by Alice Kirks
Clara. Lovely name.
Charles blushed as the thought surprised him. What was he thinking? She was here to work in the kitchens! What was he thinking, feeling this flush of warmth at the sound of her name?
“Yes.” Clara said. “My Lady,” she added.
The words were infused with a subtle twist, and Charles grinned. He hastily looked down, hiding the look. He sometimes found the way his mother insisted on rank amusing, and the fact that Clara likewise did amused him.
That’s bad of you.
He was being disloyal to his mother, and that was wrong. He was here to assist her, not undermine her with a potential servant! He schooled his face to neutral.
“You have experience?” Lady Dunham asked carefully. “I mean,” she added with a smile, “you are very young. I am sure you must have watched your father at work?”
“I worked too,” Clara said as if she was talking to a vendor at the market, casual and free. “I worked with him from when I was five.”
“Five! Scandalous!” the countess said, appalled. She turned to Charles, looking shocked.
“Yes. Well,” Charles said, trying to do his best to avoid an argument. “Miss…Sedley? Is that right?”
“Yes,” Clara blinked. Charles found himself looking out of the window, not wanting to smile at the astonished expression she had on her face.
“Miss Sedley, we assume that your experience is vast. What manner of things can you cook?”
“All manner of things.”
“Come, Miss Sedley,” his mother said harshly. “That is an exaggeration. Your lies will not make us accept you for this position.”
Charles cringed. Calling someone a liar, regardless of who they might be, was rude. He saw Miss Sedley go white.
“You will discover the truth in my words,” Clara said lightly. “I shall not dispute them, but let my work uphold my certainty.”
Charles stared. He himself would find it hard to speak to his mother with such utter boldness. He would do it, but he was her son, and an earl! This girl didn’t know her, and she came from Dunham Village!
“Why, the nerve…” his mother began. Charles pushed his chair back carefully – not fast, but enough to make a sharp noise. The interruption seemed to remind his mother of where she was and that it was unseemly to harangue a potential cook.
“We have to discuss our choice. You should go to speak with Mr. Wellford,” Charles said quickly to the girl, before his mother had a chance to speak again. “We will decide your employment this night.”
“Thank you,” she whispered. Her voice was hollow and, when she rested her hands on the table, Charles saw how her knuckles were tense. He felt a stab of sorrow – his mother had interviewed her callously, and he had been no better.
“Mr. Wellford?” he called, hoping the butler was somewhere nearby and could escort the girl out. He saw how she shook, her hand clutching the back of the chair for support. She was unsteady and he wondered, suddenly, if she’d eaten.
“Yes, My Lord?” the butler said, making Charles feel instantly better. He was glad the man had been there the entire time.
“Wellford, see that Miss Sedley goes home. And…Wellford, be sure to inquire if she has eaten.”
“Yes, My Lord.”
The girl, Charles noticed, had left. She was probably halfway down the hallway by now, and running away. He couldn’t blame her if she was – he would have run, too. He looked at his mother.
“That was…cutting,” he said, not sure what word to use.
“So?” his mother said, pushing the chair back quite untroubled. “She’s a servant – you can’t trust them. They’ll cheat you if they can. Father always said that. You need to show them you are in charge.” She stretched her back, tucking her shawl closer about her.
Charles stared at her, but she was turning away. He watched as she walked to the study door, her back as straight as it had been twenty years ago when he was a child.
“Mrs. Haldon?” she called to the housekeeper. “You can come in. We have finished. We will decide on the new employee tomorrow.”
“Thank you, m’lady.” Mrs. Haldon beamed. Wide-cheeked and frequently smiling, Mrs. Haldon was the one person in the house who never seemed to let his mother disrupt her. Charles nodded to her and went out.
“You will employ her?” he asked his mother. The choice was hers – after all, it had been her who had insisted that Mrs. Winfield, the old cook, was not enough for them. She had some notion of having a cook to rival all the others in the land, and this was why she’d insisted on interviewing the girl herself.
All I did was suggest the person.
Charles almost regretted that. He wished he had thought of some other solution to help Miss Sedley himself – perhaps he could have given an anonymous donation to the church, intended to support her? He wished he hadn’t exposed her to this callousness.
Nonsense. Mama is right.
Clara was a servant. His mother was right that she probably needed a firm hand.
He sighed and walked swiftly down the hallway and back into the entrance hall.
“I will decide that in due course,” she replied. “Now,” his mother added, taking off her shawl and folding it as she talked, “I am going upstairs to discuss the dinner with Wellford. I will rest for an hour before the meal. Inform me if you go out…I would not like to misinform anyone who visits that you’re in.”
“Yes, Mother,” Charles said. He watched her go up the stairs, calling down to him as she went.
“We will discuss the candidate at dinner. I hope you have settled on your opinion by then, for I will certainly have made mine.”
“Yes, Mother,” he murmured, and went to the door. The last thing he wanted to do was be indoors. He had to ride, to clear his mind.
“Saddle my horse, if you please,” he said to the stable-hand as he walked briskly down the path. He was restless and he needed to be off. He couldn’t shake Clara’s reaction from his mind – the wide eyes, the discomfort.
Stop it! She’s going to be the cook and it is shocking for you to think like this about her.
He nodded to the stable-hand and vaulted up onto his horse. He rode hard to the gate, muscles straining as he leaned forward, the horse racing at a gallop as they burst through the gates of the estate and out onto the path. He looked around. The mist had settled, and it was impossible to see down to Dunham houses. He narrowed his eyes, glad of his riding-jacket.
When he found himself wondering if Miss Sedley had managed to return home, he stopped dead.
“Charles, you’re ridiculous. She’s a servant. You’re an earl. If you had a speck of sense in your head, you’d focus your strength on more important matters.”
Like investing in rope-making. Or East India.
He rode down the road, his mind full of anger and impatience for himself. It was only when he reached the gate that he realised his scornful thoughts sounded exactly like his mother.
He recalled Clara, and how she’d spoken so truly. My work will speak for itself, she said. He felt his lips lift in a small smile.
He wondered at her confidence, and secretly hoped she would turn out right.
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