CHAPTER 7
Clara returned to her cleaning with a vengeance, attacking dust as if it had personally offended her. Which, in a way, it had. The dust was safe. The dust was simple. The dust didn't make her feel like her skin was too small for her body and her heart was trying to beat its way out of her chest.
She cleaned for hours, until her hands were raw and her back ached and the morning room looked like an actual room instead of a mausoleum. The piano gleamed. The windows sparkled. Even the suspicious stain had been subdued into submission.
"My goodness."
Clara spun to find a woman in the doorway, not Gabriel, definitely not Gabriel. This woman was small and round and wearing an apron that had seen better days.
"I'm Mrs. Potter," the woman said. "I used to be housekeeper here, before His Grace..." She waved vaguely.
"Before he dismissed everyone?"
"Before he decided he preferred dust to company, yes." Mrs. Potter entered the room, examining Clara's work with a professional eye. "You've done well. This room has not exhibited such a proper order in an age.”
"Thank you."
"You're the Whitfield girl."
It wasn't a question, but Clara nodded anyway.
"I remember you," Mrs. Potter continued. "Little thing with scraped knees and torn dresses, always trailing after Master Gabriel."
"That was a long time ago."
"Not so long. Time moves differently when you get to my age. Seems like yesterday you two were thick as thieves, running wild in the gardens."
"The gardens are all withered now, long gone from this world now."
"Are they? Funny, I could have sworn I saw a rose blooming on the west wall. Pink and gold, quite unusual."
Clara's breath caught. "It's still blooming? In winter?"
"That particular rose has always been unusual. Like the children who planted it."
"You knew?"
"Everyone knew. You two weren't nearly as subtle as you thought. Secret garden indeed." Mrs. Potter snorted. "The only secret was how long it would take you to realise what everyone else could see."
“What do you intend by that remark?”
But Mrs. Potter was already bustling forward, adjusting things Clara had already cleaned, tutting over invisible imperfections.
"Has he eaten today?" she asked.
"I... I am not aware."
"He doesn't, you know. Eat. Not properly. Been wasting away since he came back from the war."
"He seems…"
"Angry? Bitter? Like he's punishing himself for surviving?"
Clara blinked. "Yes."
"That's our duke. All nobility and no sense. His father was the same, God rest his miserable soul."
"You were not fond of the late duke?"
"I shouldn't speak ill of the departed." Mrs. Potter paused. “Still, he was a most callous man, one who corrupted every soul he came near, even that of his poor boy.”
"Mrs. Potter!"
"What? It's true. That man destroyed everything soft in that boy, tried to make him into some perfect aristocratic heir. Never mind that Gabriel had a heart like his mother's, all feeling and nowhere to put it."
"His mother died when he was fifteen."
"Died of a broken heart, more like. Watching her husband turn her son into a stranger, sending away the only friend who made him smile."
Clara's chest tightened. "He had to. The duke threatened…"
"Oh, I know all about the threats. Heard the whole argument, didn't I? Serving tea while the old duke explained exactly what he'd do to your family if Gabriel didn't break all connections with you.”
"Gabriel never said there was anyone else there."
"Servants don't count as witnesses to the nobility.
We're furniture that happens to move." Mrs. Potter's expression softened.
"The boy cried, you know. He locked himself in his chambers for three days.
He refused to eat or speak with anyone. And then…
when he emerged …he was a different person. He was cold and harsh.
Clara had to sit down suddenly, the weight of this revelation pressing on her chest.
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because you're here now. Because that rose is still blooming. Because sometimes second chances come disguised as disasters."
"This isn't a second chance. I'm his employee. Temporarily."
“Is that the manner in which you describe the matter?”
"That's what it is."
Mrs. Potter gave her a look that suggested she wasn't fooled for a moment. "I came to bring supplies. Edmund said you were managing with basically nothing."
"We're fine."
"You're subsisting on Edmund's charity and whatever you can scrounge from that disaster of a kitchen."
"It's not that bad."
“My dear Child, I have witnessed the state of the kitchens. They are, I assure you, a positive outrage upon all propriety of cookery.”
Clara couldn't argue with that.
"I'll come twice weekly," Mrs. Potter announced. "Bring proper food, to ascertain that neither of you has committed any shocking impropriety, nor to ensure the establishment remains in sound repair.”
"Gabriel won't approve of it."
"Gabriel doesn't approve of anything. That's never stopped me before."
"He dismissed you."
"He tried. I ignored him. I have been ignoring dukes for forty years, not about to stop now."
