Tacit Resonances

Chapter Seven, II

...

"Shepherd's pie, capon broth, fragrant bread croutons, and finally, a tart made with our raspberries."

"Excellent! Let me introduce you to this young lady. Miss... Clara, I realized I don't even know your name."

Both of them looked at her, and she felt as though she were in school, as if it were her fault for not sharing her name.

"Clara. Clara Freedworth. From Southampton."

"Ah, Miss Clara. What brings you out to the moors?"

"They're expecting me in London, at college. My friends. I passed my exams with flying colors."

"A student, I see. What field of study?"

"Architecture and Design."

"Ah, an artist. Hence the bitten nails and the slightly smudged thumb. Charcoal or pencil?"

"Oh, how did you...? Yes, charcoal. But they're private; I don't show them to anyone."

"Of course, I wouldn't want to see anything you didn't wish to share," he replied.

Her cheeks flushed, and she felt her heart race. What was she allowed to ask for?

"But this isn't a boarding house, is it?"

"No, my dear, it's not. This is Count Henry's home, the Spring House."

"I'm staying at his house?" Clara looked at him. He probably liked her as well.

"Yes, indeed. I don't have any information about guesthouses, especially affordable ones. However, the mansion has many guest rooms, each quite independent. Some even have impressive fireplaces for warmth. It's evening now, but tomorrow morning, if you'd like before leaving, I can show you the garden and the surroundings. They're breathtakingly beautiful, truly English." He was already addressing her by her first name, perhaps implying that he didn't want her to leave just yet. He still wanted time together.

Clara was flattered. "Sure, I'd love that. So, we'll have dinner together? And can you show me to my room now?"

"Yes, my dear. That's reasonable. Mrs. Boff will guide you to the lavender room, which I believe is the most charming, perfect for a lovely young lady like you. You can rest and get ready for dinner. You'll find all the comforts you need."

"Thank you. I can only express my gratitude, I suppose."

He gazed at her, and his eyes traveled all over her. He followed her figure with his attentive eyes.

He leaned in, and Clara felt her soul laid bare. He seemed to catch her scent. She wondered if this was how love began – with a trembling anticipation, a perturbing awareness.

"I hope you trust me," he said with a friendly smile.

"Yes," Clara replied, her voice trembling slightly. Could it be that a benevolent and handsome fate was finally working in her favor? It was everything she had ever dreamed of an older, mature man, a chance encounter, and destiny blatantly conspiring for her happiness. A love that was overwhelming, sudden, and yearning only for fulfillment.

"We'll walk; it's not far."

He took her by the arm, brushing lightly against her, removed her backpack from her trembling hands, and gently nudged her toward the exit, as if he were the puppet master and she the puppet.

The street outside was dark and deserted, and the cold air made Clara shiver.

"Are you cold? Do you want my jacket?"