A stray thought and a stab at procrastination has Clara spinning on her heel and marching back to the carriage. George raises an eyebrow in question and slides nearer to the door.
"If you truly wish to be my friend, then please tell me why you and your brother are so opposed to me meeting Lord Wellesley." She says in a rush, her hand on the edge of the door. "I know there is more than what you have said. No one has such vehement without cause."
Running a hand down his face, he rubs his chin and shakes his head, not looking at her. Then he drops his hand and turns to her, almost in admiration of her gall. "You do not play fair." He states, tension radiating from his body. Clara turns to go but he catches her wrist. "No, I will tell you, but not because you asked."
"Then why?"
"Because it is nothing more than a story for the worst of men, and as the son of one, I have no misgivings about my father's true nature being revealed, and that of Lord Wellesly." George lets her go, his expression blackening, and his voice hardened. "The wrath of Julian Cavendish was suffered by all, including his family, and it does not matter why he sought to be unjust, only that Daniel, my mother and I all suffered at his hand, day after day. My father was a terrible person sober, there is no doubt about it, but he was inhumane when drunk. Black Haven Rum was his drink of choice and the drink that fueled his worst outbursts. He bought the rum from Wellesely, who had offered him an investment deal in the company that made it."
"Selling rum is hardly a crime."
"No." He agrees, "But the amount he drank grew each day, and his violence was uncontainable. We were desperate, Daniel was desperate, so he went to Lord Wellesley and begged him to break the partnership, or at the very least to stop the regular shipments to our home. To Daniel's face, he agreed, but then the next day Wellesley sent fifteen crates to our house with his compliments. A year's supply of alcohol at my father's fingertips. It was that day that he hit my mother for the first time, simply because she suggested that he store it for winter." He chokes, his voice thick with emotion. "What kind of person does that?"
Clara extends her hand and places it on his elbow. He looks down at it and then into her sympathetic eyes. Clearing his throat, he gently pushes her hand away and attempts a shaky smile. "You should head inside."
Clara inclines her head. "Till Friday eve then, and I thank you for the ride."
"Of course." He says, gruffly, "Once I secure an invitation, I shall send a letter with the arrangements. I look forward to a little chaos."
"As do I." She waves to the driver who has climbed up, and he dips his cap to her. With a steadying breath, she strides towards Chester Valley, gripping the handle of her trunk a little tighter than necessary.
"Clara." George's voice is carried by the slight wind and she turns around to see him leaning out of the carriage, concern upon his face. "I've added to your caution but you are not dissuaded are you?"
She lifts a shoulder. "Needs must."
He seems to accept her words, as he parts from her with a grim nod and then raps on the door before pulling it shut. The driver leaps into action and lightly taps the horses with the long whip and they jump into a trot. He steers them around the fountain and out of the grounds of the estate, travelling back towards town. Clara watches them disappear out of the gate, squinting until the early morning darkness swallows them up. Alone, exhaustion weighing her down, and a headache forming at the back of her mind, she walks up to the front door and braces herself for the next wave of questions and concerns.
Her knock seems to echo around the silent landscape, as loud as a bullet cracking the night. She winces as the sound passes through her, and she fidgets on the top step, suddenly conscious of the lack of light from inside the manor. Made of marble stone, with delicately carved pillars on either side of the front porch, Chester Valley is a grand estate, boasting some of the most beautiful grounds that England has to offer. Recently renovated and brought into the modern style of the 18th century, the house is now the envy of the neighbours, and has held many extravagant parties for an exclusive collection of the upper class.
Clara shudders as she waits, the crisp autumn air fluttering under her cloak to nip at her skin with its icy breath. She tugs the material closer to her body, and yearns for a bed, despite the anxiety running through her body. Straining her ears, she hears no sound from within the house, and a slight fear enters her mind. She had expected the lack of activity, and that she would surely be waking most people from their slumber, but she had thought there would be at least one-night owl to answer her call.
She raises her fist to knock again but a dull orange glow scurries past one of the windows and then there is the rattling of many locks and knobs. Dropping her arm, she plasters on a charming smile, showing off her white teeth, and waits for the door to open. Her smile slips as she comes face to face with a haggard-looking butler, dark bags under his ratlike eyes and his pinched face twisted into an expression of fury.
"Do you know what time it is?" He demands before she can speak, his livid gaze looking her up and down in downright disgust.
Struck mute for a moment, Clara stares at him blankly and then tries not to smile as she spots a pair of fluffy slippers peaking out from under the rumpled trousers of his uniform.
He follows her line of sight and bares his teeth, shuffling his feet. "Well?!"
Catching sight of a gold pendulum swinging back and forth in the hallway behind him, she leans to the left to gain a better view of a stunning grandfather clock. "A little after three."
"A little after three," he repeats, half whispering, half yelling, "Has the queen died!?"
"The queen?" Clara frowns, perplexed, "Not to my knowledge...."
