Sharon Sobel

by The Eyes of Lady Claire (v5. 0) (epub)

  “I see,” Marissa said, and studied her. “I suggest you have your man send down a chimney sweep and clean out the ashes. An errant cinder could do more harm than irritate your eye. It could set your rug afire.”

  “I have thought the same,” Claire murmured. “But I am quite well now and ready to go to Mrs. Maybelle. I have been thinking of what I shall read to the girls when we’re finished with Rob Roy.”

  “Perhaps Sir Walter will have finished his next book by then, and your choice will be easy. Inasmuch as you are only at the fifth chapter, it does not seem to be of immediate concern.”

  Claire followed Marissa into the awaiting carriage. “But I wonder if the girls might not enjoy a novel written by a lady, or a work written for ladies, some lighter fare than warring clans in the Highlands.”

  “Do you propose to read to them from Ackermann’s Repository, then?”

  Claire glanced at her friend, trying to ascertain her degree of irony. “It would not be so very bad, would it?”

  Marissa patted her hand. “Some would think so, though I believe it would be quite enjoyable. But you need not worry about the rather masculine themes of Sir Walter’s work, my dear. They are infinitely preferable to the solemn lectures found in Fordyce’s Sermons, which is the fare to which Mrs. Maybelle’s orphans are most often treated.”

  Claire nodded as she thought about the Repository and its series of fashion plates. It would be easier to describe different gowns while looking at the plates, rather than plowing through an armoire, for every detail would be visible. She should remember that, though she was not certain why it would ever really be useful.

  “I saw Adelaide Brooks again last night, while we were both dining at Lady Armadale’s excellent table,” Marissa said.

  “And I was at the theatre, wondering why so many people in the audience try to compete with the actors onstage. They make such a din!”

  Marissa turned slightly in her seat to study her. “I do not believe it ever disturbed you before. Or anyone else, for that matter.”

  “Surely it disturbs the actors? Gertrude was delivering her valediction for the wretched Ophelia, while the Duke of Wingford shouted some blather about a horse he intended to purchase. It really was quite absurd.”

  “You seem to be very sensitive today, Claire. Perhaps we should turn back, and go to the orphanage another day?”

  “No, I am quite all right. I should not want to disappoint the girls, in any case.” Their carriage made slow progress through the crowded London streets, and Claire looked out on the passing scene, pulsing with life and drama. For the first time in some years, she wondered how it would feel to once again risk partaking in such drama, rather than simply passing through it. After Glastonbury died, she erected walls all around her to keep the pain of other relationships without. But instead, it seemed she kept loneliness within. The company of the orphans did much to break down some of those walls, and of course Marissa had never been denied entrance. But Marissa had a much beloved husband, who whisked her off to the Continent and his country estates. And the girls were likely to come and go from the orphanage, presenting a new collective face with every visit.

  Claire did not speak again until they were near the river, not many streets from their destination.

  “I interrupted you a while ago, Marissa. You told me you saw Mrs. Brooks last night. Is the lady well? Does she still worry about her niece?”

  Marissa smiled as she trifled with her gloves. “She surely does. She also worries about her nephew, but I doubt there is anyone who might help the man.”

  “I am not convinced anyone ought to help such a man if he truly is as bad as they say.”

  “Who says?”

  Claire paused, realizing the basis for some of her assumptions came entirely from Lord Cheviot during the course of one very brief waltz. “Any man who keeps his sister isolated from society is no better than a prison warden.”

  “Do you not think he punishes himself by sharing the same fate?” asked Marissa. “And, in any case, Adelaide told us the young lady is fearful, not that she is a prisoner.”

  “Fear could make one a prisoner,” Claire said, thinking more of herself than of Lady Camille. When Glastonbury was alive, she doubted every step she took, every word she uttered, lest he punish her for it. And when he died, she stood in her widow’s weeds at the funeral service, feeling an extraordinary elation in her belief that her life was about to begin.

