Fortune Favors the Sparrow

by Rebecca Connolly

  Hawk exhaled slowly as he slipped on a fresh linen shirt. “I stopped by the gamekeeper’s cottage before I came in. He’s going to show me his tasks tomorrow, are you interested in coming?”

  Nat rubbed at his brow. “When are you doing so?”

  “He wants to begin at seven in the morning. I had no idea there were early morning tasks, but it would seem—”

  “No, thank you,” Nat overrode, crossing one leg over the other. “I prefer to sleep the necessary amount for proper functioning, if it does not offend your newfound entertainment preferences. But you do as you like, and I wish you great joy of checking all the traps, feeding the hounds, and counting the pheasants on the estate.”

  Hawk lifted his chin as White went to work on his clean cravat. “I think you might be mocking me.”

  Nat raised a brow. “If you aren’t sure, I am doing it wrong.” Shaking his head, he rose. “Tell me, will the roasted pig we dine on this evening be one you slaughtered yourself?”

  “Laugh if you will, Nat,” Hawk told him with a severe look, “but I blame you entirely for it.”

  “What for?” Nat protested in outrage. “I’ve done nothing! I have literally not done a thing as regarding your secret desires to be a hired hand.”

  “Get out of the study and do something,” Hawk quoted, raising a brow. “Your words, I believe.”

  Nat frowned at that, folding his hands in his lap. “That’s not my fault. I was hoping you’d go to the billiards room and begin a game, myself. You could just as easily have gone to the music room to begin playing, and all of us in humanity are ever so grateful you did not. The kitchens to make pies, the ballroom to practice the waltz, the orangery to do… whatever one does in an orangery; all of those were just as easily viable for entertainment options. I simply told you to find one. Your choice is yours alone, and I will not be blamed for you falling off of a roof and breaking your back, thank you very much.”

  Hawk chuckled to himself, his friend’s humor truly one of his most appreciated assets. “Well, I plan on helping with the spring planting when the time comes, so perhaps that might tempt you.”

  “If it takes place after luncheon, I may consider it.” Nat pushed to his feet, groaning a little. “Now that you do not smell of horse, shall we have a drink before dinner?”

  Sighing as White tugged his cravat one last time, Hawk nodded, smiling at his friend. “Happily. I could use one after the day I’ve had.”

  “I was thinking the same thing myself.” Nat shook his head, exhaling roughly.

  “You thought I needed a drink?” Hawk laughed.

  Nat gave him a bewildered look. “No, that I needed one. Why would I think that you need one? I don’t think about you by first instinct.”

  “Why wouldn’t I need a drink?” Hawk asked pointedly. “I’ve earned it!”

  “Go have ale at the taproom with your people. I don’t think you’ll like the finer stuff.”

  “That humor of yours is getting worse.”

  “Have a drink or three. I’m hilarious after that.”

  Chapter Five

  “Alexandra Moore. Alexandra Moore. Miss Alexandra Moore.”

  “Darling, you’re going to tumble over your own tongue if you ramble on so.”

  Clara looked over at the woman accompanying her in the carriage, a stunning beauty of a woman despite her being on the other side of forty. “I cannot help it. I’m so dreadfully nervous. I’ve never told a lie in my life, and now I will be living one. Phoebe, what if I make a hash of this?”

  Phoebe Jenkins, a sometimes advisor to the Rothchild Academy and their scholarship girls, and apparently one-time operative with the code name of Flora, gave Clara a severe look. “Then we’ll be in trouble for certain, but really, you must call me Aunt Fern, dearest, or we’ll never convince anybody.’’

  “Right,” Clara affirmed with a nod, more for herself than for Phoebe. “My dear aunt who could not care for me in my youth due to her own youth and inexperience, and who worked tirelessly to prepare a home for me as soon as she was able.”

  “Good heavens, child,” Phoebe murmured in her crisp, cool tone that rang with the natural formality that always seemed to pervade her being. “Don’t spout it all about simply because it’s the truth we are living. There is nothing more obvious to an audience than an excess of information when it is not requested.”

