Chapter 5
Chapter
Five
The scent of coffee and toasted bread lingered as sunlight streamed through Ravensmere House.
Clementine sat beside Rosalind at breakfast, absentmindedly tracing circles in her porridge.
Though she tried to appear attentive, her mind drifted between last night’s ballroom and her tasks ahead at the Haven.
“You were rather quiet last night,” Rosalind said, pouring herself a fresh cup of tea. “I confess, I half-expected you to fall asleep while standing.”
“I nearly did,” Clementine admitted, smiling faintly. “But I managed to stay upright until we left. That must count for something.”
“It does,” Rosalind replied. “Though you truly looked ready to collapse. You mustn’t push yourself so hard, dearest. Yesterday was your first full day at the shelter, was it not? I cannot imagine it being easy.”
“It was not.” Clementine sipped her tea. “But I felt useful. That is something I have not been able to say in some time.” Pride warmed her. After only a day, her hands bore faint marks from labor, which she valued more than all her jewels.
Rosalind sighed, her spoon pausing mid-stir. “Still, you should rest today. I know how determined you can be, but no one expects you to reform all of London before luncheon.”
Clementine smiled at her sister’s teasing tone but shook her head. “I have already promised Miss Linton that I would return. There is much to be done, and I could not bear to stay idle while others work.”
“Miss Linton wrote to you already?” Rosalind’s brow arched.
“She did.” Clementine reached for the folded note beside her plate. “It arrived not long ago.” She opened it again and scanned the neat handwriting. “She says that May has absconded during the night.”
“Oh, dear.” Rosalind’s expression softened. “Is that a bad thing, do you suppose? Do they know why she fled?”
Clementine shook her head and explained to Rosalind what had happened the day before.
“It is worrisome for certain, and Miss Linton states she noted May was resting comfortably before supper. They believe she may have panicked and fled sometime before dawn. She also writes that they are expecting a delivery of new blankets today and that all hands are welcome.”
“And so you mean to go,” Rosalind said, though it was hardly a question.
“I do.”
Rosalind set down her cup with a quiet sigh. “Clementine, I love your generous heart, but you look as though a stiff breeze could knock you flat. Would you not consider taking just one morning to recover?”
Clementine met her sister’s gaze, affection mingling with defiance. Her limbs were heavy, her shoulders sore, but she felt lighter than she had in years. Exhaustion was a small price for purpose. Helping at the shelter was more than duty—it was something she needed to feel she mattered.
“I will rest when I am no longer needed,” she said gently. “And right now, they need me.”
Rosalind regarded her a moment longer before giving a resigned smile. “You truly are our most stubborn sister.”
“Perhaps,” Clementine said, grinning. “But stubbornness can be a virtue when one’s cause is just.”
Rosalind laughed softly. “Spoken like a woman determined with her cause, however, changing the subject a moment. Lord Jermyn seemed taken with you last night.”
Clementine blinked, then chuckled. “Taken? Hardly. I believe he was counting the minutes until the dance ended.”
Rosalind looked surprised. “Nonsense. I saw him escort you to the floor myself, and he appeared very pleased indeed.”
“Yes, and he likely regretted it before the first turn,” Clementine replied as she stirred her tea, thoughtful. “He grew rather short-tempered when I mis stepped. Though nothing overt, his smile grew tight and his words clipped, which made the experience most unpleasant.”
“Perhaps he was nervous,” Rosalind suggested.
“Or perhaps he has a temper.” Clementine set down her spoon, her tone firming. “If he cannot tolerate a misstep during a dance, what kind of man would he be in marriage? One wrong word, one mistake, and I daresay his patience would vanish altogether.”
Rosalind tilted her head, studying her. “That is a very…decisive observation after a single quadrille.”
“It is,” Clementine admitted, “but after yesterday, I cannot dismiss a man’s temper.” The image of May’s bruised face and haunted eyes lingered in her mind. Clementine steadied herself.
“I now know too well what happens when men lose their temper. I will never allow myself to be in a position where I must fear the man I wed.”
Rosalind reached across the table and clasped her hand gently. “No one would ever expect you to, dearest.”
“I know,” Clementine said softly. “But I’ve seen what fear looks like, Rosalind. I have heard it in a woman’s voice. And if I’m ever to marry, it shall be to a man who is kind, patient, and gentle—a safe haven, not a storm.”
The words came from deep within her, an unshakable conviction born not from romance, but from resolve. What she had witnessed at the shelter—the cost of unchecked anger—made her determined never to subject herself to such fear.
Rosalind nodded slowly, the corners of her mouth curving in quiet pride. “Then you shall have exactly that, I am certain.”
They finished breakfast in companionable silence. The ticking clock and distant clatter from the kitchens filled the air.
Rosalind broke the quiet. “The ball was enjoyable enough, though I suspect you barely noticed.”
“I tried,” Clementine said with a small laugh. “The music was lovely, and the decorations exquisite. But I could not help thinking of those at The Haven. It felt…strange to waltz beneath crystal chandeliers when only hours earlier I had scrubbed floors lit by candle stubs.”
Rosalind’s expression softened. “You have always had a tender heart, my love. Perhaps too tender.”
“Or perhaps it has just taken me this long to find the right place for it,” Clementine murmured. She sipped her tea, looking out the window at the sprawling city. She wondered how many women suffered while London remained oblivious.
“I shall send word to the coachman,” she said after a moment. “If I leave within the hour, I’ll arrive at The Haven by mid-morning. There will be much to do before luncheon.”
Rosalind sighed, though her eyes shone with affection. “Very well. But you are to be back before the lamps are lit. And you are to eat something more substantial than tea.”
Clementine laughed. “I promise I shall.”
Her sister smiled and rose, gathering her letters. “I have errands to see to, so I shall not keep you. But please, take care today. You may think yourself invincible, but fatigue is a cruel master.”
“I will be careful,” Clementine said, even as excitement fluttered within her. Helping at the shelter stirred her more than any ball or suitor ever could.
When Rosalind left, Clementine remained seated for a while, the morning quiet pressing softly around her. She reread Miss Linton’s note, her gaze lingering on the final line—We look forward to seeing you again today. All hands are welcome.
All hands. She smiled. Her hands, though soft, could still serve. If that meant sore fingers and fatigue, she welcomed it. She would not return to idleness.
She folded the note and tucked it into her reticule. The coach would soon be ready, and for the first time, Clementine knew exactly where she belonged.