  “Here we are,” Marissa said unnecessarily as the carriage arrived at the orphanage. Since their last visit, someone planted shrubs in the tiny garden and put pots of flowers at the window. Claire reflected that an orphanage might be considered by many people to be a prison as well, but someone was truly trying to get them to feel otherwise.

  They were greeted at the door by Mrs. Maybelle’s housekeeper, who brushed some moss from her white apron, and took their bonnets and shawls. Marissa started to the parlour, where Mrs. Maybelle was waiting for her, and Claire turned to the schoolroom, which had the advantage of the best natural light in the house. Her girls awaited her, as did the heavy volume they so clearly enjoyed.

  Claire sat down at the desk, and asked them questions about the week now passed, and what progress they made with their numbers. When she picked up the book she felt the balance of the room shift slightly as the girls leaned forward, the better to hear her.

  She started to read, and though she proved quite capable of giving every word a polished nuance, she thought about her current situation and the girls’ avid interest. And then, as was increasingly her habit, she thought about the man at the ball, Mrs. Brooks’s nephew. He was tall, she remembered, and stood quite rigidly against the column until his aunt approached him and he bent at the waist to better hear her words.

  “Please read to us, Lady Claire,” said one girl. Claire looked up, surprised and a little embarrassed to realize she had stopped in the middle of a paragraph.

  “I . . . I have a change I would like to make,” Claire said, and looked quickly around the room, settling on the corner near the fireplace. The girls sat in silent dismay, perhaps imagining these sessions had come to an end. “Let us now stand and move onto the rug, just yonder. We will be closer there, and more comfortable.”

  “Shall I bring your chair for you, my lady?” one of the girls asked.

  “No, I shall join you on the rug. It looks to be of fine Axminster quality,” Claire said.

  The girls arranged themselves in an open circle, as if they were well practiced in this formation, but an adult’s presence at their own level was perhaps unprecedented in their experience. Claire, for her part, decided that the discomfort was worth the benefits they might receive. She settled herself carefully on the floor, spreading her skirt around her. She crossed her legs in a most unladylike fashion and placed the book in her lap. Then, straightening her back, she resumed reading.

  Indeed, it was worth any small discomfort. The girls surrounded her, murmuring or gasping at her words, laughing at her mimicking of the Scots’ accent. They drew closer when she spoke softly, and pulled back when she read a speech to the men. She gently held a girl’s hand through a harrowing description, and was happily aware of the curious hands that fingered the fabric of her gown. Claire realized how much she loved doing this, and how much better it was to intimately connect with her audience. For the while, for this splendid interlude in their lives and hers, they touched each other in ways that made a connection beyond the words they spoke and the formality of their situation. The experience was fleeting in and of itself, but the memory of it might linger over time, like opening a little French music box to hear its tune over and over again. For the first time since her wretched marriage, Claire felt herself open to pleasure.

  And then in the pause between chapters, she looked up and saw her audience was even larger than she intended. Mrs. Maybelle stood ju
st inside the door, with Marissa partially shielded behind her. And to her right stood Adelaide Brooks, her hands clasped in an expression of delight.

  Claire continued to read, drawing the three women into her circle, though they pulled up chairs so that they might sit with greater dignity than she. But dignity or not, Claire held court in this modest room, and had every girl and woman at her command. And so they continued, until Mrs. Maybelle cleared her throat and somewhat apologetically reminded them that their tea was rapidly cooling.

  “But I will come again soon,” Claire assured them. “And we shall gather around as we are today.”

  As Mrs. Maybelle led her charges to the parlour, Marissa helped Claire to her feet. “My dear, you can continue through the whole canon of Sir Walter’s works, if you do not mind ruining every gown you own.”

  As Claire patted down her dress, little clouds of dust rose up around her. “I am sure they just need to be aired and steamed to remove the wrinkles. And even if I ruin everything I own, I shall consider it a small sacrifice. I learn as much from the girls as they learn from me.”