  Clara winced and looked out of the window, raising an ungloved finger to her teeth to gnaw at her nail, a childhood habit she had long foregone. “Sorry, Phoebe. Erm, Aunt Fern. I haven’t had any training yet, so I have not learned the way of things.”

  Phoebe sighed to herself and took Clara’s hand away from her mouth with the same brusque motion a mother or aunt would have done. “Do not bite your nails, Alexandra Claire. It is most uncouth.”

  Strangely enough, the words and the action settled Clara in a way nothing had yet. Her newly adopted name in its full, precisely how they would explain her going by Clara, and the easy manner with which Phoebe had said it, were stabilizing to her. The fear began to abate, and just a dull twinge of unease curled within her.

  Nodding to herself, Clara breathed slowly and watched as the countryside of Kent passed them by. It was ten miles from the school to Kirkleigh, and she’d packed her trunks for a visit of just a few days. They were simply establishing the connection, that was all. Then, once that was done, if all went well, they might be able to come and go from Kirkleigh at their leisure.

  Clara suspected that word would reach the duke himself before too long, and then they might have reason to elaborate on this story of theirs. But until then…

  “Does it get easier, Aunt Fern?” Clara asked softly as the carriage rocked them gently to and fro. “The lying. The pretending. Any of it, all of it.”

  “Of course it does, child,” Phoebe replied with greater ease than Clara had expected. “It becomes quite second nature, and requires very little thought.”

  Her reply was not particularly encouraging, the thought of dishonesty becoming so simple and natural a distasteful one. Necessary, she supposed, given the line of work and the details that were involved in it, but for someone like her…

  Phoebe sighed again, this time far more softly. “I was like you, Clara, when I started. Before I became Flora in truth. I learned that I could not think of it as the sin we have been taught it was. It is a protection that keeps us from losing our lives as we serve a greater purpose. To protect the kingdom, in some respects. We are not pretending so much as we are becoming, you see.”

  Clara turned to look at the older woman, transfixed by the perspective she offered, and of the glimpse she gave into the life she’d held previously.

  Becoming, she’d said. There was something rather exciting, if not appealing, about the sentiment. She could easily become the exciting, engaging Alexandra Moore for a time rather than be forced to maintain the rest of her life as simple, boring Clara Harlow. Especially when it was for the good of the country.

  “And you think I could become Miss Moore?” Clara asked with a smile, suddenly shy as she started this new adventure of hers.

  Phoebe patted her hand twice before releasing it. “I think you already have, Clara, dear. And you’d best remember that, as we’ll be there shortly.”

  Feeling that the ribbons on her hat were suddenly tight beneath her chin, Clara slid a finger between them, tugging gently. “Heavens…”

  “Settle yourself, dear,” Phoebe said. “The duke won’t be there, remember?”

  Clara didn’t have the courage to tell her that it was not facing the duke she feared, but rather facing anyone. Her dress was too fine, her gloves too white, and her boots too shiny. The finery was beyond what she was accustomed to, and that alone was a reason to be uncomfortable.

  She hadn’t been in finery since she was a child.

  Perhaps it would suit the recreated Miss Moore to be above the finery she chose to garb herself in.

  Yes, why shouldn’t it?

  Wo
uld anyone at the house recollect Miss Moore from when she’d lived there previously? That would determine a great deal about the story she and Phoebe would have to tell, and how much freedom she would have with it.

  “Oh, it is a fine prospect, isn’t it?” Phoebe gushed, turning to look out of the window. “So delightfully situated, and such a pretty cliffside view! It must have been a joy to be a child here.”

  Clara stared out of the same window, the sprawling estate opening before them, the pale stone almost sparkling in the morning sunlight. “I wouldn’t know,” she said softly, her breath catching as the glimpse of the sea caught her eye.

  “Of course, you would,” came the unaffected reply. “You are Alexandra Claire Moore, and you were the ward of the late Duke of Kirklin. You lived here from eight until thirteen, so you must have many fond and happy memories of Kirkleigh that no one can take from you.”

  It took Clara a moment or two of reflection to fully comprehend what Phoebe was saying, without specifically saying it. But it occurred to her, and she brightened at the prospect.

