CHAPTER 17

Clara loved her sage green dress. She felt beautiful tonight, and was so grateful to Ruth for all the help she had given her to look her best. Never had she been so thrilled to go to the theatre. She could not wait for a sparkling exciting evening with Christopher.

People would talk. This would certainly amp up their plan. Her parents would have to accept that she was not going to marry Simon, sooner rather than later.

As Clara descended the grand staircase, the soft rustle of her gown accompanied the uneasy atmosphere that hung in the front hall. The delicate embroidery shimmered in the glow of the chandelier, but her keen senses detected an undercurrent of tension. Her sparkling green eyes flickered between Christopher and her father and she felt a knot tighten in her stomach.

Her father, usually an embodiment of stern composure, seemed more rigid than ever. His gaze met hers briefly, a silent communication passing between father and daughter. Clara’s intuition, finely tuned to the nuances of her family dynamics, sensed that something had transpired in her absence. Unspoken words lingered in the air, casting shadows over the evening’s plans.

She desperately hoped that her father had not said something to upset Christopher. She knew that her family were not happy with the events of the evening, but she had made her choice, and she had told them that she would stick to it.

They could not argue. Not when etiquette came in to it.

She darted her eyes towards Christopher. Dressed in a tailored suit that accentuated his strong frame, he wore a strained expression that did not go unnoticed. His eyes, momentarily avoiding hers, held a hint of apprehension. Clara’s heart quickened as she navigated the descending steps, her mind racing to decipher the unspoken tension that clung to the air.

“Mr. Fitzhugh,” she said, trying to give Christopher a much needed escape from her father. “Shall we proceed to the theatre?”

Reginald, without a word, abruptly excused himself. The front hall seemed to exhale a collective breath as he departed, leaving Clara and Christopher alone amidst the opulence of her mansion. Her father’s sudden withdrawal heightened Clara’s sense of uncertainty, and she sought answers in Christopher’s gaze.

He turned to face her, and for a moment, the weight of unspoken words lingered between them. Clara’s lips curved into a polite smile, attempting to dispel the tension. “Christopher, before we leave I must ask, is everything alright? It seems my father left in quite a hurry.”

A fleeting expression of concern crossed his features, and he offered her his arm, a gesture meant to usher them forward. “It is nothing to worry about, Clara. We should leave now. The carriage is awaiting us.”

Unease weighed on Clara’s shoulders, but as they made their way down the long hallway, Christopher seemed to be distracted. He wanted to talk about something else.

“Clara, I must ask about these ancestral portraits. Did you paint any of these?”

She glanced at the paintings, recognizing the distinct styles of various artists throughout the generations. “No, these are the works of talented artists from our family’s history. I have not painted anything displayed here.”

A mischievous gleam lit up Christopher’s eyes. “Ah, but you owe me a private viewing of your own artistic endeavours, remember?”

Clara blushed, a smile playing on her lips. “I am afraid that will not be possible. My parents do not see the merit in my creative pursuits. According to them, a lady’s talents are better directed towards more appropriate and feminine endeavours. There is no hallway displaying my paintings. They are hidden away like a secret.”

Christopher frowned. “Well that seems very unfair. I have heard that your paintings are beautiful and would love to see them.”

Her blush deepened, appreciating his support. “Thank you, Christopher. But my parents’ beliefs are deeply ingrained. It is not easy to change their views. I do not imagine I will ever have their respect when it comes to my paintings.”

The soft murmur of the night enveloped Clara as they stepped outside, heading towards the awaiting carriage. The moon cast its silvery glow on the cobble stone path, and the gentle rustle of leaves in the breeze provided a serene backdrop to the evening. Yet, the unresolved tensions lingered, casting shadows on the edges of the night.

Seated across from Christopher inside the plush carriage, Clara with Ruth by her side, attempted to dispel the lingering unease with casual conversation.

“Christopher, have you always been fond of the theatre?”

