Fortune Favors the Sparrow

by Rebecca Connolly

  “I love you.”

  Death might have taken him in that moment, for all the sensation he felt, but he was returned to life very shortly. Her voice, choked with tears, uttering those sweet words, would torment him until the day he died.

  “Now you say something,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair, “and that is what you say?” He shook his head, turning a little further, almost able to see her now. “Are you trying to change my mind about you, Miss Harlow?”

  “No,” she replied, sniffling again, her tears growing more evident. “No, I just wanted you to know. That part of me was real and true. I don’t know what’s going to happen now, or if I’ll ever see you again…” She broke off, her breath hitching loudly.

  He flinched at the sound, the pain of it reaching across the room to him.

  “I love you,” she said again, sobbing each word. “I never meant to hurt you, and I couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing you again without knowing that I’d told you what I’ve felt since that day you took my hand on the beach. I don’t expect anything from you, Hawk. I just… I love you.”

  The damned souls in hell could not know pain worse than this. His hands hadn’t moved from his hips, though they seemed to be clamping down against them with an unsettling brutality. He’d lowered his head, whether from pain or to listen better, he couldn’t say. He couldn’t even move, wasn’t sure if he was breathing, and he would have given anything to block out her voice.

  Those words… How could he bear to hear them now?

  “I’m sorry,” Clara whispered again. “But I do love you. I always will.”

  I love you.

  His head came up slowly as those words reached him, wrapped themselves about him, and something in him snapped. He turned sharply and closed the distance between them, his attention on one thing and one thing only. He seized her arms roughly and hauled her into his chest, his mouth finding hers in an instant, desperately plundering with a hot, aching need that pounded furiously through his veins.

  Her shackled hands found his face, her lips molding against his with a perfection that shook the ground beneath his feet. She took everything he gave and curled into him with a willingness that unmanned him.

  “Damn you,” he whispered against her mouth as he caught her sobs, her body trembling with each one. He touched his forehead to hers, his breathing more ragged than hers, his eyes clenched tightly shut. He shook his head slightly against her, the stroking of her fingers against his jaw too much to endure. “Damn you.”

  He kissed her again hungrily, could taste the saltiness of her tears in their kiss, mingled with the longing surging through them both. Again and again, he kissed her, or she kissed him, the moments frozen in time while it lasted.

  The doors to the Blue Room opened then, snapping Hawk from his frantic reprieve. He pulled her hands from his face, unable to meet her eyes, and stepped away, swallowing the sudden lump of emotion that had formed.

  “We’ll be taking her away now, Your Grace,” one of the constables told him. “Sir Henry is making arrangements. We’ll be sure to notify you of them when all is settled.”

  Hawk nodded, too ashamed and tormented to face anyone.

  Footsteps told him they were moving now, though no one said a word. He could hear Clara’s tears still, could taste them on his tongue, and the combination tore at his soul. He stood there, his head back, eyes closed fiercely, listening to her cry all the way to the carriage.

  Then, he waited until the sounds of the carriage wheels could no longer be heard before he moved a single muscle, at which point he fell to his knees and dropped his head into his hands.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  It was ridiculous how long it would take to prepare Kirkleigh to be sold. He’d gone over all of the numbers twice, and it would not do at all.

  He could sell the place as it stood, and to hell with the fallout.

  Nobody would care, would they?

  Why should they? He didn’t.

  He didn’t care about anything at the moment.

  Could not.

  Would not.

  Since Clara had been taken away, he had no desire whatsoever to enjoy any aspect of the house, nor to keep it in the family. How could he continue to care for an estate that had never come to life for him before she had been there? Where so many moments had drawn them together, and stirred his soul in a way that nothing had before? He had fallen in love in this house, on the beach of its estate, in the gallery in the middle of the night.

  How could he ever return to it after this?

  Yet he could not bear to leave.

  White had asked him the evening of the arrest if he wished to have his things packed to return to Elmsley.

  Hawk had adamantly refused.

  Even now, days later, he did not understand why. He did not want to be at Kirkleigh, not when every wall and chair reminded him of Clara.

  Yet he did not want to leave. Once he left, it would be over. The magic would have ended.

  Everything would become real.

  She had lied to him. He had loved her. She had left. He had changed. She had cried. So had he.

  He had loved her.

  The truth of it was that he loved her still, and the truth of that made him ache deep into the hollow of his soul. How could he love a woman under these circumstances? How could he still care so much for the woman who had pretended her way into his home and his heart? How could he still long for the sound of her voice, the touch of her hand, the sweet taste of her lips?

  Kirkleigh had become a prison, and he some half-alive creature haunting its walls.

  He could not go on like this. He had responsibilities and duties that demanded his attention, and somehow, he needed to regain some sense of himself.

  Today he would start. In order to sell Kirkleigh, he would need to take stock of each room. Mrs. Clayton had offered to make an inventory that he would only need to look over, but he did not want to ignore the trouble of such a task. He wanted to face the turmoil each new room would bring and force himself to reconcile with it. How else could he truly dispense with an estate that had been in his family for so long?

