The emotions Clara had tried to push down came in a rush. India with all its ornate beauty surrounded her, and she felt overwhelmed, missing her father and her home all over again. The trumpets sounded, and the entire company turned toward the upper gallery. A herald called out, “Her Royal Majesty, Queen Victoria.”
He stepped aside to reveal a small, wide woman. Even though Clara had only seen drawings, there was no mistaking Queen Victoria. The woman held herself with a regal bearing. She wore a black dress with wide petticoats, and a black lace veil covered gray hair beneath her jeweled crown. Diamonds hung at her neck and dangled from her ears.
Queen Victoria raised a hand, and the silent company lowered in bows and curtsies.
“We would like to welcome you all to Osborne House and the Durbar Room,” the queen said. In spite of her size, her voice was strong, carrying easily through the space. “Do enjoy yourselves.” Queen Victoria held out her hands, then with an assistant, stepped away from the railing, settling into a chair where she could watch the dancing. At the queen’s nod, an orchestra began to play.
“Shall we, then?” Walter tugged on Clara’s arm to lead her and Deborah from the dance floor.
Clara found it difficult to pull her gaze from the queen. Victoria was at the same time the most beloved and most hated ruler in the world. How could one small woman possibly carry such a heavy charge? Clara decided in an instant that if anyone could, it was Queen Victoria. Power and strength radiated from her, though she hardly appeared physically strong.
The queen’s blue eyes moved over the gathering, and for just an instant, her gaze locked with Clara’s.
Clara looked away immediately, thinking that staring at the queen must be against some rule or another. She followed Walter to the side of the room, and before she could properly study the carvings, Grant Mason stepped into her path. At the sight of him, Clara’s breath caught.
“Miss Brightly.” Grant took her hand. He held her gaze, placing a kiss on her fingers. “You look very beautiful.”
Something about the way Grant spoke tonight was different. He seemed to study her closer than usual. Warmth spread from the spot his lips touched, and Clara’s insides shivered. “Thank y-you.” Her voice came out in a whisper.
Walter clapped Grant on the shoulder. “Mr. Mason. A pleasure to see you, sir.”
Clara blinked, and a blush heated her face as she remembered there were others in the room. She took a step back.
Grant shook Walter’s hand. “I’m always happy to see my old friend.” He took Deborah’s hand and bowed over it. “And Mrs. Wickersham, you are stunning this evening.”
“Oh, do go on.” Deborah swatted at him but smiled, her cheeks reddening.
“How do you like the room, Miss Brightly?” Grant asked.
Seeing his penetrating glance again, Clara was glad for an excuse to look up at the carved ceiling. “Utterly exquisite.”
Grant looked up as well. “I’d hoped to see your face when you first entered. You were surprised?”
She turned fully toward him and waved a hand toward the room. “Is this what your mother promised not to tell me?”
He widened his eyes but nodded.
“I was surprised. And delighted. I . . . I feel like I am in a Sikh palace.” She looked across the room at the peacock carving. “Durbar means both a formal reception and the place where such an event is held. I’ve only been in one other—at an assembly in Lucknow.”
“Then shall we see it all?” He offered his arm, and when she took it, he led her around the edges of the chamber, moving among other guests who were making the same circuit. They gazed into glass caskets that held ivory work, copper vases, and a model of an Indian palace, studied gold vases and a display of Indian armor.
“I’d heard Her Majesty wished for a room to represent her sovereignty in India”—Grant spoke in a raised voice to be heard over the orchestra—“but I had no idea. This is much more spectacular than I pictured.”
Clara nodded but didn’t answer. Seeing these reminders of India and, by extension, her father brought her emotions very close to the surface. They stopped before the entrance, looking up at the elephant-headed god.
“Ganesh,” Clara said, glancing at her companion. “The god of good fortune and luck.”
“I could use some of that,” he muttered.
Clara studied him for a moment, waiting for him to clarify. “For the choir competition?”
He turned his head and looked at her. Seeing his brow wrinkle, Clara got the distinct impression he’d not meant his words to be overheard. “Among other endeavors.”
“Such as?”
Grant glanced behind her, and she heard the music change. “Such as hoping you will agree to a waltz.”
The jittery feeling returned, but it held less fear and more anticipation. “I would love to.”
He led her to the floor, taking her hand and placing the other at her waist. Clara set her fingertips on his shoulder. She had noticed the broadness of his shoulders the first time they’d met, but seeing him in a formal coat, his carriage straight as he bowed, made her heart skip. Surely all the other ladies could not help but stare as well. He really was handsome.
Grant pulled her into the rhythm of the dance. “Tell me about your necklace.”
“My father gave it to me when I turned eighteen.” She didn’t have to speak very loud at all for him to hear. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
“I admit I hardly noticed it until now. The wearer’s beauty far surpasses the ornamentation.”
Clara drew a quick breath. She glanced up, but Grant’s gaze was so intense that she stared instead at his necktie. What had he meant by such a compliment? And why had it completely scrambled her thoughts?
“Last time Mother was at Osborne House, she changed the entire color scheme of our home,” Grant said. His lips twitched. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she changes it all again—this time with an Indian theme.”
