Chapter Eight
Clara turned to Brinley to inquire if he was going to accompany her, but he was already disappearing around the side of the carriage and barking terse orders to a footman.
The luggage was being handed down, and the black-painted front door opened to reveal a smiling older woman, her bronze hair shot through with liberal streaks of white.
So, she thought, I truly am to step into my new life as Lady Brinley alone.
Clara took a deep breath and approached her new home alone.
Though not without its awkwardness, Clara’s introduction to the housekeeper, Mrs. Tanner, and the rest of the staff was not unpleasant.
Every member of the household appeared well-dressed and professional; their work was impeccable as she toured the rooms. Six bedchambers, various parlors and sitting rooms, basement kitchens and servant quarters, a formal dining area as well as an informal one with views of the back garden, and even a music room were all on the tour offered by Mrs. Tanner.
Clara was grateful for the older woman’s warm, welcoming demeanor; she did not think she’d have handled Brinley’s abrupt abandonment so well had the housekeeper not been such a motherly figure.
If she or any of the other staff thought it odd that their master had all but dropped her on the doorstep and fled, they were too well-trained to make any indication.
If they could pretend it hadn’t happened, then so could she.
Eventually, Clara was shown to the room on the third floor which was to be hers.
It was a simple room done up in shades of cream and rose.
Delicate floral papering of peonies and lilies decorated the wall.
A delightfully feminine escritoire and matching chair were placed between the hearth and the window.
A four-posted cherrywood bedframe was swathed in rose-pink draperies and a matching coverlet.
The room smelled of lemon and warm beeswax.
In all, it was a perfectly lovely chamber, if impersonal.
She supposed it was now her job to make it feel like home; and if the past couple of days were any indication, she’d certainly have a great deal of time to fill.
Recalling that Brinley had made it abundantly clear that they would occupy separate chambers, Clara asked, “And Lord Brinley? Which chamber belongs to him?”
She followed Mrs. Tanner back out into the hallway, where the older woman gestured to the room two down from Clara’s.
“There’s no adjoining door because Lady Brinley’s suite is currently undergoing renovations.
Lord Brinley requested we prepare this chamber for you instead.
If it is not to your liking, you may certainly select another, and we will have it aired and prepared for you. ”
“No, thank you,” Clara replied automatically. “This chamber is fine.”
So, she’d been deposited in a secondary chamber and not the lady’s suite?
Brow furrowed, Clara crossed the hall to the door Mrs. Tanner had indicated as the one normally assigned to the lady of the house. When Clara went to try the knob, she found it solidly locked, which only served to pique her interest. What secret renovations could be taking place?
“How long has it been since my husband was last in residence?” she asked as she turned back to Mrs. Tanner.
The housekeeper nibbled on her lower lip for a moment before answering. “Nigh on a decade now.”
“A decade?”
“Do you like it here?”
“I used to.”
The words echoed through Clara’s mind like the crack of a pistol.
“Aye. He spent a great deal of time here as a lad with his dear departed mother, God rest her soul. When he was old enough, he returned to Edinburgh at least once a year to spend time here.”
“And it has been ten years since he last came…” Clara whispered thoughtfully to herself.
What would cause such an absence? What could have chased him from the home he’d loved?
It couldn’t have been his mother’s death, because Mrs. Tanner had said he’d returned when he was old enough to travel on his own.
Beth had already begun unpacking her trunks, so Clara continued puzzling over Brinley’s odd behavior while her maid helped her to change from her traveling dress and a bath was drawn.
As heavenly as the hot water and sweetly scented orange-blossom air were to her travel-weary body, Clara was left unsettled by nearly every event since she’d stumbled across Brinley in the gardens. Nothing had gone as expected.
Of course, she hadn’t dreamed she’d wind up married when she’d traipsed into the gardens, but that was beside the point.
Being married to Brinley was not turning out to be at all what she’d expected…
and that meant something, because she’d expected very little to begin with.
She was far from an authority on the matter, but she did not think most husbands—willing or not—slipped away as often as Brinley did.