  “The orphans own the greater advantage for they are lucky to have you. I hope they will not be inconsolable if you are absent for some time,” Marissa said, glancing at Mrs. Brooks.

  “I have no intention of leaving them,” Claire said emphatically, though her resolve faltered when she saw the knowing expression on their faces. She understood what they were about to ask of her, and the prospect was irresistible.

  “My dear Lady Glastonbury, I would never ask that you abandon your girls, who take such pleasure in your company. If they would have me, I would take it as an obligation and a privilege to visit them in your stead. But I have a proposal to make to you, one that might bring you some satisfaction, and the greatest joy to a certain young lady.”

  “Yes, I will, Mrs. Brooks,” Claire said. “Of course I will help your niece. If you will but allow me to finish my reading of Rob Roy, and promise me that you will continue my work here, I will be happy to meet Lady Camille. It cannot be a visit of long duration, you understand, for I will miss my girls very much, and they will miss me. But perhaps I can do some good.”

  Marissa and Adelaide Brooks stared at her with curiosity and even some suspicion.

  “How on earth did you know what we discussed while you were reading?” asked Marissa. “We heard your voice all the while.”

  “I did not hear your words, my dear, but I have been thinking of the same thing for the past few weeks,” Claire said. “It has not been for want of satisfaction here, but for the prospect of pleasures of a different sort. I believe I will enjoy a short respite from my life in London.”

  “It shall be very quiet at Brookside Cottage,” Mrs. Brooks pointed out. “Not at all the sort of thing to which you are accustomed in London. My nephew is in Portugal, and Camille is quite alone with the servants.”

  Claire hesitated for a moment, realizing that some small part of her fancy imagined getting acquainted with the reclusive Marquis Wentworth as she tutored his sister. But truly, all her thoughts should be for a young lady who was in need of her help.

  “All the better, Mrs. Brooks. For Lady Camille and I will have much to do, and do not need interference.” Claire considered her own words. “I hope the gentleman approves of my attendance on his sister?”

  Marissa and Mrs. Brooks laughed a bit too cheerfully, and Claire wished they would allow her to know the fine joke. But, of course, she realized it was not a joke at all.

  “He will not approve. He wishes to keep his sister as she is, under his sole protection. To reveal her injuries to the world would only make her the object of pity, he believes.”

  “It would not do much for his reputation, either,” Marissa said dryly.

  “His reputation is dark enough,” Mrs. Brooks said easily, quite as if it did not matter. “But I am sure you are right about that. In any case, he does not know what I am planning and by the time he returns from Portugal, Camille might already be in London, enjoying her season.”

  Claire’s enthusiasm dimmed and once again it was because Wentworth would not be at home. Her first hesitation had been because of her own curiosity about him. But now she realized how her interference would be considered most improper. “I would not want to do anything that would cause difficulties for you or for Lady Camille.”

  “Lady Camille is the ward of my husband,” said Mrs. Brooks. “And the point of this adventure is to remove the difficulties from my darling’s life, is it not? My dearest hope is that you will be able to ease her way into society.”

  “I see,” said Claire quietly, though somehow the waters had become someone muddier since she spoke up a few minutes before.

  “I knew you would, Lady Claire, once you had my assurance that I would visit the girls here with a good book in hand. It is just as everyone says: You see everything that goes on in society and are kind to everyone. Your reputation is as bright as my nephew’s is dark.”

  Claire heard Marissa tittering beside her. “I will do what I can, Mrs. Brooks, but one cannot expect miracles.”

  “You forget I am a vicar’s wife, Lady Claire. I expect them everywhere, even at Brookside Cottage.”

  Chapter 2

  Brookside Cottage was not nearly so modest as its name. Claire saw the chimneys well above the trees as her carriage approached the property, passing through acres and acres of well-groomed farmland. A large conservatory graced one side of the cottage, clearly a more recent addition to the main structure, which looked to be of the reign of Elizabeth.

