CHAPTER 3 #3
"I mean, Miss Whitfield, that you're right. You will pay me back. With labor."
"I'm not going to be your mistress."
"Good Heavens, woman, I'm scarred, not desperate." The insult stung more than she cared to admit. "Look at this place. Take a long look."
For the first time, Clara properly observed the library. Dust covered every surface. Books were stacked haphazardly. The windows were grimy. It looked like a mausoleum for literature.
"The whole house is in this condition?” Gabriel continued. "I dismissed the staff, as I could not bear their incessant stares nor their whispers, even though this all needs immediate attention.”
“I strongly suggest you make additions to your staff.”
“Patience, you say? I was nearly driven to madness by the last housekeeper, merely for humming while she went about her duties.
No, that simply will not do. What I truly require is a servant who already understands my intolerable disposition. Someone who will not give in their notice at the first word of my unpardonable temper.
Someone whose circumstances are too dire to permit their departure.
“Your Grace, Your testimonial is so charming.”
"I'm not trying to flatter you. I merely wish to make my suit of you, just as you are making your claim upon my roof for shelter. At least, in this manner, we are entirely candid in our dealings.”
Clara Took a moment to ponder over his proposal, even though it was humiliating, but it was also practical, and she was considered above all things now, a practical woman.
“And what precisely are the conditions of this arrangement?”
"Room, board, and a small wage. In exchange, you'll clean, organise, and generally make this place livable. You'll do it quietly, without complaint, and without trying to fix me or befriend me or whatever sentimental nonsense you might be considering."
"How long?"
"Until spring. When the roads clear and positions open up elsewhere. I'll even give you a reference, claim you worked for some fictional cousin. Respectable enough to get you hired somewhere far from here."
“And should I refuse?”
"Then you leave today, as you said. I'll have Edmund drive you to the village inn. You can explain to them how you'll pay with no money and no belongings except a ruined dress and stolen boots."
He had her cornered and they both knew it. However, Clara held one last advantage to use.”
"The gardens," she said.
"What about them?"
"They're part of the estate, aren't they? Part of what needs tending?"
“The gardens are utterly withered."
"Our rose isn't."
He went very still. "That's not…"
"Those are my terms," Clara interrupted. "I'll clean your dusty mausoleum, I'll organize your life, and I’ll tolerate your moods. But I will also tend the gardens. Or I leave now and take my chances at the inn."
“I assure you, your present circumstances do not permit you to dictate terms.”
"Neither are you. You are in need of assistance, whether you admit it or not. And despite your beastly behaviour, you would never actually allow me to freeze to death. Your conscience, whatever's left of it, won't allow it."
“You are wagering your very existence.”
"I'm wagering my life on the boy who once spent three hours helping me bandage a bird's broken wing."
"That boy is…"
“No longer here, yes, you have mentioned. Several times, actually. The lady doth protest too much, methinks."
His breath hissed out between his teeth. "You're insufferable."
"You're cruel."
"Then we're well matched."
"For a business arrangement," Clara added firmly. "Nothing more."
“Goodness gracious, spare us that affliction!” He said with such vehemence that it hurt. "Fine. The gardens too. But you work alone. You shall not receive any assistance, and I shall not hear of any complaints should you find any encumbrance.” No complaints when you can't manage it."
“It is agreed.”
“And you are to remain entirely away from the east wing.”
"Why…"
"Those are my terms."
Clara nodded. "Agreed."
They sat there, terms and agreements completed, still wrapped in each other like lovers while negotiating like enemies. The irony wasn't lost on either of them.
"There's one more thing," Gabriel said quietly.
"What?"
"My scar. You'll have to look at it every day. It gets worse in daylight. People have literally run from me in the street. Children cry. If it is too much for you…”
"Gabriel." She used his name deliberately and felt him tense. "Your face is the least ugly thing about you at this moment.”
He made a sound that could have been a laugh or a sob. “You were ever too candid for your own advantage.”
"And you always were too convinced your worth was tied to your appearance. Your father's doing, I assume?"
“Do not continue.”
“Very well. “ Your imperfection is of no concern to me. My only regard is to secure a roof above my head and sustenance for my table. Your very countenance might be entirely effaced, and so long as my wages are forthcoming, I shall remain to tend to your library.”
