Fortune Favors the Sparrow

by Rebecca Connolly

  Would Pippa let her teach for a week or two before she came back to Kirkleigh on assignment? She was almost desperate for a taste of her usual self, and to see the progress her students had made. Those teaching in her place were more than capable of doing so, but Clara did so love teaching the girls herself.

  And she ached to paint freely again.

  “Do hurry up, Clara!” Phoebe called from her room. “We mustn’t miss the tide!”

  Clara scowled as she shucked off her morning gown. “What in the world do you know of tides, hmm? Sailed much? Bit of fishing, perhaps? Or only fond of sea bathing? But no, no, no, we mustn’t miss tides in the afternoon.”

  She shook her head and turned to her wardrobe, stopping short at the sight of Phoebe standing there, arms folded, brow raised.

  “Bother,” Clara muttered, her face flaming. “I am sorry…”

  Phoebe actually smiled at that, and it was the most natural smile Clara had seen on the woman’s face in years. “Irked you, have I? Lovely, always a pleasure. Come, let me help you find a suitable gown.”

  That was all? No scolding or offended airs? She found it… amusing?

  Clara looked at her friend-turned-aunt in bewilderment. “Suitable?” she inquired, opting to continue the conversation Phoebe had begun rather than discussing her rant. “What must be suitable about it?”

  “You’d be surprised, dear,” Phoebe told her as she looked through the gowns. “Down by the water, there’s bound to be a chill, so you will want something that is not too thin. You may find the hem gets damp in the water without trying, so you will want something that is not too sheer. And this is an informal occasion among friends, so you will want something comfortable. Given that there are two eligible men, it also would behoove us to put you in something fetching.”

  “Aunt Fern!” Clara protested, hands on her hips. “That should not come into it!”

  Phoebe grinned at her over her shoulder. “That should always come into it, even if not part of the greater aims. Might as well have some fun with it, Clara, while you can.”

  Clara shook her head, closing her eyes in abject mortification. “I am long past that, Aunt.”

  “Until you’ve reached the grave, you are never past that.”

  Her eyes snapped open in surprise. “Not even you?”

  Phoebe pulled a gown out of the wardrobe, holding it out to examine. “That should do nicely. Very seaside appropriate.”

  It was a cream calico with a blue striped pattern that extended into a blue ribbon band at the hem, a matching ribbon at the waist, and nothing extraordinary about it.

  “That one?” Clara said, ignoring Phoebe’s blatant avoidance of her comment. “Why?”

  Phoebe glanced over at her. “Because I have a fetching hat to match, and you’ll look a picture without intentionally looking a picture.”

  “Are we not intentionally making me look a picture?” Clara asked her, grinning as Phoebe began to undo the buttons on the back.

  “Hush. Arms up.”

  Obediently, Clara did so, holding still as the dress passed over her head, her arms slipping into the sleeves. She turned for Phoebe to do up the buttons and tie the ribbon and fumbled aimlessly with the ends of her long plait.

  She glanced at her hair, pursing her lips. “What about my hair? This is hardly attractive.”

  Phoebe turned her about, looking at it. “On the contrary, it’s charming. The wind will undo too much finery, and the hat will hide too much intricacy. Nancy!”

  The maid who had helped Clara with her hair every evening hurried in, though how she had anticipated being needed was beyond Clara’s understanding. “Yes, Mrs. Daniels?”

  “Might we pin up Miss Moore’s lovely plait into something attractive at her neck, perhaps?” She twisted Clara’s plait to demonstrate, offering the maid a questioning look. “Her hat would hide anything higher up, and it must be free from her face.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Nancy came around to join her, consulting in low tones. “Perhaps this way, madam.”

  Clara gave up being concerned about her hair, or, indeed, any aspect of her appearance for the day. It would not matter, at any rate.

  She needed to get down to the beach, draw it, and breathe in the glories of the seaside before her life either became the enjoyable tedium it had once been or the uncertain encumbrance it had the potential to be.

