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  “It came for you, miss, just now, from the village!” she said breathlessly. “There was no card but the mistress says it is likely from your brother, Mr. Edgar Hamilton. You are very lucky to have such a considerate brother. Mine are no good for anything. It is for you to wear at the dance tonight. Is it not beautiful, miss?”

  It certainly was beautiful; exquisitely made and very expensive. Clara would be glad to be given an alternative to wearing the cremé glacé silk wedding dress that had proven to be both serviceable and dreadfully unlucky.

  “It cannot possibly fit.” She scrutinized the snug bodice. “How could he possibly know my size?”

  The card enclosed showed that the dress had come from a fashionable dressmaker in London. Her mother must have placed the order. Edgar did not have funds for this sort of extravagance! She would scold him when she saw him. But Clara understood the impulse to enjoy his good fortune and make decisions for his mother and sister.

  And perhaps there was an ulterior motive. Edgar wanted her to look her best to attract a suitable husband after the debacle with Branson. Perhaps he wished to mitigate the worst of Strachan’s damage to her reputation. Though she appreciated her brother’s consideration, his putting Branson’s money to the cause made her uneasy.

  Clara set aside the gown. The bill at the dressmaker’s would be high.

  “You shall look a vision tonight, Miss Clara. Shall I return before dinner to dress your hair? Corporal Jack Denby will demand your hand for several dances, I wager.”

  Clara laughed at this burst of opinion from a maid. In London, the comments of the servants were far more subdued and perhaps less interesting. She enjoyed the round of life at Petherham; her work each morning as Mrs. Brockville’s secretary was useful, and she was fond of her new friends. Colonel and Mrs. Brockville were kind, open, and charmingly rustic. She was completely at her ease in their company.

  The shooting party was considered a great success. The invitations had been sent and the acceptances were few but encouraging. In particular, Lady Susanna Weymouth was present, as well as two influential gentlemen with whom the Colonel had business with in London, but who were country squires at heart. Included in the party were the lesser lights of London society. As Branson was not welcome in the better drawing rooms of London, and he did not go out of his way to curry society’s favour, his invitation was hotly debated before it was sent, and declined, as they all expected.

  Among the assembled were Mr. and Mrs. Harold Listowel. Harold was an avid sportsman with loose business scruples that the Colonel found invaluable on occasion. Mrs. Listowel was a social climber and therefore weak and easily manipulated.

  Clara dismissed the maid with her thanks and stood at the window pensively. She wished with all her heart that Branson was coming tonight. The dance in particular filled her with dread.

  Windemere Hall was on the other side of the rise. Despite Mrs. Brockville’s arch suggestions, Clara had thus far resisted the temptation to walk in that direction.

  The events of this morning had changed all of that. She glanced fearfully at the gown on the bed. It had been made with her previous size in mind. How could her mother know that her waist had thickened and her bosom had taken on a life of its own?

  She counted once again, for the eighth time that morning, the days since her arrival at Windemere and her last monthly bleed.

  The calculation remained the same.

  “It cannot be! It cannot be!” she whispered frantically. This simply could not happen. The Brockvilles had been so kind—she would almost certainly be turned out. She looked at the calendar again, willing the dates to be wrong.

  “I am pregnant,” she breathed in terror.

  She returned to the window and gazed at Windemere Down, golden in the distance. Only a short walk separated her from Branson. He could not marry her, but she had to see him. She felt certain he would ease her fears. Clara took comfort in knowing that no matter what Branson was, or what he had done, he was not the sort of man to abandon a girl that he had got with child.

  She took Mrs. Brockville at her word, left her desk and slipped out-of-doors wearing her striped alpaca walking dress, her muff and fastened her purple mantle over her shoulders.

