Chapter 8
Eight
It was the following morning, and Clara had just finished breaking her fast. Alone, as it was, but that was to be expected.
A simple meal of toast and eggs, sided with jasmine tea to wash it down.
And where the breakfast was nothing unexpected, what surprised her most was that when she entered the breakfast room, the curtains had been opened so the morning sun might shine through.
“Is something the matter, Your Grace?” It was Mr. Winters, waiting by the table as if he had known that she would be arriving at this time.
“It is just such a lovely day,” she said simply.
What she did not say was how surprised she was to find the curtains drawn.
Since her arrival, she could not think of a single instance where natural light had been allowed into the castle.
And even in her room, where she had opened the curtains herself, she had found it a pointless endeavor, for a natural gloom seemed to hover permanently above the estate.
Today was different. Clear, bright blue skies with a yellow sun that was warm on her skin as she sat down.
“His Grace asked that they be,” Mr. Winters told her as he helped her into her seat. “He did not say why.”
Did he now… she smiled knowingly to herself, smitten because she had no doubt this was done for her benefit. Such a small thing, but she sensed that where the duke was concerned, small gestures were as good as could be hoped for.
It was thirty minutes later when she finished her breakfast. With half a cup of tea left to drink, she decided to take it to her room to finish.
She rose from the seat, porcelain in hand, her mind wandering now to what she would do for the rest of the day.
She needed to organize supplies for the garden.
And it might do for her to try and brighten up –
“Oh!” she gasped as she stepped from the breakfast room, so lost in her own thoughts that she did not hear Alaric coming. Nor did she see him.
He was mere feet away, like a shadow growing from the walls. The effect saw her gasp, jump, and then drop her cup of tea, which shattered across the marble floor into a dozen little pieces.
“Oh no!” she cried again. “I am so sorry -- I did not see you!”
“The fault is mine.”
“And this mess…” She grimaced as she looked at the shattered porcelain at her feet. “Here, I will just…” She was shaking from the shock, adrenaline rising, mind racing. Thus, she did not hesitate or consider the danger as she dropped to her knees in a vain effort to clean the mess.
“Wait!” the duke commanded of her. But it was too late.
Clara reached for a shard of porcelain, but misjudged the sharp edges and sliced along the inside of her hand in the blink of an eye. “Owe!” she cried and snatched her hand back.
“Clara!” Alaric dropped to his knees without pause, snatching her hand and pulling it toward him. It was not done roughly, but surprisingly gentle for one his size.
Clara gasped as his large hand took her by the wrist. And she caught her breath as he gently cradled it to his body.
Blood smeared her fingers, pain stabbing through her hand, but she hardly noticed it.
Her focus fell on the feel of the duke’s tender touch.
On how soft he was with her, how caring.
Her skin shivered as his fingers stroked the back of her hand.
And her heart raced as she struggled to breathe.
“I… it is not so bad…” Her eyes moved to his face, noting the pained expression he wore. It was almost angry, but an anger directed toward himself as if he was furious he had allowed such a thing to happen.
“Mr. Winters!” Alaric called out, still holding her hand to his body, careful not to touch the wound. The manservant appeared in the doorway, eyes widening when he saw the mess. “Towels. Something to clean up this blood.”
“Right away, Your Grace!” Mr. Winters fled back into the room.
“It is not as bad as it looks,” Clara said softly. She hardly felt the pain, still focused on the feel of the duke’s hand as he held her. That one so distant can be so warm and tender when he wants to be. Is this the real Duke of Ravencourt? The side of himself he keeps hidden away?
“Perhaps not…” He grimaced. “But we best be careful, nonetheless.”
Mr. Winters appeared a moment later with some white hand towels.
Alaric took them and then proceeded to wrap them around her wounded palm.
His brow was furrowed, his expression considered, and still she saw the worry behind his eyes.
It was as if he had wounded himself, for how personally he was taking it.
“It may need stitches,” he said as he finished wrapping the wound. “Mr. Winters?”
“Yes, of course!” Mr. Winters was at hand immediately. “Your Grace,” he said to her, holding out a spare hand. “If you will come with me, I will see the wound cleaned and stitched.”
“Oh…” Clara felt her heart drop, and she looked to Alaric, hoping he might join her. By now, he had released her hand, looking away almost as if in shame. “Yes, thank you…” She allowed herself to be lifted to her feet.
“This way,” Mr. Winters said, linking his arm through hers and leading her.
She bit into her lip, taking a final glance at Alaric, who was still crouched by the broken saucer. He stared at those shards, only to nod his head to himself and look at her. “Let me know,” he called after her. “If there is anything… if the injury is worse than it looks. I will send for a doctor.”
“I will,” she said to him with a warm smile, needing him to see it. “And thank you.”
It was such a small thing again. To many, it would look like nothing more than the bare minimum. To Clara, she was beginning to understand just how big a gesture it was. For all his desire to pretend he did not care about her, that he did not even want her here, she knew now this was not the case.
Slowly, he was coming around. Very slowly, for that matter. It is lucky then that I have an entire year here. At this rate, it still might not be enough.
