Prologue
Clara Everly wanted a love match, and nothing was going to change that.
She was standing in her father’s gallery, having been looking at the new arrivals for what felt like hours. Her hazel eyes focused on a painting, and in an instant, she was lost in the world that was on display before her.
It was a quaint depiction of a wedding, the bride in her perfect white gown with her blonde hair swept up with precision.
Clara envied her and the way she was clearly ready to spend the rest of her life with her new husband.
He was a tall, broad gentleman, and given the extravagance the artist had given it, their match seemed quite the illustrious one.
“Was I missing something about this painting?” a voice came, making her jump slightly.
She turned to see a gentleman standing behind her, bearing a striking resemblance to the man in the painting. His hair was dark and tousled, his eyes a gray-blue, which seemed to bore into her, and she found herself both unable to look away and at quite a loss for words.
“It is nothing,” she managed to say after a moment. “I admire the painter, that is all. John Barkin paints with such realism that one has no choice but to be captivated.”
“I thought the same with some of his other pieces, but this one… I cannot look at it in the same longing way that you were.”
“It was not with longing.”
He merely had to raise an eyebrow at her, and she knew that he had seen too much. Not only that, but she had never been any good at lying. She tucked a stray chestnut curl behind her ear and turned back to the painting.
“It may not be very progressive of me,” she sighed, “but as a little girl, I dreamed of my wedding day. I am seven-and-ten years of age now, and so perhaps that day may soon approach, and it is my hope that my wedding day will be as joyous as this.”
The gentleman laughed heartily at that, and Clara felt herself blush. It was unlike her to speak passionately, especially to strangers, and his reaction hurt her more than she would have liked to admit.
“I know,” she said quickly. “I know that it is not the adventure that gentlemen prefer, but—”
“Oh, no, it is not that. You must not think that I am ridiculing you for what you want, as it is a very noble thing. I completely understand your desires, and I will not pretend that I do not share in them, but your perception of this painting… it is all wrong.”
“Wrong?” she echoed. “I look at artwork each and every day. They are up for our own interpretation.”
“Most of Birkin’s works are, yes, but not this one. That is why I never felt a particular connection to it.”
She looked at him quizzically, and he moved so that he was standing by her side, and they were both looking at the painting.
“You see,” he continued, “this is a depiction of his parents’ wedding. Have you never looked at the title?”
“Animam Agere, but I do not see what that has to do with—”
“To breathe your last breath,” he explained.
“I am rather fond of Latin, you see. I suppose, if you did not know that, you would see this as a great celebration; a very fortunate young couple set to spend their life together blissfully, but that is only the perception of a guest. Did you not wonder why the bride is not smiling?”
Clara looked at it more closely, realizing that she had not truly paid much attention to the faces. Indeed, the bride did not appear happy, nor sad, nor any way at all. Her expression was blank, unfeeling, like that of a corpse.
She shuddered.
“It was an arranged marriage,” the gentleman concluded. “Their parents paid a fortune for the affair, and it was all for nothing. The marriage was miserable, and in the end the mother disappeared into the night, leaving a young Birkin with his father.”
“That is awful,” Clara gasped.
“I can understand her predicament. She must have felt that she had no other choice. That is what the artist said, at least.”
Clara blinked, looking up at him.
“Do you know him?”
“He has held lectures at my university. A fascinating man, though his life was rather tragic. I would be more than happy to arrange a meeting sometime. If that would please you, of course.”
“I would very much like that!”
“Then I shall need your name,” he nodded. “For the purpose of writing to you, of course.”
“It is Clara Everly,” she said with a smile, “the daughter of Viscount Everly.”
At once, she watched his face fall.
“Lord Everly, the owner of this gallery?” he asked. “Have I truly been so pompous before the daughter of a viscount?”
“Perhaps a little, but I truly do not mind. It is nice to be challenged every now and again, otherwise life becomes…”
“Repetitive?”
“Precisely, Lord—do forgive me, I do not believe you told me your name.”
“It is Julian,” he said gently. “Julian Ashford.”
“Then I shall ensure that I do not tell my father of any opinionated Ashfords,” she smiled. “Might he know who you are?”
“He does indeed know me. Our fathers have been friends for years, and your father visited us often, and so I can say with certainty that I do not think he would take too kindly to his daughter corresponding with someone too opinionated.”