“I hope she does,” Clara said.
“You prefer that style?” he asked.
Clara nodded. “I quite like it. But of course, it holds sentimentality for me.”
Grant regarded her, and again she got the feeling he had something on his mind tonight. Something had changed, and it felt significant.
“I have never seen your house.” Clara spoke in a cheerful voice, hoping to lighten the mood. “In fact, I am not quite certain where it is. East of Brading, I know, and I assume near Mr. Herd’s, since he is a tenant of yours.”
“How rude of me. I will repair the oversight as soon as possible. Perhaps you’d come to dinner soon?”
“I didn’t mean to solicit an invitation.” She felt flustered, not only by the conversation, but the way he studied her gave the impression he was searching for an answer or expecting her to do or say something. “I was simply curious.” Her arm grew tired, and she rested her hand more fully onto his shoulder.
“We would . . . I especially would love to have you. I believe . . . I hope you’ll approve of it.” For the first time since she’d known Grant Mason, he seemed uncertain.
“I will most definitely approve of the company,” she said.
His hand tightened around her waist, pulling her closer.
The song ended and following Grant’s suggestion, the pair exited onto the terrace. The night was cool but refreshing after the confines of the ballroom. And while she was with Grant, Clara realized, she had hardly noticed the temperature. Grant fetched punch, and they stood near the balustrade beneath a gas lamp. Waves sounded in the darkness, muting the noise of other conversations, and the scent of roses perfumed the air. The evening was as close to perfect as Clara could conceive. She closed her eyes breathing in the sea air.
“Clara?”
Grant’s voice held that same note of uncertainty she’d heard earlier, but it sounded husky as well. Clara’s breath felt thick in her lungs, and her pulse was erratic. She turned toward him, and the sight of his deep gaze sent tingles ov
er her skin.
He took the drink from her, set it on the railing beside his, and grasped her hand. “There is something I wish to tell you.” He touched her cheek, and heat burst across her face. “I know we have only known one another a short time.” Grant slid his hand to her shoulder. Clara’s heartbeat was so loud in her ears that she feared she’d not be able to hear him. He breathed in and out, then leaned closer, his thumb rubbing over her collarbone. “Clara, I—”
“Miss Brightly, is that you?” a familiar woman’s voice called from across the terrace.
The interruption shook Clara from the trance of Grant’s eyes. She blinked, disoriented as she looked around for the speaker.
Grant stepped back.
“It is! It is her! It’s Clara Brightly.” The woman hurried toward them, pulling her red-coated companion into the circle of light.
Clara gasped, pressing her fingers over her mouth as her throat choked with tears. “Mrs. Henry. Major Henry.” She hadn’t seen her old friends since they’d left for England years earlier on military sabbatical.
Mrs. Henry pulled her into an embrace. “We were so sorry to hear about your father, my dear. Such a tragedy.”
“Thank you.” Clara wiped at her tears, accepting the major’s offered handkerchief. “Please excuse my emotions. Seeing you was a bit of a shock.”
“I understand.” Mrs. Henry shook her head sympathetically.
“We were surprised to see you as well,” Major Henry said. “I never heard the colonel mention having family on the Isle of Wight.”
“I was sent here to stay with a distant cousin,” Clara explained. “Oh, where are my manners?” She turned, holding a hand toward Grant. “Allow me to introduce my friend, Mr. Grant Mason. Mr. Mason, these are my dear friends from the residency compound in Calcutta, Major and Mrs. Henry.”
There was no sign of Grant’s former smile. His expression was reserved, and the warmth in his eyes replaced by suspicion. Clara was reminded of how distant he’d acted the first time they’d met.
“A pleasure.” Grant inclined his head, exchanging greetings with the Henrys. “And what brings you to the Isle?”
“We are here on official business,” Major Henry said. “Her Majesty brought in quite a few craftsmen to build the Durbar Room, and now that it is finished, we are to return them back to India.”
Clara’s mouth went dry, and she squeezed the handkerchief. “You are to escort a group? When do you depart?”
“The day after tomorrow.” Mrs. Henry looked at the major, then back to Clara. “We’d be happy for you to join us, my dear.”
“I have been hoping to return.” Clara was finding it difficult to breathe. At last, she’d found a solution to her dilemma. “I have missed India and my friends, but I do not wish to be a burden.”
“Well, of course you shall come with us, then,” Mrs. Henry said. She put an arm around Clara’s shoulders. “And your company will be a pleasure—not a burden in the least.”
“I will need to make some arrangements,” Clara said. She didn’t like the prickly feeling in her stomach. The final choir practice was in two days, and the day after was the festival. She’d come to love the Wickershams, and leaving them would be difficult. And Grant . . .
How would he react to her plan? But when Clara turned to find him, her heart sank.
Grant Mason was gone.
Chapter Seven
Grant set the last pile of quilts onto the Ladies’ Charity Society’s table. He inspected the ropes holding up the canvas tent and, after ensuring his mother and the other ladies didn’t need anything further, he left to join the choir at the center pavilion. He’d cancelled the last rehearsal the evening before but had arranged to meet the children before the competition to show them their places on the stage and where they’d enter—perhaps ease some of their anxiety.
