A Duchess by Midnight (6 page)

The rest of
the day went by in a blur of tears and shock and denial. Clara returned to the house on wooden legs where Lady Irene greeted her at the door. One glance at Clara’s white face and vacant expression and she sent her immediately upstairs before she could ‘upset her sisters’.

Wanting to mourn her beloved father in private, Clara went willingly to her bedroom and spent the next two days alternating between fits of hysteria that left her weak and breathless and moments of pain so vivid she felt as though her heart had been ripped right out of her chest.

Her father… dead. It was almost too much for her young, vulnerable mind to process. He had been taken from her as her mother had been, leaving her all alone in a world that suddenly seemed bleak and cold and devoid of all hope.

To never again hear his voice or feel his hand upon her shoulder or watch his carriage as it came up the drive… To never ride beside him on Buttercup or listen to him read about great faraway lands or tip-toe into his room in the middle of the night when lightening flashed and thunder shook the sky.

It was more than Clara could bear.

Agnes slept with her at night, holding her wrapped in her arms as though she were a tiny child while Clara sobbed herself to sleep. Poppy visited often during the day, bringing her trays of food to fill her stomach and bouquets of flowers to brighten her room. Of her stepmother and stepsisters she saw very little. She heard them occasionally, passing by in the hall or talking in hushed tones down in the parlor, and once Lady Irene entered her room to see if she would like to travel into town, but otherwise they left her alone and for that small mercy Clara was grateful.

On a dull, rainy afternoon with a thick fog rolling in from the east she finally found the strength to venture downstairs. Henrietta and Gabriella were in the drawing room playing whist. She could hear them through the closed door, their voices raised in breathless excitement as they tried to outwit one another. Pulling the soft green shawl she’d donned before leaving her room more firmly around her shoulders, Clara padded silently past the drawing room and went directly into the kitchen.

Poppy was peeling apples on a long wooden table. She looked up when Clara entered, her face registering surprise before a bright smile curved her lips and she hurried around the edge of the table to give Clara a warm hug. After a moment of tension Clara relaxed into the embrace. Poppy smelled like cinnamon and nutmeg and home. With a swift pang of sadness she realized that Poppy and Agnes were her only family now, at least where it counted, for surely Poppy was more of a sister to her than Henrietta or Gabriella had ever been and Agnes was the only mother she had ever really known.

“How are you feeling? No, don’t answer that,” Poppy said, making a face as she stepped back. There was a dusting of brown spice on her left cheek and white flour in her hair. “Are you hungry? I am making apple tarts. They won’t be ready until after dinner, but there is some raisin bread left over from breakfast. I could warm it in the oven and drizzle it with honey or jam if you’d like.” 

Clara started to say she wasn’t hungry, but at that precise moment her stomach growled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten a decent meal in four days. Climbing onto an empty stool she nudged a few shiny red apples aside and rested her elbows on the table. “Bread with jam, please. Thank you Poppy.”

“Think nothing of it,” said the maid. “I am just happy to see you up and about again.”

Picking up the sharp paring knife that had been left on the table, Clara began to idly peel an apple while Poppy prepared her midafternoon snack.

Before Lady Irene arrived and subsequently took over the household Clara had often spent hours in the kitchen learning how to make all sorts of things, from treacle tarts to a cottage chicken fricassee, a rich French dish with a creamy white sauce that tasted absolutely divine. She enjoyed putting different ingredients together to create something that was not only pleasant to eat, but pleasant to look at. A good cook, to Clara’s mind, was almost the same as an artist. Except canvas and paint was not nearly as delicious as a warm blueberry crumble.

Were Clara raised in a different household she would have undoubtedly been discouraged, if not banned outright, from associating so closely with the hired help, let alone cooking in the kitchen. But her father had always held his staff in very high regard and had taught Clara to do the same.

Tucked away in their little corner of the country they had defied the unspoken rules of high society that said the daughter of a baron was not to befriend a maid, nor help the gardener, and certainly
never
assist in mucking out the stables. Which was why Clara saw nothing wrong with what she was doing. Sitting on a rickety wooden stool in the one room that had not been covered in heavy brocade curtains and filled with ornate furniture she felt closer to her father than anywhere else in the house. A house that was an ostentatious mockery of the loving home she’d grown up in.

“Here you are.” Poppy set down a plate piled high with more bread than Clara could possibly eat in a week, let alone one sitting.

“Thank you,” she said before covering the largest piece of bread with a liberal amount of honey and, forgoing utensils, picked it up with her fingers. The moment the sweet raisin bread touched her lips her appetite returned with a vengeance and before she quite knew what was happening she’d finished the entire plate save a few measly crumbs. With a groan she sat back, patting her bloated stomach with both hands as she struggled to contain a very unladylike burp.

“Feel better?” Poppy asked, a knowing twinkle in her eye.

“I think I’ve eaten too much,” Clara groaned.

“Nonsense. When you’re as thin as you are, there is no such thing as eating too much. Men like women with curves, you know.” Poppy lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper as she leaned across the table. “Bosoms and buttocks, that’s what they’re after.”

Clara’s cheeks bloomed with color. “How – how do you know that?”

Unlike most girls her age, Clara did not spend her time dreaming of the day she would make her debut into high society and snatch herself up a dashing husband with a fancy title. Boys held little interest for her. In fact, aside from the gardener, the butler, and the footman (all of whom were old enough to be her grandfather) she’d never even spoken to a man who wasn’t her father, let alone thought about what attractive qualities they sought in a woman.

Her gaze dropped self-consciously to her small, barely noticeable breasts. If it was ‘bosoms and buttocks’ men were after then surely she was out of luck.

