Chapter 6

6

CLARA

C lara carried an armful of linens up the servant staircase, admiring for the hundredth time how spacious the stairs were. At The Coach and Lantern, and even at the Redgraves' estate, the stairs were narrow and uneven, making the task of carrying anything fragile or liquid a hazardous one.

But even the servant areas below stairs in Rushlake had high ceilings so that, though the other servants were far from accepting Clara as one of them, she did not feel as trapped as she otherwise would have. Even the young and nervous lower housemaid, Eliza, who had begun at Rushlake yesterday, had already been welcomed into the fold.

It had almost been two weeks since Clara's arrival, and she finally knew her way around the grand estate. This morning, she had been tasked with changing the linens in the bedchambers. Though they had received no guests recently, Mrs. Finch insisted the sheets not be left to become stale.

The duke had already left his bedchamber for the day, and the lower housemaids were at work on their daily dusting, emptying of chamber pots, and cleaning of the fireplaces. A quick glance in the duke's bedchamber told Clara the newest maid was being instructed at the hearth. Though Clara made beds every day, she had yet to enter the duke's bedchamber, and she was too intelligent not to understand why.

Privately, she had been tempted more than once to seek out the duke and inform him she had changed her mind and did indeed wish for him to give the housekeeper and other servants a stern talking-to. But instead, she accepted with equanimity whatever duties she was given, no matter how below her position they were. With honesty, hard work, and kindness, she had to believe things would improve and the other servants would come to trust her.

Voices sounded around the corner, and Clara slowed instinctively, wishing she could avoid whoever it was by slipping behind the curtains. But her pride refused.

"The master doesn't seem like a man to keep a mistress," said the voice Clara recognized as Mary's. Mary had been at Rushlake the longest of the housemaids—more than two years. "He's too proper."

"She's beguiled him," said the other maid, Sarah. "With her fancy talk and fine hair. Jimmy says he saw her prowlin' the corridors in the middle of the night. He followed her, and she stopped in front of the master's door."

Clara flushed as the two maids came into view.

Their talk ceased abruptly, but there was no apology in their expressions as they scooted around Clara and continued down the corridor.

Clara shut her eyes and forced herself to breathe slowly. She had hoped the gossip would dissipate with time, but so far, it had simply grown more outlandish. She had never prowled the corridors at night, and she had assuredly never stopped in front of the duke's door—well, aside from watching Eliza just now.

Beyond the humiliation hearing such rumors caused, Clara most regretted it for the duke's sake. He had done her a service by employing her at Rushlake, and for his pains, his name was being bandied about amongst the servants.

Clara entered the first guest bedchamber, set down the folded linens on the chair near the fire, and began pulling the sheets from the bed.

She had tried to defend the duke once, but it had only led the maids and footmen to look at one another knowingly, as though it was precisely what they would expect of a woman seducing her master.

The most frustrating part of all, perhaps, was that Clara did admire the duke. Too much for her own good. She spent the days simultaneously hoping she would run into him and trying to avoid him for his sake. Whenever she caught sight of him in one of the rooms off the corridors or through a window, her heart would trip and skitter. Her mind would try to concoct a reason she needed to enter that particular room or take that path through the gardens or speak directly with him—something not only unnecessary but expressly forbidden. All communication was to pass through Mrs. Finch.

And yet the pull she felt remained, ridiculous as it was. She might as well have set her sights on the king. But at the ice house, he had not treated her with the disdain or indifference a servant might expect from someone in his position. He had treated her like…a friend. He might easily have taken advantage of the situation or forced himself upon her when he had found her alone. But he had not. And now her heart was making a mountain out of a molehill, for she found herself thinking on that interaction multiple times a day. In many ways, the duke felt like her only ally at Rushlake .

The way she felt was not just ridiculous, though; many would feel it wrong. John might have sold her, but under the Church of England and the law, she was still married. And yet, she did not feel like a married woman. Her heart, certainly, had never been given to John. In fact, she had almost been at Rushlake as long as they had been married.

Now that she was here, it all felt a bit like a dream. A bad dream.

It was behind her now, and yet, she couldn't help feeling the sting of guilt every time she heard the servants gossiping. She was making the duke's life more difficult by being here. It was poor thanks for what he had done for her.

When she had finished with the guest bedchambers, she gathered up the soiled laundry to take to the laundry yard. A clatter somewhere behind brought her up short. It was followed by yet another clatter and muffled exclamations. Clara doubled back in the direction of it.

"No, no, no," said a distraught voice.

Clara peeked her head into the duke's bedchamber, and her eyes widened. Eliza stood with a duster in hand in front of the dressing table. A few bottles lay upon it, tipped over. Around Eliza's feet and at the hem of her skirts was soot, and a bucket lay on its side nearby.

