Also By Marie Benedict
The Other Einstein
Carnegie’s Maid
The Only Woman in the Room
Thank you for downloading this Sourcebooks eBook!
You are just one click away from…
• Being the first to hear about author happenings
• VIP deals and steals
• Exclusive giveaways
• Free bonus content
• Early access to interactive activities
• Sneak peeks at our newest titles
Happy reading!
CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP
Books. Change. Lives.
Copyright © 2020 by Marie Benedict
Cover and internal design © 2020 by Sourcebooks
Cover design by Sourcebooks
Cover image © Miguel Sobreira/Trevillion Images, Stephen Mulcahey/Trevillion Images, Gary Blakeley/Shutterstock, Kapook2981/Getty Images
Letter by Clementine Churchill: Reproduced with permission of Curtis Brown, London, on behalf of the Master, Fellows and Scholars of Churchill College, Cambridge © Master, Fellows and Scholars of Churchill College, Cambridge
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Apart from well-known historical figures, any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
sourcebooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Benedict, Marie, author.
Title: Lady Clementine / Marie Benedict.
Description: Naperville, IL : Sourcebooks Landmark, [2020]
Identifiers: LCCN 2019010233 | (hardcover : alk. paper)
Subjects: | GSAFD: Historical fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3620.E75 L33 2020 | DDC 813/.6--dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019010233
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
I
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
II
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
III
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
IV
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Author’s Note
Reading Group Guide
A Conversation with the Author
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
I
Chapter One
September 12, 1908
London, England
I always feel different. No matter the sphere I inhabit, I always feel set apart. Even today. Especially today.
The weak, early September sun strains to break through the darkness of the cold morning. The pallid rays illuminate the cavernous bedroom assigned to me by my benefactress, Lady St. Helier. They hit the white satin dress hanging on the mannequin, reminding me that the gown waits for me.
As I finger the delicately embroidered, square-cut bodice, its sleek Venetian fabric finer than any I’ve ever worn, I am seized by a sensation fiercer than the usual isolation that often besets me. I crave connection.
I hunt for the clothes the maids unpacked from my trunk and placed into the dresser drawers and mirrored armoire when I arrived at 52 Portland Place a fortnight ago. But I find nothing other than the corset and undergarments meant to be worn under the white gown today. Only then do I realize that the maids must have packed my belongings back into my trunk for my journey afterward. The mere thought of afterward sends a shiver through me.
Tying my gray silk dressing gown tightly around my waist, I tiptoe down the grand staircase of Lady St. Helier’s mansion. At first, I don’t know precisely what I am seeking, but I have an epiphany when I spot a housemaid working in the parlor. She’s kneeling before the fireplace grate.
The sound of my footfalls startles the poor girl, and she jumps. “Morning, Miss Hozier. May I help you with anythin’?” she says, wiping her blackened fingers on the cloth dangling from her apron.
I hesitate. Will I endanger the girl if I enlist her help? Surely Lady St. Helier will forgive any protocol breach I cause today.
“As a matter of fact, I could use your assistance. If it is not too much trouble, that is.” The apology is heavy in my voice.
After I explain my predicament to the girl, whose age must match my own, she races away down the back hallway toward the kitchen. At first, I think she may have misunderstood my request or thought me mad. But I follow her, and when she scurries across the rough wooden kitchen floor toward the servants’ staircase, I understand.
Wincing at the loud clatter of her work boots stomping up the stairway and down the hallway of the attic where the servants’ bedrooms are, I wait. I silently pray that her racket does not rouse the rest of the staff. I fear that if they appear for their morning chores and find me in the kitchen, one of them will alert Lady St. Helier. When the girl returns with a bundle in hand—without any additional servants in tow—I sigh in relief.
“What is your name?” I ask, reaching for the bundle.
“Mary, miss,” she answers with a minuscule curtsy.
“I shall be forever in your debt, Mary.”
“It’s my pleasure, Miss Hozier.” She gives me a conspiratorial smile, and I realize that she is enjoying her part in this unorthodox plan. It may be the only deviation in the sameness of her days.
As I pivot and walk back toward the grand staircase, Mary whispers, “Why don’t you change in the pantry, miss? Less chance of being found out than if you head back up them stairs. I’ll make sure your clothes are returned to your bedroom before anyone notices them.”