“Because I’ve both,” said Poppy, “and I’ve been fighting off worthless bounders for as long as I can remember.”

“Bounders?” Clara’s head canted to the side at the unfamiliar term. “What are those?”

“Nothing you need to concern yourself with.” Marching into the kitchen with all the authority of a general in the British Army, Agnes gave Poppy a quelling stare before she turned her attention to Clara. “Come along, dear. Lady Irene would like to have a word with you now that you are up and about.”

At the mere mention of her stepmother Clara’s stomach curdled with dread. She’d known she would have to talk to Lady Irene eventually, of course. It was inevitable given the events of the past four days. She had just been hoping that ‘eventually’ would be far, far in the future.

“I think I would like to go back to bed now.”

Agnes’ expression softened. “I am afraid you will have to face her sooner or later. Better make it sooner and get it done with once and for all. She is waiting in the front parlor. I will remain right outside the door if you need me.”

With great reluctance Clara slid off the stool and followed Agnes out of the kitchen. Rain pattered against the windows as they made their way down the hall and through the foyer. Agnes stopped at the parlor door.

“Good luck,” she whispered. “Keep your chin up.”

Clara took a deep breath.
Do not cry,
she ordered herself sternly.
No matter what Lady Irene says or what she does, don’t you dare shed any tears.

Shoulders stiffening with resolve, she opened the door and stepped into the parlor, her walking slippers sinking silently into the thick carpet. All of the curtains were pulled closed and candles lit the room in a soft, flickering glow. Seeing her stepmother sitting by the stone hearth where a small fire crackled and popped, Clara approached with small, reluctant steps.

“You wanted to see me, Lady Stepmother?”

“Clara. There you are. Have a seat, dear child.” Lady Irene nodded at the chair beside her own. In between the chair was a small mahogany table upon which sat a sterling silver tea set. Steam rose in a lazy gray circle from a porcelain cup framed with delicate red roses. Bringing the cup to her lips, Lady Irene took a small sip while she watched Clara over the curved edge. “Would you care for some tea? I am afraid I can never get warm on days like these.”

“No thank you.” Bracing her hands on either armrest, Clara sat on the very edge of the chair, ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. Lady Irene’s expression may have been pleasant enough, but Clara knew that the emotions Lady Irene revealed on the outside were often very different from what she was thinking on the inside.

“Very well.” Setting her cup of tea down with a tiny
clink
, Lady Irene folded her hands across her lap and turned in her chair so she was facing Clara directly. “First let me begin by saying I cannot possibly imagine what you are going through. To lose a husband is one thing, but to lose a father is something else entirely. As I am sure you can imagine, Henrietta and Gabriella are positively devastated.”

Clara’s fingernails dug into the chair. Henrietta and Gabriella, devastated? They hadn’t
sounded
very devastated when she’d heard them laughing in the drawing room! How could they be, when they’d hardly known her father? He was
her
papa, not theirs. And she was the only one who had the right to mourn him. Not her stepsisters, and certainly not her stepmother who had been his wife for less than a month!

She opened her mouth to tell Lady Irene precisely that, only to bite back the words at the last possibly second. If there was ever a time to be intelligent instead of impulsive, it was now. For she hadn’t only lost her father. She had also lost his protection and was, she realized with a sickening thud in the bottom of her gut, completely at the mercy of the woman sitting beside her, smiling as though she were a cat who had just swallowed a very tasty canary.

“Your father was a good man,” Lady Irene continued. “I know we would have been very happy together, just as I know that he would have expected me to care for you as though you were my own daughter should anything ever happen to him. Which is exactly what I intend to do.”

“You – you
do
?” Try as she might, Clara couldn’t keep the shock out of her voice. It pitched it upwards, as though she were attempting to hit a high-note. She cleared her throat and tried again. “You do, Lady Stepmother?”

“But of course.” Were it not for the dark glitter in Lady Irene’s eyes Clara almost would have believed her. “We are a family, Clara. Your father’s unfortunate and tragic death does not change that. Since your father did not have any male heirs, this estate and everything belonging to it will soon be inherited by your uncle. I have already been in contact with Mr. Witherspoon and as he has no intention of leaving Sussex he has graciously allowed us to remain here.”

Clara’s mind whirled. She had never even considered having to leave Windmere. It was her home. The only home she’d ever known. “That – that is quite generous of him,” she managed, not knowing what else to say.

“It is indeed. However, some changes will have to be made. As I am sure you can understand, without your father we are now under considerable financial duress.”

Financial duress? Clara knew her father had never been as wealthy as a duke or even an earl, but he’d managed his money well, investing in various projects and companies which was one of the reasons he had traveled so much. There was also the land itself which yielded quite a few crops including a twenty acre parcel of forest which had just recently been harvested and was waiting to be shipped to market.

She must not know about the lumber,
Clara decided.
Or the wheat or the barley or the apple orchards.
As a thirteen-year-old girl she probably shouldn’t have known about such things either, but she’d always had a vivid interest in the agricultural side of a working estate and her father had encouraged her curiosity.

“Lady Stepmother, the income made from the estate–”

“Is a mere pittance compared to the expenses. Gabriella will be making her debut this season, and in two years you and Henrietta will be doing the same. Do you know how much money it takes to launch a debutante into society? No,” Lady Irene said, her mouth twisting when Clara slowly shook her head. “I thought not. Suffice it to say we shall soon be in debt up to our corsets which is why some changes will need to be made beginning with the servants. Since you know them more than I do, I would like you to make a list of all their names and positions.”

Clara frowned. She was happy to help, but it was a rather odd request. “And then?” she asked, sensing Lady Irene wasn’t quite finished.