Grant rubbed his eyes. He had no idea what he was doing. If only . . . But he pushed away the thought. He’d spent three days analyzing every second of their interactions. What could he have said or done to change things? How could he have convinced her to stay? He’d hoped the ball would have been a turning point. The Durbar Room seemed the perfect place for Clara to leave behind her old life and begin a new one with—
He shook his head, clearing his throat against the tightness. Clara was gone, and he needed to accept it. He wanted to be angry with her for leaving him to direct the choir alone, but he couldn’t manage the emotion. The only thing he felt was an ache, and if he allowed himself to dwell on it, to consider what might have been, to wish for “if only,” then the ache grew, swallowing everything else. Today wasn’t for feeling sorry for himself. The children, their parents, and his town depended on him.
He glanced at his pocket watch. An hour until the competition began. Did Annie remember the signs? Perhaps he would have the children practice the song one more—
His thought cut off as the sound of singing reached him. Grant froze as the music stirred his memory. It was “Greensleeves.” That voice—it couldn’t be.
He followed the music toward the pavilion, his heart pounding as the familiar voice moved over and through him. He stepped inside and allowed his eyes to adjust.
Clara stood alone on the stage, her eyes traveling throughout the crowd as she sang. When she saw him, her gaze locked on his, and she smiled, her eyes sparkling and her voice growing louder. The beauty of the song surrounded him like a warm quilt.
Grant’s heart stretched until he thought it would burst.
She was singing for him.
The flood of sensations he’d felt when she sang at Philip Herd’s house were nothing to the maelstrom that seeing her released. His insides shook. His heart beating against his ribs was nearly painful. Did he dare allow himself to hope?
When the song finished, Grant met Clara at the steps, taking her hand as she descended from the stage. “You came back.”
Clara looked up at him. “I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t go.”
He took her other hand, feeling her shaking.
“When the time came to step onto the ferry, my feet just wouldn’t move.”
He searched her face. “I thought you wanted to go home.”
She nodded slowly and winced. “I realized India isn’t my home.” Her bottom lip shook, and her eyes shone with tears. “I thought it was. I ached for it. But it was the memories I missed. Without my father . . .” She swallowed, then took a calming breath. “Home isn’t just a place. It’s where I’m loved and with the people I love.”
Grant tipped his head. “Oh? And who might those people be?”
She flicked her gaze to his, then looked back down, apparently fascinated with his necktie. “Well, of course the Wickershams.”
“Of course.” Grant moved closer.
“And Mr. Herd and Annie Warner.”
“Yes.” He released her hands and slid his arms around her waist. “Anyone else?”
“The choir,” Clara whispered the words, her mouth nearly touching his lapels.
Grant tapped beneath her chin, lifting her face. “And the choir director?”
A blush flowed over her cheeks. “I suppose I do rather love him.”
Grant didn’t waste another moment. He touched his lips to hers, and when she responded by putting her arms around him, he pulled her against him. Her mouth was warm and soft, and Grant lost himself in the kiss, thinking how something he’d resented as much as directing a children’s choir had brought him the greatest miracle of his life. Clara, the shy, lost young woman, had found a place here, had found a community, a family, a home. And she’d found him.
He drew back, resting his forehead against hers. “I love you, Clara Brightly.”
Clara opened her mouth to respond, but applause sounded, and her eyes went round as she pulled back. Grant kept his arm tightly around her, not allowing her to flee, even though he knew she wished to run away and hide.
The children’s choir, their parents, and practically the entire town of Brading fill
ed the benches, clapping and cheering for the couple, calling out well wishes. Some of the older boys made faces, as if what they’d witnessed had caused them to become physically ill.
The Wickershams stood beside the stage; Walter wiped at his eyes, and Deborah pressed her hands to her heart, her face shining. Harry Barlow grinned, giving an approving nod while his wife wiped a tear. Even Philip Herd smiled.
“Oh, Grant.” Mother hurried toward them. “And lovely Clara. Just imagine it. A summer wedding.”
“The hawthorns will be blooming,” Mrs. Pinkston said.
“I’m afraid life in Brading Parish does not allow for much privacy, Clara,” Grant said in a low voice.
“I w-wonder if we should give an encore?” Clara said. Her voice sounded timid, but a teasing smile tugged at her lips.
Grant twirled her around, pulling her into his embrace and kissing her soundly. She’d make a fine caulkhead after all.
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About Jennifer Moore
Jennifer Moore is a passionate reader and writer of all things romance due to the need to balance the rest of her world that includes a perpetually traveling husband and four active sons, who create heaps of laundry that is anything but romantic. She suffers from an unhealthy addiction to 18th- and 19th- century military history and literature. Jennifer has a B.A. in linguistics from the University of Utah and is a Guitar Hero champion. She lives in northern Utah with her family, but most of the time wishes she was on board a frigate during the Age of Sail.
You can learn more about her at http://www.authorjmoore.com
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