Chapter Twelve The Right Woman #2
“How?”
“She has two children.”
“That is emotional accounting.”
“I am improving.”
“You are becoming irresponsible.”
Sebastian leaned over the desk.
“Who taught me?”
Clara smiled. He kissed her. Briefly. Very improperly for an office. She returned to the ledger.
“We will give her one hundred and eighty.”
“Two hundred.”
“One eighty.”
“One ninety.”
“Done.”
Sebastian looked pleased. Clara narrowed her eyes.
“You planned that.”
“I am a duke. Negotiation is hereditary.”
“Apparently theft is too.”
The words escaped before she considered them. Silence followed. Clara immediately regretted it. Sebastian’s expression did not close, though the old hurt flickered. She reached for his hand.
“I am sorry.”
He squeezed her fingers.
“Do not be.”
“It was careless.”
“It was true.”
“Not of you.”
“No.”
That distinction remained important to both of them. Sebastian pulled another chair beside the desk. Clara looked suspicious.
“What?”
“I am sitting.”
“You have correspondence.”
“So do you.”
“Yours governs half Derbyshire.”
“Mine can wait.”
Clara smiled. Partnership had not become perfect simply because they declared love.
Sebastian still occasionally attempted to solve problems before mentioning them.
Clara still interpreted silence as danger more quickly than she wanted.
They argued. Sometimes loudly. But they had learned one rule.
Nothing important remained hidden overnight.
The rule had already prevented three potential disasters and one ridiculous dispute about whether Sebastian could replace Bellamere’s carriage without consulting her.
He believed he could because the existing one required repairs.
Clara believed the existing one required repairs because Sebastian drove it too quickly. The debate remained unresolved.
She handed him the fund application.
“Read the second page.”
Sebastian obeyed. Clara watched him. This was what she wanted.
Not a husband who granted permission. A husband who participated.
Someone who could be asked. Someone she could disagree with.
Someone who knew the difference between helping and taking control.
It seemed an astonishingly simple thing to want.
It had taken them both eleven years to understand it.
Lady Winterbourne arrived at eleven forty-five and objected to the condition of the drive before anyone had opened the carriage door.
Clara stood beneath Bellamere’s portico beside Sebastian.
“You repaired it,” she murmured.
“Apparently inadequately.”
Augusta descended.
“You missed a rut.”
Sebastian bowed.
“Welcome, Augusta.”
“It is near the eastern gate.”
“I shall have the estate demolished and rebuilt.”
“Good.”
She kissed Clara.
“You look disgustingly happy.”
“Thank you.”
“It was not entirely complimentary.”
“I know.”
Behind Augusta came Arabella, though Clara could not imagine why they had traveled together. Arabella emerged wearing a plum-colored traveling coat and carrying three books.
“I won a wager.”
Sebastian looked alarmed.
“With Augusta?”
“Yes.”
“About what?”
“Whether she would complain before entering the house.”
Augusta turned.
“You did not tell me there was a wager.”
“That would have affected the result.”
“You are becoming intolerable.”
“I have had excellent teachers.”
More carriages followed. Cecily arrived with Eleanor and Sophia.
Beatrice came with her mother and, to Clara’s surprise, Rupert Lancing.
That relationship had not improved. Clara saw it immediately.
Rupert was handsome and impeccably dressed, charming to Lady Winterbourne, deferential to Sebastian and faintly dismissive whenever Beatrice spoke for too long.
The pattern irritated Clara. She would not intervene unless asked.
Augusta’s rules mattered. Still, Clara noticed.
Eliza arrived alone. Quiet as always. She greeted Clara warmly and then seemed relieved when nobody made a fuss.
Sir Edmund and Lucy came after luncheon.
Clara barely had time to reach the hall before Lucy rushed toward her.
“Clara!”
She hugged her. Clara laughed.
“Careful. Duchesses are fragile.”
“You are not.”
“No.”
Lucy stepped back. She looked radiant. Behind her stood Theodore Bellamy. Clara lifted her brows. Lucy colored. Theodore bowed.
“Your Grace.”
“Mr. Bellamy.”
He looked nervous. Clara enjoyed this more than was kind. Sir Edmund appeared behind them.
“Do stop tormenting him.”
“I have said four words.”
“You have an expressive face.”
Clara kissed her father. He looked well.
Not transformed. That mattered. Restoring the money had not magically made Sir Edmund young or erased every financial mistake.
Brook Street would still be sold eventually because maintaining a London house year-round made little sense.
Whitcombe Park needed repairs. Several debts remained Sir Edmund’s responsibility and would be paid gradually.
