Chapter 12 #2
Still, the duke did not dismiss her. “Shall I finish the dusting, Your Grace?”
He cleared his throat. “By all means, yes. You are excused.”
Clara curtsied deeply, then left the room without looking at him.
There. That had not been so difficult, had it? As long as she wasn’t obliged to look into his eyes, she could keep her wandering heart in order. Being at the lodge the better part of the day, she would be able to avoid him quite easily too.
She finished her dusting, returned her supplies, and found Mrs. Finch to discuss her first visit to the hunting lodge.
The housekeeper was in her quarters, seated at the desk, but she looked up when Clara stopped on the threshold. She motioned for Clara to approach and set her quill in the stand.
“I believe His Grace wished for me to begin at the hunting lodge today, Mrs. Finch.”
“Yes, he said as much. Your first task will be to take an inventory of what is needed there. Do you know how to write?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Very good. You will make an inventory of each room, taking careful note of what is there, the state of it, and what is needed. Candlesticks, linens, rugs, chairs, fire pokers, et cetera. Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
There was a short silence. “Clara, the hurt in your eyes when I volunteered you for this task did not escape me. When you are infatuated with someone, even a small distance feels like torture. But believe me, you will thank me some day for the service I am doing you. When I saw you daring to meet his eye earlier…” She blinked and raised her brows as though the mere thought threatened to overcome her.
“Suffice it to say, my dear, that I have witnessed a fair amount of…intermingling between servant and master in my time. One thing remains a constant in every case: it is not the master who loses at the end of such an affair.” Her pointed gaze rested on Clara.
“Yes, ma’am,” Clara said meekly, though the words pierced more deeply than she cared to admit.
Mrs. Finch opened a drawer and retrieved some parchment, an old quill, and a pot of ink. She handed them to Clara. “Shall I have one of the maids show you the way to the lodge?”
“No, ma’am. I know the way.”
Mrs. Finch’s brows went up, and Clara realized her error.
“That is,” she said, “I understand it is just off the path that leads to the church, is it not?”
The housekeeper removed one key from the large ring at her waist. “It is. Here is the lodge key.” She handed it to Clara, but her grip did not release.
She stared at Clara fixedly. “Guard it with your life. I expect you to return in the afternoon to take the charity baskets the duke mentioned, whether or not the inventory is done. He did speak with you regarding them, did he not?”
“Yes, ma’am. I will be at Rushlake in time to assemble and take them.”
Mrs. Finch dismissed her, and Clara made her way to the store room where the baskets were kept. Mr. Yorke must be hungry again by now, but he would have nothing to eat until this evening if he was obliged to wait until she brought him food.
She retrieved a small wicker basket and laid a clean cloth inside.
Taking a quick gander into the bake room, she spotted a few fresh loaves of bread cooling on the table.
The smell made her mouth water. If she took one of the new loaves, its absence would be noted, so she slipped inside and took from the pile of scraps used for puddings and breadcrumbs.
It was not fresh, but perhaps Mr. Yorke could make toast with it.
She put the food in the basket, covered it with the cloth, then set the writing supplies on top.
The path to the lodge was entirely different in the light of day and without the duke or his brother to pass the time.
But it was beautiful—everything at Rushlake was—and Clara hummed as she passed through the dappled shade of the trees above.
Her life at Rushlake was far from perfect, but she was grateful for it.
The mere thought of returning to The Coach and Lantern made her sick.
When the lodge came into view, she focused on the window of the room she knew Mr. Yorke to be using, but the shades were closed.
The front door unlocked without difficulty, and she stepped inside slowly, then closed and locked it behind her.
With the light of day filling the entry hall, the fine furnishings of the lodge were apparent.
It was not Rushlake, but no expense had been spared here, either.
Dark oak paneling adorned the walls, while the floors boasted polished flagstone in need of a good mopping.
A carved stone fireplace large enough to stand in served as the room’s main attraction.
“Clara!” Mr. Yorke’s head appeared at the top of the stairs, an enormous grin on his handsome face as he rushed down the stairs.
“You have no idea how good it is to see a living, breathing being that is not a mouse. And…” His gaze settled on the basket on her arm, but his face filled with disappointment at the sight of the quill and parchment.
Clara picked them up and set them on the entry table, then pulled the cloth away to reveal the bread.
“You did bring good tidings of great joy,” Mr. Yorke said, taking the quarter of a loaf.
“It is not as much as I might have wished—”
“And yet it is everything I have ever wanted.” He rotated the stale bread in front of his eyes like a trophy.
Clara smiled. “Let us hope its absence goes unnoticed. How are you faring?”
He tore off a piece and popped it into his mouth.
“In near-bliss. The bed is fit for a king, the sheets dry, I can sing as loudly as I please, and twice now, you have brought me delicious food. The only thing I have lacked is company, and you have brought that as well. You are my only friend in the world, Clara. Whatever my brother is paying you, he ought to treble it.”
Clara laughed softly. “I would certainly not be opposed, sir. Would you care to stretch your legs a bit? I must take an inventory of the lodge, but you should have some fresh air first if that appeals to you. I can ensure there is no one about.”
He swallowed forcefully. “I would be forever in your debt.”
Clara unlocked the door and walked around the lodge, looking for a secluded area where Mr. Yorke could spend a bit of time without worrying he would be seen.
There was a small clearing amidst thick trees, intersected by a stream.
She would be able to see it from the windows of the lodge’s east-facing bedchambers.
Mr. Yorke took the basket of bread, a book, and a blanket with him and lay on the ground, half in the sun, half in the shade, while Clara began her inventory in the bedchamber.
She took careful note of what was needed at the lodge, glancing outside periodically to ensure Mr. Yorke was still well and trying not to wonder when she might see the duke next. Would she receive the food for the charity baskets directly from him?
What she should be doing was thinking how she could avoid him.
One of the footmen could set the food aside for Clara to handle in the kitchens. There need be no interaction between her and the duke. She was here to ensure Mr. Yorke remained hidden, not to maximize interaction with her master.
She would keep her distance, and soon enough, her heart would give up its ill-fated desire for more time with the Duke of Rockwood.