Chapter 1 #2
Agatha shook her head and waved a hand through the air. “No, no, not at all. We managed to make the most of it, but think of all those lost years! Clara, please, you must think of yourself, and your dear mother.”
“Mother?”
“Yes… it does worry her so.”
“She has not mentioned such a thing to me,” Clara said in bewilderment. Was everyone keeping secrets from her?
“Well, she wouldn’t. She knows how you can behave,” Agatha said in an offhand manner. Clara gripped the arms of her chair tightly, and the core of her body grew tense. She leaned forward, a lock of chestnut hair falling across her face.
“How can I behave?” she said in a biting tone. Agatha cleared her throat and picked up her cup of tea, taking a sip. She bore the same look of disgust as earlier.
“Oh my goodness! Why are they serving me cold tea?” she asked. Clara spread her fingers across her forehead. The day had barely begun, and already she was feeling the blood pounding in her skull.
“Grandmother, please try to remember. Were you visited by anyone yesterday?” she asked, for she did not believe Joanne and Ruth would have created something like this out of thin air. Agatha leaned back and tapped a finger against her chin.
“Do you know Clara? I really don’t recall. I suppose that is one of the difficult things about getting old. There are so many days behind us it sometimes becomes hard to tell one from the other.”
Clara sighed, and tried to hide it. “I shall go and speak to Joanne myself.”
“Yes, and take this to them. Tell them I don’t want any cold tea,” Agatha said, handing Clara the cup and saucer. Clara stared at the beige liquid and didn’t protest. She simply turned out of the room and decided to approach the problem from another angle.
However, before she reached the kitchen, there was a knock at the door. While there were usually people on hand to open the door, St. Margaret’s was not a grand estate, and Clara was unwilling to wait for someone to rush away from another task to do something that was easily accomplished by her.
Clara opened the door to find a well-dressed man standing there, and a chaise at the gates of the house. The man wore a tailored suit and had long, fluffy mutton chops running along his cheeks. He had round spectacles and a pleasant smile.
“May I help you?” Clara asked.
“Yes, I am Mr. Hubert Jameson, the solicitor entrusted with this property. I spoke to Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess of Stonewood, yesterday. She advised me to come back today in the hope of speaking with Miss Sterling.”
“I am she; what does this regard?”
“Perhaps it would be best if I come inside,” he asked.
Clara stepped away and led him into a quiet room, although she peeked into the front room and saw that the children were playing with their toys. Although they weren’t cleaning as she had asked them, she was at least grateful they were keeping themselves occupied.
Clara spotted Joanne at the end of the hallway, but the maid rushed off before Clara could say anything. She placed the cold cup of tea down onto a small table and smoothed down her dress as they settled.
“I’m sure the maid will be here soon with some refreshment.”
“That won’t be necessary. I shan’t be here for long. I am here to talk about the lease.”
“The lease?”
“Yes, it has expired. Fifty years can go by in the blink of an eye,” Hubert said. Clara stared at him blankly. The words didn’t quite register for her, or at least the enormity of them remained elusive.
“I see. Well then, let us renew it if it needs renewing.”
“I’m afraid it is not that simple, Miss Sterling. You cannot renew the lease. Only the owner of the property can do that.”
“But I run the orphanage.”
“Indeed, but that is not quite the same thing as owning it. The Duke of Clemont must apply to renew the lease, and since it has already expired, he only has one month in which to do so.”
Clara blinked. Darkness encroached upon her vision and nausea began swimming in her stomach.
“And what happens if the lease does not get renewed?” she asked, her voice becoming smaller, the dread consequences nipping at her thoughts like hungry wolves.
“Then St. Margaret’s must close.”
The words fell like a hammer upon her heart. The children… what would happen to the children?
“Why have I not heard anything of this? Why are you only coming to me now?”
“I do apologize that you seemed shocked. I have sent you letters.”
Clara tugged at a lock of hair and looked to the side.
“My grandmother handles the letters. She must have misplaced them,” Clara said.
Agatha had been asking to take on more responsibility at the orphanage, so Clara had given her a simple task that she didn’t think would be affected by Agatha’s ailing memory.
It seemed to be a grave mistake.
“Indeed. Well, you have a month, at least. That is better than a day,” Hubert said.
He rose from his chair and excused himself, saying that he had other business to which he must attend.
Clara remained sitting for a moment, a bitter taste on her tongue.
Was he off to ruin someone else’s day? No, it wasn’t fair to blame him.
He was only the messenger. This was someone else's fault. The lease should never have expired.
Clara rose suddenly and rushed back to where Agatha was sitting.
“Do you have my tea, dear?” she asked.
Clara came right up to her and placed her hands upon the chair. Locks of hair spilled around. She gazed deep into Agatha’s rheumy eyes. Agatha blinked back at her, puzzled.
“Grandmother, I need you to remember something. You met with a solicitor yesterday, and you have received letters that haven’t found their way to me.
The fifty-year lease on this building has expired, and if it is not renewed, then St. Margaret’s is going to have to close,” the words rushed out on fervent breath.
“Fifty years? No, that can’t be right. Why, we only opened this… why… my goodness, has it really been that long?” Agatha said, comprehension coming across her features as she thought about the passage of time. Clara whirled away, tapping her fist against her forehead.
“There must be something we can do. I cannot allow the children to be turned out. We have all put too much work into this place. And the worst part is that we cannot do anything about it ourselves. Our fates all lie in the hands of the Duke of Clemont, whoever that may be. Since he allowed the lease to expire, I cannot imagine he cares about this place at all,” she said despairingly, lifting her gaze to the ceiling.
Agatha snapped her fingers and rose from her chair.
She shuffled out of the room, and Clara was utterly perplexed.
She followed Agatha, trying to get the woman to focus, but Agatha kept waving her away.
They arrived in an office, and Agatha opened a cabinet, pulling out a lockbox, the key to which rested nearby.
How she could remember this when she forgot the events of yesterday, Clara didn’t know.
Agatha turned and pulled out an old, faded letter. She chuckled.
“This is almost as old as I am.”
“What is it?” Clara asked, trying to soften her demanding tone. She knew that Agatha couldn’t help things, but it was still frustrating to be distracted when there was so much to do
“My dear friend Rose wrote this. It’s a promise that her family would always look after this house. We must trust in this,” she clutched the letter tightly.
“Then we must find Rose. Where is she?”
“Somewhere far beyond our reach, unfortunately,” Agatha sighed.
From the way Agatha’s face dropped and the heaviness of her tone, there was no doubt in Clara’s mind that Rose had passed away.
Clara felt her heart sink. It seemed as though the cards were stacked against her.
However, Agatha had always been good at cheering Clara up in a myriad of ways.
“But there is her grandson, the Duke of Clemont. We must hope that he shall honor her promise.”
Clara’s lips parted. Her shoulders became rounded, and it was as though there was a hollow gap in her chest. Her gaze turned to the floor and her hands were pressed against her thigh, although they were limp rather than strong.
All the strength had left her. Is this what her life had come to, relying on a stranger to abide by a promise that was made long before he was born?