  Chapter Ten

  THE GROUNDS at Petherham featured a fountain surrounded by an immaculately groomed garden. Though the blooms were fading, Clara strolled through it for the sake of satisfying her curiosity, but principally to deflect the notice of the house party. With the exception of Corporal Denby and Mrs. Brockville, she was not entirely at her ease. Strachan was the personification of a gentleman and Trudy Delisle seemed kindness itself. But the atmosphere was not right in the manor and she was likely the cause. Everyone felt they had to walk on eggshells around her. So much had happened, and thanks to Strachan’s tales, no one knew what to make of her.

  Edgar sent word he would be arriving in a day or so, and she would soon have an ally.

  Corporal Denby was a nice young man, but she could be not a soldier’s wife and he seemed baffled by her rejection. She was tired of hurting people

  Branson Hamilton had not been seen in the neighbourhood since his return from London. It was said that he had found an amiable companion in Lady Susanna Weymouth. Her presence at Petherham seemed to give credence to the rumour. Lady Weymouth was both lovely and sophisticated.

  It was this news as well as the calendar that had finally driven her from the warm safety of Mrs. Brockville’s sitting room. Her inks and sheets of thick cream stationary on which she composed letter after letter were tucked away in the desk against her return. If it was true about Branson and Lady Weymouth, Clara needed to hear it from his lips. Though what she would do if he confirmed it, Clara did not know.

  She cast a last anxious look back the manor house and then dashed from the confines of the cultivated garden into the wilds of the Down. She hiked up her skirts to walk faster and then broke into a run, frightened that she would be stopped by Strachan or Denby or one of the other guests. Someone who would question her or offer their company and she would lose this chance, slim though it was, to see him again.

  The field grasses, already glazed with frost, crunched beneath her feet. She pulled her mantle tighter about her shoulders and hurried her step. The frosty morning air cut across her cheeks but the climb uphill warmed her. Her breath puffed out in thin white wisps. Clara reached the top and then the lake was before her, like a silver mirror in the rising mist.

  Clara paused, her breath caught as the beauty of the morning light fell across the view. She wondered if he was out riding Gladiator this morning. Would Mrs. Weymouth be with him?

  Then he was there, far off in the distance, riding Gladiator slowly through the mist. He saw her and she could tell from his posture that he was reluctant to meet with her. Clara tried not to feel dismay but she could not help it. To lose his friendship was the worst of all.

  “What are you doing here?” Branson asked as he came near. His arm was held at an odd angle and he looked pale.

  “I was going for a walk.” She could not hide her emotion at seeing him again. “I’ve taken a position as Mrs. Brockville’s secretary. She has been an understanding friend. You received the invitation to the dance at Petherham, did you not? I-I wish you would accept. Strachan has informed half of London about our indiscretion. I haven’t the courage to address the gossip openly. Perhaps I never will. I might just take the coward’s way out and avoid the party altogether until they leave.”

  Branson said nothing but stared stonily into the distance.

  She twisted her gloved hands. “I have heard about your friendship with Lady Susanna Weymouth. She will be in attendance at the dance. It is pity you will not come, Branson, if only for the lady’s sake. I do not think of me, though I am glad to see you again. I am glad that you appear to be happy and in good health—”

  Branson cut in. “We have nothing more to say to each other. I thought I made my feelings clear at our last meeting. Allow me to mak
e them known now. You are not to come to Windemere Hall ever again. I do not wish to see you. I do not wish to speak to you. My business with you is concluded. I shall arrange to have the marriage with your name expunged from the parish records. I advise you to seek a suitable husband as soon as possible. Mrs. Weymouth tells me Corporal Jack Denby has expressed interest.”

  His coldness terrified her into insensibility. Clara was so stunned by this harsh response that she hardly knew what to say. For a dreadful moment she felt she would stammer if she opened her mouth.

  “I thought—I believed—that you were fond of me, sir.”

  “You were mistaken.” Branson lifted his chin and straightened his shoulders but he would not dismount. “I made Lady Weymouth’s acquaintance in London some months back. She has written me and we have made arrangements to resume our old affair. She is an amiable and obliging companion; I am happy, as you have rightly observed. Now, if you will excuse me. Good day, Miss Hamilton.”