But the immediate danger was gone. The estate would remain.
More importantly, Sir Edmund had stopped looking as though every bill represented a personal moral failure. He took Clara’s hand.
“You look happy.”
“I am.”
His eyes moved toward Sebastian, who was speaking to Theodore.
“He does too.”
Clara smiled.
“Yes.”
Sir Edmund lowered his voice.
“I like him much better than his brother.”
“Papa.”
“I am old enough to speak plainly.”
“You always were.”
“No. Your mother used to stop me.”
Clara laughed. The mention of her mother no longer landed only as sorrow.
Something had changed. Perhaps restoring the money had returned Margaret Whitcombe to her proper place in the story.
Not the mother whose fortune vanished. The woman who had provided carefully for her daughter and been betrayed by another family’s dishonesty.
Clara could honor that. The Bellamere Fund would do part of it.
“What are you smiling about?” Sir Edmund asked.
“Mama.”
His expression softened.
“She would have loved this house.”
“Yes.”
“Not Ashcombe?”
Clara looked toward Sebastian.
“She would have loved him too.”
Sir Edmund considered.
“Eventually.”
That made Clara laugh again. The afternoon became exactly the sort of disorder Bellamere suited.
Lucy and Theodore walked in the garden within sight of at least four unnecessary chaperones.
Arabella challenged Sebastian to billiards and lost, then insisted the table was uneven.
Eleanor sat with Mrs. Penrose discussing schools in the area.
Sophia disappeared into the library. Beatrice spent too much time smoothing over Rupert’s remarks.
Cecily walked alone toward the orchard before Clara eventually joined her.
The day had turned golden. Early autumn had only begun touching the leaves, enough to give the hedges hints of bronze beneath the green.
Beyond the orchard, the Downs rolled into distance beneath a clear sky.
Cecily stopped beside an apple tree.
“You have changed it.”
“The orchard?”
“The place.”
Clara looked back toward the house. Open windows. Voices from inside. A footman carrying cushions onto the terrace because Augusta had declared the drawing room too warm.
“Yes.”
“It feels like you.”
Clara smiled.
“I am not sure whether Sebastian considers that praise.”
“He looks insufferably pleased.”
“He complains constantly.”
“Happy men often do.”
Clara glanced at her. Cecily’s face was calm. Too calm. She had seemed quieter since arriving. Not unhappy. Distracted.
“Are you all right?”
Cecily smiled.
“There. You have become Augusta.”
“An alarming accusation.”
“You asked without demanding an answer.”
Clara looked toward the house.
“I am learning.”
Cecily touched the branch above her.
“My late husband’s solicitor wrote yesterday.”
Clara waited.
“He wants to review some estate papers.”
“Is that unusual?”
“Possibly.”
Cecily’s tone closed the subject. Clara did not press. Not yet.
“You know Winterbourne is always open.”
Cecily looked at her.
“So is Bellamere?”
The question surprised Clara.
“Yes.”
She realized she meant it. This house, too, could become somewhere people came when the world had narrowed around them. Not an institution. Not charity. A home with enough spare rooms and enough people willing to listen. Cecily smiled faintly.
“I may remember that.”
They walked back together. Dinner that evening was intentionally informal by ducal standards and still required sixteen places.
Clara had insisted upon one long table. Sebastian had supported her immediately, though he claimed this was because Augusta became dangerous when placed too far away to hear everyone else’s conversation.
Candles burned along the center between low arrangements of late roses, apples and greenery gathered from the estate.
The windows stood open until dusk, after which servants closed them against the cooling air.
Clara sat at one end. Sebastian at the other.
She had once imagined the distance between host and hostess at a long table as symbolic of aristocratic marriage.
Now she understood that eye contact traveled remarkably well.
Sebastian caught hers while Augusta argued with Fane about whether solicitors invented unnecessarily complicated language to preserve employment.
He smiled. Clara smiled back. That was enough.
Sir Edmund discussed crops with Matthew Bellamy, Theodore’s father, who had arrived for dinner.
Lucy blushed whenever Theodore spoke directly to her.
Arabella made Rupert Lancing visibly nervous within eleven minutes.
Sophia rescued Beatrice from one conversation and Eleanor from another.
Eliza listened more than she spoke, but when she did, everyone listened.
Cecily seemed brighter than she had in the orchard.
Clara hoped the shadows beneath her eyes meant only poor sleep. From halfway down the table Augusta watched Clara. Clara caught her.
“What?”
Conversation paused. Augusta lifted her wineglass.
“Nothing.”