21. Chapter Twenty-One

E very last remnant of that night’s revelry faded away into the darkness of the night as their carriage rolled away from the noise and lights of the ball. By the time it stopped in front of Ambrose’s townhome, Clara was wrapped in despair.

The clandestine exchange between the ladies, who had no inkling of Clara’s eavesdropping, had to be given proper credence. Words said in private carried more weight than those said to impress in public, after all. If what they’d said about Mr. Pitt was even a little bit accurate, he was not the man of virtue she’d thought him to be.

Righteous life, indeed. Clara crossed her arms over herself and pulled her wrap tighter as she and Aunt Elizabeth exited the carriage and filed up the stairs and into the house. She could feel nothing but pity for his future congregation if they were to be subjected to such a roguish shepherd. And to think she’d envisaged herself as the man’s wife.

Mother was waiting in the front hall. The servants took the ladies’ wraps and disappeared into the dark house. Aunt Elizabeth gave a rousing tale of Clara’s triumph, declaring they were sure to have a drawing room full of gentlemen in a day or two. Clara said nothing.

Eventually, Mother and Aunt Elizabeth started for the stairs, but Clara’s feet seemed to be glued to the tiles of the front hall.

“Mother,” she said softly, and both of the older women stopped their climb.

She looked at their inquisitive faces, knowing the question she had to ask would let them know her abject failure. Still, she had to know. “Is it common for a man who will one day take his orders to . . . to . . .”

“Indulge in unbecoming pursuits?” Aunt Elizabeth finished Clara’s question before sighing. “It isn’t unheard of, especially among younger sons of the ton.”

Both women retreated back down to the floor of the hall and took a place on either side of Clara. Mother wrapped an arm around her daughter’s shoulders while Aunt Elizabeth gently grasped Clara’s hand between her own. Sympathy covered her features.

“I’m certain Mr. Pitt will step away from his more frivolous inclinations when the gravity of a living is placed upon his shoulders. The necessity of propriety will demand it, even if the time required for more sacred duties doesn’t.” She smiled, as if this idea would ease all of Clara’s concerns.

They, in fact, did the opposite. The numbness that had been working its way through her since overhearing the conversation in the retiring room fell away as an anger she considered entitled and righteous flooded her chest. Many of England’s churches were being led by younger sons and nephews of the aristocracy. Surely they weren’t all of the same mind as Mr. Pitt. “A man cannot discard his less savory proclivities like a snake sheds its skin.”

Her cousin was proof that such a lifestyle was a deeply ingrained ideology.

“Do not underestimate the transformative power of the heat of obligation.” Mother’s face grew thoughtful. “Life is a crucible that refines even the basest of metals.”

Clara looked to her mother, but the older woman would not meet her daughter’s gaze. In her younger years, had mother been more like Aunt Elizabeth? Had she been refined by the fire of being a vicar’s wife?

Clara swallowed hard before saying, “Even the hottest refining fire cannot reveal a substance that is not already there.”

Mother’s arm tightened into a hug as a small smile touched her lips. “I suppose you are correct.”

“Only God knows the future.” Aunt Elizabeth gave Clara’s hand a squeeze and then let go to move back toward the stairs. “We must aspire to build the life we desire and allow time to reveal everything else.”

With a gentle sigh, Mother, too, moved toward the stairs. “There is some wisdom to what she says, Clara. We must all move forward in a way that will allow us to attain that which matters most to us. If a living position is what you crave, you must decide what you are willing to give up to attain it.”

“As you did?”

“If you think my ultimate desire was to be a vicar’s wife, you are mistaken.” She paused with her hand on the newel post, an expression of utter peace on her face. “That is the lot I accepted in order to be your father’s wife.”

Clara blinked. “It wasn’t what you wanted?”

“I loved your father, and a life of service was what he wanted.” She smiled. “I do not regret what our life has been and the service I have been able to give God is a blessing in itself. But it wasn’t my girlhood dream, no.”

When Clara didn’t say anything, Mother gave another sweet smile and disappeared up the stairs.

Clara waited until the steady swish of her mother’s skirts had faded before lowering her gaze to the floor as if the answers would somehow form in the swirls of the marble tiles.

Her maid would be waiting to see to her hair and put her to bed, but Clara couldn’t bring herself to go about her evening as if all her plans were still in place. Sleep wouldn’t come when she was this unsettled, after all.

Instead, she wandered into the dark drawing room. Without even a lamp to chase the shadows away, the room closed in about her like a cold shell. The isolation matched the feeling of lostness in her bones.

She lowered herself into an armchair, allowing her mind to toss to and fro, hoping the peace of the empty room would seep into her soul somehow.

It didn’t. If anything, the stillness gave her senses nothing to latch onto aside from the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner, which grew more mocking and ominous the longer she listened. It felt like a knife, chipping slowly away at the life she’d thought she’d been creating.

