Chapter 4 #2
She wondered if there was any possibility of the two of them spending over five minutes in each other’s company without doing or saying something provoking.
Her lips quirked as she realised the truth.
No, it wasn’t. There was some indefinable thing between them, some inexpressible desire to poke and prod and gain a reaction.
Well, she had proven something today at least, and he had acknowledged it too. She wasn’t the henwit he believed her to be. What’s more, she had proven something of far greater interest.
Mr Bramwell needed her.
He might not like her, he might not want her around, but if he wanted his Grand Hotel to be everything Mr and Mrs King and the dowager expected it to be, he would just have to grow used to it.
Willow House, Little Valentine, East Sussex, 16th July 1816
“It’s lumpy,” Aunt Edna groused, scowling up at Clara.
“Let me try again,” Clara soothed, leaning down and plumping the pillows behind her aunt once more.
The old lady was becoming increasingly frail, and sometimes Clara was uncharitable enough to wonder if it was pure spite keeping her alive.
She seemed to take no pleasure in anything, not in the books Clara read to her, or in the cakes or little treats she brought—though she ate them willingly enough.
Since Miss Beatrice had married and moved away, her only regular visitor was the Reverend Honeywell, for she had driven everyone else off with her mean-spirited comments and barbs.
Well aware that she owed this woman the roof over her head, and the clothes on her back—worn and serviceable as they may be—Clara tried her best to be patient.
This morning she’d had the newspaper thrown at her head—because it was creased, had been castigated for not opening the window far enough—did she wish for her aunt to suffocate? — and then shouted five minutes later as it was open too wide, and she clearly wished her aunt to die of pneumonia.
Added to the usual complaints about her tea being too hot, too sweet, her porridge too plain, a fly in her room, a strange noise coming from downstairs… well, it never ended.
Clara reminded herself at regular intervals of Reverend Honeywell counsel: that those people who seemed to delight upon inflicting pain upon others were usually suffering themselves and lashing out because of it.
She did not know what had befallen her aunt to make her so angry at the world, but Clara did her best to make her comfortable.
She would not, however, allow the woman to make her miserable, too.
“There, that’s much better,” Clara said with satisfaction.
“No, it isn’t, but I suppose I shall endure it,” Edna grumbled.
“You are very patient, Auntie. Now then, do you have all you need? There is a glass of water on the nightstand and a plate of biscuits if you feel peckish?”
“Oh, leave me. I’m sure you have far more interesting things to be doing,” Edna said in martyred tones.
Clara bit back the temptation to demand what precisely her aunt supposed there was that she could do? Instead, smiling and walking to the door, she spoke over her shoulder. “Have a nice nap. I shall bring your tea at four o’clock.”
She hurried out, closing the door before her aunt could think of anything else to ask of her.
Letting out a breath, she stood on the other side for a moment, sending a silent prayer to the almighty. “I do try to be patient,” she whispered, eyes heavenward. “But please send me a bit more of the stuff if you’ve any to spare.”
Shaking her head at her own lunacy—truly, she must watch herself or else she’d find herself Bedlam bound—Clara made her way down the stairs, carefully avoiding the tread which creaked so alarmingly.
Benny sat by the front door and stood, trembling with anticipation, as she descended.
“Yes, my love. We can go now,” she said with a smile, opening the door.
Benny darted out, trotting happily down the path to the gate, little tail waving like a flag.
Clara hurried forward, opening the gate and following Benny out.
Her skirts brushed the tangle of planting as she walked, lavender, thyme and mint, and the sweet scent of the honeysuckle that scrambled along the garden fence mingled into a delicious concoction.
All at once the tension that seemed to squeeze her shoulders, and the back of her neck unwound a degree, and she let out a breath.
Her moment of relaxation fled a bare second later as a deep voice hailed her.
“Miss Halfpenny.”
Clara’s heart leapt to her throat as she immediately recognised the cultured tones of the Duke of Hawkney. Turning, she stared in surprise as she saw the duke riding towards her. As usual, he rode a massive black horse, the beast's vast hooves thudding softly on the damp earth of the path.
