Biting her lip, she knelt down to retrieve the watering can and set it down beside the fallen roses. She had really done it this time. Until this moment she had never given Lady Irene any real reason to despise her. Now that she had she feared what her stepmother would do in retaliation.
Please hurry home, Papa. Please. Please. Please.
“I am very sorry,” she told Mr. Plum. “I hope they do not cut down the rest.”
“Wretched girls,” he muttered under his breath. “Wretched, wretched girls.” And then he picked up the shears Gabriella had dropped and set about trying to repair the damage her thoughtless actions had inflicted.
CHAPTER FOUR
Clara was locked in her room for an entire week.
For a girl who adored the sunshine on her face and the grass beneath her feet as much as Clara did, it was a very harsh punishment indeed. Lady Irene had even taken all of her books and paper and paintbrushes before having a lock installed on the outside of the door, leaving Clara with nothing to do but sit by her window and stare up at the clouds drifting by.
Three times a day food was delivered, but the maid was never allowed to speak to her. Every once in a while Agnes would sneak a chocolate under the door. Clara did not eat the chocolates, but kept them hidden in a basket high on a shelf. She wasn’t exactly sure why she was saving them, although she suspected they would taste all the sweeter once her father returned and Lady Irene and her awful daughters were sent back to London with all haste.
Even though Gabriella and Henrietta were not allowed into Clara’s room that did not stop them from taunting her from outside the door. Sometimes they made up silly rhymes. Clara the Cow was their favorite. Sometimes they drew mean pictures and shoved them beneath her door. And sometimes they did not say anything at all but she knew they were there. She could feel them; a heavy weight in the air that hadn’t been there before.
On the eighth morning of her imprisonment the sound of the lock being undone roused Clara from her sleep and she sat up in bed, blinking dreams out of her eyes as she waited for the door to open and her breakfast to be set down on the floor. But instead of a maid with a tray it was Lady Irene with a vase. A vase filled with bright pink roses.
“Good morning Clara,” she said as she entered the room and set the vase down on the windowsill. Taking care to turn each rose just so, she regarded her stepdaughter with a glittering smile that instantly put Clara on guard. “How are you feeling? I thought some flowers might cheer you up.”
“I feel fine.” In truth Clara felt sad and miserable and angry, but she would rather stay in her room for a hundred more days than admit as much to her wicked stepmother. “A bit tired, perhaps.”
“Tired?” One thin eyebrow crept up towards Lady Irene’s laced cap. “That is rather hard to imagine given you have done nothing but lounge about for an entire week.”
Strawberry blonde curls spilled over Clara’s shoulders as she sat up a little straighter. “Is there something you need of me, Lady Stepmother?”
“Need of you?” Lady Irene echoed. “Why Clara, why would you think that? I can see you are upset and you still think yourself undeserving of your punishment–”
Clara’s cheeks heated. “I never said that.”
“–but you did a very naughty thing, my dear. Still, you are only a child. A willful and insubordinate child, perhaps, but just a child all the same. Which is why I have decided to end your punishment early.”
“You – you have?” Clara said cautiously.
Lady Irene’s smile grew wider. “I have. We are family now, after all. And family must forgive one another. Do you not agree?”
“I suppose.”
“Excellent. One of the maids will be in to help you dress and then you may join us for breakfast in the sunroom. We are having blueberry scones. I had Cook make them special for you. They are your favorite, are they not? I thought so,” Lady Irene said when Clara slowly nodded.
“Thank you, Lady Stepmother.”
“My pleasure. Oh, and do enjoy the roses my dear.” Pausing in the doorway, Lady Irene looked back over her shoulder. “They are the last ones you are going to be enjoying for quite some time.”
Clara’s entire face paled. Still, she made herself wait to jump out of bed and run to the window until she heard the soft pitter pat of her stepmother’s shoes on the stairs. Pressing her nose against the glass she squinted, trying to see all the way across the lawn to the far garden. It was a very long distance, so long that everything was a bit fuzzy around the edges, but the large black scorch mark was impossible to miss.