It was almost a relief to hear a commotion in the front hall that gave her something else to contemplate. She walked to the door and saw Hodges opening it for a very disheveled Ambrose.

He tossed his hat, cane, and greatcoat to the butler, and leaned against the wall, humming lightly under his breath as he tugged at his poorly tied cravat.

“You would return home in such a state, knowing I, your aunt, and even your mother are in residence under the same roof?” Clara asked before she could stop herself.

“Seeing as you, my aunt, and my mother should either be dancing away your satin slippers or tucked in your beds, I didn’t think the state of a person at two in the morning would matter, no.” Ambrose ran a hand through his hair and gave her a sloppy grin. “You didn’t mention Duke’s delicate sensibilities, I notice. Do you believe I’ve already irreparably corrupted him?”

Heat flushed Clara’s cheeks. “Marmaduke is capable of handling his own concerns.”

Ambrose nodded sagely. “But you, my mother, and Aunt Miriam are not. That is good information to know. I shall endeavor to act more the protector for the remainder of the Season.”

Clara nearly gave in to the urge to stomp her foot. “That is not what I meant.”

“Then say what you mean, dear cousin. You’ve usually no problem telling me plainly how you feel about my condemned soul.”

She narrowed her gaze. “Are you drunk?”

He glanced down at himself as he pulled his cravat from his neck. “I can see where you would make such an assumption, but no, I have not overimbibed.” He grinned again. “My pockets are a great deal heavier, though.”

“You’ve been out gambling?” Clara blinked.

“Yes.” Ambrose pointed at her. “And before you admonish me for it, consider all the other sins I could have been committing. Save your harshest criticism for the worst of the lot. Otherwise, this Season is going to be exceedingly dull in its lack of variety.”

Clara gripped her skirt in tight fists, possibly crushing the delicate fabric beyond repair. How could he be so flippant? “’Tis only that I have a care for your soul.”

“And how improper do I have to be for you to consider my soul beyond redemption?” Ambrose strode toward the stairs and began to climb. “Because I assure you, dear cousin, in my twenty-seven years, I’ve done worse than your restrained imagination is capable of conjuring.”

By the time Clara’s tongue loosened from the top of her mouth, he had disappeared up the stairs. Numbly, she trailed after him, finally seeking her own room and the fitful sleep she was doomed to endure as her mind tried to settle on all of the night’s disappointments.

Her eyes felt gritty when she blinked them awake the next morning. For the first time, she was grateful that she didn’t have to make any effort to prepare herself for the day. The dedicated maid her aunt had insisted upon did it all. It was even possible Clara had dozed off for several moments while her hair was being dressed.

The breakfast room was peaceful and calm, filled with the quiet shuffles of servants and the slight clink of cutlery on plates. Aunt Elizabeth sat at the head of the oval table and waited until Clara was settled with a plate of her own and a cup of tea before speaking.

“You look quite fine this morning, Clara.” She nodded in approval. “’Tis smart to put on a good turn for the Virtuous Ladies Society meeting today. Lady Grableton should be in attendance again, so we can put the final details on your charity event.”

“Of course, Aunt Elizabeth.” Clara curved her lips into a dutiful smile. She hadn’t wanted control of the event in the first place, but now calling the event “hers” was simply ridiculous. She’d had practically no say in the event planning and, aside from helping her establish the wording of the initial idea, Mr. Lockhart had been completely removed.

After breakfast, she took her maid and went for a walk. The fresh air, or at least the freshest air London was capable of providing, helped to chase away the melancholy she’d woken with. By the time she ensconced herself in the drawing room with the Virtuous Ladies, her spirits had returned to their normal resiliency.

This was still her event, and she would have a say.

Ambrose was still her cousin and despite his belief otherwise, his soul was not too far gone to save.

Mr. Pitt, well, he was still in line for a living, but that particular issue might not actually be salvageable. As her mother had said, she had to decide what was important enough to her that she was willing to sacrifice a few ideals to get.

“Since we are coming together to support a cause,” Clara said, interrupting the gossip to bring attention to the purpose of the meeting. “I thought it would be nice to bring more inclusion to the attendees. We are, of course, being entertained by an esteemed singer, but perhaps there could be participation as well? A group singing perhaps? Maybe some hymns?”

“I don’t think there’s any reason to be quaint,” one woman said, nose wrinkled into a near frown.

“This is an exclusive musical performance,” another woman noted. “Not a fete at the vicarage.”

“Peonies are absolutely essential,” Mrs. Hargrove declared, stabbing her closed fan into the air to punctuate each word. She then flipped the accessory open and delicately fluttered it toward her face. “They are the embodiment of philanthropic grace.”

