Marriage.
What an awful word.
So too are the meaning, consequences and the husband that follows.
What an utterly terrible fate to condemn oneself to.
This is why seventeen proposals and an array of suitors have fallen across Lady Clara Eaton's path, only to be ruthless rejected and turned out onto the pavement without so much as a last apologetic look. To her, marriage is an unthinkable notion, wielded as a sharp sword to seek money, a title, and at the very least a house to raise the children in. It is more than two souls of polite society reciting binding vows, exchanging rings, and grimacing their way through a kiss; it is the death sentence of the barest freedoms a woman can possess. Two simple words and the promise of love and security are all it takes to reduce a strong, self-assured woman to object, a doormat to be used and discarded at the husband's demand. If such a terrible fate can be avoided, then one must do all within their ability to prevent a walk down the aisle and the many layers of tulle and taffeta that are deemed necessary.
It is these reasons, and her general opposition to marriage that has driven Clara to steal her stepfather's plush dark wood carriage and escape the dreary and damning landscape of the countryside, London in sight. While a life of ruthless debauchery and depravity has never appealed to her, she is surprised at just how comfortable she is with the significant act of theft she has committed. Admittedly the scandalous circumstances of her birth and the many whispers that followed her throughout her childhood have taught her to bend the rules to suit, as opposed to breaking them for selfish gain. It is a callous and narcissistic person who chooses to resort to crime, and while Clara has been accused of being many things, she is pleased to announce that callous and narcissistic are not within that repertoire.
The carriage lurches around a winding corner and she curses as she is tossed to the floor, falling into a crumpled mess of thick skirts and embroidered material. Over an hour into the journey and she has spent more time on the wooden floor than the velvet cushions and bears the bruises to prove it. She throws her hands up to protect her face as her trunk begins to side down the seat but then a thud echoes throughout the open landscape as the carriage tips from its outside wheels back onto all four, and under the driver's muffled instructions, the two horses fall back into a steady pace, their hooves beating the ground in rhythm.
Grumbling to herself, she pushes off the floor and flops onto the red cushions, her heart beating loudly in her chest. Reaching across, she places her trunk on the floor, the shiny gold initials facing up, her sparse possessions jumbling inside. With her heartbeat returning to normal, she straightens out the crumples in her dress and feels in her pocket for a pouch of coins, the only money she has brought with her. Satisfied, she tucks her loose hair behind her back and crosses her ankles, resuming her staring out the window, the many trees and bushes of the countryside flying past.
It had been verging on late when she had snuck out of the house, the rest of the household soundly asleep in bed, and now the night has truly fallen, the darkness fully encompassing the surroundings, save for the warm glow emitting from the swinging oil lamp guiding the horses onwards. The outline of shrubbery is barely visible and silence coats the open expanse of fields and meadows, the rich colours of autumn lost to the night.
After what felt like an age of bumpy, narrow lanes and sharp, cutting corners, the gravel road evens out and runs wider and straight, leading directly to town, to London and all things bright and wonderful. The city has always been her home, and it is where she belongs, it is where she has to be, the centre of all things dazzling and spectacular. Her scandalous birth had gifted her the attention of thousands, and through her childhood and into her first season she made a name for herself as the darling of the ton, her beauty, manners and character admired and envied by all. This position and her brother's dukedom gave her the freedom and the power to enjoy her life the way she wished, and she indulged in it.
Her longing to return struck from the very day she was ripped away, and it stayed within her as her mother tried to pretend that their life was not crumbling before their very eyes. Tucked away in a dusty manor house in Cheltenham, they rarely spoke and when they did it twisted into an argument. Slamming doors would shake the walls, both women in fits of fury. Both knew life would never be the same again, but despite their similar looks, their solutions to this were very different.
