Chapter 4
The Silence of Maxwell Manor
It was surprisingly easy for Clara to convince her father she was also needed at Maxwell Manor.
Technically, none of them had been invited.
Luke asked only for answers to a few questions, but he was family at this point, and they all wished to run to the rescue.
Rosecrest had guests, so Mother could not leave, but based on the details of Luke’s letter, a ‘lady of the house’ was definitely needed.
So, while only fourteen, Clara stepped in to fill that role, at least until Luke returned to school.
She knew what was needed to prepare a house for a long leave of its master, something the gentlemen were clueless about.
The road was long and rocky, and Clara slept most of the way.
John and Papa had gone on horseback, hoping to make it there as quickly as possible, but she traveled with the large entourage of servants.
Papa insisted that any maid, gardener, or stablehand, not needed by Mother, join them.
He wanted to get their expert opinion on what Luke’s estate demanded.
The carriage pulled to a stop in front of a small house. It was old, dark, and ugly. That is it? Clara thought as the footman helped her exit the vehicle. I have seen pigsties that are more attractive.
The servants began unloading their supplies and carrying them through the side door.
Clara walked gingerly to the front of the house.
The stone bricks of the front steps were leaning and lumpy and a large gap blew air between the top corner of the door and the door frame.
She knocked lightly—fearing a large tap would push the entire house over. No one answered.
“Luke?” she called, but no response came. Slowly, she turned the door knob and peeked inside. “Luke? Hello, is anyone home?”
The foyer was practically non-existent and opened right into the sitting room.
Three worn, green, plush chairs sat far closer to a fireplace than seemed safe.
Behind those stood a walnut-wood tea table that clashed greatly with the cherry wood flooring.
Clara did not know what color the walls were painted, for she could not see them.
Every inch of the small building was covered with bookcases, portraits, faded tapestries, and end tables.
A basket of yarn sat beside the nearest chair, the only sign that someone may have lived in what looked to be a very ancient, used furniture store.
“Hello?” she called again before stepping inside.
She shivered. Somehow, it was colder in the house than it had been outside.
She squinted through the darkness as the door swung closed behind her.
Clara removed her own bonnet and gloves, and hung them softly on a coat rack laden with heavy winter coats.
The floor creaked and groaned as she took the few steps to the fireplace.
She stood directly in front of the open flame, fingers splayed before it, but the chill only seemed to penetrate her further. How is it so cold? she wondered.
“There is a blanket in the basket,” a small voice said from the chair.
Clara’s frame jumped forcefully. She turned to see a white, wispy-looking figure seated with a knitting project across its lap.
At first glance, the thin being could be nothing other than a ghost, but as her fear subsided, she realized, with a new sense of worry, that it was Luke’s mother.
She looked dreadful. Luke’s letter, while very open about his mother’s health, did not give a full depiction of just how bad it was.
“Th-th-thank you,” Clara responded through chattering teeth. She pulled a large, woolen blanket from the designated basket and wrapped it tightly around herself as she inched even closer to the fireplace.
The front door swung open and in walked Papa, John, and Luke. They did not remove their hats and gloves, but instead selected a coat off the rack and put it on as well. As soon as Luke finished buttoning the article, he headed straight for his mother’s chair.
“ClaraBear!” Papa called, as he caught sight of his daughter. He pulled her into a hug. She did not bother freeing her arms from the blanket to reciprocate.
After a faint smile from his mother, Luke turned his attention to the newcomer as well. “Thank you for coming, Clara.” His voice sounded different, heavier, and he had large, dark circles around his green eyes.
“Luke,” his mother croaked from the sofa, “surely, you do not call young ladies by their given name.” She gave him a look of disapproval.
Luke did not protest his mother’s chastisement, but instead turned to Clara and bowed formally. “I apologize, Lady Clara. Thank you for traveling such a great distance to come to my aid.”
If she wasn’t so miserably cold, she may have laughed at the interaction.
It was strange to have Luke speak to her with such sophistication.
“It was my pleasure, my lord.” She lowered herself into a curtsy, an exceptionally awkward thing to do with her arms plastered under the blanket.
She wobbled slightly, leaning precariously too close to the fireplace.