  “Yes,” she said slowly, a smile spreading across her face. “Yes, I do. Several of them.”

  Phoebe looked at her with a quick smile. “Good.”

  It had seemed an age since Clara had grinned with real delight, but now she did so freely. There was excitement coursing through her, visiting this grand house and seeing if something might be accomplished there. She knew what to look for, but not yet why she was looking for it, which somehow made her still feel innocent in many respects.

  Pippa said all would come in good time, and she had to believe that.

  For now, she was going to enjoy being Alexandra Moore and exploring a grand house she was supposed to know well.

  Kirkleigh was an older house, displaying some of the architecture more commonly seen during the reign of the Tudors, particularly with the elaborate work on the windows and the stylings of the roof. Yet the stone was paler than she had seen in buildings from that era, and the house itself was immaculate in its cleanliness and care. Even from the distance of their approach, she could see the glint of the sun on the glass panes of several windows. The trees along the drive were well manicured, and she could see a small grove of them behind the house on one side. On the other, however, was a vast expanse of land that seemed to drop into the ocean itself. The view of the sea was entirely unencumbered by nature or man, and Clara itched to explore the cliffside at once.

  Surely there was a path down to the seashore, else why would the house be in such proximity?

  She would find that path, and she would walk on the edge of that sea.

  It was easy enough for her to forget that Kent was a coastal county, so much of the delights of visiting the seaside being attributed to places like Brighton, Eastbourne, or Bournemouth. Yet Kent had Dover in her folds, and such beauty was rarely seen elsewhere.

  How had she been in Kent all these years and never once ventured to places such as this?

  “I think we may take a walk this afternoon, don’t you, Clara?” Phoebe asked as she, too, eyed the coast.

  Clara nodded. “Yes, Aunt Fern, I do.”

  Neither of them spoke as they continued on, the edifice of Kirkleigh looming closer and closer, the sun seeming to shine more brightly as they did so. The carriage rounded the circle drive and a pair of footmen sprang from the great mahogany door to wait upon them.

  “Goodness,” Clara murmured as the door to the carriage opened. “Are we expected?”

  Phoebe only sniffed as she allowed the footman to help her down, then waited for Clara to join her. “Marvelous door, Clara. Such detailed work.”

  Clara had barely noticed the detailing on her first glance, but as she came to stand beside Phoebe, she blinked at it. Not only was the door immense and made from a very great, dark wood, it was also intricately woven with carved wrought iron that extended from the hinges outward in a display of ivy. There were even very small flowers dotting it, made of the same iron.

  It was detailing fit for a looking glass in a lady’s rooms, and never seen on something as ordinary as a door.

  “Beautiful,” Clara breathed, the artist in her wanting to sketch the pattern of it immediately. The whole of it. The entire door in its glory, but perhaps put it in a setting of a garden where the wrought iron ivy might weave into real ivy that then could continue on along walls of stone…

  Phoebe cleared her throat very softly, bringing Clara back to the present.

  “After you, my dear,” Phoebe murmured. “The play is on.”

  Clara exhaled a very short breath before striding onwards towards the house, lifting her chin just enough. She’d done a few lessons with her friend Minerva Dalton at the school before she left, given that Minerva was an instructor in comportment, in the hopes that she might have more grace about her in being Miss Moore than she had as being herself. Whether she succeeded or not would soon be revealed.

  A middle-aged butler stood in the doorway to the great house, a bland, anticipatory expression on his face as he watched Clara and Phoebe approach.

  The thought occurred to Clara that this man was too young to have been the butler when Miss Moore resided here.

  All the better.

  “Good day, ladies,” the butler greeted, bowing slightly. “Welcome to Kirkleigh Park. Were you hoping for a tour?”

  Clara lifted a brow in what she hoped was a pert manner. “A tour? Well, I certainly don’t remember any of those happening during my time here at Kirkleigh, but it has been twelve years.”

  The butler’s brow wrinkled slightly. “I beg your pardon, miss?”

