Chapter 32

32

CLARA

I f Clara had thought Rushlake a hive of activity before the day of the ball, she was obliged to adjust her definition of the phrase. The servant areas were bustling with fresh produce, meats, and other items being delivered. Extra hired help made the kitchens and bake room feel crowded and even hotter than usual.

Cook's raised voice was heard in the corridors constantly, and twice Clara found herself comforting the hired kitchen maids, who were unused to the way of things at Rushlake and found themselves the object of Cook's ire.

Beyond their usual duties, the maids and footmen spent a great portion of the late morning and early afternoon readying things in the ballroom, rolling up rugs, sweeping and mopping the floors, ensuring the chandeliers all had fresh candles, that the grate was clean, and bringing in vases of fresh flowers.

Without being able to pinpoint precisely when, Clara found that the other housemaids began looking to her for instruction in the housekeeper's absence. It soothed her heart to know they were finally accepting her .

After setting the last vase of five on the mantel, she stepped back for a wider view. She adjusted the vase and tweaked the position of a few of the flowers, then inspected her work again.

"Clara," Mrs. Finch said in her urgent voice. "Finish whatever you are doing and prepare yourself to go to the lodge."

Clara fumbled over her words for a moment. "The lodge, ma'am?"

"Mrs. Ashby and Mrs. Yorke requested your assistance. Neither of them brought a lady's maid, and they have been making do with one another's assistance dressing. Tonight, they wish for your help. Good gracious but you are filthy! Make yourself decent, then hurry to the lodge."

Clara ran her hands down her apron as if it would make her more presentable. "Yes, Mrs. Finch."

Within ten minutes, she had changed her apron, washed her face, and adjusted her hair so it was more presentable under her cap.

Her steps were swift on the path to the lodge and her mind full. There had been no news of the duke's engagement at breakfast that morning, but tomorrow might be a different matter. Clara had harbored some small hope she would have the opportunity to see him once more before he became betrothed, but she was beginning to think that would not be the case.

And perhaps that was for the best. What good would it do? If he was to marry Lady Cassandra, better that they accept it and adjust their relationship to one befitting a duke and one of his servants. That would be inevitable if she accepted Lady Redgrave's offer, something she was finding it difficult to argue against. What would there be for her at Rushlake once the duke married?

The tone of things at the lodge was far less chaotic than at the main house. There was frustrated shouting to be heard as Clara assisted Mrs. Ashby with her toilette, but it was merely Mr. Anthony discovering that Mr. Silas had placed a frog in the drawer of the dressing table.

Mr. Frederick laughed rather than shouted when he found the one in his shoe.

"Little jackanapes," Mrs. Ashby said waspishly, though reluctant amusement made the corner of her mouth twitch. She touched a hand to her hair, which Clara had just finished. "That is very nicely done. You may see to Charlotte now."

Clara curtsied, her last encounter with Mrs. Yorke fresh in her mind. She hadn't any idea what to expect.

Mrs. Yorke had a number of dresses laid out on her bed and was looking at them pensively, but she turned when Clara knocked on the open door, then sighed with relief.

"Do come in," she said. "I am at a loss for which gown to wear and am in dire need of your opinion."

Clara smiled at Mrs. Yorke's artless manner. There wasn't a single one of the Yorkes she didn't like and admire. They were all so easy-mannered, none of them too high in the instep to speak in a friendly way to her.

Clara stepped beside her and surveyed the four gowns. They were the sort of garments Clara could only dream of—silks and satins with beaded detailing, netted bodices, and embroidered hems.

"My husband has hardly paid me any heed today," Mrs. Yorke said. "He spent the majority of the day at billiards with his brothers, and I am determined to recapture his attention at all costs." She winked.

Clara laughed softly. "Perhaps the billiards are merely a distraction from your persistent presence in his thoughts."

Mrs. Yorke smiled widely. "I knew I liked you."

Clara stepped forward and touched a hand to the sky-blue gown with imperial crepe and silver knots all down the front. "I think this one the most striking, ma'am."

Mrs. Yorke joined her, scrutinizing the gown. She glanced over Clara. "It matches your eyes."

Clara's brows went up. "Does it?"

Mrs. Yorke nodded. "I always wished for blue eyes. But alas, mine are brown."

" I always wished for brown. It is such a warm, inviting color." The duke's eyes flashed across her mind, and she turned to Mrs. Yorke to focus her attention where it was needed. "Yours have a bit of green too, which would make this one"—she touched the skirts of the green taffeta gown—"a wonderful choice. But you will capture the attention of more than your husband with any of these, Mrs. Yorke. I simply admire the blue one most."