With a horrified gasp Clara stumbled back from the window as tears, the first tears she had shed since she’d been locked in her room, poured out of her eyes and down her cheeks.
Her mother’s roses had been burned to the ground.
A red-haired maid by the name of Poppy came into Clara’s room to help her dress and dry her tears. Poppy had only been at Windmere for a few short months, but during that time she and Clara had become fast friends. Even though she was several years older than Clara, Poppy had a bright, infectious laugh and childlike enthusiasm that endeared her to the baron’s daughter.
Clara often like to imagine what her life would be like if her father had married Poppy’s mother instead of Lady Irene. Then she and Poppy would be sisters and she would never have to see Henrietta or Gabriella ever again.
Her stepsisters were waiting for her when she came downstairs. The instant her dainty slippers sank into the thick Axminster carpet they surrounded her on either side and ushered her into the sun room, a smaller room off the front parlor aptly named for its large windows that overlooked the front terrace. Like yesterday and the day before, the sky was clear and blue with nary a cloud to be seen. Flowers bloomed on the terrace, tumbling off the sides in a spill of vibrant color. Usually Clara would have taken a moment to admire their beauty, but this morning she could not bear to look.
Lady Irene was already seated at the head of the table. She rose to her feet when her daughters entered the room, greeting them with a warm smile that chilled considerably when her gaze centered on Clara.
“Your eyes look rather red and puffy, my dear. Have you been crying?”
“Yes,” Clara said shortly as she pulled away from her stepsisters and sat down as far from Lady Irene as she could possibly manage.
“Whatever for?” Lady Irene purred.
Gabriella snickered.
“You burned down my mother’s roses.” Lifting her chin, Clara met her stepmother’s frigid stare without flinching. Anger burned inside of her, a bright hot ball of it that made her reckless with her words. “It was a spiteful, mean, awful thing to do and my father is going to be most displeased with you when he returns home. I hope he throws you right out!” Her small hands curled into fists that bounced loudly off the table, clattering the plates and the silverware. “I hope he throws you out and I never have to see you again!”
“Is that so,” her stepmother murmured. If she was surprised by Clara’s outburst it did not show in her expression. If anything she looked amused, which only served to fuel Clara’s temper. Tears burned the corners of her eyes as she shot up out of her chair.
“I hate you!” she cried. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!” Choking back a sob she turned and fled from the sunroom, the soft soles of her shoes echoing on the hardwood. Not knowing what to do or where to go, she ran out the front door, leaving it swinging in her wake as she dashed down the steps and headed straight for the barn.
Her pony had already been turned out for the day, but it did not take Clara long to find her. Buttercup’s favorite thing to do was take naps beneath an old oak tree on the far side of the pasture. She lifted her head when Clara approached, fuzzy ears swiveling to and fro as though she sensed something was not right even before Clara collapsed on the ground in front of her and threw her arms around the pony’s soft neck.
“Oh Buttercup,” Clara sniffled as she buried her face in the pony’s lo
ng golden mane. “What am I going to do?”
She had not meant to say such awful things to her stepmother. Things that she could not take back. But she had been so very angry! And she had wanted to make Lady Irene hurt as she had been hurt. Except now she felt nothing but sadness and guilt for her young heart, though impulsive, was also good and pure and unaccustomed to housing such wicked thoughts and dark feelings.
Her father had always encouraged her to speak her mind and voice her opinion. ‘Brains over beauty’, he’d been fond of saying. ‘Any woman can be beautiful for beauty is something given to you, but intelligence is something you must earn all on your own.’ And while Clara had certainly voiced her opinion, she had not done so in a very intelligent way. She had let her emotions get the best of her and as they often did they had led her down a very steep, very treacherous path. If Lady Irene had treated her so abysmally before her outburst, what would she do after?