What could he possibly be hiding from her?
And did she wish to know what it might be?
After donning a comfortable gown of mint-green sprigged muslin, Clara ate a solitary luncheon without word or sight of her husband.
Following that, she wandered the residence and the small garden at its rear, gradually growing more and more agitated as the hours passed by.
Soon enough, tea had come and gone as well, and Brinley had not returned.
It was the last thing she wished to do, but she realized it was either swallow her pride and inquire as to his whereabouts or she could continue to seethe. She chose to seek out Mrs. Tanner and found her speaking to a maid in the small library.
“Might I have a word?” Clara asked, barely resisting the urge to fidget.
“Of course, my lady.”
Once she was certain they were out of earshot of the maid, Clara asked, “I wondered if you might know where Lord Brinley is? When might he be expected home?” Her cheeks were warm from the shame of having to ask an employee where her own husband had run off to, but it was worse when the housekeeper’s lined face melted into one of sympathy when she said, “I am sorry, but I do not have those answers for you.” She paused before adding, “Is there aught else I can do for you?”
“Thank you, no,” Clara sighed and turned away.
Dejected and lonely, Clara took supper alone in her room as well.
The lack of speaking had done wonders for her ragged voice after the hours of intentionally obnoxious chattering she’d done in the carriage, but it did only terrible things to her spirits.
She was not a creature built for solitude.
If she had been, she’d have convinced Dori to allow her to become a hermit somewhere in the wild Welsh mountains long ago.
With nothing better to do, Clara changed for bed early and, unable to relax, she decided to pen a letter to Amelia and her brother.
It was difficult not to pour all her frustrations into the ink spilling onto the page, but she thought she did an admirable job of it.
She wrote briefly of their stopover at the Black Unicorn and then went on to describe the Queen Street townhouse.
No detail was too small because it all served as a pleasant diversion.
As she was busy describing the furnishings of her bedchamber, however, she finally heard footsteps traverse the hall.
Her quill paused in the air, a single drop of ink dripping to the page to obscure the word “window,” and she held her breath when those feet paused outside her door.
Several impossibly long seconds passed before they continued.
When she heard the door down the hall click shut, Clara shot to her feet in indignant fury.
How dare he disappear for hours again? How dare he drop her on his doorstep like an unpleasant delivery without any regard for her feelings?
How dare he not even bother to look in on her?
She stormed out into the hall and threw open Brinley’s bedchamber door without bothering to knock even once.
“Where have you been all this time?” she demanded, too upset to note much beyond vague impressions of navy-blue papering and dark wood tones in the overtly masculine room.
Brinley leaned back in the wingback chair he was occupying near the hearth, eyeing her. “My, but haven’t you taken the role of wife quite seriously? The harassment and demands upon my whereabouts are quite in character.”
This, of course, only added fuel to the fire raging within Clara. “Clearly, you must find the idea of spending time with me unappetizing, but must you be so cruel as to add insult to injury by deserting me and spending your time elsewhere—during what is supposed to be our honeymoon trip, no less?”
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and narrowing his eyes. “Is that what you think? That I find you displeasing and I have been with another woman?”
Clara wrapped her arms around her waist in a gesture of comfort, suddenly very self-conscious.
Though the thought had not expressly crossed her consciousness, there was unfortunate merit to his words.
He’d made no attempts at consummating their union; he hadn’t so much as kissed her properly. What if…
What if he intended to resume his relationship with Lady Upton or another of his lovers?
Society wouldn’t precisely look down upon him for doing so.
Clara, on the other hand, was suddenly struck quite powerfully by the realization that she would not like it one bit.
Of course, she’d known Brinley had his mistresses over the years—a man did not earn the reputation of being one of London’s Rank of Rakes without that sort of behavior—but that had been before.
Before he’d agreed to marry her to save her from ruin, despite what it might do to his future.
Before he’d become her husband.
Clara would have been lying if the thought that she could now call such a handsome, eligible man her own wasn’t thrilling. But what if she’d lost him before ever even having him?