"Then get off my front step!" The butler moves to slam the door but she is quicker and sticks one foot over the threshold, wincing as it connects with the wood. Steam seems to be pouring from his ears, and his face morphs with fury as she places a firm hand on the door and cranes her neck to look inside.
"Forgive my impertinence, but is at Jasper home?" She offers him an apologetic look but she might as well have cursed his name.
He puffs himself up to his full height in an attempt to appear threatening. "Duke Harrington is asleep in his bed! As we all should be at this time. Goodnight!" He throws his weight behind the door trying to close it but only succeeds in crushing Clara's toes.
She winces. "You have never been a baker have you?"
He gapes at her.
She waves a hand. "Never mind that, would you be so gracious as to notify his grace of my arrival?"
"Are you ill?" He cries, "You need to leave immediately, or I will summon the gardener and his shotgun to assist you off these grounds! Get out of here! Go!"
"There is no need for that." A deep voice booms, despite being plagued by sleep, and then a second source of light floods the hallway as Jasper Harrington steps into view carrying a candelabra. A thick dressing gown is tied over his pyjamas, his dark hair is touselled and he wears an irritated expression that is damped by sleep. His eyes grow wide when he sees Clara and a curse floods from his mouth, now wide awake and alert.
"Good morning..." she says weakly, shrinking away as he wrenches the door open and towers over her with a look of utter fury.
"Clara Wren Eaton...." He pronounces every word with care, his teeth gritted together as he works to control his anger. "You had better have a good explanation or I will flay you alive."
"Give me five minutes and a glass of scotch and I will." Clara attempts to jest but his growl cuts her off and she drops her gaze to the floor, a slight redness to her cheeks.
"My lord?" The butler looks from her to his master.
"Go back to bed, Hargreaves," Jasper instructs, moving to pull Clara inside. His glare never leaves her face and he uses his heel to slam the door shut. It rattles in the frame, sending small shockwaves through the walls. "This is my problem."
"Problem?" Her outrage forces her to look up as he drags her across the hallway and down the dark corridor that runs past the staircase. "I am not a problem."
Jasper scoffs, his grip flexing around her wrist and he mutters something that she doesn't quite catch, but she assumes it is his disagreement. She almost trips as he pulls her into a large dining room, catching her shoe on the patterned rug that protects the floor from the feet of the long table. He lets go of her to place the candelabra on the polished wood, the four candles gifting enough light for Clara to see a mixture of emotions fly across his face. Dropping her trunk on the table, she throws herself into the nearest chair and crosses her arms over her chest, sulking at the lecture that is to come.
"I thought we agreed this was not a good idea?" Jasper says, pinching his forehead between his fingers. "I thought we agreed that we would give it time?"
"You agreed." Clara states, "I was never given the chance to say a word."
"You are a child, you do not get a word."
His words hurt but she does not let it show, and she juts out her chin defiantly. "I am twenty. And when it is my brother, my family, and my life, I deserve a say."
"James is handling it. It does not concern you."
"If there is anyone it doesn't concern then it is you."
"I am his best friend."
"And I am his sister!" Clara shoots to her feet, her hands balled into fists.
He gives her a dismissive look and turns towards the window. "He is handling it."
She takes a step towards him, a hand on her hip. "Handling it? Then where is he?"
"He is....." He sounds confident but then he falters as he looks into her expectant face. Sighing he crosses to the liquor cabinet behind her and pours himself a generous drink. He throws it back and then pours another before speaking. "I don't know where he is."
Hearing the sadness in his voice, her anger cools and she moves to perch on the edge of the table. "No one knows where he is."
He frowns. "How do you know that?"
"Because he is the only person I care about. You aren't the only one keeping an eye on him."
"My god, Clara." Jasper groans, "That is why you have come? We agreed...James agreed. We all decided that it was best for you and your mother to stay in...Chelmsford...Cheltenham, whatever that place is called until all of this had blown over."
"He only said that to protect me."
"Of course he was protecting you!"
"I am not the one that needs protecting! I have survived through too many scandals far worst than either of yours."
"My marriage..." He begins but she scoffs, cutting him off.
"Oh please, half the marriages that occur start the way yours did. The only thing scandalous about yours was how drastically different you are Eliza were."
"Watch your mouth." He says, pointing a warning finger. He raises the glass to his lips but then stops before taking a drink, a thought passing through his mind. "Does your mother know you are here?"
"She will have guessed," Clara replies, running a finger across the lip of the table. "But if you are thinking she will come to get me, you are wrong. She will not come to London."
"Why not?"
She grimaces, her mouth turning ashy. "She's on her honeymoon."
"Her honeymoon?" He chokes on his whiskey, coughing and places his drink down. "She has remarried?"
She nods slowly, bitterness clinging to her tone. "A summer wedding. It's a pity you missed it."
He regards her incredulously. "Who?"
"His name is Sir Hugh Abbington."
"I have never heard of him."
"Neither had I until my mother had his great-grandmother's ring on her finger. She certainly knows how to play a man."
"Clara..."