He leaned back comfortably, looking like he was truly considering his answer. “I must confess, the theatre has its own allure. The ability to lose oneself in a captivating performance. It is a form of escapism I find quite appealing.”

Clara nodded, her eyes wandering to the passing cityscape. It was hard to have this conversation with the lingering tension, but she had to try “Indeed, there is something magical about watching a story unfold on stage. Do you have a favourite play?”

Christopher nodded slowly. “I have always been drawn to Shakespeare. The complexity of human emotions he weaves into his plays is truly remarkable. How about you?”

She pondered for a moment before answering, “I find Beethoven’s works quite intriguing. The way he explores the subtleties of human relationships resonates with me.”

Christopher, his features softened by the ambient glow of the carriage’s interior, caught her gaze and the ruse fell away from his face. “Clara, I hope the evening has not been too disconcerting for you. I still hope we can enjoy ourselves.”

She offered a reassuring smile, “Would you care to share what happened with my father?”

Christopher hesitated, his eyes reflecting a mix of frustration and concern. “It was a difference of opinions, Clara. Your father disapproves of our association, and tonight brought those sentiments to the surface.”

Clara’s heart sunk. The weight of societal expectations pressed on her shoulders, and she sighed, “It seems our connection challenges more than just my family’s expectations. He does not understand that life can be lived through art, and that people can make a living from it.”

“I am still intending to take on private pupils again in London. That has been my plan all along. I simply have not had time to pursue it as much as I would like with everything that has been happening. The Season has been a busy one.”

“Oh my! That should be thrilling.” Clara easily got swept up in this revelation because it proved what she had already been thinking about art creating a fulfilling life.

A genuine smile graced Christopher’s lips. “I miss the joy of imparting artistic knowledge, of inspiring young minds to explore their creativity. There’s a certain fulfillment in guiding others on their artistic journey.”

Clara listened thoughtfully, envy tugging at the corners of her emotions. “How freely you pursue work that brings you meaning,” she admitted, her gaze briefly drifting to the passing scenery outside the carriage window.

Christopher’s expression softened, the moonlight dancing in his eyes. “Passion for one’s work is a powerful driving force, Clara. It is a privilege to pursue endeavours that bring fulfillment. I believe everyone should have the opportunity to do so.”

In that moment, she felt the stark contrast between their worlds. Christopher, a man with the privilege to pursue his passions freely, spoke of resuming a meaningful endeavor that brought him joy. Meanwhile, Clara, despite her own artistic talents, felt ensnared by the societal expectations that dictated her role as a woman of her station.

A pang of frustration welled within her, the weight of unfulfilled potential pressing against the walls of her chest. She longed for the freedom to fully develop her talents, to revel in the same unrestrained joy Christopher seemed to embody. The constraints of her gender and societal norms echoed in her mind, a persistent undercurrent of personal woes threatening to dampen the special night they had envisioned.

Yet, as Clara glanced at Christopher, his eyes alight with passion, she made a conscious decision. Tonight was meant to be an escape, a temporary reprieve from the burdens of their respective worlds. She refused to let the weight of her personal struggles cast a shadow on their shared moments.

The carriage rolled to a graceful stop in front of the Haymarket Theatre, its grand facade illuminated by the soft glow of gas lamps that lined the entrance. The exterior, adorned with intricate details and adorned in a palette of rich burgundy and gold, exuded an air of opulence befitting a night at the theatre.

As the carriage door swung open, Clara caught her breath at the sight of the grand venue. Pillars of marble framed the entrance, and the warm flicker of gas lamps cast a golden hue upon the red velvet curtains that adorned the theatre’s exterior. The anticipation of an evening filled with theatrical enchantment coursed through her veins.

Christopher extended his hand, his gloved fingers an invitation to a night of shared delights. With a flutter of her evening gown, Clara stepped out onto the cobbled path, the cool night air a refreshing contrast to the warmth of the carriage.