“Corresponding?”
“If you wish to.”
Clara simply nodded, knowing that she wished very much to do so.
“In that case,” he said, taking her hand and kissing it, “I shall write to you soon.”
He walked away, and when he reached the door he looked back, his gaze lingering on her for a few precious moments more. She felt her heartbeat quicken, and she did not want him to disappear. Nobody ever discussed art with her in the way that he had done.
They had only ever said that a painting either looked nice or did not, and then the conversation had ended there.
Lord Ashford was different, however, and as passionate as she was, she wished that she was able to attend university so that she could also be given such opportunities to speak with other artists.
As expected, a letter arrived for her within the first few days.
Dear Lady Clara Everly,
I do not know if you would like an apology from me in regard to my behavior, but I wish to give you one all the same. You should know that I am not one to speak with such certainty, nor such attitude. In truth, I was only telling you such things because of my own excitement.
You see, there are not many members of the ton that share my passions. If anything, they find them rather strange, and so when I found someone that seemed interested in what I had to say, I was carried away.
In order to make things right, I would like to hear something from you. I would like you to tell me of your favorite work, and why it is your favorite. You may write pages to me, if you wish. That way, the score will be settled, and I need not feel like such a fool.
Also, in all honesty, I would like to listen to you more.
Yours most respectfully,
Lord Ashford
It was a short letter, but Clara read it over and over.
She had not wanted an apology, nor expected one, for she understood completely how it felt to finally be listened to after so long.
However, she did not wish to lose an opportunity to write about her passions.
She pulled some parchment and a quill out in an instant, moving her ink pot so quickly across her desk that some spilled out, staining the wood.
As requested, she sent a lengthy response discussing a sculpture that her father had housed for years.
It was of a lady; tall with womanly curves and a gentle smile that soothed her each time she saw it.
It had been her preferred piece from the day it arrived, though she had never told her father that.
He never would have believed her, as he would have simply seen it as her trying to be kind to her father.
He was, after all, the artist.
But it was more than that. Her father had a few of his pieces displayed, and she truly did like each and every one, but the statue was different.
The statue was crafted with love—adoration even—and it was a piece that she knew that she had more knowledge of than Lord Ashford, for she knew the subject of the statue. It was her own mother.
It had been crafted the year after her death, when Clara was but eleven years of age. It had been the worst year of Clara’s life, and she knew it had been the same for her father.
They rarely spoke to one another, Clara shutting herself away in her bed chambers and her father in his study. She knew that she had her mother’s eyes, and whenever her father looked at her he remembered his wife and had to leave the room. Though she was hurt, she never blamed him.
It helped when upon his first real outing into the rest of the household, he brought her a small sculpture of the three of them.
She had cried when she saw it, and her father took her in his arms and stroked her hair and promised her that he would never leave her alone again.
The statue of her mother came soon after.
She sat back, having recounted all of this in her letter, and considered burning it. She had never told anyone about that year; it was too personal, too intimate to share without fearing a reaction. And yet, she folded it neatly and sent it to him.
Her heart did not settle until days later, when the response arrived.
Dear Lady Clara Everly,
I cannot believe that all of that happened to you. I must thank you for sharing it with me, as I know that it could not have been easy.
I suppose it is my turn to share some truth about myself with you. I could not possibly fathom such a loss.
Perhaps, on my next visit, you might show the statue to me? You have my word that I will not make any comments about it unless you give me your permission.
I look forward to hearing from you again.
Yours most respectfully,
Lord Ashford
Clara’s fingers trembled as she held the words in her hands.
She knew the feeling that her pounding heart represented.
She was falling for him, and there was no stopping it.
His handwriting was beautiful, his words were beautiful, he was beautiful, and she could not stop herself from writing another reply immediately.
Their correspondence continued, wonderful letters making promises that she had every intention of keeping, and she kept each one he sent in a box beneath her bed, the loveliest of them neatly folded under her pillow.
It was not what a mature lady would do, but she did not care.
He would be her husband one day; she was certain of it.
She kept that certainty long after the letters stopped coming.
She wanted to have faith in him, and so she waited. She spent hours by the window, watching deliveries take place and pretending that it did not hurt when her household was passed by. Clara waited dutifully, keeping her hope, but she knew the truth.
Nothing more would come, and she was alone once more.