Her head throbbed mercilessly. Clarissa lay on her bed and closed her eyes in the hope the pain would ease. It didn’t. She opened them again and stared at the ceiling. She was confused, unhappy, racked with guilt, though she could not rightly say why. Maybe it was simply because she was alive and her friend was dead.
She had abandoned Mary-Belle, left her in Holloway. At one level, Clarissa knew none of that was her fault. She had been dragged from the cell and had no idea she was about to be freed. But she could not rid herself of the mental image of Mary-Belle, alone now, assaulted repeatedly by their jailers until eventually they had to let her go, a wreck, a shell of her former self. Sent home to die.
If only she had spoken to James earlier, asked him to rescue Mary-Belle, too. Her friend might still be alive.
But she couldn’t know that for sure. And what if Mary-Belle had always had a weak heart and could have passed away at any time?
Was Clarissa taking the easy way out by doing as James had suggested? He had insisted she abandon her friends in their desperate struggle and devote herself to merely writing about their plight. She had agreed to his demands. Did that make her a coward? She had deserted her sisters, and now Mary-Belle had made the ultimate sacrifice and become a martyr. If only she, Clarissa, possessed a fraction of Mary-Belle’s courage…
What did the other women think? No one had berated her for her actions. Quite the reverse, in fact. She had been praised and thanked for raising the profile of their fight and helping to bring their just demands to a wider and more influential audience. The leaders of the campaign were happy to give her interviews. Surely, if they thought she had betrayed their cause, they would not be so generous.
Her logical brain reminded her of the facts but to no avail. She could not reconcile her comfortable, safe existence now with the bleak, joyless terror of Holloway. Even as she sat here in her pretty, warm room, some poor woman was probably being strapped to a chair and a tube rammed up her nose.
It should be me.
She hated herself. She could not bear it.
There was a soft knock at her door. She ignored it, had no desire to see anyone, but James entered anyway. Clarissa rolled onto her side to face away from him.
She hated herself, but in her grief and turmoil she thought, just maybe, she hated James more.
He had come between her and her calling, separated her from the women she considered friends and comrades, insisted that she remain here, at Smallwood, where she was safe while her friends fought and died.
And he had lied to her. He said he loved her, when really he loved someone else. Or he had. He had been engaged just a matter of months ago and had never told her any of that. He’d led her to believe he had waited for her.
It was laughable—or would be if it the entire thing was less pathetic. Less tragic. She had actually believed him.
Victorine might be a spiteful witch, but the proof was plain enough in that newspaper announcement. James was a liar. He might pretend to be kind and generous, but he could not be trusted.
The bed dipped as he sat on the edge behind her. “Clarissa? How do you feel this morning?”
“Fine,” she lied.
“Mrs Crabbe said you missed breakfast. I brought up a tray of toast.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You ate hardly anything yesterday, or the day before.”
“Are you thinking of forcing it down my throat?” Even she could not miss the note of bitterness in her voice.
“I can’t believe you actually said that.” The bed shifted again when he stood.
Neither can I.
“I’ll leave the toast. If you need me for anything, I’ll be downstairs in my study.” The door clicked shut, signalling his departure.
She was alone again. And if anything, she loathed herself even more.
Chapter 7
James was at a loss. Almost a week had now passed since the funeral, and Clarissa showed no signs of surfacing from her grief. She remained secluded in her room, pecking at her food, refusing to come down.
She was not working on her articles or interviews, though he was not especially bothered about that. However, he wanted her to do something, take an interest in anything other than the four walls of her bedroom and the ocean of misery in which she now wallowed.
He had tried talking to her, but she shut him out.
He asked Dr Silverly to call, but Clarissa flatly refused to see him either.
He was considering inviting her friends from the women’s movement to visit but did not personally know any of them with the exception, perhaps, of Lucy Carter. James was reluctant to bother her so soon after burying her sister, but he was becoming desperate. He pondered the problem. Perhaps, in a day or two, he would send a message to Miss Carter, and she might be able to raise Clarissa’s spirits. With a sigh, he reached for The Citizen’s latest profit and loss account..
He was interrupted by a knock on the door. At his command, Mr Thompson entered, followed by Trudy.
“Yes?” He eyed them over his desk.
Both looked distinctly uncomfortable.
“Is there a problem?”
The butler cleared his throat. “I apologise for the intrusion, my lord, but there is something I think you need to know.”
“Oh?” James set aside his pen and leaned back in his chair, his arms folded. He waited.
“It concerns Miss Clarissa, my lord.”
He had suspected as much. “Go on.”
“Well, two things, really,” the butler continued. “Trudy came to me this morning, unsure what to do. She had some rather concerning information which I convinced her should be shared with you. I think Trudy had better tell you herself…” He gestured the maid to come forward. “Go on, girl. Tell Sir James what you told me.”
The maid shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other, her hands twisting together before her. For several moments she seemed to be inordinately interested in the state of her shoes, but eventually she raised her eyes to look at him. “I… I should have told you right away, sir, only Miss Clarissa she said I was to keep quiet…”
“What should you have told me, Trudy?” He deliberately kept his voice low and even. The girl was quite nervous enough.
