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Clara watched in horror as the constables grabbed Wesley by the arms and marched him out of the house. He looked over his shoulder at her, his brown eyes filled with confusion and loss.
"No!" she shouted, picking up the hem of her black skirts and running after them. "Please," she beseeched, holding onto one of the officer's sleeves. "There has been some terrible mistake."
"That's none of our business, ma'am," the constable said, shaking her off.
"Please!" she begged.
With a withering look, the man stated, "Don't make me arrest you for assaulting an officer in the line of duty."
His words were like cold water. She realized, to him, she was nothing but an overly emotional woman, pleading for lenience like so many other women he dealt with day after day. She felt her throat tighten as she stopped her words and forced back the tears which wanted to spill from her eyes.
"I shall be fine, Clara," assured Wesley. His square jaw was clenched, though, as they continued walking him towards the back of the paddy wagon. "This is just some misunderstanding. Go to Marguerite. Tell her what has happened. She'll get it sorted out!"
And then the doors to the wagon were open and Wesley was being pushed inside. They banged shut and the lock was thrown with heavy finality. The police officers did not even look back as they took their place in the driver's seat.
"Wesley..." Clara whispered.
His face appeared in the barred window, his auburn, curly hair bright against the darkness. He gripped the bars, but smiled at her bravely. "Go to Marguerite," he instructed. "She shall know what to do!"
Clara stood there in a daze as they drove away. She did not move, even after the wagon turned the corner and she was left with nothing but empty silence. Not a bird sang in the garden square. Not a single cricket chirped. There was just the oppressive loss.
She turned back to the house, feeling as if she were trapped in some sort of horrible nightmare. Mrs. Nan and Mr. Willard stood in the doorway, bearing witness to everything that was happening. But they were living halfway between this world and the next, their ghostly bodies depleted because she had been gone overnight. They were unable to help her except to be friendly shoulders to lean upon.
She was so tired. She looked down at her clothing, muddy and torn from her encounter with the Beltza family. Her body ached from the battle. Wesley had been unjustly arrested. And just when she’d finally accepted her widowhood and moved on, her soul was shaken to its core to discover that her late husband—her beautiful, wonderful Thomas—had been killed by his association with that family. She wanted nothing more than to collapse in a heap. To weep until there were no tears left. To let the darkness swallow her whole.
But a movement in the window of her house caught her attention. Minnie's familiar face stared down upon her. This face judged her, it saw her weakness and concluded that even these few moments of self-pity made her unworthy of the love given so freely by Wesley.
Clara bowed her head, ashamed beneath Minnie's silent accusation. The girl was right. There was no room for the despair. She must soldier on. She must stand tall against whatever storm swirled around her for the sake of Wesley. Her new love. Wesley.
She slowly walked up to the house, her heeled boots striking impotently against the stone.
"Oh, Clara," Mrs. Nan clucked, reaching her arms out to draw her in tight. "Never you fear. We shall do whatever it takes to set things straight."
Clara nodded silently. She thought she had wrested her emotions, but this moment of gentle support was enough to make her lose control again. She could not, she whispered to herself as the tears threatened to spill once again. She would not, she commanded herself as she swallowed and breathed deep. "I must away to the police station to see Marguerite. She shall know what to do. Please, Mrs. Nan, if you could, would you lay out fresh things for me?" She looked down at her dress. "I am afraid this is quite unsuitable for the errand I must run."
"Of course!" clucked Mrs. Nan. "You get upstairs this instant and get yourself freshened up. I shall see if I can find Red—"
"I am afraid that I gave him the day off," said Clara, cursing herself for her moment of generosity.
Mrs. Nan and Mr. Willard exchanged glances. Mr. Willard finally coughed. "I wish that we could send a message to him for you..."
Clara waved his unspoken apology away. "It is my fault your spirits are so weak. Securing a cab shall be the least of my worries today, I fear."
"Never you mind, dear," said Mrs. Nan. "Upstairs with you! We'll get you to the police station as soon as possible and this great misunderstanding will be taken care of. Really! Someone accusing that lovely Mr. Lowenherz of being a murderer and a fraud!"
Clara's mind went through all the events that had happened since she first saw Wesley Lowenherz at that vaudeville theater. The deaths. The curses. "It all comes back to Peter Nero," Clara muttered to herself as she stepped across the black and white tiled floor of her foyer to the stairs.
"What, dear?"
"Nothing," she replied, pushing aside her thoughts. "You are right. I must depart as quickly as possible."