One
"Are you certain it must be now?” Lady Clara Tremayne asked Mr. Jefferies nervously as she hurried to follow him down the twisted halls of her home.
“He was insistent,” Mr. Jefferies responded. “Better that it was ten minutes ago, your lord father said.”
She clicked her tongue with understanding as she glanced at the front of her dress. It was covered in dirt and grime, as were her fingers and the palms of her hands, for that matter. And none of that was to mention the surly state of her hair, and what was likely more dirt stains to be found on her cheeks.He is not going to be happy with me…
“Perhaps if I adjourn to my rooms quickly and –”
“Please, Lady Tremayne.” Mr. Jefferies spun about, forcing Clara to stop lest she run right into him. “I must insist it be now. I do not wish to have to make excuses for you.”
Mr. Jefferis was the head of staff at Tremayne Manor, a kindly man whom Clara had known her entire life. If such a world existed, she might have even said that they were friends. Only that was not this world, and she knew well enough where his loyalties lay.
Still, she could deny him, as she was technically his master. But she knew he was not pressing his insistence because he wished to see her in trouble. Rather, it was because if she denied his request, there would be hell to pay for both him and her.
“You are right,” she sighed meekly. “I am sorry, Mr. Jefferies. This…” She indicated her dirty dress. “Will have to do.”
The relief was clear on Mr. Jefferies’ face, but he did not voice it. Instead, he turned about and started back down the hall. And with no choice, despite knowing the trouble she was sure to be in, Clara followed him.I will be in even more trouble if I do not answer my father’s call.
Clara cursed herself for being so careless. She had been outside in the gardens, tending to a freshly planted bed of roses, when Mr. Jefferies had found her, demanding that she follow him to her father’s study at once. Ordinarily, Clara would be more careful not to dirty herself – her father hated it when she was disheveled – but she had become distracted in the process, forgetting herself, figuring it would not matter as she made sureto have enough time to change before supper. Or so she had assumed.
As to why her father had requested her with such urgency? She had no idea. The one thing she was certain of, the only truth she knew, was that the news would not bode well for her. Where her father was concerned, it almost never did.
They reached her father’s study; the door stood half-open, through which the dim flicker of the hearth’s light could be seen inside. Mr. Jefferies hurried forward and knocked once, waiting for her father’s command, and then entered.
She stayed outside, as she knew to do, her nerves growing as she tried to clean the front of her dress the best she could. No good, as the dirt was well-stained and Mr. Jefferies reappeared within seconds.
“He will see you now…” Mr. Jefferies bowed his head and bade her toward the door.
Clara took a deep breath, an attempt to find bravery, and walked through the open doorway and into her father’s office. It was a cramped room, stuffed with bookshelves that were themselves laden with heavy tomes and stacks of parchment. It was far too cold in the room, despite the roaring hearth, but that was normal for all rooms her father occupied.
He did not look up when she entered. His head was bent over the table as he scribbled away frantically. A balding scalp. Severe features. Lean but by no means frail. Lord Tremayne was a manwhose very presence inspired fear… at least in Clara, it always had.
“Where were you?” he asked without looking up.
She made sure to be standing tall, her hands folded before her. “I was outside, Father. In the gardens.”
He scoffed. “Two estates away, for how long it took you to see me.” He scribbled further, grumbling under his breath. “Your dress,” he then said, still not looking. “What have I told you about playing in the muck?”
“Father, I was not playing –”
“A figure of speech,” he grumbled. “I do not like you, dirty, Clara. You ought to know better than to present yourself to me like this.”
She held her tongue, as that was always for the best. What she might have liked to have told him was that if he was not so insistent on seeing her immediately, she could have found time to change. There was no point, however, and that would only anger him further. In this instance, Clara always found silence to be for the best.
He remained with his head bent for a few more moments, still working away. She stood there watching, waiting, mind racing with questions. Her father was not a kind man. He was not a caring man. He was a cruel, self-serving tyrant who only everspoke to Clara to either chastise her for a mistake made or because he needed something of her. In this instance, she had no idea which to expect.
Finally, he stopped what he was doing. He groaned and sat up, curling his lip when he saw her finally. “You are filthy.”
“I am sorry, Father. It will not happen again.”
He scoffed. “Doubtful. And you wonder why we can’t find a lord to so much as look at you.” A shake of the head. “Should I blame myself? I might, had I not been presented with such a hopeless case of a daughter.”
It was an age-old complaint, and one her father loved to remind her of. That was when she was eighteen, a debutant in the ton, and she had failed dramatically to catch the eye of a suitor. So resounding was this failure that her father had panicked and torn her from society’s bosom, refusing to give her another chance as he claimed his honor could not bear the shame.
The reality was far different. Clara had been nervous. She had been hesitant about what to do. Her father had not prepared her properly and had frightened her enough that on her debut, she had stayed in the corners, head bowed, worried that she might do or say something that would offend him. The effect was to go unnoticed entirely, labelled a wallflower of a woman, easily forgotten and thus not worth the effort of pursuit.
It might be easy to convince myself that had I been given another chance, then things would have gone differently. A lietold because it makes the reality of who I am and the life I have been born into that little bit easier to carry.
