5. Chapter Five

I t was difficult to say which was worse—determining to fly a kite in the middle of London or realizing that she couldn’t remember how to do it. Actually, the worst part was probably that this entire episode was being witnessed by a complete stranger. A stranger who had already seen Clara at enough of a disadvantage for one lifetime, not to mention a single day.

“Why are you involving him? If you don’t know how to do it, I shouldn’t have to continue.” Clara crossed her arms over her chest and restrained the urge to stamp her foot.

She’d just declared herself not a child. She needed to act accordingly.

“Dear cousin,” Ambrose said with a grin, “there are many things you do that I am incapable of.”

“Name one.”

He blinked at her for a moment, his face a picture of bland arrogance.

Marmaduke laughed. “It would be easier to list the things you do that Clara is capable of not doing.”

“Aha!” Ambrose pointed at his male cousin before turning his grin back to Clara. “I’ve got one. I am incapable of pleasing your father while you do it masterfully.”

Clara lifted her gaze to the clouds riding the wind through the sky and pleaded for God to grant her patience. “As Duke said, that is more a matter of not doing than doing. If you wished to please my father, simply stop philandering about.”

It was a common argument, one Clara knew was about far more than her cousin’s tendency to socialize with women of easy virtue and frequent the gaming tables at his club. Still, she couldn’t help but advocate for less vice in his life. If he weren’t constantly embroiled in inappropriate actions, he might be in a better state of mind to hear more important truths.

“Maybe I’ll consider it,” Ambrose said with a crooked grin, “if you successfully fly this kite.”

This too, had become an all too familiar exchange. Ambrose would promise to consider listening to her about the benefits of a more moral lifestyle in return for her acquiescence on some matter or another.

She would give in. He would conveniently forget, or, in his words, consider the option and come to the conclusion of no. Once she’d even commanded him to spend a week away from his usual entertainments. She’d neglected to put enough parameters around which week it would be, and he’d used a week spent in bed with a raging head cold as his fulfillment.

If she were to simply toss the kite into a tree, she could declare this entire matter complete, but she wasn’t willing to stoop to that level of trickery. Clara frowned at the kite. Actually, perhaps she was.

Marmaduke cleared his throat. “Come along, then. I’ll help you sew clothes to take to the workhouse tonight if you fly the kite now.”

Clara’s eyes widened as she looked to her brother. The man was actually a very good stitch. “Truly?”

He narrowed his gaze. “You have such strange ideas of fun. But yes, I truly will.” He shoved the spool of kite string into her hand. “Get to it.”

She considered the kite for a moment and then tossed it into the air. They all three watched it plummet straight to the ground.

A low chuckle sounded to her left. She’d forgotten Mr. Lockhart was there. Well, almost forgotten. Tried to forget might be the best wording.

He had moved closer at Ambrose’s beckoning, and now he leaned against a tree, watching them and trying to smother his laughter at her attempt.

“I suppose you can do better, then?” She stuck her nose in the air, trying to emulate her aunt’s haughty nature instead of cowering in embarrassment as she wished to do.

He cast a look at the two men before striding over to her and picking up the kite. After giving it a considering look, he turned his gaze to her. “Run.”

She blinked at him. “Run?”

With a nod toward the grassy expanse behind her, he said, “Yes. Run.”

What did more humiliation matter at this point? As he’d pointed out, any witnesses weren’t likely to be people she’d encounter at the gatherings her aunt was taking her to. There would be no one to tell this tale but her brother, her cousin, and a tradesman she would never see again.

She started to run.

Mr. Lockhart jogged behind her for a few steps before giving the kite a toss. It wobbled in the wind, tugging at the string in Clara’s hand before catching a breeze and floating up above the trees.

A light hand on her elbow pulled her to a stop. He gestured toward the sky. “Your kite, miss.”

Clara couldn’t help the smile that stretched across her face as she watched the brightly colored fabric dance in the sky.

“I daresay that’s a right proper revenge,” Marmaduke said as he came to her side and admired the kite.

She tugged at the string once more, trying to steer the kite away from a tall tree, but instead of veering, the kite dipped. The tree blocked the breeze the toy had been riding, and the kite came plummeting down.

Directly toward Clara.

Mr. Lockhart jumped in front of her and snagged the edge of the kite before it could collide with her nose.

Ambrose bent over, bracing his hands on his knees as he let out a laugh that echoed off the buildings to fill every corner of the square. “You know, Clara, I’m starting to think kites really do have something against you.”

“Twice in one day, Lockhart.” Marmaduke chuckled as well. “I think that makes you a hero of some sort.”

The glimmer of happiness vanished as Clara tossed the spool at her brother. “What are you then? I do believe you witnessed both attacks and did nothing to stop either.”

Ambrose laughed louder. It would serve him right if he fell over and got grass stains on his breeches and had to suffer the displeasure of his valet.

“I flew the kite. Now I suspect both of you will drop your end of the bargain and behave as a proper gentleman.”

Ambrose’s laugh faded to an unrepentant grin. “It was a command, after all. Nothing further should be required.”

