Sapphire in the Shadows (Heiress #6)
Chapter 1
Chapter
One
Clementine sat with her four sisters who were in London for the Season, Isabella away for the duration since she was newly married.
She was glad to see them all gathered at the dining table, where she had called them together to discuss a very important matter—one she hoped to gain their approval on.
A vase of early-spring blooms—pale-pink roses and white hyacinths—rested at the center of the table, their delicate fragrance mingling with the lingering warmth of freshly poured tea.
Each of her sisters turned their attention to her. Rosalind sat at the head of the table, hands neatly folded on the polished mahogany surface. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, glinting off silver centerpieces, making the moment feel far more formal than Clementine wished.
Outside, the distant rattle of carriage wheels along the street filtered faintly through the glass, a reminder of the bustling London world beyond the calm of the house.
They all looked eager about what she might say.
She hoped she didn’t disappoint them. Did they expect her to announce a betrothal?
An interest in one of the many young men they’d introduced to her this past week?
A small, niggling doubt twisted in Clementine’s stomach, a flutter that made her palms slightly damp.
She was certain once she disclosed her true purpose, their enthusiasm would fade.
What if they laughed? Worse—what if they pitied her for wishing for something more than gowns and dancing? No, they would not do that. None of them were shallow.
“What is it?” Evangeline asked, sipping her tea.
“We’re excited to hear,” Cordelia said, glancing at Rosalind, who nodded.
“Is it about your gowns?” Rosalind asked. “We can shop again if you need more for the Season.”
Clementine waved their concerns aside. She certainly didn’t need more gowns, shoes, hats, or gloves—she had more than enough.
Silks and satins filled her wardrobe like a riot of color, reminders of luxury she rarely appreciated.
The thought of yet another afternoon spent selecting ribbons and lace made her chest tighten with a quiet restlessness she could not easily explain.
Bringing herself back to the reason for the gathering, she drew a steady breath.
“As you know, the Season’s pace starts to increase this week, and you’ve all been more than generous with preparing everything for my entrance into society.
And while I understand that as a duke’s daughter, now under the guardianship of dearest Ravensmere, there are expectations for me to marry and have a successful Season, I also believe a truly successful Season must also include one’s moral obligation to society. ”
Her sisters stared, exchanging uncertain, anxious glances, the anticipation on their faces dissolving into surprise. Even the maid stationed discreetly near the door seemed to pause, the faint clink of porcelain against the tray in her hands momentarily stilled.
Clementine broke the silence, using the most cajoling voice she possessed. “In that vein, I would like to volunteer my time at The Haven Women’s Shelter in St. Giles.”
Silence fell. Clementine noticed Cordelia’s brow furrow as Rosalind pressed her lips together, both clearly unsettled by the announcement.
The only sound came from the faint ticking of the ormolu clock on the mantel.
Clementine smiled, hoping to ease whatever concerns brewed among them.
Her heart thudded painfully in her chest. The pause stretched.
Evangeline bit her lip, as if searching for the right thing to say. Had she misjudged everything?
“It’s not common,” she went on, “for a lady of my standing to wish to work in such conditions, I know. But I cannot sit by and pretend there aren’t women in need of help living mere streets away from the grandeur of Mayfair.”
“You want to work at a woman’s shelter?” Rosalind said, staring at her.
“Not work, exactly. Volunteer and help,” Clementine corrected gently, although in truth, they were the same thing.
“I could be useful there. With our connections, I could raise funds for women who have fallen on hard times—women who are abused and cannot escape their situations. I know I can’t save everyone, but it would give me purpose.
I promise by night I’ll do everything expected of me at balls and parties.
I’ll be the best-behaved debutante in London.
But by day…please, let me have some purpose.
I cannot sit around all day drinking tea and discussing what we’ll no doubt discuss again later that evening. It will drive me mad.”
Surely they must see how empty such days were, how every polite conversation seemed to circle endlessly around the same trivial concerns.
“You used to volunteer at the church at home,” Evangeline said. “But how did you even learn of this shelter? You’ve been in town for a week.”