  It could very well be the last day when her thoughts could almost entirely focus on the experience at hand. Yes, she had a task to accomplish, but, for the moment, her task was entirely artistic.

  And that was simple enough for her.

  Clara glanced down at her skirts. “Nancy, will there be much difficulty in getting a charcoal stain out of this fabric?”

  Nancy rubbed a bit of the fabric between her fingers. “I shouldn’t think so, miss. I wouldn’t advise staining it if you can help it, but it should be safe enough.”

  “Well, I don’t intend to stain it,” Clara told the girl with a laugh, “but it does tend to happen with this specific medium.”

  “Perfect!” Phoebe praised, clapping her hands. “Your hair is perfect. Now come, let’s get your hat and be on our way!”

  Clara shrugged and followed, shaking her head in amusement. Why Phoebe was so enthused about this outing, Clara couldn’t have said. There was nothing in it for her but chaperoning Clara.

  It was up to Clara to perfectly capture what they saw on this excursion.

  Her supplies were all packed, and now she was dressed as perfectly as others deemed she must be, so there was nothing for it but to meet the men and walk down.

  She could not help but to smile at that.

  Hawk and Nat were the most companionable men she had ever associated with, including her former intended. Louis had taken her breath away, but, in retrospect, he had never been a real friend to her. She could never have just sat and had a conversation with him. Not really.

  She’d had supper with Hawk and Nat twice now, and both times had been full of conversation without any effort. Nat was certainly the more social of the pair, but Hawk had an intensity to his engagement with others that Clara found particularly enjoyable. She could easily imagine a quiet conversation in a parlor with him or walking along a path together and laughing about something or other. None of it would have to mean anything, it would still be enjoyable.

  Of course, if it were to mean something…

  She shook her head quickly as she and Phoebe hurried to the back of the house, where they had arranged to meet the others. As attractive and kind as the Duke of Kirklin was, there was no use in taking meaning in anything he said or did. There was only harm in thinking anything remotely whimsical where he was concerned.

  And she knew better.

  “Clara,” Phoebe hissed as they caught sight of the men on the terrace. “Your ribbons!”

  Grumbling, Clara handed over her diary and her set of pencils before tugging at her ribbons and forcing them into some semblance of a knot. “Sometimes, it really does feel as though you are my aunt, you know.”

  “It is my pleasure, to be sure,” Phoebe chirped, putting Clara’s supplies under her arm to adjust the ends of her askew bow to make it seem less haphazard.

  “That wasn’t what I meant,” Clara told her, though she had to smile at it.

  Phoebe gave her a sidelong look as she handed Clara’s supplies back to her. “Interpretation is an art, my dear. You’ll learn that very shortly, mark my words.” She turned her attention to the men ahead of her and brightened while also sliding her formal mask into place. “Ah, gentlemen! So sorry to have kept you waiting.”

  “Not at all,” Hawk said in an almost rumbling manner, his smile slight, but undeniably present. “You are right on time.” His dark eyes flicked to Clara, and he held up the stool from the day before as his smile quirked. “Shall we?”

  Clara nodded eagerly, heat beginning to tingle in the tips of her toes and the backs of her knees.

  “Excellent!” Nat boomed,
gesturing for them to lead the way, an easel under one of his arms. “I am curious indeed to see your abilities in the flesh, Clara. Hawk has assured me he’s never seen anything finer, and you had best believe the pair of us are rather sticklers where art is concerned.”

  Hawk rolled his eyes and nudged his head towards the stairs of the terrace. “We’d better start down or he’ll grow too ridiculous for company.”

  Their joking, jovial manner continued the entire walk from the estate to the coast, laughter ringing from most of them repeatedly. Hawk did not seem particularly inclined to laugh, but his smile never wavered.

  Clara desperately wanted to hear him laugh, if only she could determine how.

  The path down to the beach itself was rougher terrain, though each of them managed well enough. Hawk led the group and Nat took up position at the end for safety, and both checked on the ladies with a rapidity that bordered on amusing. But Clara and Phoebe were not dainty women who feared a bit of dirt or nature, so no assistance was needed at any time.