His touch, even through the delicate fabric of her evening gloves, sent flutters of anticipation through Clara. His hand, steady and warm, guided her with a practiced ease as they approached the theatre’s entrance. The glow of gas lamps reflected in his eyes, creating a shared moment of silent understanding.

The entrance doors, adorned with intricate carvings, opened to reveal the theatre’s interior — a sanctuary of art and performance. The grand foyer unfolded before them, its walls draped in plush red velvet, and a crystal chandelier suspended from the ceiling, casting a dazzling array of light upon the gathered patrons.

Christopher’s eyes met hers, a silent exchange of excitement and shared anticipation. The theatre, with its ornate architecture and the promise of an evening of captivating performances, stood as a backdrop to the unfolding chapter of their shared adventure.

As they stepped into the foyer, the melodies of the prelude and the buzz of excited conversations surrounded them. The scent of polished wood and the rustle of silk mingled in the air. The theatre, a realm of enchantment and escape, awaited them, and Clara could not help but feel a surge of gratitude for the respite it offered from the complexities of their world.

As they traversed the lobby, Clara became keenly aware of the hushed whispers that followed in their wake. Interested glances, veiled behind hands or delicate fans, danced upon Christopher and her. The air crackled with the unspoken gossip that undoubtedly swirled around their supposed “courtship.”

As they approached their private box, anticipation mingled with trepidation. However, the moment their eyes fell upon Miss Henrietta and her parents in the adjacent box, the atmosphere shifted. Awkward tension hung in the air, threatening to overshadow the anticipated joy of the evening.

Henrietta, adorned in a lavish gown, met Clara’s gaze with an icy glare that spoke volumes. Her parents, attempting to maintain a veneer of civility, exchanged strained pleasantries with Christopher and Clara.

“Mr. Fitzhugh, my dear boy, what a delightful surprise to see you here!” Miss Henrietta’s mother exclaimed, her words attempting to cloak the underlying tension.

Christopher, ever the diplomat, responded with a gracious nod. “Mr. and Mrs. Devereux, a pleasure as always. May I present Lady Clara Belmont?”

Clara curtsied with practiced grace, though she could not escape the awareness of Henrietta’s disdainful gaze. “A pleasure to see you again, Mr. and Mrs. Devereux.”

Henrietta, her smile strained, extended a greeting that held a subtle edge. “Lady Belmont, how lovely to see you again.”

As they settled into their respective boxes, the air remained thick with unspoken sentiments. Clara could not ignore Henrietta’s open hostility, the glares like daggers aimed in her direction. But Clara attempted to cast aside the lingering tension from the encounter with Henrietta and her parents. The rich, red velvet curtains cocooned them, providing a semblance of privacy within the gilded theatre.

As the lights dimmed and the hushed murmurs of the audience gave way to an expectant silence, Clara turned her attention away from the neighboring box. She chose instead to immerse herself in the magical anticipation of the theatre and the captivating company at her side.

Christopher, his silhouette softened by the glow of the stage lights, glanced her way. “Are you ready to enjoy the performance, Clara?”

She offered him a genuine smile, the subtle tension dissipating. “Absolutely, Christopher. Let us revel in the enchantment of the stage.”

The curtains rose, revealing the world of Verona and the timeless tragedy of Romeo and Juliet. The exquisite set design and the haunting strains of the score transported Clara to a realm where the complexities of her reality could momentarily fade away.

As the actors brought Shakespeare’s classic characters to life, Clara felt herself becoming entwined in the tapestry of their love and tragedy. The balcony scene unfolded with a tender grace, and the balcony itself became a stage for the unspoken sentiments that lingered between Christopher and her.

With each passing moment, she found herself increasingly, dangerously drawn to him. His presence beside her, the shared glances, and the warmth of his hand on the railing of their private box created a symphony of emotions that mirrored the tragic beauty of the play.