Clara spent the next few days slowly getting used to her new home.
At least she tried to, as much as was possible in such a dreary place.
She had Mr. Winters order garden tools, seeds, and plants to be potted, but he informed her they would take some weeks to arrive.
Such as it was, she had to find other ways to keep herself busy.
It was on her third day, as Clara was walking back from breakfast, that she turned down a hallway which she realized in the moment she had not been down yet. This was because it led to the western wing of the castle, where she had been forbidden to enter.
I will not walk all the way there, she said to herself as she started down the dark hall. I will only go some of the way, making sure to stop before I step somewhere I am not meant to be.
Halfway down the hall, she walked before coming across something most peculiar.
At least as far as this castle was concerned.
It was a closed door, one of dozens that she had walked by, all of which were locked.
This one, however, she noticed as she went to walk on by, was sitting open.
Only by a fraction, as if someone had forgotten to close and lock it.
It was enough that she could not help but see what the room contained.
It was a music room. At least it had been once.
An open space with high ceilings, plastered walls for acoustics, chairs positioned around a small stage, which she was certain had once held private performances.
The chairs were covered in sheets, which themselves were coated in dust. And in the corner was a hidden structure, always covered by a thick sheet.
Unable to help herself, Clara pulled the sheet back, revealing a truly beautiful pianoforte.
Her eyes sparkled as she looked it over.
Dusty. Ancient. But the wood shone with loving polish beneath the dust. It was a splendid piece of equipment, the type one would not purchase unless they were serious about the craft.
Is the duke a secret musician? Or was someone else the owner of this piece…
She looked about the room, her mind beginning to turn with ideas.
Clara wanted this castle to feel like a home.
She wanted to walk into the rooms with a smile at their beauty, rather than a frown at their squalor.
She had been wondering to herself where she might begin, figuring it would be best to start in one room and test the limits of the duke’s patience. It looks as if I have found that room.
And so the next few days unfolded at a more exciting pace than the previous.
Clara did her best to be secretive about this little project, too.
Not hard to do, as the duke not once asked her how she spent her days.
They saw one another only at supper, always taken in silence, and were it not for those singular occasions, she might have thought the castle to be totally devoid of life.
The first day saw her dust and remove the sheets from the furniture.
Doing this revealed more instruments. Chests filled with scripts of music.
There was a wardrobe stuffed with cushions and music stands.
Of note, as she was flipping through the various music sheets, she found several to be signed with the name ‘Helena’. Who was she?
The second day was just as busy. Clara spent it cleaning the cushions and then laying them in the sun—after she’d thrown the curtains back—so they might dry.
She also picked some flowers from the garden, even if the options were sparse, and arranged them throughout the room to give it color.
And that wasn’t to mention how long it took her to dispose of the cobwebs hanging in just about every space that was possible.
On more than one occasion, she was struck by the sense that she was being watched.
The door was often closed, but sometimes she would forget.
And once or twice, she was certain that she heard the floorboards creak outside the door.
She knew beyond a doubt that she could feel eyes upon her.
When she did, she ignored them. But she wore a smile, guessing well enough who it was that watched her with such curiosity.
At least he is not angry with me. Although I do wish he would say something.
It was the third day when a most unexpected delivery was brought to Clara’s attention.
“Your Grace!” It was Mr. Winters, striding into the breakfast room with a package tucked under his arm. “This was just delivered for you.”
“My gardening supplies?” she brightened up.
“I do not think so, Your Grace.” He placed the package down on the table. “It feels like bedding.”
“Bedding…” Clara was quick to unwrap the package, her frown deepening as it was revealed to be what looked like drapes. They were sapphire in color, made of velvet, with gold trimming. “What on earth?”
“Perhaps they are for your bedroom, Your Grace?” Mr. Winters suggested.
“Maybe…” She bit into her lip as she considered where this had come from and why. That was when a thought hit her.
She wore a smile as she scooped up the drapes and carried them through the castle, up the stairs, and toward the west wing. There, she ducked into the music room, spreading the drapes before the large window. It was just as she suspected; they were fitted perfectly for the window’s dimensions.
Her smile grew because she knew without having to ask where they had come from. I was right. He was watching me.
Clara spent the rest of the day thinking to herself what she would say to Alaric when she saw him at supper.
Should she ask why he had bought her the drapes?
Should she ask why he had not thought to check with her first what color she might want?
Perhaps she should ask if he wished to join her on the morrow, when she continued to fix the room? In the end, she did no such thing.
Rather, they sat in their usual silence as they ate, and it was only when the duke rose to leave that she finally spoke.
“Oh, and I’ve been meaning to thank you,” she said.
He frowned. “For?”
She smiled at him. “The drapes you had commissioned for the music room. They are perfect.”
The duke did not smile with his lips, but she saw it reach his eyes. A glimmer that he tried without success to hide. “You are welcome,” was all he said before leaving the room.
This had Clara smiling even more. Another small step in the right direction. The path was the correct one. The journey would be long. But they were getting there. Oh, how we are.