CHAPTER 5 #2
"He threatened everything. He gave me the ultimatum, that I could either be a duke or your friend…not both. He threatened to ruin your father, evict your family and make sure that you would never find decent employment anywhere…”
"So you chose to protect us by abandoning me?"
"I chose to be a coward who convinced himself he was being noble."
"Gabriel…"
"I told myself you'd be fine. You were always so strong, so clever.
You'd forget about me, find better friends, and that you would find a husband, some decent man who could give you a proper life.
" He laughed bitterly. “Alas, you arrived half-perished upon my doorstep, owing to my extraordinary inability to protect you with any competence, even with distance intervening.”
Clara absorbed this, turning it over in her mind like a puzzle piece that explained the picture but didn't excuse it.
"You could have told me," she said finally. "In a letter. You could have explained the circumstances to me.”
"What would you have done?"
She considered lying, then decided against it. “Doubtless, some act of great drama and folly. Such as defying your father to his face, or perhaps absconding to join a crew of buccaneers.”
"Buccaneers?"
“I had acquired an interest in buccaneers that summer.”
“Indeed. As I recall.”
They were smiling at each other now, small, tentative smiles that felt dangerous and necessary all at once.
"I truly am sorry" Gabriel said. “For the entirety of my conduct.”
"I know."
"Can you forgive me?"
Clara considered. "I can try. But Gabriel, forgiveness isn't a single act. It's a process. And right now, I'm still too angry and hurt and... confused to just absolve you because you finally explained."
"That's fair."
"But I can try."
"That's more than I deserve."
"Yes, it is."
He actually smiled at that, a real smile that transformed his face, scar and all. “Your candour is yet too great for your own preservation.”
“Are you still convinced you deserve punishment for your father's sins?"
"They're my sins too."
"Yes. But not only yours."
Edmund's voice echoed from somewhere in the house: "Gabriel! Where are you hiding? Margaret has sent more food, and I'm not leaving until I watch Miss Whitfield eat it!"
Gabriel sighed. “He is as relentlessly tenacious as a game dog.”
"He cares about you."
“He is excessively meddlesome.”
“They are by no means incompatible.”
"In here, Edmund!" Gabriel called. "And cease your shouting! This is a duke's residence, not a fish market!"
“I beg to differ.” He responded as he took in the scene before him.
Edmund unpacked his basket with the efficiency of someone used to managing Gabriel. "Margaret's worried you're both going to starve. She's probably right."
"We're fine," Gabriel protested.
"You had salt tea."
"It was an experiment in flavor."
“It was an act entirely repugnant to all virtuous conscience.”
Clara laughed, then quickly covered it with a cough when Gabriel glared at her.
“Please refrain from giving him encouragement,” Gabriel said.
"Someone has to. You've discouraged him enough for three lifetimes."
“Pray, observe that I am presently situated here.” Edmund protested.
“We are well aware. You are a figure quite impossible to overlook.” Gabriel said.
"I'm exactly the right amount of noticeable."
"You're wearing a purple waistcoat."
"It's aubergine."
"It's attention-seeking."
"It's fashion-forward."
"It's hideous."
"Margaret likes it."
"Margaret loves you. She'd like you in sackcloth."
"True," Edmund agreed cheerfully. "I'm devastatingly lovable."
"You're devastatingly something."
Clara ate while they bickered, marveling at the easy friendship between them. This was clearly an old rhythm, comfortable despite Gabriel's prickliness. Edmund knew exactly how far to push, when to retreat, when to press forward with gentle humor.
"So, Miss Whitfield," Edmund said, turning his attention to her. "The village is alight with gossip about you."
Clara stiffened. "Oh?"
"The mysterious woman who appeared at the duke's door in a snowstorm. Very suspicious, indeed according to Mrs. Weatherby."
"Everything's suspicious to Mrs. Weatherby," Gabriel said. "She believes the baker's putting French flour in the bread."
"To be fair, he did wed that French girl."
"Twenty years ago."
"The French play the long game."
“Indeed? I fear I cannot quite apprehend the logic of the matter.”
Clara relaxed slightly. "What is it that they are on about?"