Immediately, the men around her responded. Papa shoved a hand behind her back, pushing her away from the roaring fire. Luke reached out from the other side, pulling her toward him.
“I am all right. I am all right,” Clara reassured them.
“Are you sure?” Luke asked, and that is when she realized she was wrapped in his arms, his body acting as protection from the open flame. He was much taller than she, so her head tucked in against his broad chest.
“I am well. Truly.” She took a step backwards.
After ensuring her feet were solidly on the ground, he hesitantly lowered his arms back to his sides.
He returned to his mother, putting a respectful distance between them once more.
But he took the only warmth in the room with him, and as he walked away, Clara couldn't help but shiver.
“What would you recommend first?” Luke asked Clara after their tour of the house. They were standing in the attic storage, looking up at the molded beams. Many, many visible holes had dripped rain through the roof, causing damages that were truly beyond repair.
“Permission to speak freely, my lord?” she asked in a sarcastic tone.
Luke rolled his eyes. “Just tell me, Clara.” He trusted her opinion completely. She may have been young—and she looked even more so under the three fur coats she currently sported—but he had never met a more natural hostess or homemaker.
Clara sighed heavily, looking up at the ceiling. “We can patch holes. We can replace wood, but…”
“But?”
“Well, I assume someday you wish to marry?”
Her question caught him off guard. Honestly, Luke had not given marriage much thought at this stage of his life, but a good baron needed an heir, so there was only one reasonable answer. “Yes.”
“Luke,” she turned to face him, “this house is not liveable.” She could tell he wanted to protest, so she held up her hand, “I could make it liveable.” That seemed to pacify him.
“But it will never be ideal. There are no servant quarters, so you cannot have a full staff. There are no hosting opportunities-”
“Is that important?” Luke asked defensively.
Clara nodded emphatically. “If you were a titleless gentleman, no, it would not be necessary, but you are a baron. Your estate should be the center of life in Harleston.” Her voice raised passionately in volume.
“You need a place to hold meetings and dinners with possible allies. Your wife will need a place to host their wives for tea. You will want a ballroom that can fit a proper wedding ball guest list, and Luke,” she paused dramatically, “you do not even have a nursery!”
The truth of her words settled in his mind. “So what are you suggesting?”
She looked around the room. “Do you have any emotional attachment to this place?”
“No.”
“Then, if it were up to me, I would knock it down and build a new one. You will not be needing a home for three years anyway. It is the perfect opportunity.”
Knock it down? The thought had never even crossed his mind. Maxwell Manor had always seemed a dark, looming prison that came with being the Baron of Harleston. He had never considered not living there an option. Knock it down. As the suggestion sunk in, he found it appealed to him very much.
Yes, he would build a new home. A place like Rosecrest. A house full of light and warmth and happiness.
He was not destined for a miserable end.
Suddenly, being a lord seemed a lot less painful.
For the first time, possibly ever, Luke had hope in his future.
I can be happy. It seemed a simple phrase, but for Luke, it was a giant realization.
He turned to Clara, smiling. “Knock it down!”
Now that old Maxwell Manor was set for demolition, Clara had very different tasks than she originally supposed.
She and Luke spent hours going through boxes and discussing opinions on each piece of furniture.
Some items would be stored at Rosecrest until the new Maxwell Manor was completed.
Other things were being listed for sale, and a select few pieces were going with Lady Maxwell to Spain.
“What do you think of this portrait?” Luke asked John and Clara as they emptied the walls of the sitting room.
“Who is it?” John questioned as he looked at the image of a dark, scowling man. His face was downright frightening.
“No idea,” Luke replied with a shrug, “Mother?” His mother sat in her usual chair. She glanced up at the image and shook her head. Clara pointed to the ‘sell’ pile.
Papa emerged from the staircase. “Luke,” he called, “the estate manager should be here soon. Did you want to look at our budget calculations again before he arrives?”
“Oh, right.” He gave Clara an apologetic look.
“It is time for a tea break anyway,” she reassured him. “I will have some sent up to you as well.”
