“I believe he wants to get down,” she said when Oliver began to struggle in earnest.
“Nonsense.” Ignoring his obvious discomfort, Henrietta clutched the kitten more firmly against her chest. “He is merely tired of being stuck in this dirty, dusty, musty old room. Aren’t you, Oscar?”
Clara gritted her teeth. She wasn’t surprised Henrietta did not understand the rustic charm of the attic. Like her sister and her mother, Henrietta only seemed to like new, sparkly things. The brighter and the more expensive the better. “If he doesn’t like it then perhaps you should leave.”
“If I return downstairs without you Mother is going to be very perturbed.”
“Isn’t she always?” Clara said before she could stop herself.
Henrietta’s face pinched together in a rather unflattering manner as her eyes narrowed. Like Clara, she and her sister were rapidly growing into miniature replicas of their mother. Unfortunately, the baron’s second wife was not nearly as comely as his first had been.
It was not that Lady Irene was undesirable to look at. When she smiled she was actually quite pretty, although her dour disposition did not lend itself to very much smiling. It also did not help matters that she wore her dark hair pulled back in a chignon so tight it stretched the skin across her entire forehead, giving her face a rather skeletal appearance that made her long nose seem even longer and her thin lips look even thinner.
“Only because she has you as a stepdaughter,” Henrietta said snidely.
“I have not done anything!” Or at least not very much of anything, Clara added silently. She supposed she could have been more agreeable, but it was growing increasingly difficult to be nice when she was met with cold animosity at every turn. Oh, why had her father married such a wretched woman? Try as she might she had yet to discover Lady Irene’s appeal.
“Girls!” As though she knew she was being discussed, Lady Irene’s voice rang through the house, its sharp tone causing both Clara and Henrietta to instinctively flinch. “Girls, come down here at once! My patience has reached its limit! If you are not standing in front of me in three seconds you shall both go without supper tonight.”
“Now look what you’ve done,” Henrietta hissed before she whirled around and bolted out the door, her footsteps echoing on the creaky spiral staircase as she raced downstairs.
Clara followed much more reluctantly. She did not know why Lady Irene wanted to see her, but she knew it couldn’t have been for anything very good. Dragging her feet, she slowly made her way to the parlor. With only eighteen rooms – not including the attic – Windmere was not very large manor, but it gave the illusion of space with clean lines, high ceilings, and large windows. The true beauty of the estate, however, rested with its land.
Tucked away down a long, winding, tree-lined drive, Windmere was comprised of nearly fifty acres, most of which were fields and meadows. Gardens were plentiful and flowers bloomed from spring to fall, adding vibrant color to an already beautiful landscape. A small barn housed the livestock, including Clara’s beloved pony, and behind the barn there was a little stone cottage where the grounds keeper and his wife lived.
Windmere may have been the only home Clara had ever known – unlike his peers, the baron did not keep a second residence in London – but she loved it beyond reason and could never imagine living anywhere else.
“You wanted to see me?” she said as she stepped into the parlor. Lady Irene was sitting by the window in a gilt edged chair upholstered in gold brocade. It was but one of many new pieces of furniture Lady Irene had purchased since her arrival. Suffice it to say the baroque style of decorating was not what Clara would have chosen, but then she was not the mistress of the household. Something which Lady Irene seemed to take particular pleasure in reminding her anytime they had one of these ‘chats’.
Henrietta hovered by her mother’s side, her face expressionless save the faint hint of a smirk curdling at the edges of her mouth.
Oliver was nowhere to be seen.
“Well it is about time,” Lady Irene said sharply. “I have been waiting for nearly ten minutes.”
“I am sorry to have kept you waiting.” Anticipating the unpleasantness that was about to befall her, Clara shifted her weight from foot to foot as her hands twisted behind her back. “I was all the way up on the third floor.”
