Chapter 20
Clara had not slept well. The events of the previous day had settled over her in the small hours like a weight she couldn’t shift—Mrs. Holt’s confession, Arabella’s precarious situation…
It was all too much. She’d stayed up late with Julian, writing notes to Helena and Gideon as well as Evelyn and Nathaniel, letting them know the latest. Then they’d written to Stanhope to update him.
The night had been at its darkest when she’d laid down with David in the crib beside her. Sleep hadn’t come as she’d fretted over what she’d written, if she’d written enough, if she’d missed anything.
By the time the light came gray through the curtains, she had given up on sleep entirely, dressed herself, and gone downstairs.
She was on her second cup of tea when Mrs. Holt appeared in the drawing room doorway with Molly on her hip. She stopped when she saw Clara.
“My Lady, forgive me, I did not know you were here. I finished feeding David and put him down for a nap. Nell is with him. I’ll take her to the garden.”
“Please don’t.” Clara set down her cup. “Come in. Sit with me.”
After a brief hesitation, Mrs. Holt came in and settled in the chair across from her, Molly investigating the buttons on her mother’s sleeve with the focused intensity of a very small scholar.
“I should like to apologize,” Mrs. Holt said, “for the deception and keeping the truth from you.”
“There is no need to apologize,” Clara said.
“You did what Arabella asked. You came here, and you kept her son fed and safe, and you did it at considerable cost to yourself. You lost your place in Islington after all,” she paused.
“I know what it is to do something because Arabella asked. She has a way of making things seem very clear and very reasonable at the time.”
Mrs. Holt smiled at that. “She does.”
“Tell me what she was like,” Clara said. “When you knew her at Dover. Before Italy. What was her state of mind?”
The woman looked down at Molly for a moment.
“She was happy,” she said. “Or she seemed it. She was excited; you could see it in the way she moved, the way she spoke about the future. She thought herself in love with this Bash.” She glanced up.
“She was very adventurous in spirit. Everything seemed possible to her.”
Clara gulped, for the words painted a perfect picture of her friend.
“Yes,” she said. “She always was. Once, when we were children, Arabella had decided that the old stone wall at the edge of the east field was climbable and that the view from the top would justify the trouble. I told her the wall was too crumbled and too high. Arabella pointed out that I was not required to climb it. Then she climbed it herself, reached the top, called the view magnificent, and came back down without once mentioning the blood on both her palms.”
Mrs. Holt looked up. “She climbed onto the roof of the inn at Dover. To watch the boats come in.”
“Of course, she did.”
“I told her she would break her neck.”
“And she told you the view was worth it.”
“Indeed. She told me I ought to follow her up. It was, arguably, safer than the wall you mentioned as it only required climbing a ladder. I did as she asked.” Mrs. Holt shook her head, but she was smiling. “She was not wrong.”
They sat with that for a moment. Outside, the garden was pale with early light.
“I hope she is still like that. Strong. Determined,” Clara said, her hand wrapped around her cup.
Mrs. Holt did not hesitate. “I am certain she is. Whatever has happened to her, she is not broken by it. I would stake my life on that.”
Clara nodded. She did believe it. She also knew that wanting something to be true and knowing it to be true were not always the same.
“I don’t even know your real name,” she said then.
“My real name?”
“Your Christian name.”
The woman smiled at her. “Marianne,” she said. “Marianne Holt. Miss Holt, really. The Mrs. I made up.”
“Marianne.” Clara repeated it. “That suits you.”
“I thought it unwise to use my real name when I came here. I was not certain how much anyone knew or what they would think of me. But being a Miss with a little one seemed excessive.”
“What I think of you,” Clara said, “is that you are a woman who helped a friend. That is all.”
Marianne looked at her daughter for a moment.
“May I ask something?” she said at last.
“You may.”
“His Grace.” She kept her eyes on Molly. “I have watched the two of you together from the very first day. There is something between you. I do not mean to be presumptuous.”
Clara opened her mouth and found nothing came out.
“You are comfortable with him,” Marianne said. “More yourself than at other times. And when he looks at you…” she stopped. “I have seen enough to know the difference between a man going through the motions and a man who means it.”
“It is an arrangement to keep the child safe. You know this better than anyone,” Clara said.
“I know what it is. I also know what I have seen.”
Clara set down her cup. She looked at the unlit fireplace.
“I am comfortable with him,” she said at last. “And I am content when I am near him. More so than I have been in some time.” She stopped.
“But that is not the same as knowing he feels the same. He is a gracious man. He is kind. That is simply who he is. It does not mean that he is moon eyed over me or I over him.”
There was a pause as Marianne shifted her daughter from one side to the other.
“I watch him when he does not know he is being watched,” Marianne said. “He watches you the same way.”
“He is attentive to everyone.”
“I daresay it is not quite the same as the way he pays attention to you. I think you know that.”
Clara looked at her hands. “I am afraid,” she said.
The words surprised her. She had not planned to say them.
Not to this woman whom she did not know.
Marianne Holt was not her friend or confidant.
If anything, she should be making this confession to Helena.
Yet, the words had come out easier now in front of his stranger than in front of anyone else.
“Of what, My Lady?”
“Of being wrong again and of building something in my head and finding the floor not there.” She pressed her palms flat on her knees. “I was wrong before. I trusted someone before, and I was wrong. I know Julian is not Benjamin. I know that. But the fear does not make distinctions.”
Marianne was quiet. Molly had grown drowsy, her cheek against her mother’s collarbone.
“I was wrong too,” Marianne said. “About Molly’s father.
And I would be wrong again before I let it turn me to stone.
” She looked at Clara steadily and then, with a smile, she rose.
“The garden awaits. Perhaps it would do you good to take a turn about the garden as well. His Grace has taken David outside.”
* * *
Clara found them in the gazebo. She had not gone looking. She needed the air after sitting too long with her own thoughts.
Julian was on the low bench with David in the crook of his arm. The baby had both hands clamped around one of Julian’s fingers and had apparently decided that he was not letting go.
He heard her step on the path and looked up.
She had been watching him for a moment before he turned and her heart thudded.
She sat beside him. David registered her arrival, gurgled, and tightened his grip on Julian’s finger.
“He will not let go,” Julian said.
“I can see that.”
“I have been attempting to negotiate with him for some time.”
“How are the negotiations progressing?”
“He is entirely unmoved.” Julian looked down at him. “He is going to be formidable. He has a grip and a complete indifference to persuasion.”
“He gets that from Arabella,” Clara said.
“He does.”
David looked between them with the expression of someone following a conversation and finding both parties satisfactory. His grip did not loosen.
Julian looked at her then—properly, the way he sometimes did when she was not quite prepared for it. She did not look away. She had stopped pretending there was nothing to see.
She thought back to her conversation with Marianne. It was true that she was afraid, but it was also true that despite all of that, she felt comfortable next to him. Safe.
“Shall I try?” She looked at David and grimaced which made him loosen his grip on Julian.
She held out her own finger, and David grabbed onto it with one hand, while holding on to Julian’s with the other.
“Well, we are tied together now,” he said with a smile.
“We are, indeed.” She looked up at him, warmth spreading through her rapidly. “And I do not mind it. I … I want to tell you how grateful I am for how easy you made this transition for us both. Even if at times your jesting can drive me to distraction.”
“Only at times? I must do better.”
She did not respond to his attempt at a jest. Instead, she shook her head. “I mean it. I am grateful. You’ve made me feel safe and secure during this trying time.”
She looked at him, wishing he would reply with the same, that he would tell her something to encourage her further. Alas, he did not.