“Lock me in my room for an entire month,” Clara said glumly as she lifted her head off Buttercup’s mane. Craning her neck around the pony nibbled at Clara’s hands, searching for peppermints. When she didn’t find any she yawned, blinked her doe brown eyes, and promptly fell back asleep.
Wanting to delay her return to the house for as long as possible, Clara spent the next few hours dozing with her pony in the shade. The air was heavy with the scent of honeysuckle and a light breeze stirred, keeping the pesky flies away. She woke when she heard someone calling her name.
Buttercup stood up when she did, shook herself like a dog, and searched Clara’s hands one last time before wandering off to graze in the sun. Recognizing the voice that was calling her, Clara gave her skirts a quick shake and hurried to the edge of the fence.
“Here I am, Agnes!” she called, waving her arms to get the maid’s attention. “Over here.”
“There you are.” Visible relief flickered across the older woman’s face as she walked around the side of the barn and saw Clara standing inside the pasture. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere, young lady. Come quickly now. Lady Irene needs to – to speak with you.”
Clara did not think anything of the faint quiver in Agnes’ voice until she’d ducked under the fence and saw the maid’s eyes were glassy with tears. “Agnes?” she said, her brow furrowing with confusion and concern. “What is it? What is the matter?” When Agnes did not immediately answer her mind drew the worst possible conclusion she could think of. “Has Lady Irene let you go? Because she cannot do that! Father would never let her. When he returns everything will be right again, Agnes. You’ll see.” She wrapped her arms around the maid and squeezed her tight.
When Clara was a little girl her head had barely reached Agnes’ soft stomach. Now that she was a young lady of thirteen, teetering on the precarious edge of womanhood, her cheek was pillowed between the maid’s ample breasts. Leaning her head back, her frown deepened when she saw Agnes’ face had drained of all color save a splotch of red in each cheek.
“Agnes?” she said uncertainly. “What’s wrong?”
The maid sniffed and dabbed at her eyes with a plain linen cloth procured from the front pocket of her apron. “I am afraid something terrible has happened, Miss Clara. Something just awful. Unspeakable, even.”
Clara went very, very still. “Tell me.”
“Lady Irene would like to deliver the news herself, back at the house.”
“Tell me, Agnes. Please. I want to hear it from you.”
Agnes pressed her lips together. For a moment Clara thought she was going to refuse her, but with a heavy sigh she said, “It is your father, my dear, sweet, innocent child.
“Papa?” Clara whispered as a feeling of deep, dark dread surrounded her like a cloak, weighing down her shoulders and pulling at her bottom lip until it trembled. “Has something happened to Papa?”
“I am terribly sorry.” This time it was Agnes’ arms that enveloped Clara. She gathered her close, resting her chin on the top of Clara’s head. “Your father has been in a terrible carriage accident. I fear he – I fear he did not survive.”
CHAPTER FIVE
The rest of the day went by in a blur of tears and shock and denial. Clara returned to the house on wooden legs where Lady Irene greeted her at the door. One glance at Clara’s white face and vacant expression and she sent her immediately upstairs before she could ‘upset her sisters’.
Wanting to mourn her beloved father in private, Clara went willingly to her bedroom and spent the next two days alternating between fits of hysteria that left her weak and breathless and moments of pain so vivid she felt as though her heart had been ripped right out of her chest.
Her father… dead. It was almost too much for her young, vulnerable mind to process. He had been taken from her as her mother had been, leaving her all alone in a world that suddenly seemed bleak and cold and devoid of all hope.
To never again hear his voice or feel his hand upon her shoulder or watch his carriage as it came up the drive… To never ride beside him on Buttercup or listen to him read about great faraway lands or tip-toe into his room in the middle of the night when lightening flashed and thunder shook the sky.
It was more than Clara could bear.