“So was my daughter, although she managed to get here a good two minutes before you. I wonder why that is? Never mind.” Lady Irene gloved hand swooped through the air in an elegant wave of dismissal. “Your perpetual tardiness is not what I have called you down here to discuss. Henrietta, leave us.”
With one final sneer in Clara’s direction that she made certain her mother could not see, Henrietta marched daintily out of the parlor and closed the door behind her.
“You know,” Lady Irene mused as her gaze deliberately moved down Clara’s slender frame inch by uncomfortable inch, “you really do look like your mother.”
Clara bit her lip as she waited for the proverbial second shoe to drop. When it did not come the twisted knot of tension that had gathered between her shoulder blades the moment she’d stepped into the parlor loosened ever-so-slightly. “Thank you.”
“Oh, did you think that was a compliment?” Lady Irene’s mouth curved even as her pale blue eyes hardened into chips of ice. “How adorable.”
Had Clara been previously exposed to the cattiness of women she might have known how to respond in kind, but she had lived a sheltered life at Windmere and so she only smiled uncertainly as the knot between her shoulders rewound itself into an even tighter ball.
“Is there something you want of me, Lady Stepmother?” she inquired politely.
“Do have a seat, Clara. There is much we need to discuss.”
Walking woodenly across the parlor Clara sat on the very edge of a new chaise lounge upholstered in the same garish gold brocade as the chair Lady Irene was sitting on. Not knowing what to do with her hands she rested them on top of her knees after a few moments of fidgeting and crossed her legs at the ankle. This was the part she hated the most. When Lady Irene would stare at her in silence as though judging her for crimes she had yet to commit.
“Your father left this morning,” Lady Irene said at last.
Clara wondered if she was making a statement or asking a question. Sometimes it was hard to tell. “Yes,” she said cautiously. “I know.”
“He will be gone for the better part of a month. During that time you will be in my care.”
“Yes,” Clara repeated. “I know.”
“Over these past few days I have come to think of you as a daughter. Do you think of me as your mother, Clara?”
This, Clara decided, is a very tricky question indeed.
“I would like to.” It was as honest an answer as she could give.
“Good.” Again Lady Irene smiled, but even though her lips curved her eyes remained cold and calculating. “As my daughter, there will be several things I expect of you. First and foremost, you will be respectful at all times. I imagine after being allowed to run wild for so long this may prove to be difficult, but I am confident that with time and proper training we shall be able to quell you of your more… undesirable traits.”
Clara frowned. “I do not run wild. Father has always said I am quite well behaved for my age.”
“Secondly,” Lady Irene continued as though Clara had not spoken a word, “you will begin dressing in a way that befits a young lady of your age and station. You are nearly thirteen, not three.”
“What’s wrong with how I dress?” Clara glanced down at her plain blue frock and white pantalettes. They looked fine to her. She had fancier dresses in her closet, dresses with bows and lace and pearls, but they were heavy and difficult to run in. She dearly hoped Lady Irene did not expect her to start dressing like Henrietta and Gabriella. While her stepsisters actually seemed to like their lavish gowns and elaborate hairstyles, Clara suspected they were dreadfully uncomfortable.
“What
is wrong?” One of Lady Irene’s thin eyebrows arched towards her hairline. “Why, everything my dear. Absolutely everything. Your appearance and the way you conduct yourself is a direct reflection of your family, which now includes myself and my daughters. I do not care for poor reflections, Clara. I fear I do not care for them at all. Do you understand?”
“What does my father think about this?” Clara demanded. She did not want to lose her temper, but her stepmother was making it very difficult to remain calm! Why couldn’t she accept her as she was instead of molding her into someone she did not want to be? Lady Irene did not even know her! And yet she had already decided that Clara was a ‘poor reflection’?
It was terribly unfair.
“Your father has made it quite clear he no longer wishes to be burdened with raising you. From this day forward I shall be taking over that responsibility, however cumbersome it may be. I believe you will find me strict, but fair.”