Clara yawns, raising a gloved hand to cover her mouth, the late hour rendering her body tired and lethargic, but the thrill and anticipation prevent her mind from following, and she forces herself to keep her eyes open. After two hundred and seventeen days of isolation in the sleepy country, with nothing to do, and no one to speak to, she had rested enough. It was not that Cheltenham had been horrendously unpleasant, she had tolerated the miserable weather and constant rain, and suffered through the village dances, fete after fete, but the place held no presence or standing. The people were gentle, but unassuming folk and the streets were quiet and calm, with no adventure and no excitement to be sought. In other words, she had found no life worth living, and it was not for lack of trying.
In the final hour of her journey, the steady beat of the horses pulls her towards sleep, and her head falls against the window, but she jolts back up when she catches sight of a familiar building. She scrambles closer to the window, pressing her fingers to the glass as the imposing architecture of Kensington Palace looms over her. The black gate is bathed in light by the many torches lining the estate, the grass vibrantly green and the extensive number of windows glitter within the orange stone. The palace is as beautiful and as grand as the last time she danced in it's ballroom, her night lost to her as she danced until her feet ached, with many glasses of wine in between.
A rare, genuine smile graces her lips as Kensington Palace disappears behind her, the carriage trundling into the heart of the city. Driving past Hyde Park, the houses and streets of her childhood are at every corner, the sight bringing the comfort she has longed for since she left. Despite the late hour, people walk the streets, slipping between the pools of light cast by the street lamps. A few are dressed in their best, wandering home from the theatre or the ballet, but the rest are bedraggled and desperate, their hunger and poverty showing in the lines of their faces. This is the time that the criminal underworld of London comes out to play, their bloodstained hands picking at corpses, wild-mouthed whores searching for their next client, while those who pull their strings watch from the shadows.
Suspicious eyes follow the carriage, calculation within their gaze, but the speed of the horses discourages all from taking a chance at making a quick coin. Sitting straight up, Clara presses herself into the seat and raises the hood of her pale pink cloak, ornate pearls sewn upon the hem. The rich material drapes over her shoulders and the bodice of her matching dress, the expensive pink silk tailored perfectly to her body.
Her hand clutches around her pouch of coins, tension seizing her, the tingling of panic threatening to rise within her. One hand in her pocket, the other gripping onto the seat, she breathes in deeply and then exhales slowly. She repeats this until a sense of calm has beaten down her anxiety, and a tiny hint of pride rises in her chest. The carriage turns down a quiet street and the driver calls softly to the horses, slowing their pace to a walk. In the heart of the wealthy neighbourhood of Belgravia, tall, imposing houses line either side, the white walls and painted doors housing the richest of the rich.
After a few minutes, the carriage slows to a stop and then there's a creaking and the vehicle sways as the driver dismounts. Her door opens and he crouches down to fiddle with the tiny steps before jumping back to offer her his hand. She accepts, holding up her heavy skirt, and steps down onto the pavement, breathing in the familiar smells of the city; tobacco, alcohol, and the lingering scent of fragrant perfume. Closing her eyes, a truly joyous smile on her face, she stands still and lets the feel of London wash over her. This is the city where the poorest walk the same stone as the wealthiest, where the kindest souls and the most depraved, live and work, all extremes brought together in this diverse city of sin and innocence.
After a moment, she opens her eyes and studies the house before her, something like uncertainty twisting within her stomach. Stretching the entire length of the street, this beautiful creation of red brick and white marble contains five floors, with gorgeous open widows lining each one. Two large oak trees and high hedges shield the house from curious eyes, and a tall iron railing protects the grounds, with only one entrance gate. At a glance, she would have guessed this street held multiple homes, not one expansive estate for the Duke and Duchess of Richmond. Having lived, danced and called upon many grand houses before, Clara is not easily impressed by architectural displays of grandeur, however, Lygon Place has struck her wordless.
"My Lady?" The driver draws her back to the present, his gruff voice breaking her trance. "I think the gates are locked. Shall we return in the morning?"
"No," Clara says abruptly, her sharp eyes spotting a glow of light from two of the windows on the third floor. She softens her tone with a smile, "I am certain they shall welcome me despite the ungodly hour."
