CHAPTER 6
The morning room, was as to be expected, in a complete state of disarray.
This was not created by Gabriel’s hand, on the contrary, this was years of accumulated neglect creating this chaos.
Sheets covered furniture like ghosts, dust motes danced in the weak sunlight filtering through grimy windows, and there was a distinctly ominous stain on the carpet that Clara decided not to investigate too closely.
She set to work with perhaps more vigor than necessary, trying to burn off the restless energy from the kitchen encounter.
Every surface she cleaned, every piece of furniture she uncovered, felt like excavating the past, here was the piano no one had played in years, there the writing desk where someone had once written letters, there the window seat where someone had sat and looked out at gardens that weren't yet dead.
“If you continue at this pace, you will create a hole in the centre of that table.”
Clara did not start this time as she was learning to anticipate unexpected visits.
"Have you no weighty matters to ponder?”
Gabriel lounged in the doorway, observing her work vigorously on her task at hand.
"What happened here?" Clara asked, gesturing at the stain.
"Incident with port, a cat and possibly a small fire."
"Pray tell! All at once?"
"It was an eventful evening."
"When?"
"Two years ago? Three? Time blurs together when you're slowly taking leave of your senses.”
Clara paused in her scrubbing. “Are you taking leave of your senses?”
“It is quite probable. Yet, would you observe the change?”
“I daresay you might be a far more agreeable companion if you had lost your wits.”
He entered the room properly, ghosting around the edges like he was afraid to disturb the dust she hadn't gotten to yet. His fingers trailed over surfaces, leaving marks in the grime.
"My mother loved this room," he said suddenly. "Called it her sanctuary. She'd play the piano for hours while Father was at Parliament."
"Did you inherit her musical ability?"
"I inherited her inability to suffer fools gladly. The musical ability went to my sister."
Clara straightened. "You have a sister?"
"Had. Scarlet fever. She was seven."
"Gabriel, I'm so…"
"It was a long time ago. Before you and I even met."
But Clara could see the loss in the way he looked at the piano, like it might start playing ghostly melodies if he stared hard enough.
"Play something," she said impulsively.
"I don't play."
"You just said…"
"I said I didn't inherit the ability. I didn't say I never learned."
“Pray,favour me with a melody.”
"The piano's probably out of tune."
"So are you most of the time, but we endure you."
He shot her a look that was part annoyance, part amusement. "That doesn't even make sense."
"Play something, Gabriel."
"Why?"
"Because this room has been silent for too long. Because your mother would want it filled with music again. Because I'm asking you to."
"The last one's not a reason."
"It's three reasons. I most earnestly implore you.”
A small sigh escaped his lips as he submitted. He lifted the piano lid, fingers hovering over the keys. "It's been years."
"It's like riding a horse."
“Play something cheerful,” Clara spoke quickly as she could sense his dark mood.
“I regret that I am not familiar with any cheerful melodies,”
“That, is indeed, a sad sentiment.”
"I'm a scarred duke hiding in his crumbling estate.”
"Play a waltz then."
"Why a waltz?"
"Because waltzes are inherently hopeful, with all that exhilarating round of dancing and its promise."
"That's the strangest description of a waltz I've ever heard."
?Please, proceed.”
He positioned his hands, paused, and then began to play. The melody that emerged was indeed a waltz, though played with a melancholy edge that turned it into something else, not quite sad, not quite happy, but somewhere in between. Like the player himself.
Clara found herself swaying slightly, unable to help it. The music filled the room, chasing out the shadows and silence, bringing it back to life in a way her cleaning couldn't.
"Dance with me," she said without thinking.
Gabriel's hands stilled. "What?"
"Dance with me. I'm already swaying. You're already playing. It seems efficient."
"I can't play and dance simultaneously."
"Then just dance."
"Clara…"
“A single dance. To put the spirits to rest and summon gaiety back to this desolate room.”
"We're two people in a dusty room who could use a moment of not being miserable."
Gabriel looked at her for a long moment, then stood from the bench. "I should warn you, I'm a terrible dancer."
"You were fine at fourteen."
"That was before…" He gestured vaguely at his face.
"Your feet weren't injured."
"No, but my sense of balance was along with my general ability to not be a disaster."
"One dance, Gabriel. I promise not to judge your disasters."
He moved toward her slowly, as if approaching a spooked animal. Or perhaps he was the spooked animal. When he finally stood before her, Clara realised how much taller he'd gotten, she had to look up now, when once they'd been nearly eye level.
"I don't remember how to do this," he said quietly.
"It's like swimming."
"We established I'm bad at swimming."
"Then it's like... breathing."
"I'm currently bad at that too."
And he was as she could hear his breath coming quick and shallow as he placed one hand at her waist, the other taking hers. The contact, even through layers of fabric, sent sparks through Clara's entire body.
"Now what?" Gabriel asked, his voice rough.
"Now we move."
"Where?"
"Around."
"That's very specific."
“Gabriel, has no one ever observed that you are perhaps too inclined to reflection?”
"Constantly."
"Just... follow the music."
"There is no music."
"Then follow the memory of music."
