7. Claire
Claire
That night, I heard Papa cry through the thin walls. The sound settled heavily in my chest, but I tucked it neatly away like I did with so many other things.
Maribel did not cry. She paced back and forth in front of the hearth, her skirts swishing with every turn, her hands flying as she raged. “This is madness—absolute madness! We don’t even know these people.”
Matthew stood nearby throwing out plan after plan, each one more desperate than the last. “We can write to them, to delay it—there has to be some clause—some way to break it—”
Their voices tangled together, sharp and frantic.
I let them because I was already seated at the table, my leather journal open in front of me. A freshly baked blueberry scone rested neatly beside it. I took a small bite, brushing crumbs from my fingertips before dipping my quill into ink.
All my life, I had dreamed of falling in love and finding my person—of a partner who would look at me and see someone worth spending a lifetime together with.
Better yet, someone who would promise a life together, in a home where I wouldn’t have to wonder what came next.
A partner who would provide, who would take care of me, who would make sure I never had to worry again.
My heart fluttered at the thought as I carefully pressed the quill to paper.
Claire Halloway.
The ink flowed smoothly, curling into elegant loops as I wrote my new name out. Once. Then again. And again. I paused, lifting the journal and tilting it so the candlelight caught the page just right. A smile spread across my face.
“My new name,” I murmured, unable to keep the delight from my voice as I held it up for them to see.
Maribel stopped pacing. Matthew’s jaw dropped.
I only grinned wider. “I love it.”
It suited me. It felt like stepping into a larger, brighter life. A new life meant for me.
“You don’t even know him!” Maribel cried, her voice shrill with disbelief.
I set the journal down gently, smoothing the page as if the name might smudge if I wasn’t careful. “I know enough.”
“Being rich isn’t everything, Claire,” Matthew snapped.
I hummed, flipping back through the pages of my journal showing sketches of dresses I’d drawn over the years—depicting flowing skirts, delicate sleeves, intricate embroidery I’d once imagined only in passing.
These were all hopeful dreams of my imagination because we never had the coin to purchase new dresses, never mind the material needed to sew the dresses.
“Well,” I said, tapping the edge of the page thoughtfully, “it certainly opens many doors.” I paused, then added, a touch more lightly, “And it isn’t as though I’d forget you all. I could send things from Norwich—presents, perhaps. Or money, if needed.”
The words landed in the room, weightier than I’d intended. Even Matthew, who had been so quick to argue, fell quiet. Maribel did not.
“We don’t want your money, Claire, or your gifts or whatever else you think will make up for it.” Maribel’s voice wavered. “We want you here. With us. Don’t you remember what we promised when Ma died?”
The words struck deeper than I cared to admit.
I went quiet, my fingers still resting against the edge of the page.
How could I forget? I had been there for every moment.
The fever had taken her slowly at first, followed by a brutal cough.
Next came a few days in bed. Then a week.
Then another. Each morning, she seemed smaller somehow, as though the illness was eating away at her piece by piece.
I stayed beside her whenever I could. I fetched water. Changed the cloth on her forehead. Sat through endless nights listening to her breathing, terrified of every pause that lasted a second too long.
Toward the end, she barely knew we were there.
The woman who had once filled every room with her presence became little more than a fragile figure beneath a pile of blankets. Her eyes drifted in and out of focus. Her words turned to mumbles, then fragments, then nothing at all.
I remembered trying to convince myself she could still hear us—that somewhere beneath the fever, beneath the confusion, she knew we were holding on. But I wasn’t sure.
Maribel had cried until her voice turned raw.
“Please stay,” she’d begged, kneeling beside the bed. “Please, Ma. Don’t leave us. Please.”
The sound of it still haunted me. Matthew had hidden in the corner, for once, his hands still in his lap. And I had simply sat next to Maribel, frozen, watching the woman who had held our entire world together slip further away with every passing hour.
The night she passed, Maribel shook so hard I thought she might come apart beside me. Then she reached for my hand. Her fingers were ice cold as she laced them through my own.
“We stay together,” she’d whispered through broken sobs. “No matter what happens. No matter how hard it gets.”
My throat tightened. I remembered squeezing her hand back, promising the same thing—that we would survive this together and that neither of us would ever be alone. The promise had felt simple then.
But promises always seemed easier when you were young enough to believe love alone could keep a family fed.
Things were different now that we were adults.
The drought had come through the same growing season when Ma passed and left ruin in its wake. The fields yielded barely enough to sustain the farmers themselves, let alone the markets. Every week, coin seemed harder to come by.
I had seen the strain etched into Papa’s face and the worry he thought none of us noticed. He worked from dawn until well after sunset, laboring in the fields before hauling what little they managed to harvest into town to sell. And still it wasn’t enough.
I knew Maribel understood some of it. But she didn’t understand all of it; she didn’t lie awake at night wondering what would happen if the next harvest failed, too. Or worse, if Papa got sick.
Family mattered. Gods, it mattered more than anything. But love didn’t buy flour. Promises didn’t keep a roof over your head.
And sentiment didn’t erase debt.
Maybe Maribel hated me for agreeing to this.
Maybe she would hate me for a long time.
But by marrying Duke Halloway, I could provide certainty that came with food and coin, and I could ensure Papa never had to break his back in the fields again just to put food on our table.
I could make sure Matthew had opportunities beyond scraping together enough money for the next meal.
And I could ease the burden Ma had left behind.
Maribel might not understand that now. She might only see her sister leaving and a broken promise.
But one day, I hoped she’d understand that I wasn’t doing this because I wanted to leave.
I was doing it because I loved them enough to.
As I glanced over their faces, I knew I would miss both of them. For all our arguments, we had always been close. There was comfort in that, in the familiar rhythm of our small home, in knowing exactly where each of us belonged.
But still…
I lowered my gaze to the sketches, tracing the curve of a sleeve with my fingertip. They would love the extra money. It would make things easier, leaving fewer worries about crops, about winter, about whether there would be enough. It was not as though I was leaving them with nothing.
“Of course, but a debt is a debt,” I said at last, softly, as if that settled it.
Besides, was it such a terrible thing to yearn for nicer things in life? My finger traced one of the designs to a gown far finer than anything I’d ever owned. Perhaps I could go dress shopping the very first day I arrived. The thought sent a small thrill through me.
Behind me, the fire crackled. Maribel resumed her pacing. Matthew muttered something under his breath. But their worry felt distant and muted.
Because for the first time, everything I had ever dreamed of felt within reach.