expectation until Adam crossed her palm with two shillings before flouncing away.
“Now that’s a fine piece,” he said, following the barmaid with his eyes as she made her way through the crowd. This time it was Thorncroft’s turn to snort.
His brother was, if nothing else, tediously predictable. While Adam had a fine time with the women who threw themselves at him – of which there were too many to count – his real enjoyment came from chasing down the ones who played hard to get.
“It’s time to go,” Thorncroft said, nearly toppling over his full tankard of ale in his haste to stand up. The last thing he needed to do was track down another one of his brother’s bastard children in nine months. Better to nip the problem in the arse, as it were, and get Adam home before he did something he could come to soundly regret.
Clara woke to the sound of wheels churning on gravel. She sat up with a jolt and hurried to the window, her mouth forming a tight grimace when she peered through the glass and saw the carriage rolling up the drive.
Lady Irene had returned.
She supposed it had been too much to hope that her stepmother would decide to remain in London for the duration of the summer. That would have taken a miracle, and if there was one thing Clara knew for certain it was that miracles did not exist.
Her life was proof enough of that.
Hearing the bang and clash of dishes as the kitchen staff rushed to prepare breakfast, Clara dressed quickly in a plain cotton shift and a faded blue dress. Winding her long hair into a bun, she pinned it at the nape of her neck and plopped a lace cap on top of her head before dashing out the door. It wasn’t until she was halfway down the narrow staircase that she realized she’d left the attic without any shoes or even a pair of stockings.
A rueful smile tugged at one corner of her mouth as she turned around and slowly made her way back to her bedroom. A rush of sunlight greeted her as she pushed open the door. Going first to the windows she opened both of them as wide as they would go, welcoming in a sweet breeze that smelled like freshly cut grass and daffodils. Next she began the search for her shoes, never an easy task despite the relatively small size of her living quarters. Living quarters that were, according to Lady Irene’s own promise, only supposed to be hers for the duration of a week, maybe two. Certainly not for seven long years.
It was one of the few promises Clara was glad her stepmother had broken.
Every treasure she held dear was kept in the attic. It was her own private sanctuary in a house she no longer recognized as her own. Paintings – most of them done by her own inexpert hand – hung side by side next to colorful rugs that had once covered the floors in the drawing room and the parlor. Tables and bookshelves were cluttered with every imaginable knick-knack from cracked vases filled with flowers to a miniature fleet of wooden ships complete with tiny masts and fabric sails.
The ships had belonged to her father. They’d been one of his few possessions Clara had managed to salvage before her stepmother had all of his things taken away. Of her mother she had little, save a perfume bottle, a tattered blue ribbon, and the large portrait that had hung in the library.
She kept the portrait covered beneath a burlap sack for Lady Irene did not know she had it. When she was feeling particularly melancholy or simply in need of seeing a familiar, loving face she uncovered the painting and sat before it, staring up at her mother’s bright smile with a secret longing that time had done little to diminish. Clara may not have remembered very much about her mother, but she missed her all the same.
She missed the stories her mother would have told her. She missed the kisses that would have been placed upon her brow. She missed the hugs that would have been freely given whenever she needed them. She missed the gentle words that would have lifted her
“Now that’s a fine piece,” he said, following the barmaid with his eyes as she made her way through the crowd. This time it was Thorncroft’s turn to snort.
His brother was, if nothing else, tediously predictable. While Adam had a fine time with the women who threw themselves at him – of which there were too many to count – his real enjoyment came from chasing down the ones who played hard to get.
“It’s time to go,” Thorncroft said, nearly toppling over his full tankard of ale in his haste to stand up. The last thing he needed to do was track down another one of his brother’s bastard children in nine months. Better to nip the problem in the arse, as it were, and get Adam home before he did something he could come to soundly regret.
Clara woke to the sound of wheels churning on gravel. She sat up with a jolt and hurried to the window, her mouth forming a tight grimace when she peered through the glass and saw the carriage rolling up the drive.
Lady Irene had returned.
She supposed it had been too much to hope that her stepmother would decide to remain in London for the duration of the summer. That would have taken a miracle, and if there was one thing Clara knew for certain it was that miracles did not exist.
Her life was proof enough of that.
Hearing the bang and clash of dishes as the kitchen staff rushed to prepare breakfast, Clara dressed quickly in a plain cotton shift and a faded blue dress. Winding her long hair into a bun, she pinned it at the nape of her neck and plopped a lace cap on top of her head before dashing out the door. It wasn’t until she was halfway down the narrow staircase that she realized she’d left the attic without any shoes or even a pair of stockings.
A rueful smile tugged at one corner of her mouth as she turned around and slowly made her way back to her bedroom. A rush of sunlight greeted her as she pushed open the door. Going first to the windows she opened both of them as wide as they would go, welcoming in a sweet breeze that smelled like freshly cut grass and daffodils. Next she began the search for her shoes, never an easy task despite the relatively small size of her living quarters. Living quarters that were, according to Lady Irene’s own promise, only supposed to be hers for the duration of a week, maybe two. Certainly not for seven long years.
It was one of the few promises Clara was glad her stepmother had broken.
Every treasure she held dear was kept in the attic. It was her own private sanctuary in a house she no longer recognized as her own. Paintings – most of them done by her own inexpert hand – hung side by side next to colorful rugs that had once covered the floors in the drawing room and the parlor. Tables and bookshelves were cluttered with every imaginable knick-knack from cracked vases filled with flowers to a miniature fleet of wooden ships complete with tiny masts and fabric sails.
The ships had belonged to her father. They’d been one of his few possessions Clara had managed to salvage before her stepmother had all of his things taken away. Of her mother she had little, save a perfume bottle, a tattered blue ribbon, and the large portrait that had hung in the library.
She kept the portrait covered beneath a burlap sack for Lady Irene did not know she had it. When she was feeling particularly melancholy or simply in need of seeing a familiar, loving face she uncovered the painting and sat before it, staring up at her mother’s bright smile with a secret longing that time had done little to diminish. Clara may not have remembered very much about her mother, but she missed her all the same.
She missed the stories her mother would have told her. She missed the kisses that would have been placed upon her brow. She missed the hugs that would have been freely given whenever she needed them. She missed the gentle words that would have lifted her
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