  “No!” She cried out, in spite of herself. “What has happened? Something has changed, do not deny it! Has something happened with Grace?”

  His handsome face became a mask and she knew that she had hit her mark.

  “Clara, you must go,” he said stiffly. “You must trust me when I say that this not the place for you. I am not the man for you.”

  He dismounted from Gladiator at last and her heart lifted. She fought tears as he came closer and stood in front of her. They were standing opposite each other at arm’s length and though he did not touch her, she could feel his longing to do so. She looked with wild despair into his eyes.

  “You winced when you dismounted. Why are you in pain? Grace has harmed you.”

  “She was upset.” His jaw was tight, the muscle twitching. He looked away, avoiding her eyes. “She has become low in her mind since my return. She believes I will put her away. I cannot be seen with you, Clara. It is not safe. Try to understand, I do not want this but it is my burden and it is easier to bear if I know you are somewhere safe.”

  Clara nodded, understanding the hideous predicament he was in. She was unable to bring herself to tell him about the child. “I will not add to your burden, sir. I am not sorry I came. I am not sorry I saw you. Perhaps one day Grace will improve and there will be a future for you both.”

  He smiled. “You are a dreamer, cousin. There is no ‘one day’ for me. I shall be leaving England soon. I’m going to travel the Continent with Lady Weymouth. She has asked me to accompany her and now that I’ve seen you, I believe I shall. The timing is fortuitous. With me gone you will not be tempted to run over here. Grace may improve in my absence, though I do not hold out much hope for that.”

  “When do you leave?”

  “At the end of this month. I shall clear up the confusion regarding your presumed marriage to me so that you will be free to consider other offers.”

  “I do not want to consider other offers.”

  “Do not be stubborn. Edgar will restore the Hamilton name to its former glory and the Hamilton fortune. I have every confidence in your brother. He will manage the company for our mutual benefit. Once you are restored as a lady with a good income, you will have your pick of suitors. One of them is certain to meet your stringent criteria for a husband.”

  His mouth twisted in an attempt at a smile.

  “You are my criteria for a husband, Branson,” she said. “I will not have another. Why do you insist on speaking to me this way when you know my heart and my mind as well as I know yours? Have you forgotten what we were to each other? I have not. Why are you determined to push me away?”

  “There is no future for us,” he said between clenched teeth. “I am legally married to a mad woman. Grace is not sound in mind, but she is sound in body and remarkably strong. She is forceful in her demands.”

  “She refuses to allow us to remain friends, but she will permit you to take a mistress! I do not understand. I only wish to see you once in awhile as cousins, as friends if you like, to talk to you, to know your mind on certain subjects.... I am afraid that without you, I will be too lonely. I am lonely now. Surrounded by people, I am alone, Branson.” Clara looked at her hands. “I did not intend to confess that to you, ever. I should go. I’ve said enough and there is nothing to be done. Do not let her hurt you anymore. Promise me. Madness is not an excuse. I have been in an asylum. Violence begets violence and inevitably leads to destruction. You must not tolerate violent outbursts from her. In my experience, the temper of the madwoman only leads to increased danger to everyone around her.”

  She moved to turn away and start back down the hill to Petherham. His voice came behind her, stopping her.

  “Quince is dead.”

  Clara turned, staring at him with wide eyes, her pulse fighting at the base of her throat. “How?”

  “He was crushed by the marble statue in the upstairs hall. It happened when I was away rescuing you from Gateshead.”

  “I know the statue.” Clara’s brow furrowed. “I hid behind it. It is too far too heavy to fall on anyone. How did it happen?”

  Branson’s eyes were brilliant navy, like inky blue marbles, glassy and unreadable. “Grace pushed it and it fell, crushing Mr. Quince. It was a deliberate act. She has committed murder because Quince said something to upset her. Now do you see? For the love of God, now do you understand why you must never return to Windemere?”

  He turned and swung astride Gladiator. Taking up the reins, Branson looked down at her. “I want you to stay away. It’s not safe. I will drive you off myself if I see you again.”