&n
bsp; The girl is right. Every step I take up that creaky grand staircase is one step closer to waking the lady of the house and her servants. Taking her advice, I enter the jar-lined pantry and close the door only partially to ensure some light will reach the enclosed space. I let my dressing gown and robe slide down and puddle on the floor, and I unwrap the bundle. Pulling out a surprisingly sweet floral dress, I shimmy into its floor-grazing cotton and then lace up the black boots Mary thoughtfully included.
“Fits you right well, Miss Hozier,” the girl says when I step back into the kitchen. As she hands me her coat off the peg on the wall, she says, “Godspeed to you.”
I hurry out the servants’ door at the rear of the house and make my way down an alleyway that runs behind the row of luxurious Georgian homes lining Portland Place. I pass by kitchen windows beginning to glow with lamps lit by servants readying the house for their masters. A bustling world lies behind the mansions of Lady St. Helier and her friends, but because I always enter through the front doors, I’ve never witnessed the province at the back.
The alley lets out onto Weymouth Street, where a motor bus stops. It’s heading west to Kensington, and I know the route fairly well as I’ve taken it the other direction toward Lady St. Helier’s on several occasions. Mary’s wool coat is too thin for the brisk morning, and as I wait for the bus, I wrap it tightly around me in the vain hope of extracting a bit more warmth from its meager fibers. I wonder how Mary makes it through the winter in such a coat.
The unadorned hat that Mary leant me bears only a small brim, and consequently, the working girl disguise does nothing to mask my face. When I step onto the bus, the driver recognizes me from the photographs that have run in the newspapers in recent days. He stares at me but says nothing at first. Finally, he sputters, “Surely you’re in the wrong place, Miss”—he drops his voice to a whisper, realizing that he shouldn’t reveal my identity—“Hozier.”
“I am precisely where I mean to be, sir,” I answer in a tone that I hope is kind yet firm. His eyes never leave my face as he takes the fare Mary had given me from her savings—which I plan to replace multifold—but he doesn’t say another word.
I keep my gaze lowered to shield my face from the curious onlookers who have been alerted to the oddness of my presence by the driver’s reaction. I hop off the bus the moment it nears Abingdon Villas, and I feel lighter the closer I come to the cream-colored stucco house bearing the number 51. By the time I reach up to lift the heavy brass knocker, the tightness in my chest begins to loosen, and I breathe with ease. No one answers the door immediately, but I am not surprised. Here, no bevy of servants lies in wait in the kitchen, ever ready to answer the knock of a front door or the ring of a master’s bell. Here, one servant does the work of many, and the household inhabitants do the rest.
I wait, and after several long minutes, my patience is rewarded with an open door. The face of my beloved sister Nellie, still creased with sleep, appears. She rushes in for an embrace before the shock of seeing me registers and she freezes.
“What on earth are you doing here, Clementine? And in those clothes?” she asks. Her expression is quizzical. “Today is your wedding day.”
Chapter Two
September 12, 1908
London, England
The comforting smell of steeping tea rises to my nostrils, and I allow the steam to warm my face and hands. Nellie has not pressed me to answer her question, not yet. I know she will soon insist on an explanation for my unexpected visit, but for now, I indulge in the temporary quiet of the parlor. These silent moments alone with my sister, here at home, may be enough to carry me through the day.
“You are not thinking of calling off the wedding, Clemmie?” Nellie interrupts the silence with a tremulous whisper. Neither of us wishes to waken a single member of the sleeping household—least of all Mother.
“No, no, Nellie,” I whisper back, reaching for her hand. My knuckles brush across the table where my sister and I used to spend hours doing needlework for our cousin Lena Whyte’s dressmaking business, a necessity to help with household expenses.
Relief softens her features. I hadn’t realized how fearful the very idea that I might cancel this wedding made her. It had been cruel of me not to justify my appearance from the beginning. “Nothing like that, dearest. I simply needed the familiarity of home for a moment. To calm my nerves, as it were.”
“Nerves over what? The wedding ceremony itself? Or the man you are marrying?” Nellie, my little sister and the twin to my only brother, surprises me with her astuteness. For too long, I’d considered her youthful and inexperienced, not at all the confidante that my indomitable elder sister Kitty would have been had she lived beyond sixteen, had my beautiful, fearless sister not succumbed to typhoid. I should not have underestimated Nellie.