  And yet, Mrs. Brooks already informed her that elsewhere on the estate were the ruins of the great house, long abandoned these many years. Wentworth and Lady Camille came to the Cottage as children, where their aunt and uncle joined them, to see to their care until Wentworth was of an age to oversee his own property. Though he owned other estates, and there was always the possibility of restoring the great house, both expressed a preference to remain as they were. As to the great house, Mrs. Brooks believed they never ventured there at all, allowing the drive to become overgrown with weeds, and the woodlands to spread into what was once the ballroom and library. She made it seem as if their present dwelling was a deprivation, though Claire immediately thought it perfectly lovely.

  The servants assembled at the base of the marble steps, well attired and with the ease of deportment that suggested that there was nothing more compelling to occupy their time than to welcome a stranger to the household. To the left stood a young man and his horse, surely not a servant, but equally deferential. But all this Claire noted only tangentially, for her attention was all for the lady who stood at the top of the steps, appearing to gaze directly at her.

  As Claire slowly ascended, they continued to face each other, and Claire had the feeling Lady Camille was able to see as well as any person. She paused, not entirely sure how to greet a person whose limitations had already been carefully explained to her.

  “Welcome to Brookside Cottage, Lady Claire,” Camille spoke softly, with just a trace of her native Yorkshire.

  “I am delighted to be here, Lady Camille. Your family name seems most apt in this bucolic setting,” said Claire.

  The younger woman laughed. “It has been noted by many of our acquaintances. Even though my family has lived on the land for many generations, the name comes from our proximity to the running water that skirts our gardens.”

  Claire listened for the music of the nearby brook, and now that her attention had been directed to it, heard it quite clearly.

  “I look forward to exploring the landscape and perhaps do some sketching. I hope you will be my guide and direct me to all the fairest prospects.”

  She heard the collective gasp behind her, and immediately regretted her words. How insensitive to call attention to precisely that which the lady could not do! “That is, I me
ant to suggest . . .”

  “Of course, I will show you everything, Lady Claire, for I am delighted to have you as my guest.” Camille spoke without the slightest trace of awkwardness, for perhaps she was well practiced covering the missteps of others. “There is not so very much to see here, however. Certainly this is nothing to London.”

  Claire laughed, partially in relief. “I believe I have seen everything there is to see in London and have been quite bored of late. Brookside Cottage will be a welcome respite.”

  Camille smiled and turned her head in the direction of the young man and horse. She nodded, seeming to confirm something already decided, though her expression did not change. Claire studied her, even as she remembered she could do so at any time and not appear rude.

  Lady Camille’s eyes were heavy lidded, so it was nearly impossible to see their color. A thin scar was sketched across her forehead, over her brow, disappearing behind carefully styled hair; one had to look as carefully as Claire did now to see it. But for that, there seemed nothing in her outward appearance to suggest any other injuries. Camille was slight of build and as fair as her brother was dark. Her gown was of simple sprigged muslin, and if it was of slightly dated fashion, it surely was no more so than one was apt to see in the country. In fact, Claire thought it somewhat refreshing to envision a life in which one was not ever burdened by the necessity of ordering new gowns because dressmakers in Paris thought blue preferable to green this season.

  Behind her, Claire heard the sound of a retreating rider, and Camille’s eyes were once again upon her.

  “Please come in, so you can rest. The journey must have been a terrible burden,” said Camille.

  “It was not terrible at all, and certainly not a burden. In fact, I shall just need some minutes to freshen my face, and am looking forward to getting to know you. Ours is a most unlikely meeting, and you may decide that you do not want me here at all.”

  “Yes, that is possible,” Camille said softly, surprising Claire, who was only attempting to be gracious with her words, and did not consider leaving here so soon a real possibility. Surely she did not already offend? “But no one close to me seems particularly concerned with what I desire.”