clasped hands and her white knuckles. She kept her gaze focused on him, ignoring the bustle around her, as he walked toward her.
For a moment he stood silent before her, fighting the overwhelming desire to take her in his arms. Only the memory of her face the night before kept him from doing so.
“What are you doing out here?” he asked, his voice gruff.
“I came to find you.”
“Why?”
She flinched at his harsh tone but kept her gaze steady. “I’ve been unfair to you.”
Well, he certainly hadn’t expected that. Not knowing how to respond, he remained silent.
She dragged in a deep breath with seeming effort and raised her chin a fraction. “I’ve not been truthful with you, Quincy.”
“So you lied when you told me you have no plans to ever marry?”
“Oh, no. That was the truth. But I have not given you the true reasons for it. I would tell you now.”
A wild hope surged in his breast. He tamped it down as best he could. “I would very much like that,” he said carefully.
She nodded, relief and fear flashing in the deep blue depths of her eyes. Then, with a blush, she started off for the house. He fell into step beside her, his hands in fists at his sides to keep from reaching for her. All the while his mind whirled. What did this mean? Was she going to finally trust him?
He quickly quieted the chorus of desperate questions. He could not bring himself to hope and then see it dashed to pieces again. So he kept his silence, giving her the space she seemed to need though it killed him.
He expected her to duck into any empty room to have this conversation over and done with. Instead she started up the stairs, making her way to the family quarters. Surely she wouldn’t take him to her room. But no, they passed her door and kept on. He cast her a confused frown but she was focused on her destination.
When she finally stopped and turned to face him, he could only stare blankly at the door before them. It was Lenora’s art studio. He had seen it upon arriving at Danesford, this place where Lenora created her magnificent paintings, whimsical watercolors that fairly breathed with a life of their own. Why Clara was bringing him here, however, was beyond him.
When he looked at her in question, she smiled. It was a small, sad thing that fairly broke his heart.
“You’re not the only one I’ve kept the truth from, Quincy,” she said, her voice quiet. “And I know now I can never be free until I lay out my past in front of everyone I love.”
Love. The word swirled in the air between them. Did she love him then? Before he could ask her, he heard the muted sound of low, tense conversation within the confines of the room. Clara threw the door wide, and he stood stunned in the entry as he took in the tableau before him.
Peter and Lenora were there, seated together on a low settee, as well as Lady Tesh with Freya curled in her lap. Margery stood by the window, her troubled face illuminated by the early-afternoon sun streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Phoebe sat near Oswin, their hands clasped tight. And one other was there, who he could not comprehend being present for several long, confused seconds.
He frowned. “Mother?”
Her lips twisted. “Reigate.”
Quincy cast a bewildered look to Clara, but she was already making her way across the room. Her back was a tense line beneath the delicate muslin of her gown, and she appeared as if she were ascending the gallows.
Feeling much the same, knowing that at the end of this he would either be raised to heaven or cast down to the pits of hell, Quincy set his jaw and followed her within, closing the door firmly behind him.