Chapter Twelve The Right Woman #3
“You are staring.”
“I am allowed.”
“Why?”
Augusta looked around the table. Then back at Clara.
“One year ago you would have apologized for taking up too much space at your own dinner.”
The words surprised her. Clara’s face warmed.
“That sounds unlikely.”
“It is true.”
Sebastian looked toward her. Augusta continued.
“You would have made certain everyone else spoke first. You would have worried about being thought difficult, conspicuous or ambitious.”
Clara glanced around the table. No one appeared embarrassed. Only interested. Augusta smiled.
“You no longer do.”
Clara thought about it. She did not. Somewhere between becoming a duchess and learning she did not require the title, she had stopped measuring herself against other people’s comfort.
The realization came quietly. She had wanted vindication once.
Perhaps not consciously. But some part of her eighteen-year-old self had dreamed of entering London and watching every person who whispered discover that they were wrong.
That had happened, in a fashion. People who once pitied her now envied her.
Women who called her unfortunate now competed for invitations.
But Clara no longer cared enough for the reversal to satisfy her.
Vindication still allowed society to control the scale upon which she measured herself. She preferred something else. Freedom from the scale entirely. She looked at Augusta.
“Perhaps I became difficult.”
Arabella lifted her glass.
“At last.”
Laughter moved around the table. Sebastian raised his own glass.
“To difficulty.”
Clara stared.
“You encourage me at your peril.”
“I passed peril several months ago.”
“To difficulty,” Augusta repeated.
Everyone drank. Clara laughed. And Bellamere felt like home.
The house quieted gradually after midnight.
Sir Edmund retired first. Then Eleanor. Beatrice disappeared upstairs following a strained conversation with Rupert that Clara deliberately pretended not to notice.
Eventually only Clara, Sebastian and Augusta remained in the drawing room.
Augusta yawned. Sebastian looked horrified.
“Are you ill?”
“I am tired.”
“I have never seen you admit it.”
“I am in the country. Standards decline.”
She stood.
“Good night.”
Clara kissed her cheek.
“Good night.”
Augusta looked toward Sebastian.
“Do not wake the house.”
Clara’s attention fixed on him.
“Augusta.”
“What? He walks heavily.”
Sebastian’s face remained perfectly solemn.
“I shall attempt delicacy.”
“You have limited natural aptitude.”
She left. Clara covered her face.
“I apologize.”
“No, you do not.”
“No.”
Sebastian held out his hand.
“Come.”
Clara took it. Instead of turning toward the staircase, he led her through the library and into the small gallery beyond.
Only two lamps remained lit. The portrait from the attic hung there now.
Finished. Clara stopped. She had resisted at first. The unfinished work felt too connected to an imagined future that had never happened.
Sebastian persuaded her otherwise. Not by insisting.
By asking. Did she want it restored? After several days, Clara decided yes.
A skilled artist completed the damaged background without altering the original portrait of her face.
Eighteen-year-old Clara now looked out over Bellamere.
Not as a monument to loss. As part of the house’s history. Clara stood before it.
“I still cannot believe you commissioned that.”
“I was twenty-four.”
“As though youth excuses madness.”
“Sometimes.”
She turned. Sebastian held a small parcel.
“What is that?”
“Yours.”
Clara frowned.
“Another legal document?”
“No.”
“A bill?”
“No.”
“Then I am suspicious.”
“You should be.”
He handed it to her. The parcel was wrapped in plain paper.
Clara opened it. Inside lay a small velvet case.
Her heart shifted before she lifted the lid.
The miniature. The original portrait from the charity exhibition.
Clara at eighteen. Pale blue gown. Soft expression.
A young woman who had not yet met disaster. Clara looked up.
“You are giving it to me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Sebastian’s expression softened.
“Because I have spent long enough keeping evidence of my feelings hidden in drawers.”
Clara laughed. The sound caught unexpectedly in her throat.
She lifted the miniature carefully. Sebastian had preserved it beautifully.
For eleven years. Vienna. Paris. London.
Through Adrian’s engagement. Through the scandal.
Through everything. Clara turned it over.
The backing looked old. A faint line of writing showed beneath one edge. She frowned.
“What is that?”
Sebastian became very still.
“Nothing.”
Clara looked up.
“Sebastian.”
“Clara.”
“Have you learned nothing?”
“Apparently not enough.”
She carefully loosened the backing. There, written in faded ink, was her name. Clara Whitcombe. Spring 1806. Beneath it was another line. Clara stopped breathing. The woman I mean to marry. She stared. Then looked at Sebastian. His face had changed. Not embarrassed exactly. Caught.
“You wrote this.”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“After the auction.”
“Before Adrian proposed?”
“Yes.”
Clara looked down again. The words appeared astonishingly young. Not because the handwriting was immature. Because of the certainty. A twenty-four-year-old man had purchased a miniature and written his future on the back. Clara’s eyes filled. Sebastian touched her arm.
“Do not cry.”
She looked up.
“That sounded remarkably like an order.”
“I withdraw it.”
“Good.”
He smiled. Clara laughed through the tears.
“You took your time.”
Sebastian sighed.
“I am aware.”
“Eleven years.”
“Yes.”
“You are very slow.”
“In my defense, circumstances became complicated.”
“That is an understatement.”
“I married the wrong woman's brother.”
For once, Clara’s ready answer deserted her.
“What?”
Sebastian frowned.
“That did not sound right.”
“It made absolutely no sense.”
“No.”
He looked at the miniature. Then at her.
“My brother nearly married the right woman.”
Something warm moved through Clara. Sebastian stepped closer. His voice softened.
“I finally did.”
There it was. The title no longer belonged to scandal. Not wrong woman. Not wrong bride. The right woman. Clara touched his face.
“For a man who once relied upon legal clauses to propose marriage, you are improving.”
“I have an excellent instructor.”
“Yes.”
“Appallingly demanding.”
“Also yes.”