“About…about Miss Victorine.”
“Victorine? What has my sister been doing now?”
“She went into Miss Clarissa’s room, an’ I recall you told her she must not, not without permission.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Well, she did. It was one morning, while Miss Clarissa was getting up. A while ago now, last week, in fact.”
“So, she spoke to Clarissa?”
“Yes, sir. I heard their voices. I was in the bathroom.”
“What were they saying?”
“I… I couldn’t hear, my lord. They were just talking, not shouting. And the taps were running for Miss Clarissa’s bath. I came back into the bedroom just as Miss Clarissa was telling Miss Victorine to get out.”
“Did my sister leave when she was told to?”
“She did, sir. But Miss Clarissa was upset. She was proper pale, and she said I was not to tell anyone that Miss Victorine had been there. I… I promised, and that’s why I never said. But then…well, Miss Clarissa’s not been the same since. I know that what with her friend dying and all, she’s ever so miserable, and maybe it’s nothing at all to do with Miss Victorine, but I’m sure they had words.”
“You are probably right. And thank you for telling me. I trust I can rely on you to let me know at once if my sister bothers Clarissa again.”
She bobbed a curtsey. “Of course, my lord. And, there’s something else…”
“I see. Please, continue.”
“I was having my breakfast this morning, just me and Mrs Crabbe, in the kitchen. William came in. He doesn’t usually have his breakfast with us, he prefers to eat in his loft over the stables, but it’s so bitter cold today that he fancied a bowl o’ Mrs Crabbe’s porridge so he
came over to the kitchen. He told me that Miss Clarissa went to find him yesterday evening. She took herself out to the stables, after he’d finished work for the day. He was proper surprised when she appeared.”
Although the outbuilding now housed James’ automobile, it was still referred to as the stables. He supposed it fair enough since he did still retain a pair of horses for pulling his carriage, though the animals got little enough exercise lately. However, the stables were not one of Clarissa’s usual haunts, and certainly not in her present mood.
“Did William say why Clarissa wanted to see him?”
The maid nodded. “She asked him to drive her to London, sir. This evening, late on.”
“Whereabouts in London?”
“Camden, I think he said, sir. But the thing is, and this is what struck him as odd and made him say something…she told him he needn’t wait for her. She would not be returning the same night. And when he enquired as to when she would want him to pick her up, she said she wasn’t quite sure, but not for a while.”
Bloody hell, she’s leaving me!
James schooled his features into a mask of calm. “You are quite sure of this?”
“Yes, sir. But you can ask William if you like.”
Mr Thompson again cleared his throat. “Excuse me, my lord, but when Trudy first brought this to me, I took the liberty of speaking with William myself. His account is exactly as Trudy has said.”
James nodded. “Thank you.” He returned his attention to the maid. “And you think the incident with Victorine is connected?”
“I don’t rightly know, sir. A lot more has happened since then. But I didn’t much like keeping it to myself. I thought you ought to know, especially as you told her to stay away from Miss Clarissa and she took no notice. I’ve been worried she might have another go at her, and Miss Clarissa is in no state to stand up to Miss Victorine now.”
“Quite so.” He got to his feet and paced, then turned to Mr Thompson. “Thank you. You may both leave this with me now. Tell me, where is William?”
“In the stables I expect, sir. Shall I send for him?”
James shook his head. “No, no I shall go find him. Please, excuse me…”
He left the pair in his study and set off across the vestibule, heading for the rear door. He crossed the terrace where he had kissed Clarissa what seemed like a lifetime ago and rounded the corner to where the stables were situated. A flagged courtyard had been laid in his father’s time, and his Rolls Royce was parked there, in front of the stable block, the bonnet up. William’s rear dangled out of the compartment housing the engine.
“I gather Clarissa has been to see you. She finds herself in need of your services, I understand.”
Startled, the young driver banged his head as he jumped up. “Er, yes, my lord.” He rubbed his untidy curls with his oil-spattered hand, grimacing. “She wants to go to London later this evening. You did tell me to take her wherever she wanted to go, so I thought it was probably all right. But…”
“But it is to be a one-way trip?”
The driver nodded. “So she said, yes. I wasn’t so sure, then…”
“You were right to say something.”
“So, she is not to be allowed to go, then?”
James’ lips flattened into a tight smile. “Oh yes, she is to have the use of the car.” He shivered in the bitter sub-zero temperature, wishing he’d had the foresight to grab his coat before coming out here. The first small flurries of snow were already floating on the brisk breeze. “Shall we go into your workshop, out of the cold? I’ll explain to you exactly what is to happen later…”
Clarissa rammed her hairbrush and her favourite nightdress into the soft leather satchel. She would have taken a larger case had she been able to lay her hands on one, but this would have to do. She didn’t want to ask Trudy to bring her another bag for fear of alerting her to her intentions. The maid would not approve, and her loyalty to this house, to James, would no doubt be stretched to breaking point. Clarissa genuinely liked the girl and had no wish to make her uncomfortable.