“There was a sister who volunteered at the church back home,” Clementine replied.
“She mentioned the London shelter, where women of all faiths—along with others like me—give their time. I’d like to help there too.
Only for several hours each day. I’ll come home for luncheon if time allows, and I’ll be ready for dinner and our evening entertainments.
I promise it won’t interfere with my finding a suitable husband. ”
But the thought of securing a husband seemed pale, almost empty beside the fierce longing in her chest to do something that mattered. Purpose tugged at her more urgently than any dazzling prospect on the marriage market ever could.
Cordelia exchanged glances with the others before meeting Clementine’s eyes, her own clouded with worry.
“You have always been so kind and the sweetest of us all. I would not object to you helping the less fortunate, but…could this put you in danger? What type of people frequent this place? What if something happens—some crazed husband or irate lover storms in? I couldn’t bear it if harm came to you. ”
“There is security,” Clementine said, leaning forward, eager to convince them.
Her fingers tightened around her teacup, the porcelain warm against her skin.
“I’ll be perfectly safe. These women are battered and abused, and they need help and support.
I can bring that. Our family’s name and connections will draw aid.
I don’t expect you to come with me, only to let me go. ”
If she could persuade them now, perhaps the door to this new purpose would finally open.
“We’re not indifferent to the less fortunate,” Rosalind said. “I give to charities every year.”
“And that is honorable,” Clementine said with warmth. “But I wish to volunteer there. To help them sew clothing, tend their wounds—physical and mental—if I can. To be a friend. Even if I’m only useful for practical things—organizing donations, ensuring they have bedding and hot water—I’m capable.”
The very thought of it awoke a fierce, growing resolve within her—hot and urgent—dwarfing the flat, fluttering excitement that any ball invitation could ever ignite.
Rosalind sighed. “St. Giles isn’t safe. There are vagrants in those streets.”
“I’ll not be there after dark,” Clementine assured her. “I’ll take a footman if that helps. I’ll even carry a flintlock if it would make you happy.”
“No gun,” Rosalind added quickly.
“I think she should go,” Angelica murmured. “It’s right, and it’s the Christian thing to do.”
Clementine nodded, watching them carefully as Rosalind tapped the table and folded her hands again, her thoughtful gaze suggesting she was weighing Clementine’s words, but not so adverse to say no.
“Very well. I shall speak to the duke. If he agrees and the place is secure—and if you’re escorted by the burliest footman available—I see no reason against it.
But daylight hours only. You are back here by four o’clock sharp.
If anything happens, even the smallest incident, this ends immediately. Do I make myself clear?”
Clementine exhaled, relief washing through her. “Perfectly clear. Thank you. I promise, nothing shall happen.” Excitement rushed through her—a tidal wave so powerful she almost sagged in her chair. Gratitude filled her chest, sharp and sweet, nearly bringing tears to her eyes.
Each of her sisters stood and began to drift from the dining room, their skirts whispering across the floor, the faint scent of tea and victory clinging to the air. Clementine followed, her heart soaring.
Sunlight spilled across the hallway floor, warming the patterned parquet and casting soft, golden shapes against the pale paneled walls. Everything seemed brighter now, full of life and opportunity.
She longed to leap for joy but contained herself, her heart tripping wildly.
Polite farewells left her lips as she quickly excused herself.
Running upstairs, she nearly danced with exhilaration across the rugs.
A maid carrying fresh linens stepped aside with a startled smile as Clementine hurried past, clearly unable to hide her excitement.
She sat at her small writing desk, eager to pen a letter to Miss Linton, who managed the shelter. The lady would be pleased to hear that her sisters had granted permission.
Tomorrow, Clementine would begin her small effort to lift others —her spirit alive with a mix of trepidation and fierce joy—and finally give meaning and substance to her existence amid the glittering world she had been born into.
For the first time since arriving in London, the Season didn’t loom like a burdensome performance, but beckoned as something luminous and real. Something she could finally make her own.