Clara’s cheeks burned. “Aunt Olivia,” she said, feigning a bright smile, “I’m sure we’ll have more information on that soon. For now, let’s keep focused on the pertinent matter at hand. Namely when we should return to Synne.”
“As always, Clara dear, you are the voice of reason.” Margery gave her hand a small squeeze, the compassion in her eyes a potent thing. And was it any wonder? She would have seen Aunt Olivia’s attempts at matching Clara with anything that breathed during their months in London. It was embarrassing, really. Blessedly, however, everyone was oblivious to the painful fact that, even should Clara wish it, she would never know the joys of marriage. She had given up any chance of that fifteen years ago. And it had nearly killed her.
For a moment memories assaulted her, of a time when promise turned to betrayal, hope transformed into despair. When living from one second to the next had taken every ounce of effort she had possessed. She shook her head to free herself from her memories and pressed her lips tight together, annoyance rearing up. It was ridiculous, really. Half her life had passed since then; it should not still have such power over her.
Though it was different now, wasn’t it? Mixed in with the familiar grief was something much sharper, much newer, a creeping regret for a life of her own, a life that had been stolen from her in one ill-conceived moment.
Why this sudden ache deep in her gut for the impossible? Was it because of these weeks in London witnessing the wide-eyed hope of young women just starting out on their futures? Or was it due to her younger sister, the last living member of her immediate family, marrying and leaving her?
Or worse, was it due to Mr. Nesbitt’s return?
While the first two were natural reasons for her sudden restlessness, the last was troubling indeed. Nothing could come of it, even if she wished it. Which she did not.
At least she kept telling herself that.
“I shall concede that Phoebe and Oswin will marry at Danesford. I am not such a harridan to deny them what they wish. But”—Aunt Olivia pointed a glare at each and every person in the room—“I will not miss out on a grand London engagement ball. I will havethatmuch, at least.” She gave an injured sniff.
“As will I,” Lady Crabtree joined in with an outraged air. “Oswin is my eldest, after all.”
“Of course,” Lenora soothed. “With Clara, Margery, and myself working together, we can manage it in a week, I think, and leave for Synne the following morning. Phoebe, you do not oppose such a scheme, do you?”
“Not a bit,” she said with a smile.
With that the planning began in earnest. And Clara found her exhaustion returning tenfold. It had all seemed a dream, her sister leaving her. Now, however, with the dates and times pinned down, bringing that possibility into clear focus, she could see the end of their time together, the end of her usefulness. And it frightened her.
For years she had been the foundation of their family, holding them together after her younger brother Hillram’s death some four years prior, and then during their father’s lengthy illness. With his passing last year she might have felt lost, for most of her time and energy had been spent caring for him. But there had been Phoebe to look after and see through the grief, and Peter to help guide in his new position as duke.
Yet now Peter was more than capable of taking on the duties that had been thrust on him, and Phoebe was setting off on a new life. And Clara was left behind.
A hand on her arm brought her back to the present. She blinked owlishly, looking into Margery’s concerned face. She realized belatedly that they were quite alone.
“The others have decided a walk in the gardens is in order,” she explained gently, “to get some air. And, I suspect, to provide a bit of distraction for my grandmother and the terrifying Lady Crabtree.” Her full cheeks lifted in a wry smile.
“Of course,” Clara said, trying with all her might to shrug off the sadness that continued to cling to her like a barnacle. She forced a smile, standing and shaking out her skirts. “Let us be off at once.”
But Margery’s hand landed once more on her sleeve, staying her. “I think,” she said quietly, “that it might be wise for you to return to Dane House.”
“Nonsense,” Clara declared, though she could not meet her cousin’s eyes for the understanding she knew she would find there. Margery might not know the tragedy in Clara’s past, but she had an intuitive soul and had offered Clara a compassionate ear more than once in the past year of change and upheaval.
That did not mean, however, that Clara could take her up on her kind offers. Clara only knew to be strong, to help where it was needed, to prop others up when they might collapse. She didn’t know how to lean on another—and feared ever finding strength again should she let her guard down.
But despite Margery’s mild disposition, she could be stubborn when she put her mind to it. “I will not hear another word on it,” she declared, pushing Clara toward the door. “They have gotten the important details out of the way and shall only be discussing the color of the flowers and the style of cake. Besides”—she gave Clara a sly look—“think how much help you’ll be by returning home and giving Mrs. Ingram and Yargood advance notice of the coming move. There is no one who can start the necessary coordination of packing and preparation like you.”
Clara gave her cousin a smile. “You can be a crafty thing, did you know that?”
Margery grinned. “Go,” she said firmly, shooing Clara out the door.
Clara relented, giving a soft chuckle as she turned for the stairs. Just as she reached the ground floor, however, Margery called her name. Clara looked up and spied her cousin’s round face peering over the banister.
“Oh, and dearest? Lenora quite forgot to tell Mrs. Ingram of Mr. Nesbitt’s appearance for dinner. Can you please let her know?” Her eyes shone. “How exciting to have him back in England. I cannot wait to see our friend after so long.”
Dazed, Clara could only watch numbly as Margery waved merrily and ducked out of sight. For a blessed moment she had forgotten him.
But she was not a young, impressionable girl any longer. She was a woman, with much more sense than she’d had at fifteen. Yes, Mr. Nesbitt was handsome, and kind, and she was attracted to him as she had not been to anyone in ages. But that did not mean she was foolish enough to act on her desires. With so many years of practice at keeping her head in control and in silencing the urgings of her heart, it would be an easy thing to ignore her feelings for the man.
And perhaps, she mused wryly as she accepted her outer things from the butler, she might eventually believe it herself.
***