“My father does not think I am a burden!” Clara cried. Unable to remain sitting any longer she jumped to her feet. At her sides her hands curled into tiny fists of indignation. How dare Lady Irene imply such an awful thing? Her father loved her! She knew that he did because he had told her so himself countless times. Lady Irene did not know what she was talking about!
“Dear, sweet Clara.” Clucking her tongue in mocking sympathy Lady Irene slowly stood up from her chair. “But of course you are. Why do you think your father leaves so often?” And with that last cutting remark that she left the parlor without a backwards glance, leaving Clara staring after her in hurt, bewildered confusion.
CHAPTER TWO
For five days and five nights after the senseless death of his beloved wife and young son, the Duke of Thorncroft remained locked in his private study as he quietly drank himself into oblivion and back again.
He very well may have kept drinking if not for his brother Adam whose arrival shook the entire manor as he pounded his fists on the door to Thorncroft’s study and demanded to be let in.
“You look like hell frozen over,” he said flatly the moment Thorncroft unlocked the door. Shoving his way inside he went to the nearest window and threw open the drapes, letting in the first rays of sunlight the room had seen for the better part of a week.
Bleary eyed and ruddy cheeked from drinking more scotch in five days than he had in his entire twenty-two years, Thorncroft threw a hand in front of his face and staggered back into an empty chair. Like a wounded bear who had retreated into a cave to lick its wounds the only thing he wanted was to be left alone. Why was that so bloody hard to understand?
“Go away,” he growled.
“I will be doing nothing of the sort until I am satisfied that you are not going to drink yourself to death.”
“And if I do?” It was not said in jest. Thorncroft was a man who valued life, but ever since he came upon the broken, twisted bodies of the two people he treasured most in the entire world he had been questioning his own existence.
Why should he still be alive when Katherine and Robert were dead? If he knew for certain that he would have ascended to heaven he would have already found a way to join his wife and child. But he feared his sins were too great for such a wondrous place and so he remained in a hell of his own making.
A hell he was not willing to share with his brother.
“Then I shall become the eighth Duke of Thorncroft and the first thing on my long and varied agenda will be to burn this study to the ground. Good God, man.” Adam’s nose wrinkled in disgust as his gaze skimmed across the dozens of empty bottles sitting on every surface and the soiled blankets strewn across the French scroll sofa. “It smells like a pigsty in here. Actually I take that back,” he said as he spied a stack of dirty porcelain dishes piled by the door. “Even a pig would not live in such squalor. I know you are in mourning but this is taking it a bit too far, wouldn’t you say?”
Kicking his legs out in front of him, Thorncroft slouched in his chair as he reached blindly for a glass of scotch. Finding one on top of a nearby table he tipped it back and drained the contents, welcoming the numbing rush of fire with a grunt of satisfaction. Setting the empty glass aside with a hard click, he straightened ever-so-slightly and cast his brother a look of pure venom.
“I did not ask you to come here. If the squalor is not pleasing to you then you are free to leave. In fact, I insist upon it.”
“Would if I could,” Adam said cheerfully as he continued around the study, pulling back the drapes and opening a few windows to allow in some much needed fresh air before reclining on the armrest of the sofa. “But we both know Mother would have my head and as I’m rather fond of it – as are the ladies – I will not be leaving until I am assured you have returned to the world of the living.”
Adam had always been an annoying little bastard, Thorncroft thought sourly as he studied his brother beneath half-closed lids, and unlike fine wine he had done little to improve with age. Although they were only three years apart and were strikingly similar in physical appearance – both had strong features, thick black hair, and piercing gray eyes – their personalities could not have been more different.
Thorncroft had always been the more subdued of the two while Adam had quickly earned a reputation as a notorious rake whose gambling and whoring knew little bounds. Before he died their father had often remarked that if Adam had been born first the family fortune would not have been long for this world and after watching firsthand the way his brother ran through money Thorncroft was forced to agree.