Eliza turned toward Clara, her eyes wide with terror. "'Twas a mistake! I swear it! I was just dustin' and tidyin', and I knocked over a bottle. I stepped back in surprise, clean forgettin' about the bucket of ash." The words came out of her mouth like the rushing tide.

Clara set her armful of linens down and went into the bedchamber.

"Oh, dear," Eliza said, her voice breaking and her eyes filling with tears as she looked around her. "Mrs. Finch'll have me dismissed straightaway when she sees this mess. "

Clara couldn't allay such a fear. Eliza was new, which meant she hadn't had time to prove herself. Mrs. Finch had no patience for clumsiness—particularly not when it came to the duke's personal belongings, and the smell filling the room told Clara that perfume had been spilled.

Eliza's hand covered her mouth, her shoulders beginning to shake with sobs. She was young—sixteen at most—and Clara's heart went out to her.

Clara hurried over and took the maid's hand between hers. "Calm yourself, Eliza. All will be well."

"How, though? If I'm dismissed again, my father will wash his hands of me, and I've nowhere to go. Oh, please, help me, Clara."

Clara nodded, her mind whirring as she tried to think how she could possibly salvage the situation. She could help Eliza clean the mess, but Eliza's entire body was trembling. Her fear of Mrs. Finch was simply too strong to make her of any use.

"Here," Clara said, pulling Eliza toward the door, "gather the linens I brought. Take them to the laundry yard. I will clean the mess. I know how to remove soot from rugs."

"But…but…"

"Hurry, Eliza. If you wish to keep your position, time is of the essence."

Eliza nodded quickly, then scooped up the pile of linens.

"Careful not to let them touch the bottom of your skirts, or you will soil them more. Once you have taken the linens, bring me dry rags, a stiff brush, and vinegar."

Within seconds, Eliza was gone.

Clara let out a gushing breath through her lips, then turned to survey the mess. Which was more urgent? The ash scattered all over the wood floor and rugs? Or the spilled perfume?

The ash was certainly more shocking to the eye, but she should at least set the bottles upright and reseal the one whose contents had spilled.

She took a rag from amongst Eliza's materials and stepped carefully around the sooty floor. The dressing table held an ivory comb, a brush, items for shaving, and various glass bottles. Three of those bottles were tipped over, a puddle of liquid surrounding them.

It smelled of jasmine and orange blossom—a distinctly feminine scent. Had it been given to him as a gift by a woman? How would he react when he discovered there was little left of the perfume? "Oh, Eliza," Clara muttered.

She replaced the stopper in the bottle and set the other two to rights, thankful those at least had not leaked. Using the rag, she mopped up the pool of perfume. By the time the table was dry, the rag had soaked through.

She set it on the table just as Eliza appeared with the cleaning supplies.

"Set them just there, away from the soot," Clara instructed.

Eliza obeyed quickly. Her shaking had abated somewhat, but her fingers still trembled as Clara guided her through how to clean the soot. Most of it had landed on the floors, thankfully. The rug, though, was a problem. It was not one that could easily be taken out for beating, as the ornate, four-poster bed belonging to the duke sat upon it.

They would simply have to do their best. The dark fibers of the rug worked in their favor, certainly.

Approaching footsteps brought both their heads up. Their gazes met, Eliza's terror-stricken. If Mrs. Finch saw this, there was little hope for Eliza. Or Clara, for that matter.

Clara held her breath as the footsteps drew nearer.

It was the duke's frame that filled the doorway, pausing on the threshold in surprise.

Her heart thudded as their eyes met, his blinking, no doubt at the pervasive smell in the room.

"Your Grace," Eliza's voice squeaked, as she rose to her feet.

Clara hurried up with her, grasping the maid's arm firmly to stop her from her nervous, chattering admission of guilt.

"It was me, Your Grace," Clara said, swallowing. "In my clumsiness, I fear I made a great mess."

Silence followed this admission, and it lasted long enough that Clara chanced a glance at the duke. His eyes were on her, something unidentifiable in them.

His gaze shifted to Eliza. "What is your name?"

Eliza did not respond, and Clara bumped her with an elbow.

"Forgive me," Eliza said. "I didn't know you was speakin' to me, Your Grace. Eliza is my name."

"You are dismissed, Eliza."

Her eyes grew round, and her chin trembled.

"I believe he means from the room," Clara said, half question, half reassurance.

"Yes, of course," the duke clarified.

A burst of shaky laughter erupted from Eliza, which she hurried to cover with a hand. "Yes, Your Grace." She set down her cleaning supplies, and moments later was gone.

