Chapter 7
The following morning, Clara woke up, and for just a split second, she thought she was back in Scotland. Then her eyes caught the canopy above her. It was burgundy colored with shapes like triangles and squares, creating an odd pattern she didn’t recognize.
She sat up and realized she was at Julian’s home.
Then her eyes fell upon the little carved cradle.
David had not cried once which she found surprising for such a small child. She rose and looked down at him. He blinked, his tiny features perfect, and a sudden, sharp ache of protectiveness caught her off guard. The peace did not last, however, for the baby broke into a loud wail.
“Oh goodness,” she said, and picked him up.
He must be hungry. That gruel was not enough for him. Or maybe he is thirsty? Or… Oh. By Jove.
The smell reached her, and she held him further away on reflex for the scent was reminiscent of a cat she’d had as a child who had made a habit of leaving smelly gifts under her bed until its little toilet had been moved to a space the cat had deemed acceptable. “Or perhaps that is more pressing.”
She made her way to the bellpull and tugged once. A maid arrived with impressive speed, and Clara requested fresh clouts for the baby.
“The young master was remarkably quiet, My Lady,” the maid said respectfully. “Not a peep from him all night.”
“How would you know that?” Clara asked.
“His Lordshup had one of us stationed outside your chamber the entire night, My Lady, in case the babe should cry and need something.”
“Oh,” she said. “I did not know.”
“He was very particular about it, Ma’am. Shall I take the baby, My Lady? A wet nurse has arrived.”
“A nurse?” she asked, and the maid nodded.
“Yes, His Grace sent for her. He told us of…” she grew red in the face as she considered how to express the sentiment. “He told us of… your troubles.”
Her troubles? What in the world had he told them?
“Shall I take him? We can change him, too.”
Clara drew the baby closer for a second before remembering that she had absolutely no idea how to change a child or indeed much about caring for a babe at all. She ought to be grateful for the assistance.
“Yes,” she said and handed the child over.
“I have been assigned to your service as a lady’s maid, if that suits,” the maid added. “My name is Nell.”
“Very well, Nell,” she said. “Were you here last night? Stoking the fire?”
The young girl nodded. “That was me. Yes, Ma’am.”
“Thank you,” she said, once again wondering if this Nell suspected anything.
“You are welcome. I shall take the baby to be changed and then return to help you dress.”
“I do not require assistance dressing,” Clara said. “I spent the last year in Scotland with my godmother, and she did not keep a lady’s maid, so I managed myself.”
“I see,” Nell said, her eyes widening slightly at a disclosure she clearly found distressing. “That must have been a great hardship, My Lady. Especially with the babe.”
“Yes,” Clara said, remembering a half-second too late that she was supposedly the one who had given birth to little David and raised him through his earliest weeks.
“Fortunately, my godmother was very well versed with children and was able to help me immensely. I shall be eternally grateful to her.”
“Of course, My Lady,” Nell said. Then she walked away with the baby, and Clara let out a long, slow breath.
It occurred to her, now that she was alone, that Julian must have had to come up with some explanation as to why a wet nurse was required. If she were the biological mother of this little boy, she would be producing the milk to feed him herself. What on earth had Julian told them?
She dressed quickly and made her way downstairs.
She found him in the breakfast room, slicing into a bread roll with precisely the air of a man for whom this was the most ordinary morning of his life. A generous spread was arranged before him, and a teapot steamed beside a neat row of jams. He looked up when she entered and offered her a smile.
“I trust you slept well?”
“I did,” she said, for surprisingly, she had. “Nell told me a wet nurse has arrived.”
He looked up. “Yes, I spoke to her briefly. I told Richmond she was a household arrangement.” His tone displayed a hint of irritation which confused her.
“And he believed it?”
He shrugged. “I imagine that he does. We must trust that he does. We must trust everybody in this household, Clara. David’s safety, and Arabella’s, depends on it.”
“Yes,” she said. “Of course. That is what matters most.” She paused. “The maid, Nell. Do you think she might suspect? She assured me last night that babies David’s age could eat gruel, as if she suspected that I did not know.”
He wetted his lips. “If so, she will keep our confidence. I am sure of it.”
She took her seat and reached for the teapot. “I wonder if the news has spread already.”
“I am certain it has,” he said. “You know as well as I do that the ton has nothing it likes better than a scandal to set everybody talking.”
“We do not want a scandal,” she said. “We want a rational explanation for why we supposedly did what we did. We do not want to alert this mysterious man. Massimo must not know.”
“Massimo?” His bushy eyebrows rose.