Her question awakens a memory of the first time I met my intended. It was an evening at Lady St. Helier’s mansion, the very place from which I’d just fled. I had initially resisted my benefactress’s invitation to dinner on that cool March night. My suitable gowns were in need of mending, and I had no clean white gloves, I’d lamented to Mother. In truth, my long afternoon tutoring French had exhausted me, but I didn’t dare speak plainly, as Mother loathed any reminder that we girls needed to contribute to the household upkeep. She preferred to believe her title and aristocratic heritage would magically provide funds for housing, food, and servants, a strange contradiction with her decidedly bohemian views on the malleability of the marital vow and her clear focus on her extramarital relationships and little else, certainly not us children. She would brook no excuse to turn down an invitation by my generous, wealthy patroness, who was Mother’s aunt and adored helping the young make their way into proper society. So Mother loaned me her own gloves and Nellie’s simple white satin princess dress, and off I dutifully went, if a bit past schedule.
But late as I was, the dinner guest to my right still had not materialized by the time the staff served the second of five courses. I’d begun to despair of any conversation other than the boring weather reports recounted by the elderly gentleman to my left when the dining room door swung open with a slam. Before the butler could announce the tardy guest, a round-faced man with a sheepish half grin marched in, offering his apologies to Lady St. Helier before settling into the ornately carved chair next to me. As the chair’s feet scraped loudly against the wooden floor, drowning out the butler’s announcement of his name, my attention was drawn to the man. His cheeks had the softness of boyhood, but on his forehead, I saw the deep grooves of adult worries.
Who was this gentleman? He looked familiar, although I could not place his face. Had I met him at another social occasion? There had been so many.
“Miss, I regret any inconvenience my delinquency caused you. An empty seat at a formal dinner is no easy matter. Please excuse me,” he said, meeting my gaze with unsettling directness.
Unaccustomed as I was to such candor, my surprise precipitated a blunt response. “It is no inconvenience at all, sir. I arrived only moments before you, my work having delayed my own arrival.” I immediately regretted my words, as girls of my class were not meant to have employment.
He looked startled. “You have a position?”
“Yes,” I answered, a bit on the defensive. “I am an instructor of French.” I didn’t dare mention the income-generating needlework that Nellie and I also undertook.
His eyes shimmered with enthusiasm. “That…that is wondrous, miss. To know something of work and the world is invaluable.”
Did he mean it? Or was this a bit of mockery? I didn’t know how to respond, so I decided to thread the needle with an innocuous response.
“If you say so, sir.”
“I do indeed. It is refreshing. And your regular immersion in French and its culture, ah…of that, I am jealous. I have always held a healthy appreciation for the cultural and political contributions France has made to Europe.”
He seemed in earnest, and his views matched my own. I took a chance and responded in kind. “I agree wholeheartedly, sir. I even considered studying French, its culture, and its politics at university. In fact, my headmistress encouraged me to do so.”
“Indeed?” Again, he seemed surprised, and I wondered if I’d been too honest about my youthful ambitions. I did not know this man or his views.
I softened my aspirations with gentle humor. “Yes. Although, in the end, I had to settle for a winter in Paris, where I attended lectures at the Sorbonne, visited art galleries, and dined with the artist Camille Pissarro.”
“No small solace,” he offered with a smile, his eyes lingering on mine. Did I imagine a glimmer of respect in his light-blue eyes? In the low candlelight, their color shifted from pale aquamarine to the color of the dawn sky.
We grew quiet for a moment, and it seemed as though the rest of the guests—an illustrious mix of political figures, journalists, and the odd American heiress—had reached a lull in their conversations as well. Or perhaps they had been listening quietly to us all along. I realized that I’d been so engrossed in discussion with my tablemate that I’d quite forgotten the other diners.
The gentleman stammered for a moment, and to avoid embarrassment, I returned to the chicken on my plate, now grown quite cold. I felt his eyes on me but didn’t turn. Our exchange had been unusually personal for a first meeting, and I didn’t know what to say next.
“Please forgive me, miss.” His words were unexpected.
“For what, sir?”
“For my unforgivable lapse in manners.”
“I do not know what you mean.”
“A woman like yourself deserves every courtesy. I realize now that I have not offered even the bare minimum—an introduction beyond the butler’s announcement. This is particularly inexcusable given that I arrived too late for the usual formalities. Will you allow me to introduce myself?”
I gave him a small nod, wondering what he meant by “a woman like yourself.” What sort of woman did he think I was?
“My name is Winston Churchill.”
Lady Clementine Page 1