And somehow, that worked. They began to move, slowly, awkwardly at first, but then finding a rhythm that belonged only to them. Gabriel's hand at her waist was warm, steady despite his claims of imbalance. Clara's hand in his felt right in a way that terrified her.
“This is not wise,” Gabriel said, but he didn't stop moving.
“I believe you are correct…” Clara agreed, but she moved closer.
“I believe it would be in our best interest if we put an end to this.”
"We should."
Neither stopped. They turned slowly in the dusty morning room, dancing to music only they could hear, two people caught between what was and what could never be.
"I dream about you," Gabriel said suddenly, the words seeming pulled from him against his will. "Not... not like that. Or not just like that. I dream about the garden. About being children. About grafting that cursed rose and you naming it something absurd."
"Our Secret Bloom wasn't absurd."
"It was completely ridiculous."
"You agreed to it."
"I agreed to everything you said."
"That's not true. You argued constantly."
"Only because you enjoyed it when I argued."
Clara pulled back slightly to look at his face. "Did I?"
“You would favour me with that slight, satisfied smile, suggesting you had achieved a victory merely by prompting me to offer resistance.”
"You noticed that?"
"I noticed everything about you."
The words hung between them, heavy with meaning and memory. Clara's heart was doing something complicated in her chest, possibly trying to escape.
"Gabriel…"
"I know. We can't. We shouldn't. We won't."
"Then what are we doing?"
"Dancing. Badly. In a dusty room. Nothing more."
"You lie."
"Always."
He spun her then, unexpected and graceful despite his protestations, and Clara laughed…bright and surprised. Gabriel's face transformed at the sound, his severe expression softening into something younger, more familiar.
"There you are," Clara said softly.
"Who?"
"The boy I knew."
"He's not…"
"I know. He has departed. You've mentioned. Repeatedly. But sometimes, like just now, I see him peeking through."
“That is quite a perilous notion to entertain.”
"Everything about this is perilous."
"Then we should put an end to this.”
"We should."
They continued dancing.
"The village believes you're my mistress," Gabriel said conversationally.
"Edmund mentioned."
"Does it bother you?"
"Should it?"
"Your reputation…"
"Is already ruined, unattached, unemployed and I'm already a tragedy by society's standards."
"You are no tragedy."
"For a woman without prospects? It's considered antique."
"You have prospects."
"Do I? Name one."
Gabriel was quiet for a moment. "You could find yourself a husband."
"Who? The blacksmith's son who picks his teeth with horseshoe nails? The widowed farmer with seven children and roaming hands? Or perhaps you mean someone from my own class, except I don't have a class anymore, do I? Too educated to be a proper servant, too poor to be gentry."
"You're not a servant."
“I am here merely to labour for my wages.”
"That's different."
"How?"
"Because you're you."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer I have."
They'd stopped moving, Clara realised. They were just standing there, holding each other in the middle of the morning room, pretending to dance while actually just... holding.
"We should put an end to this,” Clara said again.
"Yes," Gabriel agreed, not moving.
"Gabriel."
"Clara."
They were closer now, though neither remembered moving. Clara could see the gold flecks in his dark eyes, could see where his scar interrupted the stubble on his jaw, and could feel his breath on her face.
"If you kiss me," she said quietly, "everything changes."
"Everything's already changed."
"It changes more."
"I am fully aware.”
"We can't go return to where we started.”
"We can never return..."
"Gabriel…"
He stepped away abruptly, dropping his hands, putting distance between them with visible effort. "You're right. We should stop."
The loss of contact felt like a physical blow. Clara wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly cold.
"I should finish cleaning," she said.
"I should go... somewhere else."
Neither moved.
“This is quite beyond the point of reason.” Gabriel said.
"Completely."
They stood there, carefully avoiding each other’s eyes, carefully maintaining distance, carefully pretending that the last few minutes hadn't happened.
"I'm going to the library," Gabriel announced.
“To indulge in the dismals?”
“To peruse my books, as any sensible person would.”
"Go read your miserable books."
"Go clean my miserable room."
"It's not miserable. It's just dusty."
"Everything in this house is miserable."
"Not everything," Clara said without thinking.
Gabriel looked at her sharply. "Clara…"
“I shall now tend to my duties with the utmost meticulousness. My commitment to the removal of all dust and common dirt shall be quite without parallel.”
“And I shall apply myself to my reading, attending to the text with an insightful concentration upon... the very prose itself.”
"Very well."
"Excellent."
"Wonderful."
"Stop agreeing with me."
"Stop being agreeable."
"I'm never agreeable."
"You were, a moment before.”
"A momentary lapse."
"We should ensure it doesn't happen again."
"Absolutely."
"Good."
"Excellent."
"We're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
"This. Whatever this is."
“This is of no consequence.”
“It does not feel of so trifling a matter.”
"Then what does it feel like?"
Clara considered. "Like standing on the edge of a cliff and trying to convince yourself you're afraid of heights while secretly wondering what it would feel like to fly."
Gabriel stared at her. "That's... terrifyingly accurate."
"I should clean."
"I should read."
This time, Gabriel actually left, though Clara could hear him pause at least twice in the hallway, his footsteps stopping as if he might turn back. But he didn't, and eventually, she heard the library door close with a decisive click.