Chapter Seven Bellamere #2
The innkeeper sent food. Nothing elaborate.
Roast chicken, potatoes, bread, cheese and an apple tart.
Clara had eaten in some of London’s finest dining rooms since becoming duchess.
She enjoyed none as much. Perhaps because there were no footmen.
No elaborate service. No one watching whether she knew precisely which fork to use.
Sebastian poured wine himself. Clara tore bread with her fingers.
The fire crackled. Rain beat against the windows.
Something about the ordinary intimacy of it unsettled her.
“This is very strange,” she said.
Sebastian looked up.
“The chicken?”
“Being married.”
He nearly choked on his wine. Clara smiled.
“You asked.”
“I did not.”
“Your face did.”
He set down the glass.
“What part is strange?”
“All of it.”
“That is comprehensive.”
She leaned back.
“I expected it to feel more different.”
“From what?”
“Not being married.”
Sebastian considered.
“I have limited comparative experience.”
“So do I.”
Their eyes met. Adrian entered the room without being there. Clara felt it. Sebastian did too. His expression changed. She looked toward the fire.
“I used to imagine marriage constantly.”
“At eighteen?”
“Yes.”
She surprised herself by continuing.
“Not only Adrian. Before him. Marriage was simply the thing ahead.”
Sebastian remained silent.
“A girl was educated toward it. Dressed toward it. Introduced into society toward it. Every accomplishment was somehow intended to make her more suitable for a man she had not yet met.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It was.”
Clara traced one finger along the stem of her wineglass.
“Then Adrian proposed, and suddenly everything made sense because the thing everyone had been preparing me for had happened.”
Sebastian’s jaw tightened. Clara saw. She continued anyway.
“When he left, I thought the worst part was losing him.”
Sebastian looked at her.
“It wasn't.”
“No?”
She shook her head.
“I barely knew him.”
The admission felt almost disloyal to her younger self.
“I thought I loved him. Perhaps I did in the way an eighteen-year-old loves someone who represents the future she has been taught to want.”
Sebastian did not interrupt.
“But the humiliation afterward was worse.”
His gaze lowered.
“Clara—”
“No. I want to say this.”
He became still. She had never explained it to anyone this way. Not her father. Not Lucy. Not even Augusta.
“People think humiliation is one event,” she said. “A room. A moment. Everyone looking.”
Sebastian’s hand tightened around his glass.
“But it continues. That was what I had not understood.”
She looked at the rain.
“For years afterward, I entered every room already knowing what people thought. Sometimes nobody said anything. That almost made it worse. I could see recognition happen.”
Sebastian said nothing.
“Men who might otherwise have danced with me did not. Mothers watched me as though whatever defect had frightened Adrian away might be contagious. Women who had known me since childhood became kind.”
Her mouth twisted.
“I hated kindness most.”
“I am sorry.”
Clara looked at him. The words were simple. Not enough. Yet from Sebastian they felt different because he did not offer them to end the conversation. He meant them.
“I stopped being Clara,” she said quietly. “For a while.”
His face tightened.
“I became the woman who had been left.”
“You were always more than that.”
“I know.”
“Did you then?”
She met his gaze.
“No.”
The honesty hurt.
“Eventually I learned. But it took years.”
Sebastian pushed his chair back slightly. Not away from her. Closer to the fire. Closer to her.
“My family should have corrected it.”
“Adrian should have.”
“Yes.”
“Your father too.”
“Yes.”
“And you?”
The word escaped before Clara decided to ask. Sebastian looked at her. She remembered their conversation on the stairs after the wedding. I should have done it eleven years ago. Clara held his gaze.
“You said you should have defended me.”
“I should.”
“Why didn't you?”
Sebastian’s expression closed slightly. The old barrier. Clara felt disappointment. He noticed.
“My father sent me abroad.”
“That cannot be the entire reason.”
“No.”
“Then what was?”
He looked toward the fire.
“I had no proof of why Adrian left.”
“Did you know?”
“No.”
The answer came immediately. Clara believed him.
“You truly did not?”
“No. I knew he had behaved badly. I knew there had been an argument with my father. I knew Adrian left England almost immediately afterward. I did not know why he abandoned you.”
“Did you ask?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“My father told me it was none of my concern.”
Clara almost laughed.
“That stopped you?”
“No.”
There was something in his tone.
“What happened?”
Sebastian’s gaze remained on the fire.
“We argued.”
“You and your father?”
“Yes.”
“About me?”
A pause.
“Partly.”
Clara felt that word.
“Partly?”
Sebastian looked back at her.
“I told you there are things I cannot yet explain properly.”
“Cannot or will not?”
“Both.”
She sighed.
“You remain infuriating.”