The bag already contained a few more possessions which Clarissa had gathered since arriving at her plan yesterday. A couple of changes of clothing, her favourite pen, her notebook, and toiletries were crammed into the satchel which she now struggled to close and fasten. When it was at last secured, she shoved it under her bed.
A tray of roast pheasant in a tangy apple sauce awaited her, and for once Clarissa could summon up an appetite for the food. It was amazing what a sense of purpose could achieve. She sat at her dressing table to eat and managed to polish off the lot. She even ate the pudding, a slice of Mrs Crabbe’s famous Bakewell tart.
Trudy tapped on her door just as she finished her meal. “Shall I take your tray away now, miss?”
“Yes, please.”
Trudy nodded her approval at the empty plates. “Mrs Crabbe will be delighted. I’ll be back in a jiffy to help you get ready for bed.”
“There’s no need. I intend to read for a while, then I shall manage perfectly well for myself. I shan’t be needing you again this evening.”
“Well, if you’re quite sure, miss…” Trudy gathered the remains of the meal onto a tray and made for the door. “I’ll be bidding you goodnight then.”
“Goodnight.” Clarissa furrowed her brow. Was there something not quite the same in the girl’s demeanour this evening? She was usually much more determined to fuss over her. It had appeared she could not get away fast enough.
I must have been a perfect cow to her.
Clarissa resisted the urge to call the maid back and apologise. It was imperative she do nothing to suggest this evening was in any way out of the ordinary. Perhaps she could send her a small gift later, to mark her appreciation of the girl’s help and kindness.
The next hour was spent sitting at her window staring out into the inky blackness of the December night. Snow still threatened, though so far it had just been a few flurries depositing a sprinkle of glistening white on the paths and tree branches. She hoped the weather would not worsen. William would quite rightly be cautious about setting out in a snowstorm.
She had asked him to have the car ready for nine o’clock, but not to bring it around to the front door as usual. She would go to him, at the stables, and they would leave from there. There would be no need to drive past the front of the house and risk being seen from the dining room.
At nine o’clock, James would be eating his evening meal. She imagined the roast pheasant would occupy his attention well enough, and if he asked after her, Trudy would inform him that she had retired for the night. She could be reasonably sure she would not be missed until the morning. Of course, James would come after her, and William would tell him where he had dropped her off. But by the time James came looking, she would have left Lucy’s house and be with one of the other women. If necessary, she could flit between her friends until he finally gave up trying to find her. She would leave him in peace to brood over his precious Miss Hastings.
At five minutes to nine precisely, Clarissa dragged her bag out from beneath her bed. She put on her stout outdoor shoes and the thick wool coat she had purchased in St Albans the previous week. She wrapped a scarf around her head and neck, and, her bag in her hand, she eased open the door to the upstairs hallway.
The corridor was empty, as she had expected. She slipped out, closed the door behind her, and paused to lock it for good measure. James had a key, of course, and he would open it in the morning when Trudy alerted him to the need, but for now the locked door would deter anyone thinking to wish her goodnight.
Instead of turning to the right, in the direction of the main stairs, Clarissa headed left. A flight of narrower back stairs, normally only used by the servants, would afford her ready access to the rear of the house and the stable block. There was a risk she might encounter one of the staff, though most would have finished work for the evening and be in their quarters. Those still busy would be occupied in the dining room or
kitchens. She meant to avoid both.
Luck was on her side. She met no one and soon reached the modest door which led to the herb garden and rear terrace. It was bolted, as always, but on the inside. She was easily able to open it and slip out.
The cold took her breath away. She pulled the scarf across her nose and mouth, put her head down, and rushed across the terrace and round the corner onto the flagged courtyard. Just as she had instructed, William had the car ready, the engine already running. She hoped he had thought to put a blanket on the rear seat. She would certainly need it tonight.
He got out of the driver’s door as she hurried toward the car and opened the passenger door for her. He took her bag, and Clarissa muttered her thanks as she slipped past him, still clinging to the scarf to protect her face from the cold. She settled herself inside while William put her bag in the boot, then got back into the driver’s seat.
“You remember the way?” she asked. “Just off the high street in Camden.”
William nodded, and the car moved slowly across the flagstones. Thankfully, there was a blanket, and she pulled it over her knees. So far so good.
Clarissa leaned back, closed her eyes, and for the first time since she’d hatched this plan, she allowed herself to relax.
The car jolted over a bump in the road. Clarissa woke up, disorientated. How long had she been asleep? She didn’t wear a watch herself, but it felt as though she had slept for hours. Outside it was still pitch-black, though she could see that the snow was thickening now. She hoped they would reach their destination before conditions worsened much more, and that William would be able to return to Smallwood safely.
She peered out but could not discern any buildings or lights, nothing to indicate that they were nearing the city. She leaned forward. “William, do you know what time it is, please?”
He lifted his left hand from the steering wheel to reveal a flash of gold. “Almost eleven-thirty,” came the reply.
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