"How mercenary of you."
“You taught me well, Your Grace."
They fell silent again. Outside, dawn was properly breaking, painting the frozen world in shades of pearl and gold. Inside, two people who'd once cared deeply for each other sat in bitter proximity, negotiating survival rather than affection.
"You'll need clothes," he said finally, practically. "I'll have Edmund's wife send some things."
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me. It's part of your wages. It will be highly improper for my housekeeper to wander around in her undergarments. The rumors would be insufferable."
"Heaven forbid the Duke of Ashbourne suffer rumors."
"I don't suffer them. I ignore them. There's a difference."
"Of course there is."
More silence. Then, because Clara couldn't help herself: "Do you ever go there? To the garden?"
"No."
"But you said the rose…"
"I can see it from my window. It's everywhere now. It has completely overtaken that section of wall."
"You could have had it removed."
"I tried. It grew back. Rather like yourself, actually. It is quite impossible to be rid of it entirely.”
Clara didn't know whether to be insulted or oddly touched. "I'm going to make it beautiful again."
"It's withered, Clara. Everything in that garden is withered except that cursed rose."
"Then I'll bring it back to life."
"You can't resurrect the past."
“I have no wish to do so I'm trying to survive the present.”
He sighed, and she felt it through her whole body. "Aren't we all?"
The clock struck seven on the hour. Morning had properly arrived, and with it, the harsh reality of what they'd agreed to. Master and servant. Employer and employee. Two strangers who happened to share a history neither could acknowledge.
"Edmund will return with clothes and food," Gabriel said, shifting slightly. "Until then, you should rest."
"I've been resting."
"You've been unconscious. There's a difference."
"You're full of differences today."
"I'm full of differences every day. You'll learn."
It sounded like a threat and a promise all at once. Clara closed her eyes, overwhelmed by everything, the pain, the humiliation, the bizarre twist of fate that had brought her back to the one person she'd sworn never to need again.
"I won't make this easy for you," Gabriel said quietly.
"I wouldn't expect you to."
"I'm difficult, demanding, and deliberately cruel."
"I observed."
“I shall ensure you rue the day you ever set foot in this house.”
“You have already.”
He made that sound again, not quite laugh, and not quite sob. "Why did you really come here, Clara? The truth this time."
She thought about lying, about protecting herself with whatever fiction might make this bearable. But she was too tired, too broken, and too empty for anything but honesty.
"Because even your cruelty felt safer than being alone," she whispered.
His arms tightened around her, just for a moment, before he forced them to relax. "You're a nothing but a simpleton."
"Yes."
"You should have stayed away."
"Yes."
"This won't end well."
"Nothing ever does."
They sat there as the sun rose higher, filling the dusty library with light that revealed everything, the decay, the neglect, the two damaged people clinging to each other while pretending they weren't.
Clara thought about their rose, growing wild somewhere beyond these walls. About grafts that took against all odds. About things that survived even when they shouldn't.
She'd survive this too. She'd survive him, his cruelty, and his coldness. She'd survive because she had no other choice, and because somewhere under all that ice was still the boy who'd taught her that two different things could grow together into something new.
Even if that something was twisted and thorny and nothing like what they'd planned.
"Welcome to Ashbourne Hall, Miss Whitfield," Gabriel said with mock formality. "May your employment be brief and forgettable."
"Thank you, Your Grace," she replied with equal mockery. "May your temper be manageable and your cruelty limited to verbal rather than physical."
"I don't beat women."
“How wonderfully comforting. You merely destroy their consequence with your discourse.”
“Indeed. Diligence ever leads to a proficiency of the tongue.”
Despite everything, Clara found herself almost smiling. This was terrible. He was terrible. The whole situation was a disaster of pride and desperation and unspoken history.
But she was alive. She was warm. She had a position, however strange and abnormal, and a roof over her head.
And somewhere in this ruined house, beneath all his scars, the visible one and the invisible ones, was still Gabriel. Changed, damaged, cruel, but still him.
That would have to be enough.
Her situation was very much improved since she had come here with her stolen boots.
And infinitely more dangerous to her heart.