Unwilling to discuss it further, she waves away his concern and fixes him with a determined glare. "You have always been there for James. He is devoted to you, and I would not be here if it were not for his sake. I am not here to whine or complain or cause you any hassle. I am here to sort some business for Edgar and to hopefully find out which corner of this city James has disappeared to. I understand if you would rather I seek accommodation elsewhere, but you are the only one who has not completely abandoned my family."
"I am not going to turn you out." Jasper states, "Eliza would have my head if I did, and I know she will be in agreement with you. Her pregnancy has made her twice as stubborn as before." At the mention of his wife any irritation or annoyance drains away and he smiles, the action lighting up his face.
"She is going to be a wonderful mother."
He chuckles. "I know."
"And you will be an excellent father." Amusement runs through her at the dark look he gives her and she shakes her head. "You can look at me like that, but you practically raised Penny since her birth, and you have always looked after me. All a child needs is a present father that cares enough to tuck them into bed and kiss them goodnight. That's all I ever wanted, and I think you are just about capable of that. "
He huffs and takes a sip as he considers her. "Maybe, and you didn't turn out so bad I suppose. A little vain perhaps, possibly a bit obstinate and impulsive, but those can be positive attributes too."
"Neither did you."
He ignores her comment and changes the subject. "For how long do you plan to stay in the city?"
"A fortnight," She answers, "Or until James is found. Then I will convince him to move back into Eccleston Square. With Cecily."
"You did not sell it?"
"All of our possessions are still in that house. We kept Hathley Manor too. The assets of the Devonshire Dukedom remain the same. It is the absence of the family, not the money."
"Edgar?"
Clara's expression contorts at the mention of her brother but she brushes it off. "He has shown little empathy for James's situation and has stated that he will not return to England for some time despite his new title and duty."
"And you?" Jasper presses, draining the last of his drink and returning the bottle to the cabinet.
"Me?" She pulls a sorrowful face and flutters her eyelashes a little. "I just want to see James."
He eyes her with scepticism but then sighs in defeat. "Two weeks here and then it is Eccleston Square with James, or back to your mother. Agreed?"
Clara bounces onto the balls of her feet, baring a wide smile. "Agreed."
He pretends not to notice her obvious act and gestures towards the door. "Good, now I will show you to the guest room so we can both obtain a few morsels of sleep before the sun rises."
"Thank you." She is quick to grab her trunk and follow him from the room, hot on his heel, tremendous amounts of relief washing over her. Back down the corridor, he takes her up the cream-carpeted stairs and shows her to a room at the end of the first floor.
"This can be yours." He says, turning the handle. "Eliza and I are at the other end, and although she sleeps through any racket these days, I thought it be best."
Clara peaks around him to give the room a quick glance. There's a comfy looking four poster bed tucked against the back wall, a sizable wardrobe and a large bay window overlooking part of the grounds. "It will be perfect."
"I shall see for breakfast," Jasper says, handing her a single candle. "Sleep if you can, Eliza will have questions, and you are on your own with this one."
She takes it, lifting a hand to protect the flame. "Then forgive me if I do not turn up at all."
"Clara...." He begins.
"Do not fret," She says, "I shall be there as long as you can promise a cup of Earl Grey and a piece of toast or two. These days travelling does conjure up quite the appetite."
"I think my cook is capable of that."
"Then I shall see you at breakfast."
Jasper bids her goodnight and leaves her standing in the doorway. His candles vanish through a door at the end of the corridor and the house is plunged into significant darkness. Stooping, Clara places her trunk at the foot of the bed, her hand shaking as she keeps the candle aloft. Careful to keep the wick burning, she makes quick work of lighting a few of the candles around the room until a warm glow makes it easy for her to see. Shutting the door, she presses against the solid fixture and surveys her room for the next two weeks.
An inviting blanket covers the bed and there are multiple pillows stacked under the headboard, with elegant embroidery decorating the corners. Nestled under the window, an armchair and table have been tucked to the side, providing a pleasant place to sit and watch the stables and greenhouse below. Humming with approval, she peels off her gloves and places them on the vanity table across from the bed before untying her cloak and hanging it in the wardrobe. Her shoes are next to go and her dress follows. She folds the gown and lies it across the armchair to avoid creases before sinking into the chair in front of the vanity table.
She combs her fingers through her flattening curls, the brilliant golden colour burning ginger in the candlelight. When the majority of the knots have been dealt with, her nimble fingers plait the hair into a tight bun on the top of her head, a lifetime of practice moments meaning it takes her mere seconds to secure. With no water in the bowl, she is forced to remove her rouge and powder with a dry handtowel, the scratchy material uncomfortable against her face. Satisfied that most of her makeup is gone, she blows out all of the candles and slips into bed. She sighs as her weary body sinks into the soft mattress, the cool sheets curling around her and lulling her to sleep. Her eyes flutter for a few moments but as soon her head has properly settled into the duck feather pillow, she is asleep and snoring softly.