Chapter Fourteen
Clara and Pearce were scheduled to depart from Edinburgh the day following Lord Roth’s party.
In between vigorous sessions of lovemaking where Pearce taught her the joys of straddling him in a steaming tub of citrus-scented water, against the wall in her bedchamber when he discovered her preparing for sleep one evening, and once when he brought her to the most mind-dissolving completion using nothing more than his tongue and lips, Clara never forgot the power of Pearce’s revelations.
After giving it tremendous consideration, Clara determined there were a few things she needed to convince Pearce to allow her to do before they left.
She’d given the items a great deal of thought and she truly believed in her heart of hearts that they would be beneficial to both her husband and their marriage.
Knowing her approach was important, she was very careful when she broached the subject of the first item on her list—something she felt she’d very much like to do.
She rose earlier than usual one morning, donned a respectable dress of gray just this side of lavender, and asked Beth to pull her hair back in a simple chignon.
Pearce’s eyes widened in surprise when she descended the stairs and found him still at the table breaking his fast.
“My, but aren’t you awake early this morning,” he commented lightly as he helped her to her chair.
As he sat back down, he frowned at his plate.
“I admit that I am finding it odd that I do not know what you prefer to eat for your morning meal. You’ve always taken it in your chamber.
” He looked at the spread between them—coddled eggs, toast, a rasher of thickly sliced bacon and blood sausage, a pot of tea—and added, “Is there anything else you might prefer?”
As if on cue, a maid breezed in with a soft-boiled egg in its perfect little dish, along with a dainty cup of dark, steaming chocolate.
“This is perfect, thank you,” she said to both Pearce and the maid.
Pearce nodded, pleased that she was satisfied, and returned to his meal.
Clara indulged in a few bites of food as she bolstered her nerves to make her request. When she finally felt ready following a few deep breaths, she made a long, slow exhalation and set aside her spoon.
“There is a request I would like to make.”
“Oh?” Unaware of the direction of her thoughts, mischief danced in his silver eyes. It was difficult to not lose her thoughts when he looked at her like that—especially now that she knew what he was capable of.
“Yes. If you are amenable, I would like very much to visit the place where Anna and Malina are buried.”
Whatever he’d been expecting, it had not been that. Clara felt slightly guilty about her straightforwardness, but Pearce was a blunt man; she trusted that he would appreciate such treatment in return.
He hesitated to respond, a myriad emotions crossing his usually composed features since she’d caught him entirely off-guard with her request.
Gently, she explained, “I wish to pay my respects, especially since I am one of so few people who know of their existence and their importance to you. I feel in my heart that it is the right thing to do.”
Eyes unfocused in thought, Pearce scrubbed his chin. He took so long to respond that Clara nearly worried he wouldn’t answer her at all.
Finally, his eyes met hers, a wary tenseness overshadowing his normal demeanor. “Very well. I will escort you there after the meal.” He seemed reluctant, but Clara viewed his capitulation both as a victory, and a sign that he was further allowing her into the darkest, most guarded part of his life.
True to his word, Pearce had the carriage readied and, after she donned a gray spencer and matching hat, they began their journey to the cemetery.
The set of Pearce’s jaw was incredibly grim, as if he were headed to the funeral all over again.
She couldn’t blame him. All she could do was wordlessly take his hand in hers and relish the way he held onto her as if she kept him steady.
As they stopped at a crossroads waiting for a cart and mule to pass, Clara spied a vendor peddling flowers on the corner and it gave her an idea. Swinging the carriage window open, she made a little wave at the gray-haired peddler to grab her attention.
“What are you doing?” Pearce asked behind her.
“Making a purchase,” she answered, nonchalant.
“Aye, lass. Bonnie blooms for sale,” the woman said, holding up her basket.
Clara selected a mixture of orange calla lilies, apricot foxgloves, and pink zinnias before handing the woman coins from her reticule.
As the carriage resumed its journey, she began to arrange the flowers in her lap, taking great care to make sure the bouquet was just right.
She could feel her husband’s eyes on her as she did so.
“Are you familiar with the language of flowers?” she asked without looking up from her task.
“Not especially,” Pearce responded, his attention still captivated by what she was doing.
She held up an orange calla lily. “This one is for joy and rebirth.” The foxglove was next.
“This, too, represents joy, but also warmth and the balance between grace and resilience.” Finally, she held up the zinnia with its spike-shaped leaves.
“This one is for daily remembrance. It is meant to honor the good memories of a loved one.” There was a twitch in the corner of Pearce’s mouth.
“Flowers can be remarkably versatile in conveying emotions when there simply are not enough words.”
Though he said nothing, his eyes told her that he found this to be a significant gesture. While pleased with his reaction, earning his approval hadn’t been the reason she’d purchased the flowers; it only felt right to her to show kindness to people who had been so important to her husband.
When they arrived at the gate of the churchyard, Pearce helped her down from the carriage and led her, almost trancelike, around the rows of tombs and headstones.
It was a quiet, peaceful space with ancient trees and moss-covered stones in all shapes and sizes, some too worn to read any longer.
She was so distracted by one carving that she nearly collided with Pearce’s back when he stopped before a simple but expensive-looking headstone.
He steadied her with a hand on her elbow before inclining his head to indicate that they had arrived.
Clara, still cradling her bouquet in the crook of her arm, stepped closer and stooped to read the epitaph.
“Anna Malina MacPherson,” Clara whispered aloud.