Mrs. Yorke hesitated a moment. "You have convinced me of the merits of the green one. Let us see if we cannot change the color of my eyes tonight."

Clara curtsied and helped her change into the taffeta, after which Mrs. Yorke sat in front of her dressing table.

Her hair, like her eyes, was a rich brown, and Clara was eager to make it look its best. It would not be difficult, for Mrs. Yorke was a striking woman, and Clara could have done a very poor job indeed without detracting from her beauty.

When Clara had nearly finished, Mrs. Ashby came in. They would be done with plenty of time to spare before the Yorkes were obliged to make their way to the main house.

"How does it feel, ma'am?" Clara asked after finishing the coiffure.

Mrs. Yorke turned her head to the right and left. "Secure."

"But not too tight, I hope?"

Mrs. Yorke shook her head. "It is perfect. You have done a marvelous job, Clara." Her gaze went to Mrs. Ashby's, and something indecipherable passed between them before her focus returned to Clara. Her eyes danced. "And now it is your turn."

Clara gave a nervous laugh, uncertain what she meant.

Mrs. Yorke stood, then linked her arm through Clara's and guided her toward the bed. "It will not be a perfect fit, but we are near enough in our measurements that we will be able to make do with a few pins here and there. Do you not agree, Aunt?"

"The easiest thing," Mrs. Ashby concurred.

"I—I don't understand," Clara said, looking between them.

"I think you do," Mrs. Yorke said, twinkling. "You have helped us dress for the evening, and now we will help you ."

Clara's gaze flicked between them yet again, seeking understanding. Were they playing a joke on her? Trying to teach her a lesson for falling in love with someone so far above her station?

"Only think what William will feel when he sees you in that gown," Mrs. Yorke murmured into her ear.

Clara did think of it, and her heart fluttered in response. She resolutely pushed such thoughts aside. "I cannot wear that, Mrs. Yorke. I do not know what I gave you to think when we spoke the other day, but while I…admire His Grace deeply, I would never presume to…never make so bold as to…"

"Do not be silly, Clara," Mrs. Yorke said. "My aunt and I—and my brothers besides—are convinced you are precisely what William needs."

" I have always said he needed a few servings of humble pie," Mrs. Ashby said. "I had resigned myself to his marrying some insufferable, entitled woman. Imagine my utter delight when I met you ."

Clara took a step backward. "I believe you are mistaken. There is no understanding between the duke and myself. Of course not. He is to marry Lady Cassandra."

"Not if we have anything to say to the matter," Mrs. Yorke said. "Now, let us help you into this dress."

Clara's eyes roamed to the exquisite blue gown, with its lace-scalloped neckline and sleeves and the satin gloves beside it.

"I cannot," Clara said, though her mind was envisioning herself entering the ballroom in the dress. The thought of the way the duke would look at her…it sent her pulse into a frenzy. "I cannot possibly go to the ball."

If she went, it would cause the greatest stir imaginable, not just amongst the guests but amongst the servants.

"I agree," Mrs. Ashby said matter-of-factly. "We may be espousing social anarchy, but the gradual route is generally best."

"We intend to bring William to you ," Mrs. Yorke clarified. "He deserves to see you, Clara, as a duchess. But just as importantly, you deserve to see yourself that way."

"But…but he intends to offer for Lady Cassandra," Clara protested. "I have no wish to deprive him of the things such a match would bring him—to deprive Silas of a chance at freedom."

"Clara," Mrs. Yorke said, enveloping her hands in hers, "humor us in this one thing. If, when William leaves, he still wishes to offer for Lady Cassandra, then so be it. But I know my brother-in-law well enough to be certain he does not wish for that match, and none of us wish for him to be a martyr."

"He would be unbearable," Mrs. Ashby said with a horrified expression. "Now, take off that cap and put on the dress like a good girl."

Half an hour later, Clara stared at her reflection in the long mirror beside the armoire in Mrs. Yorke's bedchamber.

No cap covered her hair, no dirt was visible under her nails, no soot-covered apron hid her skirts. Mrs. Yorke had been right—the gown matched her eyes, intensifying their blue.

"Now for the final touch," Mrs. Yorke said, and she brought over a string of pearls from her jewelry box.

She draped them around Clara's neck and fastened the clasp at the back, then put a hand on both of Clara's shoulders. "I defy anyone to look more the part of a duchess," she whispered through her smile.

Clara's eyes stung, and she blinked rapidly.

"Do you not agree?" Mrs. Yorke asked.

"I may look the part, ma'am, but appearances may deceive. I am not fit to be a duchess, and William deserves someone who is. He deserves the best."