“True,” one lady, whose name Clara could not remember, said slowly. “However, do we want to be constantly reminding everyone that they are in attendance at such an event? Their work is finished after purchasing the ticket to be there. We don’t want to make them uncomfortable.”

“It wouldn’t be a bad thing for the ton to remember there are less fortunate, troubled people among them in London.” Lady Grableton’s gaze locked onto Clara’s as she spoke.

The air backed up into Clara’s lungs. She’d wondered if the countess was part of Eleanor’s mysterious group, and this all but confirmed it. The question was, had Eleanor’s prodding prompted her presence or had Clara’s social improvement truly caught the woman’s eye?

Lady Grableton looked away from Clara and picked up her teacup. “For some, it will give them a sense of superiority.”

“I agree with the countess,” Aunt Elizabeth said, because of course she would agree with the woman of highest rank in the room. “It isn’t as if we’re parading the children through the room.”

“No, of course not,” Lady Grableton said before smiling into her tea.

Frustration churned through Clara. Frustration at the ladies who dismissed her ideas out of hand because they weren’t what was already being done. Frustration at Eleanor for keeping the true benefactors of this event a secret. Frustration at Lady Grableton, who was clearly in on the secret and found the entire business ironically amusing.

Once the internal listing of frustrations had begun, Clara couldn’t seem to stop them.

She was perturbed at Marmaduke and his seeming lack of concern that Ambrose was traveling further and further down the road of impropriety. Then, of course, she was also frustrated with Ambrose himself, as he clearly seemed to know the repercussions of his actions and no longer cared.

From there, her mental complaints drifted to her parents, the ones who had insisted she make this trip to London in the first place. She could have made a greater effort to participate in the local social scene. Surely that would have been enough to find her a suitable match.

If she was going to end up compromising eventually anyway, she might as well do it in the comfort of what was familiar.

She sat in silence for the remainder of the meeting, nodding along whenever Aunt Elizabeth seemed to be in agreement as that would cause her less grief later.

Finally, everyone dispersed, and only Clara, her aunt, and her mother remained in the drawing room.

“I do believe everything is falling into place.” Aunt Elizabeth patted Clara on her knee. “I’m glad you came around to my vision of the event. Elegant is always the answer when asking people to part with their money.”

Mother made a noise that wasn’t an agreement or a dissension.

Clara frowned. “The church is frequently the recipient of monies for the less fortunate, and we are not in the habit of couching such requests in elegance.”

“Are you not?” Aunt Elizabeth stood and placed the last of the remaining teacups on the tray. Her tone was gentle and matter of fact, without a trace of judgment. “I know it has been a while since I visited your village, but I believe you do have finer boxes for your local gentry to subscribe to?” She paused and looked at her sister. “You haven’t gone the way of nothing but free benches like the Baptists, have you?”

Mother cleared her throat. “Er, no. We still have boxes.”

Aunt Elizabeth gave a nod. “As you should. People need to feel at home in the church.” Considering the matter closed, she pressed a hand to her chest with a sigh. “My, but it has been many a year since I’ve been this active in a Season.” She grinned at Clara. “You’re keeping me young, I daresay.”

“I do what I can,” Clara muttered with a tight smile. “Even in my youth, though, I am feeling the drain.”

If her fatigue was more emotional than physical, well, that didn’t stop it from being a reality.

Mother stood as well and looked about the room. “I’ll let the servants know they can come in and clean up now.” She smiled at Clara, but there was sympathy in her eyes. “We are attending a dinner this evening, but the event is small and meant more for your aunt and I. If you are in need of a rest, I’m sure your absence will not be considered a slight.”

“Of course.” Aunt Elizabeth nodded. “There will be few prospects there, and those that are will likely be all but spoken for. As tired as I am, I have not been spending my evenings dancing.” She laughed. “I remember how exciting but exhausting such constant activity could be.”

Clara accepted the reprieve, hoping that an evening to herself would set things to rights and clear her mind. Not wanting to risk her peace being disturbed by another argument with Ambrose, she selected a book from the library and requested a light, simple meal be brought to her room.

Less than an hour into her calm evening, though, a restlessness filled her as the frustrations she’d pushed away returned to occupy her mind.

Sighing, she set the book aside and paced around her room. Without thought, she left her planned peaceful confines and strode about the house. When she realized her feet were taking her to the back drawing room, she paused.

She was meant to spend the evening relaxing in her own company. Did she truly want to seek out someone else?

As she considered that the someone else she was seeking out was Mr. Lockhart, a sense of urgency propelled her feet into motion once more.

Later she would question what could possibly be pulling her toward him, but for now she simply held her breath and hoped the closed off room would be occupied for the evening.

If she felt a small thrill at the band of light coming around the nearly closed door, well, no one knew that but her.