“Thank you, ClaraBear,” Papa responded. “John, will you be joining us?” John nodded, and then Papa addressed Luke, “Now I noticed an error …” The men disappeared up the stairs.
A few minutes later, the estate manager arrived, and Clara ushered him to the bedroom Luke used as a makeshift study. By the time she returned, the tea had been delivered, so she prepared cups for Lady Maxwell and herself before settling into the middle chair.
The women did not speak as they sipped the beverage.
At first, the silence was uncomfortable, but as time passed, it became maddening.
While Clara was not unaccustomed to a lack of noise, Maxwell Manor’s quiet was undeniably different than anything she had experienced.
The place seemed to swallow life right out of the air.
The gray stone walls entrapped all sounds and light, making one feel as if they were being buried alive, and as each minute passed, one sank into the earth deeper, deeper, deeper…
Say something! Anything! Clara mentally begged the baroness, but the silence continued.
The melancholy stillness tortured her, and she feared the only way out was to connect with something living.
But the poor woman beside her looked as if the stillness had already won.
There was very little life left in Lady Maxwell.
Help, it is suffocating me! But her fears could not take voice.
Eventually, Lady Maxwell set her dish down and picked up her knitting again. The clinking of the needles finally broke the silence, and at last Clara could breathe. It was all in your head, she consoled herself. It is not real.
Her comfort was short lived, because after twenty excruciatingly long minutes, boredom seemed the new killer. I should have brought a book, she bemoaned. The estate had nothing by way of entertainment.
Finally, Luke’s mother commented, “There are embroidery supplies in the desk drawer.”
Oh, thank goodness! Clara thought as she crossed the room. She opened the stiff, wooden drawer of the mahogany desk and pulled out a dark blue sewing box with the initials AEL embroidered flawlessly on top. She carried it back with her to the chair before opening the plush lid.
She gasped, because staring back at her was a miniature portrait of Luke as the young, scrawny boy he once was.
Only, the image was not made of paper and paint, but of canvas and thread.
She carefully lifted it out of the box, not knowing exactly how to handle such a fine piece of art.
Below it, lay a similar piece, featuring the boy a few years younger.
“Did you make these?” Clara asked in awe.
Lady Maxwell looked up from her yarn, squinting. “Yes.”
“They are amazing!” Clara gushed, reaching in to pull out another.
There were eight depictions of Luke at various stages of childhood.
“These must have taken ages!” She flipped one over and found the back was as tidy as the front.
“Beautiful. Just beautiful,” she whispered, before asking a bit more loudly, “How did you learn to do this?”
“Practice,” Avianna said simply, not bothering to look up from her hands.
“Can you teach me?” Never, in all her life, had she seen anything quite like the embroidered portraits. They were exquisitely masterful and dripping with love. One glance at the image and it was obvious the artist loved her subject.
Lady Maxwell lifted a violently shaky hand into the air. “I am afraid I cannot hold a needle anymore.” Her voice was undeniably sad, and it filled Clara with sadness, too. Not just because she could not teach, but because the baroness could no longer participate in a talent she so obviously loved.
Clara lifted out the depiction of Luke as a newborn and was greeted by an image of a small Spanish villa. “What is this?” She carried the piece of fabric over to Lady Maxwell.
This time, it was the baroness’s turn to gasp, “Why, that is Alfonso’s house!” She dropped her knitting needles and took the image from the girl. “This was one of my first major pieces.” She brushed a loving hand across the satin finish. “It was difficult to do from memory.”
“This is where you are going to live?” Clara asked.
“Yes. Yes it is.” A tear leaked down the side of her face and she wiped it quickly away.
“So, how did you and Alfonso meet?” Clara questioned as she walked back to her chair. She had pulled out all of the finished embroidery, so only the unused materials remained. She selected a small scrap and began making round, somewhat sloppy, pink roses around its border.
“I was visiting my grandmother,” Lady Maxwell began, and as she told her tale, her tears subsided and her smile grew.
Luke’s mother’s face pinked with emotion, and Clara relaxed into the back of her plush seat.
The silence of Maxwell Manor had been broken.
The room seemed to fill with light. In fact, the warmth was undeniable, and Clara removed one of her coats as she happily listened to the baroness’s story.