  He would start with the bedchambers. Each of them. All of them. The whole bloody forest of trees that lined the corridors in each wing.

  The first few bedchambers hadn’t been occupied in some time, so the work there was minimal. No family history or heritage, no heirlooms, nothing he would wish to retain. A few of Griffin’s belongings still lingered in the Cedar room, and several items remained in Adrianna’s Poplar suite, as well. He would send them notes regarding their things, and any furnishings in the rooms that might have held personal meaning for them.

  The Birch and Willow rooms were next, and he hesitated outside each. The Birch for confusion and shame. The Willow for the sheer agony of it.

  Mrs. Daniels had departed Kirkleigh the morning after the arrest of Miss Harlow, though he suspected she would have done so the same day had she a place to go. She had taken a tray in her room and avoided any opportunity to speak with him or see him. As he had not sought her out, nor demanded explanation of her, there was not much to be said. Questions remained in abundance, more of them rising with every passing day.

  Had she been the aunt of Miss Moore? Was she instead the aunt of Miss Harlow? Was she a relation at all? How much had she known of the situation? Why had she stood by Miss Harlow in spite of everything? What tied the women together, and how did such loyalty exist?

  He had not bid her farewell in her quiet departure, but he wished now that he had done so. That he had paid her the courtesy of politeness. That he had looked in on her after such a distressing event. He might have known more of the situation had he done so.

  But he had chosen to seclude himself in his own despair, and he would live with the consequences.

  He stood in the room a moment, looking about its simple furnishings. Nothing remained of Mrs. Daniels’ belongings, and one would never know the room had been lived
in of late. The connecting door to the Willow room was ajar, and he stared at it for a moment longer than was wise.

  He could almost believe Clara would be in the room beyond, if he entered from that way.

  His feet seemed determined to try, moving him in that direction without much resistance.

  A small dressing room filled the space between rooms, and Hawk stopped in the center of it. Some of Clara’s belongings still remained within, and the sight of them struck him with more power than he could have anticipated.

  Mrs. Daniels should have cleared all of this out. Should have seen all of Clara’s things packed up and stored elsewhere. Should have sent some items along to the holdings that would house her until trial.

  Hawk stared between a few simple gowns, something stashed beyond them drawing his attention. Fearing the gowns would fade into dust with his touch, he gingerly extended his hand and pressed them aside, reaching beyond in apprehension.

  His fingers closed around a wrapped canvas, which startled him. He pulled the item out, moving into the light of the bedchamber to see it clearly.

  It was a painting, one done in oils and with such skill it could have been on display in a royal residence. The scene was one of a forest, the trees within a brilliant likeness to their living counterparts, and each bearing individual aspects and beauty to set them apart from the one beside it. Sunlight streamed between the trees on the canvas, wildflowers dotting the forest floor, and a small, winding path wound its way through the whole of it. There was something stirring in the landscape, whimsical and bearing an almost ethereal quality that captivated him.

  When had this been done? He could not recall a single moment of seeing Clara with oils to hand, let alone sitting to create such a masterpiece.

  He found himself smiling at the loveliness before him, a token that brought more fond memories than melancholy ones. He glanced at the images of wildflowers again, his eyes widening at the sight of a couple of leaves painted among them.

  Maple leaves. Quite distinctly, and obviously intentional.

  He blinked at the canvas, his eyes burning as they began to dart here and there, realizing with bated breath that what he was seeing before him was an entire forest of maple trees. Each bearing its own image, each standing tall, and each possessing a remarkable beauty.

  Clara.

  Hawk swallowed with some difficulty, wrenching his gaze away from the art to look about the room, only to find that he had ventured into the Willow room.

  Of course, he had.

  Sighing wearily, he turned slowly, scanning every wall, nook, and cranny for signs of her. Memories of her. Tokens of her.

  His eyes fell upon a familiar-looking diary sitting upon the desk, wondering how it had made its way back there rather than staying in the hands of Sir Henry and those tasked with prosecuting her. He walked to the desk with trepidation, knowing he would not help matters by succumbing to the impulse of looking through it.

  The only question he could bring himself to ask was if he truly cared.

  His answer came swiftly enough.

  No, he did not.

  His fingers traced the simple black leather binding the pages, something about its worn surface easing the tension growing in his chest. He picked it up, flipping the first few pages open to examine the sketches.

  Leaves and wildflowers filled several pages at first, followed by finer flowers in a garden or greenhouse, the detail noted in each incredible to behold. There were images of architecture, the buildings themselves unfamiliar to him until he caught sight of the shape of the Miss Masters’ school and its expansive nature. This sketch had been painstakingly done, probably over time, and with a great deal of care.

  He could see the love and effort in the rendering here, the attention paid to even the smallest feature. He had never quite thought of the grand house as being a home for those living within, but the feeling in the drawing spoke of such emotion and affection.

  Clara clearly adored the place. Why then would she ever risk her life there by engaging in such crimes?