  Clara nodded. She wasn’t frightened of what Grace might do to her, but she was frightened of what she would do to Branson if she did not keep her distance.

  “Good-bye, Branson.”

  “Good-bye, Clara.”

  He kicked his heels and Gladiator raced away at a hard gallop.

  §

  Later that afternoon

  CLARA SAID her good-byes to the Colonel and Mrs. Brockville. The little maid packed up her trunk carefully and saw it loaded onto the carriage. Clara did not trouble to address the party of guests, only to say she was needed by her mother and that her brother Edgar, who was by far more popular, would supply the deficit. She was depressed and fearful of what lay ahead in London but she could not stay at Petherham after seeing Branson. She could not stay knowing Lady Weymouth would be visiting Branson at the earliest opportunity.

  Captain Strachan was greatly distressed to see her leave.

  “Is it on my account?” he asked earnestly.

  “Of course not,” she said lightly.

  “What did the corporal want just now?”

  He nodded in Denby’s direction. The young soldier had been delighting her with his stories. Strachan noticed her skin glowed alabaster and there was the palest rose tinge in her cheeks. Her eye was bright and her bosom was fuller of late, mounding like downy pillows over her lace.

  “What do you mean?” Clara swallowed her irritation. She must not make an enemy of Colonel Brockville’s friend. She loved the Brockvilles too well to let her pride get in the way.

  “He whispered something in your ear. What was it he said?”

  “Corporal Denby wished me a good journey. That is all.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “That is because you are used to lying to get what you want. You assume all gentlemen are cut from the same cloth.”

  “It was his manner. He was overly familiar with you.”

  “There is only one man who has been overly familiar with me and that is you, sir. In spite of your slander, Corporal Denby has been respectful from the hour I met him.”

  “I want you to stay away from him. He’ll use you, Clara. I’ve seen his kind before.”

  She almost laughed. “I am sure you have, sir. But I thank you for your concern.”

  “I know what is going on here—I am not a fool!” he hissed. “It is Branson you prefer, an illegitimate, classless thief. He manipulated your brother and n
ow you. You do not understand that I am trying to help you! You have stubbornly refused my protection.”

  “You do not want to protect me,” she said evenly. “I might have believed that once, William, but no more.” Clara lifted her chin and smiled brightly. “Good day, sir. Perhaps Mrs. Brockville will be so good as to employ me again at Petherham and I shall have an opportunity to renew my acquaintance with you and Miss Delisle at that time.”

  “I shall insist upon it.”

  He made bold to lean in and hastily whisper. “I can return to London at a moment’s notice, Clara. You only have to send word to my club and I will be there.”

  Clara flushed hotly and stepped away before Trudy Delisle could witness the exchange and think evil of her.

  Colonel Brockville helped her into the carriage and soon she was alone, far from the lighted manor house, society, and good cheer. She could not be happier. She had no desire to speak to anyone. The father of her unborn baby had been described as villainous, cruel and beyond redemption by the civilized world. What could one do with the devil but run away from him?

  §

  THE CARRIAGE rolled down the long tree-lined drive leaving Petherham Manor. Clara sat back against holstered seat fixed her eyes on the passing countryside, fiercely determined to put this chapter of her life behind her. This was her opportunity to gather her wits and strength to face the curious and the critical. There would be questions and assumptions made about her character but Clara was unafraid. She wasn’t afraid of their judgments or of being shunned; they had done that before and she’d survived. She would survive this time too.

  Thinking about London society and her place in it took her mind off from Branson. Was she wrong to leave him? Grace was his wife; she needed Branson more than Clara did and she had the prior claim. There was no question in Clara’s mind that choosing her own comfort and security over that of a shattered woman’s would be reprehensible.

  She remembered the look in his eyes as they parted; a look of farewell that struck her now as strangely final. Surely, she would see him again. He was in business with Edgar. He was still her cousin. There would be occasions when they would meet—dinners, balls, accompanied by Edgar, where she was likely to encounter Branson.