“I know.”
“Yet you apologize beautifully.”
“I have had practice recently.”
Clara smiled despite herself. The tension eased.
Outside, rain continued. Inside, the fire burned lower.
Sebastian rose to add another log. Clara watched him crouch before the hearth, shirtsleeves rolled once at the wrist. No servants.
No title. No distance. She wondered suddenly what his life had been during those eleven years.
Vienna. Diplomatic dinners. Estates. Women, presumably.
The thought bothered her. She disliked that.
“Were you happy?” she asked.
He looked over his shoulder.
“When?”
“Abroad.”
Sebastian considered while adjusting the log.
“Sometimes.”
“That sounds bleak.”
“It was not.”
“Did you like Vienna?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Music. Order. People who spoke directly when money was involved.”
Clara laughed.
“You should have married an accountant.”
“I nearly did.”
Silence. Sebastian froze. Clara stared. His eyes closed briefly.
“Did you?”
“No.”
“That was an extremely peculiar thing to say.”
“I know.”
“Who?”
“No one.”
“You cannot say you nearly married an accountant and then expect me to ignore it.”
“I can attempt it.”
Clara leaned forward.
“Was she Austrian?”
“No.”
“English?”
Sebastian looked trapped. Clara suddenly understood. Not the identity. Something else. He had not meant a literal accountant. He had meant her. Because she managed accounts. Her heart changed rhythm. Sebastian stood.
“I require more wine.”
“You have barely touched yours.”
“I require different wine.”
Clara laughed. He gave her a dark look. The moment became lighter.
But the thought remained. The rain eased after two hours.
They resumed the journey. By late afternoon, the sky had cleared sufficiently for the Sussex countryside to emerge around them.
The land changed as they traveled south.
Hills rose gradually. Fields widened. Villages became smaller.
Then the Downs appeared in the distance, long green ridges beneath moving clouds. Clara leaned toward the window.
“Beautiful.”
Sebastian looked past her.
“Yes.”
She turned. He was looking at her. Not the landscape.
Sebastian shifted his gaze immediately. Clara said nothing.
Her heart behaved foolishly for several miles.
Bellamere appeared shortly before sunset.
The carriage turned between weathered stone gateposts and followed a narrow drive bordered by beeches.
Clara expected grandeur. Instead she saw something intimate.
A modest country house of pale stone stood at the edge of a shallow valley, its roof softened by age, ivy climbing one wall.
Beyond it lay meadows, an orchard and the first rise of the Downs. No formal avenue. No enormous portico.
No architectural declaration of importance.
Bellamere looked lived in. Or it would have, had anyone truly lived there.
Several shutters needed painting. One section of guttering sagged.
The gravel drive had weeds along the edges.
Yet the proportions were graceful. Clara felt something unexpected.
Recognition. Not literal. She had never been here.
Still, the place felt familiar. As though she had imagined it without knowing.
The carriage stopped. Clara did not immediately move. Sebastian watched her.
“Well?”
“I like it.”
His expression softened.
“You have not been inside.”
“I like it anyway.”
“That seems reckless.”
“Marriage has made me daring.”
“Clearly.”
A footman opened the door. Sebastian descended and offered his hand.
Clara took it. The air smelled of wet earth and leaves.
She looked up at the house. Bellamere. Possibly hers.
Possibly her mother’s in some legal sense.
Possibly the place around which eleven years of secrecy had turned.
The front door opened. An elderly woman appeared.
She was small, silver-haired and very upright, wearing a black gown and white cap.
“Your Grace.”
She curtsied to Sebastian.
“Mrs. Penrose.”
His recognition surprised Clara.
“You remember me?”
“You served here when I was young.”
“I did, Your Grace.”
Her gaze moved to Clara. The woman stopped. Completely. Clara felt Sebastian’s hand tighten beneath hers. Mrs. Penrose stared.
“Good heavens.”
Clara glanced at Sebastian.
“Have we met?”
“No.”
The housekeeper stepped closer.
“Forgive me, Your Grace. I did not mean to stare.”
“You know who I am?”
“Yes.”
“From London?”
Mrs. Penrose looked confused.
“No.”
Clara’s unease grew.
“Then how?”
The housekeeper looked toward Sebastian. He had gone very still. Mrs. Penrose said, “The portrait.” Silence. Clara looked at Sebastian.
“What portrait?”
He did not answer. Mrs. Penrose seemed to realize she had said something unexpected.
“The unfinished one, Your Grace.”
Clara stared.
“Of me?”
“I believe so.”
“Where?”
“In the attic.”
Sebastian’s face revealed almost nothing. Almost. Clara saw it. Recognition. He knew.
“Show me,” she said.