Why did the man have to be so frustratingly correct all the time? It made it difficult to help him in spite of himself. “I need to return home. Mother is likely searching for me so we can prepare for tonight’s party.”

She moved purposefully toward the gate, a trail of men in her wake.

Ambrose jumped in front of her to swing the portal open. “Where are you off to tonight?”

She waved a hand in the air. “I haven’t the slightest idea. A musicale maybe? She said the balls start next week, and we’ll begin our hunt in earnest.”

Her stomach turned at the idea. Practically speaking, she knew she needed to marry. Her father’s living and pension couldn’t support her forever. Still, she’d rather not upend her entire life’s work and meaning simply to keep a roof over her head.

“Come now, you’ll enjoy a ball or two.” Marmaduke gave her hand a conciliatory pat before guiding her up into the waiting carriage.

“Yes, I would, but Mother would have me go to twenty or thirty of them. Whatever it takes to find me a suitable husband.”

“What signifies a suitable husband?”

Everyone froze in the act of settling back into their seats to look at Mr. Lockhart. The man himself appeared stunned to have heard his own words.

The pause was but for a moment, and soon Ambrose was knocking on the roof to indicate they were ready to proceed.

“Noble,” Clara muttered.

Marmaduke winced. “He doesn’t have to be noble, just . . .”

Clara glared at him until he sighed in defeat. Their mother and aunt could say what they wanted, but everyone in the family knew they intended to find her a man of higher birth. She was, after all, the granddaughter of a baron.

“She just wants you to marry well so you’re taken care of,” Marmaduke said, trying once more to convince Clara that this entire London business wasn’t a horrific tragedy. “The easiest way to do that is to utilize the connections you have to reach a slightly higher level of society.”

Ambrose shrugged. “If it helps, you can consider it a favor to my mother. She’s delighted about the entire business.” He grinned. “Her only regret in life is not having a daughter to dress up and parade about London.”

“And now she has you,” Marmaduke added with a matching grin.

“I live to please,” Clara said in a flat voice as she glared from one man to the other.

Across from her, Mr. Lockhart watched with a considering eye. “What would you choose?”

The air in Clara’s lungs thickened. No one had ever asked her that, so she’d never voiced it aloud. Oh, she’d come close, but never really said the words.

Marmaduke snorted. “Her choice would be to not marry at all.”

Clara jerked her head around, staring at her brother with wide eyes. That wasn’t true. Not entirely. She wasn’t against the idea of marriage. She just wanted . . . more.

“Truly?” Mr. Lockhart asked, surprise evident in his voice and features.

“Yes.” She sighed. “Well, no, but also yes.” Her fingers gripped her skirt and then smoothed it back flat. “It’s not that I don’t want to marry, it’s that I hate that I have to marry.” She glared at her brother. “Marmaduke gets to go on about his business, hoping that one day he’ll simply stumble into a relationship. And all he does is bat a ball about.”

“Your respect of my career is overwhelming.” Marmaduke smiled at her, but there was a tightness around his eyes that made her wish she could take the words back.

“The point is,” she said, pressing on since she couldn’t go backward, “I am not allowed to go about my service to the church and hope to one day find someone. No, I have to put aside my charity work and be frivolous for a few months and hope that somehow that will find me a man who shares my priorities.” She smoothed her skirts and muttered, “’Tis frustrating.”

“There’s no reason to give up your charitable works.” Ambrose shook his head. “Mother would be happy to have you join her society. There’s no need to make yourself a martyr to good connections.”

Clara glared at her cousin. Did he really equate the work she did with her father every day to his aunt’s weekly gathering of . . . of . . . well, Clara wasn’t entirely certain what they did, because she was to be attending her first meeting of the Virtuous Ladies Society for the Care of Wounded Soldiers this week, but she didn’t think they’d be spending their time delivering food baskets to the poor.

Mr. Lockhart continued to quietly consider her. He even opened his mouth once before closing it, shaking his head, and giving his attention to London passing by outside the window.

She was grateful for his silence. He’d interrupted her life enough today.

As soon as they returned to Eversly House, Clara left the men to their own interests and retreated to her room. She wanted to blame the unsettledness in her chest on a belated reaction to the day’s close calls, but the stirring felt more like an itch to do something.

If only she knew what that something was.

Ever since her mother had declared she would have a Season in London, Clara’s life had not been her own. She’d blindly gone along with the suggestions of her mother and aunt because Clara didn’t know the first thing about participating in high society—or any society really—for the purpose of finding a husband and not to enjoy the company of friends.

Her mother was walking down the corridor when Clara crested the top of the stairs.

“Good gracious,” she said, pressing a hand to her chest. “What happened to your hair?”

Clara lifted a hand to discover that even her practical bun had been no match for the conditions outside. “You of all people know how windy it is today.”

She entered her room and set her bonnet on the end of the bed before sitting at her dressing table to release the rest of the bun and brush out her hair. The maid would have needed to start over for tonight’s coiffure anyway.

“I didn’t know you were venturing out again.” Mother perched on the edge of a chair and twisted her hands together. “Did you take a maid?”