  “Oh, you wouldn’t know me, would you?” She laughed merrily, beaming at him and presenting her card. “Miss Alexandra Moore. I was ward to his grace, dear Uncle Kirklin, may he rest in peace.”

  “Bless me, Miss Moore!” The butler returned her smile, his entire countenance brightening markedly, making him seem years younger. “I heard your name so often in the later years of His Grace. It is such a privilege. Stafford is the name, please do come in.”

  Clara nodded and did so, relief pounding through her body with each beat of her heart like fire. “Thank you, Mr. Stafford. This is my aunt, Mrs. Daniels, who is travelling as my companion.”

  Stafford bowed to Phoebe as well. “Mrs. Daniels, you are most welcome.”

  “I thank you, Mr. Stafford,” Phoebe replied in her most formal tone, her lips curving with just enough warmth to keep her from seeming cold. “If you did not know my dear niece yourself, what happened to the butler who did?”

  “He took his retirement, ma’am,” Stafford answered, not at all put off by Phoebe’s tone. “Once His Grace was getting to be rather unwell and unable to manage his daily activities on his own strength, Chapman felt he could no longer serve him competently, given his own age. I was brought on then.”

  Clara let herself sigh sadly. “Poor Chapman. I was such a trial to him at times. And I was so far away when Uncle Kirklin took so ill. By the time I received word…” She broke off, looking away. “I have not been able to bring myself to come back since his death. But enough time has passed that I thought…” She glanced back at Stafford with a sheepish smile. “Might we stay for a few days while my aunt and I are in this part of the country? I apologize for not writing in advance, I was undecided until we were near enough to come.”

  Blessedly, Stafford did not seem too perturbed by the suggestion. “Oh, I believe that could be arranged. Mrs. Clayton has gone to visit her daughter for a few days, so you find us without a housekeeper at present. The duke is not expected to come for his visit for another few weeks, and as this was your home for many years, it would be no imposition.”

  “You do not have to inquire of His Grace?” Clara pressed, ignoring his mention of the duke’s visit in some weeks. With any luck, she and Phoebe would be back at the school by then, and all would be well.

  “His Grace is very generous with visitors at Kirkleigh, Miss Moore,” Stafford assured her. �
�Particularly with Lady Adrianna being just up at Miss Masters’ so near to here. We have more than once accommodated her and a friend or two when on holiday.”

  Clara dimpled a smile, wishing she could force herself to blush. “But I am not family, Mr. Stafford. Even Uncle Kirklin was not a blood relation, only my guardian.”

  Stafford gave her a warm, if pitying smile. “My dear Miss Moore, as I am quite sure the late duke told you several times, you were very much family to him, and thus, I have no qualms about opening Kirkleigh just for you.”

  Though she was playing a part, though she was not Alexandra Moore, and though she had never set foot in Kirkleigh in her life, Clara felt her eyes well with tears and tenderness for this man who had known her all of five minutes. If this was what she could expect in this venture, she’d be Alexandra Moore for the rest of her life, covert operations or not.

  “Bless your kindness, Mr. Stafford,” Clara managed to eke out, blinking rapidly. “I don’t feel I deserve it.”

  “Oh, child,” Phoebe said with a slight laugh. “Speaking as your aunt, I can say with some certainty that you are most deserving. Now, won’t you show me the rooms you slept in as a child?”

  Clara stared at Phoebe with wide eyes, her smile becoming fixed. The woman knew very well that Clara had no idea what the layout of this house was, where the rooms were, how they were arranged, or which room would have been hers. How was she to show them to her?

  What was she playing at?

  “Of course,” Clara told her, the smile beginning to strain her face. “But the house must have changed since my last stay, and I so wish to see those changes.” She turned to Stafford once more. “Would you lead us there, Stafford? And explain all the improvements to me on the way.”

  Blessedly, Stafford bowed in acknowledgement. “Of course, Miss Moore. We’ve just had the work on the gallery finished, so we’ll take the long way through it. I’m sure you’ll be rather pleased.”

  Slowly, Clara let a breath escape her as she moved to follow Stafford to the magnificent staircase in the entry, the railings curling around in neat spirals as they became the balustrades at the base.