The driver looks unconvinced and he hovers behind her as she walks up to the gate, the sound of her heels echoing around the deserted street. Two oil lamps illuminate the front door, a gold lion knocker gleaming on the painted black wood. As she closes a hand around one of the wrought iron bars, a slight movement occurs to her right, a rustle near the bushes, but she does not turn to it.
"But my lady?" The driver shuffles his feet, looking bashful and nervous despite being two decades older and twice the size of Clara.
She turns to address him. "Yes?"
"What is your plan now that you are here?" His worn clothes are tatted around the edges and verging on being a size too small for his bulging figure. Holes can be seen in his brown boots, and his scarf is nothing more than a tired little rag.
She takes a step forward, flashing him a sympathetic smile. "It's Oliver, correct?"
He nods, removing his flat cap and clutching it to his chest.
"Well Oliver, you have done your job most well, and I thank you for your service but I shall no longer be needing you."
"What!?" He cries, desperation and panic entering his voice. "But...but I cannot return the carriage to Sir Abington. He will ensure I am fired from the farm."
Clara nods, folding her hands in front of her. "If you returned, that is for certain, but do not fret, I have thought of this." She reaches into her pocket and throws him her purse. He fumbles as he catches it, his eyes growing wide as he tests the weight. "That is your payment for tonight, and a little extra for what I am going to ask you to do next."
"Bu...but...but...I don't..." He stammers through his words.
"In that bag is the address of where you are going to drive the carriage to and leave it. There, the carriage will be under Detective Rawson's care and you will not be implicated in its disappearance, nor prosecuted for the theft...." She frowns as he interrupts her.
"But the village will notice that I have gone, as Sir Abington will notice your absence."
"We have never met. I have barely left the estate, and you have not worked for my family, so it is not possible that we can be linked." Clara says, waving a dismissive hand. "You have a daughter in Oxford, correct? Lilith?"
"Yes." He says, surprised.
"In time Sir Abington will know that I have come to London, whereas you have gone to Oxford. Your fare there is included." She tells him. "You must travel to your daughter, but then it is up to you to decide what you shall do next. You could return to Cheltenham or stay in Oxford with your daughter. I would recommend Oxford as the wiser choice. I know many families there that are in need of competent horsemen, I have written their names down for you, and if that is not to your liking, you could always drive carriages, as I must say you picked it up awfully well, with one or two hiccups along the way."
Her words are greeted by stunned silence as the driver opens the purse and rifles through the coins, fishing out the two strips of paper. Clara waits patiently as he reads the address and then the list of names, his mouth a little open.
"Well?" She resists the urge to tap her foot.
He stumbles forward, extending a grateful hand, almost falling to his knees. "You are too kind, my lady."
Clara dances out of the way as he attempts to grab her hand and kiss it. "Do not mistake this for kindness. It is a necessity, and only fair. I have done all I can, the rest is up to you." She says, awkwardly patting his arm. "Now please fetch my trunk, and then you should make haste, as I have heard the detective enjoys an early morning walk in the park."
Oliver nods and hurries over to the carriage. He removes her trunk and totters back over to her, placing her luggage at her feet. He bows lowly, sweeping his hat down and she responds with a courteous tilt of her head. He scrambles up onto the driver's seat, placing his cap on his head. The horses begin to snort and stamp their hooves, sensing the disturbance, but obediently they move into a walk as Oliver takes the reins. He tips his cap to her a final time, and the carriage pulls away, rolling down the street. Alone on the pavement, Clara turns back to face the house and stepping up the gate, she clears her throat delicately.
"Lady Clara Wren Eaton, sister to the Duke of Devonshire, to see the Duchess of Richmond at her earliest convenience."
Her confident words are greeted with an eerie silence, the kind that creeps along the back of your neck and clings to the hairs on your skin. For a moment the world stands still, with no sound or movement from the entire street. Narrowing her eyes, she strains her ears, her body taught as she waits. After an agonising pause, in which she resists the urge to leave in embarrassment, a figure moves out from the darkness and approaches the gate.