“No. I took my brother and my cousin.” Mr. Lockhart’s presence didn’t signify so Clara kept it to herself. Mother was nervous about every little encounter of late, and there was no reason to risk sending her into conniptions over a tradesman.

“I suppose that’s proper enough.” Mother sighed as her shoulders slumped forward. “I do wish you’d take this Season more seriously though.”

How much more seriously could Clara take it? She hadn’t complained about the schedule—at least, not much. She’d been cooperative at the modiste, well, except for the number of ball gowns because some things were simply too extravagant. She’d even agreed to having a dedicated lady’s maid for the Season, though that was more out of practicality than anything else.

If Clara had to care for four outfits a day and twist her own hair into these different styles, she’d never leave the room.

Clara placed the brush on the table and folded her hands in her lap before facing her mother. “What is it you would have wished me to do this afternoon?”

“What other young ladies do. Embroider, sew, read, practice the pianoforte.” Mother flitted a hand about. “Not gallivant across the City, traipsing along behind your brother like you did in the country.”

Clara refrained from rubbing at her suddenly pounding temples. “You would have me dedicate my time to solitary indoor pursuits when the entire purpose of our being in London is to meet people?”

“Not just any people. Particular people.”

Clara frowned. “Father would have you kneeling for confession if he heard you.”

Mother frowned right back. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

Did she? A month ago, Clara would have said yes, she knew her mother had meant nothing derogatory toward a person of any rank, but now, since seeing her in London, Clara wasn’t so certain. Of course, Mother was concerned about Clara living a comfortable life, but why did that mean parading about in ballrooms and drawing rooms and allowing her aunt to spend a small fortune on an entire wardrobe?

Mother sighed. “You’re young and ideal, but you don’t know as much about living as you think you do.”

“I’m twenty-two, Mother. Hardly fresh from the schoolroom.”

Mother’s lips pressed into a thin line. “If you are so worldly and wise, then you know you must marry or take on a profession. As your care and comfort are far more dependable if you marry well, I highly suggest you take advantage of this opportunity your aunt has provided.”

Mother had fallen in love with Father while attending a country fair and had willingly married down and adjusted to a less lavish lifestyle than she’d been born to. Did she regret it? Was that why she was so determined to give Clara the opportunity she’d foregone?

Her statements were also far too similar to the ones she’d heard in the carriage this afternoon. Did no one see her point? “I intend to marry, Mother. We both know I’d be a dreadful governess.”

Mother stood with a sigh and shook out her skirts before walking toward the door. Before leaving, she turned to give Clara a considering look. “It would be different if you were in love,” she said softly. “A true love match is the most precious and rare commodity a woman can find on earth. But if one must marry for practicality, there is no reason to make it a more difficult union than it has to be. God has given you the connections to allow you to marry well. Don’t waste them.”

On that quiet judgment, she left the room, leaving Clara to clean up more than just her mussed hair.

Clara returned to brushing out her hair, her mother’s last statements repeating through her mind. Mr. Lockhart’s words from the carriage worked their way into her mind as well. What did she want?

There had never been a question of Clara’s getting married. It was what gently born women did. And while Clara might not want to be lumped in with the ranks of nobility, she had to admit she hadn’t lived a hardscrabble life either.

Marriage had always been a step to take in the future, though. She didn’t spend time imagining what it would be like or dreaming of her future husband. It had simply been an expectation, like learning her maths or dispensing alms to the poor.

Despite growing up in the shadow of a love match, Clara had never considered if that was what she wanted for herself. She’d just sort of assumed a husband would appear one day. That was a ridiculously unpractical notion, and Clara hated being impractical.

She abandoned the hairbrush and crossed to the writing desk for a pen and paper. It was time she attacked this like she did everything else in life and created a plan. The how was well in hand, considering the social schedule Mother and Aunt Elizabeth were crafting.

All that remained was for Clara to determine the who . The sooner she lined up a suitable husband, the sooner she could return to her life and focus on things that truly mattered to her.

What did she want?

She wanted a husband that would appease everyone—including herself. What qualifications were required of such a man? After some consideration, she put pen to paper and started her list.

1. Ready to marry. Preferably actively in search of a wife.

Convincing a man to marry her would be far easier if he was already looking to marry in the first place. Someone like Ambrose, who was determined to put off settling down for as long as possible, would only extend her time in London.

2. Of good family

Clara frowned for a moment and then scratched it out.

2. Of titled family

That was honestly what her mother wanted, or they wouldn’t be in London. Mother’s father had been a baron and while Mother never seemed too concerned with the idea that she’d married “down” by society’s standards, that past played in to what she would accept for her only daughter.

3. Interested in charity and the church

She nibbled on the end of her pen for a moment before writing again.

Clergyman?

Being a vicar’s wife would suit her well. She’d adored working alongside her father, after all.

She sat the pen on the desk and frowned at her list. Three things. It should be simple, yet she had her reservations. Could such a man be found while cavorting at parties or musicales or whatever other invitations Mother had procured?

She hadn’t the slightest idea, but she knew someone who did. Whipping her hair back into something that slightly resembled a bun, Clara grabbed her list and headed once more for the stairs.