“Sleep this night in the breast of thy Mother, Sleep, thou beloved, while she herself soothes thee; Sleep thou this night on the Virgin’s arm, Sleep, thou beloved, while she herself kisses thee.
” Clara paused for several long moments, allowing the hauntingly beautiful words to sink into her soul.
Her eyes danced back up to the name at the top of the stone.
“I did not realize Malina was Anna’s middle name. You named your daughter after her?”
Pearce crouched down beside her and, having removed his glove, traced the lettering with his bare fingertips.
“Anna had no middle name. I commissioned it that way because my daughter would not have a stone of her own.” She saw his throat work several times before he continued.
“I needed something to bear her name—something tangible to prove that she’d been here and she’d been loved and wanted. That I hadn’t simply dreamed her up.”
Tears pricked the backs of Clara’s eyes as she nodded in understanding. Reverently, she laid out the flowers at the base of the stone and said a silent prayer to those interred there, promising to watch over Pearce.
“This is where I was on our first day here,” Pearce whispered suddenly.
Clara listened in silence as he explained.
“I hadn’t been back here since the funeral, and I was feeling guilty about it.
I felt like I’d abandoned them here and went on living—that I’d willingly forgotten them.
So, I drank. Once I’d bolstered my courage enough, I snuck in here to visit their grave.
” He gave a self-deprecating laugh. “I spoke to them.” Clara put her hand on his shoulder and he leaned into it.
“I spoke to them of you.” Clara was so deeply moved by the admission that her tears finally spilled over. She quickly swiped them away.
He stood then, bringing her with him, and took her into his arms for a long embrace. After several minutes, they walked arm in arm out of the churchyard and returned home.
Clara felt as if that had gone remarkably well, even if it had been terribly sad, but there was still one more thing she needed her husband to do before they left Edinburgh.
*
“Might we consider opening up the lady’s suite of rooms?” Clara’s inquiry made Pearce’s head snap up from the letter he’d been reading.
After they’d returned home from the churchyard, they’d parted ways so Pearce might complete some work and Clara wished to continue working on one of her paintings. If he’d expected another request from her that day, this one had most certainly not been it.
Pearce’s first reaction was to forbid it; he was emotionally drained from recent events. While there had been something cathartic about the visit to the graveside, he was still depleted from it.
Sliding his spectacles from his nose, he eyed his wife.
Had he sensed the least bit of morbid curiosity in her, he’d have banned her from the lady’s suite and demanded she never make the request again of him.
But there was only kindness and compassion in her eyes—much like when she’d laid those flowers at the base of Anna and Melina’s headstone.
When she looked at him like that, he could deny her nothing.
Heaving a strong sigh of resignation, Pearce stood and retrieved the key he’d hidden in the bottom of a drawer and held it out to her.
Her eyes widened; she’d clearly not expected him to capitulate so easily. The way he saw it, he’d already been tortured by his demons that day, what was once more?
Together, they ascended the stairs. Pearce’s heartbeat grew heavier as they neared the door beside his. Sweat coated his palms and his brow as Clara slid the key into the lock and turned it. He almost shouted at her to stop when she turned the knob, but he fisted his hands and bit his tongue.
He expected to be greeted by the heavy scent of blood, the echoing screams of pain and fear.
Instead, there was only silence and dust motes.
The old mattress had long since been removed and burned.
While most of Anna’s things had been returned to her family, a comb remained on the vanity.
He watched as Clara slowly spun and examined the room and its dusty furnishings, which had once been beautiful and selected with love and a future in mind.
His wife was like a ray of sunshine on a stormy day, a glimmer of hope in a bleak future.
Clara halted and held out her hand to him. He nearly retreated a step, but he stopped. The dark pools of her eyes silently pleaded with him to trust her.
His every muscle screaming in protest and his blood pounding in his ears, Pearce forced himself to take a couple of tentative steps forward.
The ghosts of long-shuttered memories rose up to meet him.
Just as the horrors of that dark day began to creep up the back of his neck, Clara closed the gap between them and held his sweat-slicked hands in her own.
“I can only try to understand how difficult this is for you. It took me many months to walk near my mother’s bedchamber after she passed. What happened here was so much worse, and I am proud of you for accompanying me,” she said reassuringly.
Pearce closed his eyes and nodded once, words failing him.
“You loved Anna and Malina, and you are allowed to be sad about what happened to them. But I ask you to consider how they would feel about the way you have existed this past decade. Would they have wanted you to live this half life of fear? As awful as I am certain that day was, this is just a room. Time passes and life goes on. I will never ask you to forget about them and, while it might be difficult to share you with ghosts and memories, I will gladly do it for you. Anna and Malina are as much a part of you as your smile or your irksome personality.”
The longer she kept him in the room and spoke to him, the more Pearce relaxed.
Instead of his memories, he focused instead on Clara—the (dare he think it) love he saw in her eyes.
He needed her—in his life, as his wife, by his side.
He’d never forget Anna or Malina, but he would not do their memory any justice by neglecting the woman before him.
This was just a room. What breathed life into it was the vibrant hellion before him.
Pearce screwed his eyes shut and pulled Clara into his arms. “Thank you,” he murmured into her hair.
As she hugged him back, Pearce suddenly felt lighter than he had in recent memory.
He finally had someone to share his burden, to help assuage his unbearable guilt, and he felt he could weather almost any obstacle with Clara by his side.