"How do you ignore being dismissed?"
"By continuing to show up until they cease arguing."
"That's..."
"Stubborn? Practical? Necessary?"
"I was going to say brave."
Mrs. Potter laughed. "Nothing brave about it. That boy needs tending, whether he admits it or not. And now you're here to do it properly."
"I'm here to clean."
"Of course you are." Mrs. Potter's tone suggested she didn't believe that for a moment. "Just cleaning. Nothing else."
"Nothing else."
"Which is why he's been hovering in the hallway for the past ten minutes, trying to work up the courage to come back in."
Clara's head snapped toward the door. Sure enough, she could see a shadow in the hallway.
"Gabriel?" she called. "You can come in. We're discussing your many flaws. You'll want to defend yourself."
He appeared in the doorway, glowering. "Mrs. Potter. You're trespassing."
"Your Grace," Mrs. Potter said with a curtsey that somehow managed to be sarcastic. "You're brooding."
"It's my house. I'll brood if I want to."
"Your mother would be ashamed."
"My mother would understand."
“Your mother would certainly give you a sound cuff and order you to abandon your self-pity.”
"My mother was understanding."
"Your mother was a force of nature who happened to wear pretty dresses."
Gabriel's mouth twitched. "That's... actually accurate."
"I am aware. I dressed her for many a year." Mrs. Potter picked up her basket. "I'll return Thursday."
"No, you won't."
"Thursday, with proper vegetables and something that isn't brandy."
"I like brandy."
"You like hiding. There's a difference."
"You're very focused on differences today."
"Someone has to be. You two are too focused on similarities."
With that cryptic comment, she swept out, leaving Gabriel and Clara alone in the now-spotless morning room.
"She's terrifying," Clara said.
"She's insufferable."
"She cares about you."
"She's nosy."
They stood in the midst of the half-ordered apartment, the silence that fell between them charged with an uncomfortable with a sense of tense, almost palpable atmosphere.
Dust motes drifted lazily through a shaft of late-afternoon sunlight, and the faint scent of fresh polish lingered in the air.
Clara adjusted a vase on the mantel for the third time though it was perfectly straight just to give her hands something to do.
Gabriel, leaning against the doorframe, watched her with the intensity of a man trying not to think about something he very much wanted to think about.
The memory of their almost-kiss, which was still vivid, hung between them, stubborn and electric.
“You have done a fine job here,” Gabriel said finally, his voice a shade rougher than he intended.
“Thank you.” Clara didn’t turn. She smoothed a wrinkle in the tablecloth that wasn’t there.
“You work hard.”
“Indeed, that is my obligation, as I am in your employ.”
He shifted his weight, clearly floundering for composure. “Indeed. Payment. Employment. Professional… things.”
She arched a brow at him, half amused, half mortified that her pulse still jumped every time he spoke. “Very eloquent.”
“Hold your tongue.”
“I defy you.”
The words escaped before she could stop them. They landed between them, bold and dangerous, echoing faintly in the quiet room. Clara froze, eyes wide, her face heating as though the sunbeam had turned on her directly.
“To be precise…” she began, too late.
“I understand perfectly well,” Gabriel said quickly, his own voice betraying him with its uneven edge.
The atmosphere was thick with unspoken words.
Gabriel finally exhaled a light laugh which resembled a groan.
“This is nonsense.”
“As we have mentioned prior,” Clara said, trying to sound dry instead of breathless.
“We are persons of discretion.”
“That fact is acknowledged.”
“Surely, we may converse on a matter with propriety.”
She crossed her arms and looked at him, her mouth twitching. “Evidence suggests otherwise.”
"What's strange about this?"
"Everything."
"Be specific."
"You're standing in the doorway as if you're afraid to enter. I'm standing by the window looking as if I might jump out of it. We're talking about talking instead of actually talking. And there's some sort of invisible barrier between us that we're both pretending doesn't exist."
"That's very specific."
"You asked."
Gabriel finally entered the room properly, though he stayed on his side of the invisible barrier. “We must establish some fixed arrangement.”
“An arrangement?”
"Boundaries. Professional ones."
"Such as?"
"No dancing."
"Agreed."
"No... touching."
"Obviously."
"No discussing the past."
"That might be difficult."
"No discussing the personal past."
"Agreed."
"No... looking."
Clara raised an eyebrow. "No looking?"
"No looking like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're trying to see through me."
"I'm not trying. I succeed."
"That's the problem."