She shook her head. “I came up with it as a name to call him for the time being. If his uncle is Italian, then he might be too, and Massimo is the only Italian name I know.”
“That makes sense. Better than calling him ‘that man’ anyhow. Pray, I have thought about what we should do next. Concrete steps. I think what we ought to do is speak to your parents first. Once we have managed that, we will take ourselves off to my country seat in Southampton, marry properly, and return with the correct documentation.”
Clara felt a sudden wave of nausea. Her parents. How was she going to explain any of this to her parents?
Her father would most likely be pleased, she reasoned. One of the things he had always cared about most was that his daughters were well placed in society, and she was now supposedly married to a duke. That much would sit well with him.
But her mother was another matter entirely. And then another thought struck her, and she sat up sharply.
“My godmother,” she said. “I was supposedly with her for the entirety of this past year. She would certainly know whether I was with child or not. What if my mother writes to her?”
He set down his knife. “That is a quandary, to be certain.” A short silence fell between them. “Were you out and about a great deal while you were in Scotland?”
She shook her head. “No. We spent most of the time at her estate in the Highlands. We did spend some time at her house in Edinburgh but only at the very beginning and at the very end. The majority of the time, we were in the country, and we saw very few people.”
“Good,” he said. “Then we will write to her by messenger today and tell her the truth. There are not many people who can know it, and we must limit that number, but your aunt must be one of them. Write to her at once.” He paused.
“Then we will go and see your parents, and then we will set off for Southampton.” He nodded toward the spread before him.
“But first, have some breakfast. It is going to be a lengthy day, and I do not want you to—”
“Feel faint,” she finished for him. “I would not feel faint. Why would you say such a thing?”
His eyebrows rose. “Because the last time I saw you was at Arabella’s fourteenth birthday celebration, and you fainted from lack of eating.”
“That was—”
“Foolish,” he said. “I remember it clearly. You had not eaten because you wished to fit into a certain gown.”
“That is not accurate,” she said, drawing herself up slightly.
“The fashion of the day does not require one to show off one’s figure in any case.
I was attending a costume ball, and I wished to wear a proper corset which is most uncomfortable on a full stomach.
So, I had not eaten, not because of vanity but because of the corset. ”
“So, you wished to fit into a costume,” he concluded, “and therefore did not eat. My point stands.” He winked at her. “You did look rather smashing in your costume, I will concede that.”
She rolled her eyes. “You need not pay me Spanish coin. Your point stands. And I have already begun eating.” She cut into her bread roll with considerable flourish, keeping her eyes on him as she did so, as if to challenge him to say another word on the subject.
What happened next was difficult to manage with any dignity.
She cut herself. Not with the bread knife, which would at least have been understandable, but with the butter knife, which took a certain clumsy talent.
She stared at her finger. A drop of blood appeared, then another.
“Clara,” Julian said.
He leaped up from his seat with such speed that his chair fell backward, striking the floor with a loud crack. Before she had quite processed what was happening, he was beside her and had taken her hand, turning it toward the light from the window to look at the cut.
His hands were warm and steady in stark contrast to the chaos with which he had crossed the room.
“It does not look too bad,” he said though he did not release her hand.
He reached into his pocket and produced a handkerchief, pressing it firmly around her finger.
“Hold that tight.” He kept his hand over hers, pressing down.
He was standing very close—close enough that she could smell the faint scent of wood and cedar that had lingered in the carriage last night.
It was entirely improper, and worse, she found she didn’t want to pull away.
“It is a butter knife,” she said, trying to anchor herself.
“I am aware.”
“It is genuinely impressive that I managed to—”
“It is,” he agreed, and she heard the amusement in his voice. “Do be quiet for a moment.”
She did though she made a mental note that she was choosing to do so and not simply obeying.
She looked down at their hands. His were considerably larger than hers, his skin tanned from being outdoors.
She wondered, distantly, whether he had always had such capable-looking hands or whether she was only noticing it now because the morning was so thoroughly upended.
“There,” he said, after a moment. “I think it has stopped.”
He lifted the handkerchief and examined the cut as intensely as if he were mapping a battlefield.
“You are satisfied?” she asked.
“Provisionally,” he said. He didn’t let go immediately.
Clara forced herself to swallow, clearing her throat to break the silence. “I believe I can manage the rest of my breakfast without further incident.”
Julian looked at her a moment longer. Then he released her hand, stepped back, and picked up his fallen chair with complete calm, as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.
“I shall hold you to that,” he said and sat back down.
Clara looked at her bread roll. She picked up the butter knife again, thought better of it, and set it back down.
Across the table, Julian said nothing, but she was almost certain, from the corner of her eye, that he was smiling.