Aside from a few surprisingly intuitive investments Adam had succumbed to a life of waste and leisure that ensnared many a second son. Blessed with the fortune of the Thorncroft name and none of the responsibility, he was a well-known fixture amidst London’s haut ton and had established himself as the sort of man that mothers kept their innocent daughters away from.
Yet despite all of his vices – which were often too many to count – Adam was wickedly charming.
Not to mention bloody persistent.
“Go away,” Thorncroft growled a second time. Closing his eyes against the onslaught of light pouring in through the windows he turned his head to the side and pressed his unshaven jaw against the chair. “Report to Mother that I am still alive and kindly bugger off.”
“I am afraid I cannot do that, mate. You see my London townhouse is currently undergoing some rather serious renovations and as I’ve no intention of living out of a hotel for the better part of a month I will be staying here. My belongings are being carried into the east wing as we speak.”
Thorncroft opened his eyes to Adam’s grin. A grin that was offset by pity stirring in the depths of his silver gaze. Instantly Thorncroft’s spine stiffened and he lifted his head from the chair. An unexpected visit he could tolerate, but pity was not to be borne.
“Get out,” he said in a dangerously soft voice. While some men’s anger came with shouts and blustering, Thorncroft’s rage was quietly seething up until the very moment he erupted like a ball of lead being shot from a cannon.
His gaze turning wary, Adam slowly stood up. “Now see here,” he began, “there is no need to shoot the messenger. I have come to help you, you stubborn sod. I know the loss of Katherine and Robert has come as a great shock–”
“Do not speak their names.” With surprising quickness for a man so deep in his cups Thorncroft sprang to his feet and crossed the study in three mighty strides. Grabbing his brother by his fluffy white cravat he hauled him up on his toes, a rather difficult feat given they were nearly the same height. Spit flew from the corners of his mouth as he snarled, “No one is to ever speak their names again. Do you understand me?”
“Quite – quite clearly,” Adam choked out.
Releasing his brother, Thorncroft stalked to the other side of the room and stared blindly out the window at a field already tilled and seeded in preparation for the impending season.
Three years ago the field and those surrounding it had been nothing but useless grass. T
urning the empty meadows surrounding Longford Park into profitable crops had been one of the many changes Thorncroft had enacted when he inherited the ducal estate from his father.
It was not for the money it brought him – the family coffers were so profound even he did not know how deep they ran – but rather for the jobs it supplied for his tenants, hardworking farmers all who relied on the land to keep a roof over their heads and food in their bellies. Since the day he had inherited his father’s title Thorncroft had earned himself a reputation as a demanding, albeit fair, employer. Still, having been raised in the ways of the aristocracy, he had always kept himself a step removed from the working class both inside the mansion and out. It was Katherine who had taken the time to learn their names and their varied personalities. And it was Katherine, he reflected with a bitter twist of his lips, whom they had loved.
Thorncroft may have been well-equipped to manage an estate from the financial ends of things, but he knew nothing about the daily running of a household, particularly one the size of Longford Park.
When were the sheets laundered? Who prepared the weekly menus? Where were the clothes sent to be repaired? Who scheduled the staff? He hadn’t the vaguest idea.
“If you want to help,” he said without turning around, “I may have a task for you.”
“Yes?” came Adam’s short, clipped reply.
For the first time in five days Thorncroft found himself biting back a grin. When he and Adam had fought as children – as young, unruly boys often did – he had often managed to best his brother. Adam may have been as brazen and courageous as they came, but he did not have the patience required of a truly great strategist. Instead of holding his punches in favor of studying how his opponent moved and thought, he attacked without rhyme or reason. On a handful of occasions such bullish tactics had earned him a victory, but for the most part he had found himself pinned to the ground as he stared up at Thorncroft in defeat. Then – like now – he had always indulged in a period of sulking. Sometimes it had lasted for a few minutes, sometimes for a few days.
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