The duke stepped into the room, and the silence stretched long as Clara awaited her fate.

She kept her head held low, but her eyes watched his glistening boots as they drew nearer and nearer, then came to a stop two feet from her.

"It was not you, was it?" he finally asked.

"It was , Your Grace." She did not think the duke would dismiss Eliza for her clumsiness, but if he mentioned the incident to Mrs. Finch, she wouldn't hesitate to. Clara was no favorite of the housekeeper's, but her work was satisfactory and consistent. She stood a better chance than Eliza.

"Clara," the duke said.

She shut her eyes and took in a breath. Why did hearing her name on his lips steal her breath like a thief?

"Cleaning the fireplace is not one of your duties," he said.

"Not normally." Realizing it sounded as though she was correcting him, she hurried to add, "Your Grace."

"There seems to be a great deal of abnormality in your days," he commented with a hint of dry amusement. "I shall just ring for Mrs. Finch. She can verify to whom she gave the task." He took a step toward the bell.

"No!" Clara grasped his hand, then dropped it as though it was a white-hot iron from the forge. She clasped her fingers into a fist and brought them to her chest in embarrassment.

"Clara."

"Yes, Your Grace."

"Look at me."

She brought her eyes up slowly and met his brown ones.

"Protecting Eliza is honorable," he said. "But I do not wish for you to lie to me again. Do you understand?"

She nodded quickly, then dropped her gaze, for meeting his kind eyes did things to her she would never admit to. The way he was speaking to her did not feel like a master chastising his servant. It felt like a man begging his friend for honesty.

"I take it my perfume spilled," he said.

"I am very sorry," she said, unable to stop herself from stealing a glance at him.

But he was walking toward the dressing table, his back to her.

Clara hurried over to move the perfume-saturated rag upon it. "I wiped up the perfume, but I have yet to thoroughly clean the area. "

He picked up the blue bottle that had spilled and shook it gently, looking at the little that remained of its contents. "It was the scent my mother wore."

Clara clenched her eyes shut. "I am so sorry, Your Grace."

He shook his head. "I have it made up regularly. It is one of the few things I remember about her." He opened the stopper and ran the bottle under his nose, frowning. "It never quite captures her, though. Perhaps it was the clothes or her skin that made the difference."

Clara brought her hand to her nose and smelled it, intrigued.

The duke watched her with curiosity.

"I have a great deal on my hands from cleaning it," she explained.

"And? What is your assessment?"

She put her hand to her nose again and shut her eyes. It was difficult to detect with the room so full of the scent, but there was a subtle difference to the one on her skin. It was a gentler scent.

She opened her eyes. "I think you are right. There is a difference on the skin."

His gaze shifted to her hand, a mixture of curiosity and hesitation in his eyes. "May I?"

Heart thrumming, Clara nodded and extended her hand toward him.

His fingers wrapped gently around her wrist, and he lowered his head until his warm breath tickled the bare skin near her dress sleeve.

He shut his eyes and inhaled, taking every last bit of Clara's breath with him. She cast her eyes to the ceiling, trying to calm the pulsing of her heart and keep her eyes and thoughts from wandering.

"It smells differently on you," he said after a moment, his brow furrowed. "Different from the bottle, yes, but different from what I remember when my mother wore it too."

"It does?" Was that a good or bad thing?

He nodded, then readjusted his light grip on her wrist and inhaled lightly again, his forehead wrinkled in concentration.

A throat cleared nearby, and Clara jumped back in surprise as the duke's hand released hers.

Mrs. Finch stood in the doorway, watching Clara, her nostrils flared.

Heat rushed into Clara's cheeks, and she began gathering up her things.

"What happened here?" Mrs. Finch asked.

Clara's gaze flitted to the duke.

"A small incident involving one of the other maids," he said evenly.

Mrs. Finch's lips pressed into a thin line of displeasure. "Eliza, I don't doubt. I will speak with her immediately, Your Grace. It will not happen again."

"I do not wish for her to be dismissed, Mrs. Finch. It was a simple accident, and there is no real harm done."

Clara kept her eyes trained on her belongings as she gathered them, but her racing heart was warm with gratitude toward him. He took care of his servants in a way she found as refreshing as it was admirable.

Mrs. Finch gave a curt nod. "As you wish, Your Grace."

The duke strode to the dressing table, opened the top drawer, and took out a pocket watch, which he glanced at, then slipped into his tailcoat. His eyes met Clara's for a brief moment, then he nodded and left the room.

It was not until the sound of his footsteps disappeared that Mrs. Finch spoke. "You will finish cleaning, then come speak with me."

"Yes, Mrs. Finch," Clara said meekly.

It was not Eliza who needed fear dismissal today.