  When they finally reached the soft sand of the beach, Clara breathed in a deep gulp of the seaside air, the fresh, briny smell of it mingling with sunshine in a heady fragrance indeed. Even the sound of the sea rolling into the rocks was music to her ears, the chorus of waves receding after their crashing arrival something out of a fantasy, a great creature breathing in and out with such glorious songs.

  “We may never get her away from the seaside, Your Grace.”

  Clara opened her eyes, not realizing she had closed them, nor that she had stopped and halted the progress of the rest, but all looked at her with varying levels of amusement.

  Hawk looked the most blank-faced of the group, but that maddeningly small smile remained.

  What in heaven’s name did that mean?

  “One would think you had never seen the seaside before, Miss Moore,” Nat teased, the wind whipping his golden hair into slight dishevelment.

  I haven’t, she nearly said, biting it back just in time. “It’s been so long,” she told them instead, “it feels as though I haven’t.”

  Hawk made a soft noise that she hadn’t a hope of deciphering and gestured for her to go on. “The coves are this way. I’ll show you the best spots.”

  More embarrassed than excited, Clara nodded, moving in the direction he indicated, slowing to let him lead.

  He fell into step beside her rather than moving ahead, and she chanced a glance over at him. His hair rustled in the breeze, and somehow the coat he wore seemed unnecessary for the setting. It ought to have been more relaxed, more informal, and completely unadorned. He was not dressed in overt finery, but he could have entered the finest drawing rooms in London without raising any questions.

  “How was your morning, Your Grace?” Clara heard herself ask, keeping her voice low so the others would not hear. “Did you accomplish all that you hoped?”

  He cast a look over at her, expression as composed as ever, his smile quirking just a little broader than it had been. “I forgot we discussed that yesterday. Yes, we got a great deal of work done. There seems to be more to do, but it is all in hand.” He looked down at his hands, his smile spreading further still in a wry expression. “I seem to have proven my lifetime of softness.” He held up the palms of his hands for her to see.

  In the center of each palm sat an angry, red, raw patch of flesh, not particularly deep, but certainly inflamed. There were two or three smaller matching marks at the base of some of his fingers, and each of them had peeling layers of skin at the edges.

  “Hawk!” Clara winced, shaking her head. “Those look so painful, why aren’t they bound?”

  He shrugged, looking down at them again. “Eventually, they will toughen up, and it will take much more to injure them like this again. If I wish to continue working on my estates, and I do, the soft hands will have to go.”

  Clara had to chuckle at that. “No one will think your hands are those of a duke again.”

  He quietly laughed once himself. “When I meet someone who has made a study of the hands of dukes, I’ll see what they make of mine. Until then, these are the hands of this duke, and I feel better for them.”

  What a statement to make. Clara would have given a great deal to press further into that, to understand what prompted such a feeling behind those words, but restraint pulled at her.

  She was not the Miss Moore he thought she was. She had no right to his privacy, and her curiosity could not lead her. Not in this.

  Before the moment could pass, Clara glanced down at her own hands, and smiled quickly. “Well, these are the hands of an artist, I suppose.” She held hers up for his inspection. “Believe me, I’ve tried everything to remove the stains, but alas…”

  Hawk’s smile changed once more, this time something crooked and easy. He took her hand, surprising her, and eyed the smudged stains carefully. “It may not pass muster with high Society matrons,” he told her, “but it suits you.”

  His thumb rubbed against the stain on the outside of her palm, setting fire to her skin and making her breath catch.

  He looked at his thumb after for inspection, grunting once. “I’d have thought it would spread to my skin, but no, clean as can be.” He released her hand, still smiling freely.

  Clara’s skittering heart slowly thumped back to its normal pace, her neck beginning to cool, though the skin of her hand was still painfully sensitive. He hadn’t known what he was doing to her, he’d been examining her as one might a fascinating insect or flower. She bit back a strange jolt of disappointment for that and settled herself with the thought of his comfort with her being what it was.

