Chapter 26
A Flash of Black
Spain
“Write more!” Mother insisted as she hugged Luke goodbye. “I want to hear everything.”
“I am sure there will not be much to say,” Luke countered, giving her a hug in return, “but if I think of something, I will be sure to write it down.”
Mother rolled her eyes. “You had better!” She picked up a parcel from the tea table. “Here,” she said, “I made you something.”
Luke thanked her and carefully opened the envelope.
Inside was one of Mother’s amazing embroidered portraits.
This one was by far the most complicated, and depicted Mother, Alfonso, Manuel, baby Isabella, and Luke all in front of their Spanish house.
“Thank you!” Luke whispered in awe. “Thank you.” Seeing the picture made him realize just how much he would miss his family.
He pulled his mother back in for another embrace, trying to memorize the feel of her in his arms.
“I also have a letter for Lady Clara,” she whispered into his chest. “Should I give it to you or John?”
“Better give it to John,” Luke answered, releasing her and turning to say goodbye to the children. He had no intention of seeing Clara again.
The final goodbyes and expressions of love were given, and then John and Luke mounted their horses. As they drew closer and closer to the Spanish shoreline, the heaviness of his future began to sink on the baron once more. Sadness awaited him in England. He was sure of it.
London
For the next few days, it poured. The precipitation was so thick, one could not see much more than a foot in front of them.
While Clara had intended to return to London quickly, the conditions were not safe to travel, so she and Mother spent the next few days enjoying each other’s company.
It was nice to bond, woman to woman. They discussed in great detail Clara’s London Season.
They had exchanged simple letters all year with limited particulars.
But now, Clara and Lady Merritt passed many hours chatting about different people, fashions, and shops.
It wasn’t deep conversation, it was friendly.
Yes, Clara had reached the age where she and her mother could be true friends, and it could not have come at a better time.
Thankfully, on Friday morning, the roads were finally safe for travel.
They were muddy and slow, but doable. The horses managed it better than the carriage wheels, so Clara decided to ride on horseback.
She had never ridden that long before, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
She rode hard and fast, but did not arrive at the townhome until after Lord Gallant’s ball had already started.
She changed quickly, fully expecting to be the last guest to arrive.
As mentioned previously, Lord Gallant’s ball had a strict dress code.
Clara had been given exact specifications of what her dress should be—light blue, full, with puffed sleeves and a yellow sash.
She was also instructed to wear a tiara, lace trimmed gloves, and no necklace.
It was oddly specific, but at least she did not have to question her fashion choice.
“You look lovely, ClaraBear,” Papa expressed as she met him in their foyer wearing his usual formal black. “Did your mother help you come to a decision?”
“I do not know who I will marry, but I will be rejecting Lord Gallant’s offer.”
“I am glad to hear it,” the earl responded, doing his best to hide his triumphant smile.
The Duke of Preston’s townhouse was much like all the others Clara had seen—three stories, with white columns and a dark colored door.
They were let in and immediately ushered up the staircase to the upper level.
The butler instructed them to wait on the landing as he slipped through the double doors of the ballroom.
Clara had spent the ride from Faversham to London forming her plan.
It was rather simple really, she would find Isaac, pull him away, and quietly explain she could not accept his offer before leaving the ball.
It would cause a swarm of gossip, she was sure, but given the circumstances, there was no way to avoid the attention.
“Right this way,” the butler directed, as Clara and Papa stepped inside.
Clara was not prepared for what she saw when the doors opened.
They stood at the top of a marble staircase, looking down at the crowd.
The room was packed to the brim. There wasn’t even room for dancing!
Just row after row of London society, all dressed from head to toe in white.
All except Lord Gallant, who stood directly in the center of the group in a navy blue suit.
Every eye was upon her. The ton eagerly waited to hear her answer, and there was no way she could reach Isaac quietly.
A hush had fallen, and the only thing Clara could hear was her beating heart. This isn’t happening, she pleaded. Please, tell me this isn’t happening. But the nausea in her stomach confirmed that was not the case.
Lord Gallant bowed and belted across the room. “Lady Clara Merritt, will you marry me?”
It is a bad dream. Wake up! It is only a dream. The audience blurred in her vision, creating one big, fluffy cloud of white. “I … I …” she tried to form the words, but her mind and mouth were no longer connected. She felt herself sway.
And then the crowd gasped in unison, leaping forward. Clara turned her head in confusion. Had she fainted? Had she fainted and not realized it?
But then a blurred, black flash passed over the white background.
“Send for a doctor!” Someone yelled. “Get the doctor!”
Someone else placed a hand on her elbow. The touch rooted her, finally allowing her surroundings to push back into focus. As they did, she discovered it was not her that had fainted, but Papa. Her Papa lay, crumbled, at the bottom of the large marble staircase, blood pooling from his head.
“Papa!” Clara screamed. “Papa!” She ran down the stairs, pushing onlookers out of the way. “No! Papa!” She attempted to reach him, but Lord Gallant’s arms were wrapped tightly around her. “Don’t look. Clara, don’t look,” he begged, pulling her from the scene.
Clara kicked and pushed and yelled until the duke let her go. She ran to her father’s side, throwing herself to the floor. “Papa, are you alive? Papa!” Tears streamed down her face. Her heart beat so quickly, she feared it may burst.
Lord Merritt’s eyes fluttered open. The dark pools were full of pain. “I love you, ClaraBear,” he whispered as he lost consciousness.