  He frowned, flipping a few pages more. His lips curved into a helpless smile as the scene at his mother’s favorite spot appeared on the page.

  The first day, he had seen her draw, and could attest to her abilities. He could still see her sitting there, plain as day, a vision of loveliness he hadn’t fully appreciated at the time. He could recall every moment of their walk back to Kirkleigh, and of their darting to the house as the rain had begun to fall.

  Had he loved her then? Had it started so soon? Or had he needed more time to become so enchanted?

  It was impossible to say, but he had felt something shift at that time, he knew. His heart had awoken, perhaps, to the possibility of her. Could he have known where it would lead?

  His thumb began to peel back page after page, only glancing at their contents. A few sketches of Mrs. Daniels. The sketches of the beach. A profile of Nat.

  Then there were drawings of Hawk.

  His throat tightened as he observed several pages of his own likeness reflected back at him, his expression and position varying as much in the art as it did in his life. An image deep in thought, one of relaxed contentment, another as he might have appeared at the Assembly room, and one…

  He forced himself to swallow the lump that had formed as his eyes fell on a portrait of himself laughing, full of joy as he so rarely was in his life. And she had drawn herself beside him, looking up in adoration and laughter, the pair of them almost dancing in their position.

  How could he bear this?

  How could he doubt this?

  How could he doubt her?

  Something cold and hard slammed against his chest, freezing the length of him with a slow crawl that resembled a London fog.

  He couldn’t doubt her. Couldn’t doubt them. Couldn’t believe…

  He gasped in pain, gripping the chair before him, his knuckles turning white.

  He was wrong.

  Clara might have held a different surname while she was in residence there, but her heart had been true. Her nature had been true. She was not a woman of artifice and games; he had known that from the start. She was more open and sincere than any girl he had ever known, though she hadn’t shared the history at Kirkleigh he’d thought. She’d still brought him to life. Still seen him in spite of the title and fortune he possessed. Had never schemed for his heart, only earned it through her goodness, loveliness, and warmth of spirit.

  She had only ever earned it.

  And he had turned against her. He hadn’t stood in the way of those combining against her. Hadn’t vowed to protect her or stand by her.

  Hadn’t done anything.

  The diary fell to the floor as he strode to the door, flinging it open and marched down the corridor. “Stafford!” he bellowed, his voice echoing along the walls of Kirkleigh.

  “Your Grace?” came the voice of his butler from somewhere below.

  Hawk peered over the railing, gripping it tightly. “Where did Sir Henry say he was keeping Miss Moore? I mean, Miss Harlow?”

  Stafford blinked up at him, brow furrowed. “Your Grace, I didn’t…”

  “The King’s Arms, Your Grace,” Mrs. Clayton replied, coming into view and folding her hands before her as she looked up at him, “but only until he could find room at the local House of Corrections. Being a lady, he wanted…”

  “Fine, fine, very well,” Hawk overrode, waving a hand. “It’s only been a few days, so how long would they hold her?”

  Stafford and Mrs. Clayton exchanged looks, then returned their attention to him. “Only until her bail was paid, Your Grace,” Stafford told him simply. “Then she’d be free until trial.”

  Hawk grinned in abject relief, slapping the railing with both hands. “Excellent! Prepare my horse! Now!”

  London was a dreadful place.

  Well, what she could see of London from her present quarters, which, admittedly, was not much, but it did not seem to have much to recommend it.
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br />   Clara sighed as she pulled the curtain back in place, pushing herself up from the window seat and wandering back to the divan in the adjoining parlor, fussing with a small pillow there.

  Four days she’d been here now, and she was prepared to go mad.

  But, she reminded herself, at least she was not in prison.

  She was particularly fortunate in that regard.

  Sinking onto the divan now, letting herself lean forward enough to rest her elbows on her knees, she exhaled heavily. The day of her arrest had been one of nightmare, filled with dismay, shame, heartbreak, confusion, fear, and one brief, shining moment of glorious passion.

  She’d clung to that ray of light often in the days since.

  There had been no warning when Sir Henry had appeared, but Phoebe had immediately acted, sending Brick on Hawk’s fastest horse to report it, and reminding Clara not to say anything before also adding that all would be well.

  It had not felt as though all would be well, but she had kept to her silence easily enough.

  Until Hawk had arrived.

  Her mortification had been harshly compounded at being found in shackles by him, though she learned later that they had been wholly unnecessary, given the crimes of which she had been accused. She’d presume it was the ambition of Sir Henry Norris, justice of the peace and magistrate, though he had not appeared to have any feelings at all when he’d arrested her.

  Hawk’s words to her had cut through all willpower and strength, all sanity and pride, though she had very little left at that moment. She had seen how broken he had become, how betrayed and hurt by her actions. She would never be redeemed, she knew well, but at that moment, all she had left was her love for him, and it had rung so vibrantly through her quivering body. She had poured out her soul while she could do so, knowing it would never be enough, but praying it might make her less of an evil in his eyes.