Agnes slept with her at night, holding her wrapped in her arms as though she were a tiny child while Clara sobbed herself to sleep. Poppy visited often during the day, bringing her trays of food to fill her stomach and bouquets of flowers to brighten her room. Of her stepmother and stepsisters she saw very little. She heard them occasionally, passing by in the hall or talking in hushed tones down in the parlor, and once Lady Irene entered her room to see if she would like to travel into town, but otherwise they left her alone and for that small mercy Clara was grateful.
On a dull, rainy afternoon with a thick fog rolling in from the east she finally found the strength to venture downstairs. Henrietta and Gabriella were in the drawing room playing whist. She could hear them through the closed door, their voices raised in breathless excitement as they tried to outwit one another. Pulling the soft green shawl she’d donned before leaving her room more firmly around her shoulders, Clara padded silently past the drawing room and went directly into the kitchen.
Poppy was peeling apples on a long wooden table. She looked up when Clara entered, her face registering surprise before a bright smile curved her lips and she hurried around the edge of the table to give Clara a warm hug. After a moment of tension Clara relaxed into the embrace. Poppy smelled like cinnamon and nutmeg and home. With a swift pang of sadness she realized that Poppy and Agnes were her only family now, at least where it counted, for surely Poppy was more of a sister to her than Henrietta or Gabriella had ever been and Agnes was the only mother she had ever really known.
“How are you feeling? No, don’t answer that,” Poppy said, making a face as she stepped back. There was a dusting of brown spice on her left cheek and white flour in her hair. “Are you hungry? I am making apple tarts. They won’t be ready until after dinner, but there is some raisin bread left over from breakfast. I could warm it in the oven and drizzle it with honey or jam if you’d like.”
Clara started to say she wasn’t hungry, but at that precise moment her stomach growled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten a decent meal in four days. Climbing onto an empty stool she nudged a few shiny red apples aside and rested her elbows on the table. “Bread with jam, please. Thank you Poppy.”
“Think nothing of it,” said the maid. “I am just happy to see you up and about again.”
Picking up the sharp paring knife that had been left on the table, Clara began to idly peel an apple while Poppy prepared her midafternoon snack.
Before Lady Irene arrived and subsequently took over the household Clara had often spent hours in the kitchen learning how to make all sorts of things, from treacle tarts to a cottage chicken fricassee, a rich French dish with a creamy white sauce that tasted absolutely divine. She enjoyed putting different ingredients together to create something that was not only pleasant to eat, but pleasant
to look at. A good cook, to Clara’s mind, was almost the same as an artist. Except canvas and paint was not nearly as delicious as a warm blueberry crumble.
Were Clara raised in a different household she would have undoubtedly been discouraged, if not banned outright, from associating so closely with the hired help, let alone cooking in the kitchen. But her father had always held his staff in very high regard and had taught Clara to do the same.
Tucked away in their little corner of the country they had defied the unspoken rules of high society that said the daughter of a baron was not to befriend a maid, nor help the gardener, and certainly never assist in mucking out the stables. Which was why Clara saw nothing wrong with what she was doing. Sitting on a rickety wooden stool in the one room that had not been covered in heavy brocade curtains and filled with ornate furniture she felt closer to her father than anywhere else in the house. A house that was an ostentatious mockery of the loving home she’d grown up in.
“Here you are.” Poppy set down a plate piled high with more bread than Clara could possibly eat in a week, let alone one sitting.
“Thank you,” she said before covering the largest piece of bread with a liberal amount of honey and, forgoing utensils, picked it up with her fingers. The moment the sweet raisin bread touched her lips her appetite returned with a vengeance and before she quite knew what was happening she’d finished the entire plate save a few measly crumbs. With a groan she sat back, patting her bloated stomach with both hands as she struggled to contain a very unladylike burp.
“Feel better?” Poppy asked, a knowing twinkle in her eye.
“I think I’ve eaten too much,” Clara groaned.
“Nonsense. When you’re as thin as you are, there is no such thing as eating too much. Men like women with curves, you know.” Poppy lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper as she leaned across the table. “Bosoms and buttocks, that’s what they’re after.”
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