Edmund grinned. “The usual nonsensical rumour, of course. They believe you to be Gabriel's kept woman, or perhaps a spy employed by the French government, a scheming mercenary, or, what is far more diverting, a perfect trinity of scandal.”
"Efficient of me."
"That's what I said! Margaret had to elbow me in church."
"You were defending my honor?" Clara asked, amused.
"I was defending logic. If you were a fortune hunter, you'd have picked someone with a fortune."
"I have a fortune," Gabriel protested.
"You have an estate that's falling apart and a reputation that sends debutantes running."
"The estate is...homely.”
"The estate is a tragedy."
"And my reputation is exactly how I wish it to be."
"Your reputation is that you're mad, bad, and dangerous to know."
"That was Byron."
"And now it's you. Congratulations on the company."
Gabriel threw a piece of bread at him. Edmund caught it, looking delighted.
"He hasn't done that in years," he told Clara. "You're good for him."
"I'm temporary," Clara said firmly.
"So is everything, philosophically speaking."
Edmund rose swiftly, brushing crumbs from his waistcoat. “I must now take my leave. Margaret is awaiting my arrival.”
"Please thank her," Clara said.
"When shall we be expecting you again?” Gabriel asked with the tone of someone hoping the answer was 'never.'
"Tomorrow, most likely. Or whenever Margaret makes more food. Or whenever I'm bored. Or…"
"Goodbye, Edmund."
“It is time I departed." Edmund gave Clara a small bow. "Miss Whitfield, It was a great delight. Mind that his company does not disturb your reason.”
“I shall try my very best.”
"That's all any of us can do."
After he left, the kitchen felt oddly empty. Clara began cleaning up, aware of Gabriel watching her every movement.
"You don't have to do that now," he said.
"If not now, when?"
"Later."
"When later?"
"Later…much later."
"That's not a time."
"It's a concept."
"It's procrastination."
“It is the same.”
Clara continued cleaning, and after a moment, Gabriel stood to help. They worked in silence, moving around each other with surprising ease, as if their bodies remembered a rhythm their minds had forgotten.
They were standing close now, Clara holding a dish towel, Gabriel still holding the plate broke the silence.
"This is quite pleasant,” Clara said without thinking.
Gabriel's smile faded. "Clara…"
"I know. I know we can't... I know this isn't... I just meant that it's pleasant, not fighting and hurting one another. Not fighting or hurting each other."
“We appear remarkably skilled at causing each other distress.”
"We're better at this."
"Are we?"
"We could be."
"Could isn't the same as are."
“Not quite, no, but it is certainly the beginning.”
Gabriel set down the plate carefully. "I have no wish to cause you pain yet again.”
"Then don't."
"It's not that simple."
"It could be."
They stood facing each other for a moment.
"I should go," Clara said finally. "Check on the morning room. Make sure you haven't destroyed it again."
"I only did that once."
"Twice."
"The second time was an accident."
"How do you accidentally mess up a room?"
"I was looking for something."
"What?"
Gabriel paused. "A book."
"Which book?"
Another pause. "A journal."
Clara's breath caught. "My journal? The one you gave me?"
"You kept it?"
“You sought it out?”
They stared at each other, as another piece of the puzzle slowly fell into place.
"I wanted to see," Gabriel said quietly, "if you'd written about me…after..."
"I did."
"What did you say?"
"Nothing repeatable in polite company."
“Then it is a good thing we're not polite company."
"Gabriel..."
"I know. Inappropriate. Employer, employee. I'll stop."
But he didn't move away, and neither did Clara. The kitchen felt smaller suddenly, warmer, charged with possibility and danger in equal measure.
"The morning room," Clara said weakly.
"Can wait."
"You're impossible."
"You've mentioned."
"I'm going now."
"Alright."
Neither moved.
"Gabriel."
"Clara."
"This is a terrible idea."
"The worst."
"We should be sensible."
"Absolutely."
"Then why aren't we moving?"
"Excellent question."
Clara backed toward the door. "I'll just... morning room."
"I'll just... library. Brooding to do."
"Very well. Excellent…I wish upon you a good brooding."
She fled, her face burning and her heart racing.
Despite the impossibility of it all, Clara found herself smiling as she walked toward the morning room.
She was definitely in trouble.
But at least it was interesting trouble.