Benny gave a merry little yip of greeting and hurried forward.
This time, Clara did not shriek with alarm, aware that the duke’s horse had impeccable manners. She was startled, however, when the duke dismounted, displaying an ease and athleticism that made her foolish heart skitter in her chest.
“Good day to you, Benny,” his grace said, bending to ruffle the dog's ears.
Benny wagged his entire body now, overwhelmed with excitement to see someone he had clearly decided was one of his people.
Clara did not know how she felt about that but watched with delight as the big horse also condescended to greet him, snuffling at Benny with interest and giving him a gentle push with his big, velvety nose.
Benny huffed and trotted off, head held high in a show of indignation.
“Well, they seem to have made friends,” Clara remarked with a laugh.
“Sultan does seem to have taken to him,” Hawkney agreed, gazing at his horse curiously. “It’s odd, for he dislikes dogs as a rule.”
“Perhaps because Benny does not bark and growl,” she suggested, wondering why he was here and had troubled to dismount to talk to her. In the back of her mind, the memory of the last letter she had written him burned, making heat crawl up the back of her neck. Had he come to reprimand her?
He hesitated, looking a little tense. “Were you going for a walk? Please do not let me stop you. I hope you do not object to my accompanying you for a short while.”
Clara stared at him. His deep auburn hair looked brown in the shade of the trees, but then it caught the light, sparks catching fire, glinting like garnets. An odd sensation tickled beneath her skin as she wondered if it was as soft and thick as it looked. She looked hastily away. “I don’t object.”
They walked in a not entirely comfortable silence for a few moments before he spoke.
“I understand you have stopped coming to the Hall?”
She looked up at him in surprise. “Why, yes, of course. I knew you only intended me to use the piano whilst you were in town.”
He frowned, his dark brows drawn together as Sultan walked obediently behind them and Benny trotted on ahead, nose to the ground.
“Well, perhaps I did, but there is no need to stop your visits. Most of the time the piano is unused, and it seems a shame when it gives you such pleasure. I hope you will continue to visit as usual.”
Clara opened and closed her mouth, uncertain what to say. “That is most kind of you, your grace, but surely—”
“Hawkney,” he said abruptly.
Clara stopped in her tracks, too startled to take another step.
He gave an impatient shrug, his words clipped and echoing the movement. “Well, I believe we know each other well enough to drop such formality. You have written to me several times now.”
“You wrote to me first,” she shot back, as it had sounded somewhat like an accusation. Clara bit her lip uncertainly. Whilst it had been true, she ought not to have thrown it in his face.
“My grandmother—” he began stiffly.
“Yes, I know. Forgive me,” Clara said, cringing inwardly. “It’s entirely different. I ought never to have written to you, and with such a lot of tittle tattle. I don’t know why I did. Please rest assured I will not do so again.”
He glanced at her, his deep blue eyes unreadable. “I did not forbid you from doing so.”
“No, I…” Clara swallowed, uncertain what to say, uncertain what he meant. It seemed as if he was giving her permission to do so if she wished, but… but that couldn’t be right? She subsided into an awkward silence.
“Well, Miss Halfpenny, will you continue to use the piano?” There was a note of challenge to the words now and Clara could not help but respond to it. She put up her chin.
“I will, thank you, your… Thank you, Hawkney.”
He held her gaze for a moment longer, curiosity flickering in a blue so deep Clara was entranced, finding it impossible to look away.
Then he simply gave a curt nod and turned back to Sultan, mounting the great horse with the same powerful grace with which he had dismounted.
Clara’s eyes slid to his muscular thighs, encased in soft buckskin and a simmering heat bloomed beneath her skin.
“I’ll bid you a good day then, Miss Halfpenny. Enjoy your walk.”
With that, he rode away, leaving Clara on the path, fizzing with strange sensations she had no name for and no idea what to do with.