"Do you not see, Clara?" Mrs. Yorke stood in front of her and took her hands again. " You are the best for him precisely because you love him enough to want the best for him. It is what makes you fit to be his duchess more than any other woman, no matter her title or breeding or attire."

"Then why put this dress on me?" Clara asked, her voice unstable.

Mrs. Yorke smiled sympathetically. "Sometimes we must dress the part before we can believe in ourselves enough to act it."

The sound of hooves outside took Mrs. Ashby to the window, where the light of sunset was shifting to take on a bluer hue. "The carriage is here, Charlotte."

Charlotte nodded and looked into Clara's eyes one more time. "William worries you would be discontent as his wife, that the resulting social difficulties would give you regrets."

Clara's brows snapped together. Discontent as his wife? The utter impossibility of it…she could not even manage a response.

Mrs. Yorke squeezed her hand. "Tell him what you want so he has no reason to believe anything but the truth." She stood. "We will send him as soon as can be managed. It might take time, though."

A few minutes later, Clara and Mr. Silas waved from the door as Mr. Frederick, Mr. Anthony, and the two women climbed into the carriage and rambled toward the main house.

Much as Clara had insisted she could not go with them, she wished she could. She wished she was someone of whom the duke could be proud, a woman he wouldn't hesitate to stand up with for a dance, even with earls and viscounts looking on.

"Have you readied your belongings?" Mr. Silas asked as he shut the door behind them.

"My belongings?"

He smiled as they took the stairs up. "For Gretna Green. William will not be able to wait seven days to marry you when he sees you."

Clara looked away, her cheeks warming as she smoothed her skirts. "You flatter me. I fear there are more obstacles to a match between us than a mere gown, however pretty it might be."

They reached the door to his bedchamber, and he turned to face her. "You mean me."

Clara's gaze flew to his, her eyes wide. "No. No, that is not what?—"

"Clara. You and I both know my brother believes it his personal responsibility to resolve my troubles. And that is my fault. I am the one who asked him to do precisely that when I returned. But I won't have him be a martyr."

"Neither would he have you be one."

"I am not. I intend to find justice for myself one way or another. Did you know Drayton is not fifteen miles from here?"

Clara shook her head.

"He is staying at Underwood House not fifteen miles east of here." He shook his head, his brow furrowing. "Frederick is always saying that anything can be arranged by simply talking, which is probably why he does so much of it. But perhaps there is something to what he says."

"From what your brother has said, Lord Drayton will stop at nothing to protect his reputation. If things between your brother and me are meant to be, they will be."

His gaze searched her face, more serious than usual.

A sound in the entry hall sent Clara's heart into her throat. Surely, the duke could not be here already?

"I will see who it is," Mr. Silas said.

She nodded, trying to calm herself as she hurried to Mrs. Yorke's bedchamber for one last look in the mirror to ensure she was entirely in order. She wanted to look her very best, silly as it might be.

"It was nothing after all," Mr. Silas called to her from the corridor. "We must not have closed the door properly."

"Thank you for going to see," she replied loud enough for him to hear. She was half relieved, half disappointed. Leaving the mirror, she paced the room from wall to wall as she waited for the duke, trying to sort through her thoughts and feelings.

What if Mrs. Yorke and Mrs. Ashby were right? What if she did have a chance to marry the duke? All her noble thoughts of not wishing to deprive him of what he would gain from a smart match—what would come of those if the duke asked her to be his wife ?

She was too honest to think she would have the strength to refuse him.

But would she even have the chance? How could he possibly choose to marry her over someone like Lady Cassandra? How could he knowingly abandon the opportunity to save the brother he loved so dearly?

The room became dimmer as the light began to fade. Clara's feet ached from pacing, and her stomach growled.

The Yorkes had been bringing food to Mr. Silas each evening, but what would he do tonight? It was entirely possible such a detail had slipped their minds in the chaos of preparing for the ball.

She held up her skirts and went out of the room. A knock on the door of Mr. Silas's bedchamber went unanswered, however, so she went in search of him elsewhere. He was not in the sitting room, neither was he in the billiard room or the kitchens.

Her heart began to beat more quickly. This had happened before, though. He was undoubtedly outside, getting a bit of fresh air. Or preparing to frighten her as a form of amusement.

But her walk outside resulted in failure, and no one jumped out from any doorways when she returned.

Pulse racing, she returned to his bedchamber and knocked loudly. "Mr. Silas!" She knocked and called to him again, but the only response was the echo of her own voice.

She turned the knob and pushed open the door. The room was dark and empty. The doors of the armoire were open, and a few garments of clothing on the floor, as though he had changed quickly.

And Clara knew.

She knew where he had gone.