Immediately, she steps back, relief flooding through her as the tall man produces a key from his pocket and unlocks the gate, holding one side open to allow her to enter. She does so with an elegant swish of her skirts, holding her dress to prevent the material from getting caught between the cobbles of the drive and her pointed heels. Ahead, the front door opens, warmth inviting her in.
Turning to the man, she offers him a delicate smile. "Please do not forget my bag."
Enraptured by her smile, the guard blinks furiously, unable to do much more than nod and stoop to pick up her trunk. A little amused, Clara walks towards the house, confidence in every step. She climbs the three steps to the front door and crosses over the threshold into the porch, where a butler is waiting in front of a set of double doors. Seeing her, he turns and opens both of the doors revealing a majestic hallway and sparkingly light. Bright and airy, glossy marble slabs lined by smaller gold tiles decorate the floor, and many paintings adorn the brilliantly white walls. Polished tables are pressed against them, holding intricate vases and vibrant bouquets of bloodred roses.
Clara lowers her hood, slightly awestruck. Two darkened corridors lead off the hallway, with another running past the oak staircase that is directly ahead. Stunningly carved, and carpeted with white, gold running through the edges, it leads up to the left and the many floors above. Slowly, she turns in a circle, admiring the high ceilings, able to see right up to the top floor.
"I thought my husband must have gone mad when he hold me Lady Clara Eaton was at the gate."
Clara whips around to see a beautiful woman at the top of the stairs, her hands clasped over the full skirt of her scarlet dress. A heavy emerald-cut diamond ring sparkles on her finger whereas the rest of her flawless skin is left bare. Her dark chestnut hair is falling in loose waves down her back, and her purple eyes are alight with a mixture of amusement and suspicion. With controlled elegance, she descends the stairs, studying the other woman with impassive intent.
Expressionless, Clara waits for her to approach, her head held high. When they are standing toe to toe, she is thankful for her extra little bit of height. They appraise each other for a full minute, curious eyes wandering up and down, a battle of propriety warring between them. Forced to confront her position, Clara breaks the moment with the shallowest of curtsies.
"Duchess Cavendish, it is such a pleasure to see you again."
A flicker of uncertainty crosses the duchess's young face, but she quickly schools it and returns the respect with a tiny bob. "Lady Clara, you are most welcome here..."
Her ice-cold tone discredits her words, but Clara does not react. Her presence alone is enough to provide challenge and intrigue, both weaknesses of the other woman.
"I do not know whether to hide, fearing for my life, or stay and watch." A silky voice comments from above, smooth and rich as fine whiskey.
Both women turn to the source. Leaning against the bannister, the Duke of Richmond looks down at them with a highly amused expression on his handsome face. Clara raises an eyebrow, whereas his wife shoots him a glare, clearly displeased at his interruption.
"I would recommend running if you plan to irritate me this late at night." She says.
He laughs, nodding at the grandfather clock. "I hate to correct you, angel, but it has long not been the night."
To her credit, the duchess does not react or even look to confirm his words, instead, her hand travels up to the top of her corset. Her movement instantly captures his gaze and he tracks her hand, heat flaring within his eyes as her fingers dip out of sight. She produces a thin dagger, the steel, deadly sharp, pointing right at him.
A sinful smile curves his lips, but he backs away. "I know my place. I shall leave you two ladies to your business." He excuses himself with a last longing look at his wife and then retreats upstairs.
"My apologies." Duchess Cavendish says to Clara, the dagger disappearing from sight. "I do not usually draw my weapon with guests present, but being newly married is an experience for both of us, and I do not think we have quite sorted it out yet." She looks around the corridor, frowning, "I do not know where Todd has vanished to, but standing in this hallway will achieve little good, shall we sit and have tea?"
Clara conceals her surprise and nods. "That would be most welcome,"
"Excellent." The duchess smiles fleetingly. "Please follow me."