  He might not have realized it, but he had proven it.

  “Ah, here we are,” he announced before she could think of anything else to say.

  Clara looked up and forced a smile at the sight.

  Walls of white stone reached up to the sky, patches of grass dotting here and there before the summit, where grass and wildflowers hung over the edges. Within those pillars of stone, there were large caves and small caves, smaller rocks and pebbles dotting the ground around the entrances to each, accompanied by puddles and streams making their marks in the sand. It was a private nook of coastline, though the sand extended out past their pathway further down the coast. She could have walked along it, her feet in the water, and probably gotten to the next estate, however far away that was.

  The temptation to do so was suddenly overwhelming.

  She looked back at the present caves and cove, eyeing them with an artist’s perspective. Setting her materials down on a flat rock nearby, she moved closer to the caves. “How deep do they go?” she asked, stepping on rocks and hopping between a few to get closer.

  “Clara, be careful!” Phoebe called, content to hang back, as Aunt Fern undoubtedly would in this situation.

  Glancing over at her, Clara grinned. “What, in case I should turn an ankle?”

  She heard Hawk’s low chuckle, and it rippled up her spine with a warmth that made her sigh. “Well, my brother and I did have our share of slips and falls on these rocks. More than one pair of breeches gained some holes from such adventures.” He came over to her at the mouth of one rather shallow cave. “Did you never come down here yourself?”

  Blast.

  Clara shook her head, making a face. “Perhaps once? Twice at the very most. Uncle Kirklin did not care for this beach. We went to other, more fashionable beaches. Safer ones, he called them.”

  She waited, praying he would believe the blatant lie.

  “That sounds like him,” Hawk said at last with a sage nod. “I imagine he took you to the beach at Barcliffe instead. The Brownings have always been very open with their lands in that regard. Did you ever see the mass of fishing boats land there?”

  Something about the statement piqued Clara’s interest and she shook her head again, smiling broadly. “No! They land ships on their beach?”

  Hawk grinned. “They do, though I’m hesitant to show it to you, since my own beac
h will apparently be found wanting by comparison. Never land any boats here, unless they are lost or part of a shipwreck.”

  Clara groaned and looked around her. “I shouldn’t think anything is wanting here. This is so picturesque! Who needs ships anyway?” She continued on, heading for the next cave over, this one only large enough for children. “Goodness, did you climb in there?”

  “Never. I left that for Griffin, and he used to hide in here often.” Hawk went around her to the next cove, then turned and leaned his shoulder against the stone. “And if you turn right at this spot…” He pointed towards the beach. “You will find the perfect view of the sea.”

  Clara turned where she was, only for her arm to be gently pulled.

  “No, no, right here,” he urged gently. “This spot. Otherwise, the cliff is in the way of the view.”

  She let herself be tugged over and felt her heart leap into the base of her throat when he placed her directly in front of himself. His arm came over her shoulder, pointing at a very specific angle. “See there?”

  Clara nodded hastily, though her vision was slightly hazy at the moment. She blinked to clear it, then blinked again when she truly saw it.

  “Good heavens,” she whispered, her breathlessness having nothing to do with the man behind her and everything to do with the scene before her. “It’s perfection.”

  “Capture that, Clara,” Hawk murmured, his hand sliding back by his side, brushing her shoulder as it did so. “The far end of the Barcliffe crags are there, and it’s the only place on my property to glimpse it. I don’t envy much on that estate, but if I could have their coastline on this estate instead, there would be no reason to have any other.”

  “I want to see it,” Clara breathed, gasping with the desire to do just that. “I want to see all of this.”

  Hawk laughed softly again, the sound deeper and more delicious from this proximity than it was before. “Then you’d better get started, hadn’t you? I’ll walk you to as many locations as I can for you to draw before the light runs out.”

  Clara looked at him over her shoulder, leaning slightly for a more direct connection. “I’ll hold you to that, Your Grace. And I’ll not skimp on the art of each, either.”