“Wait!” the duke commanded of her. But it was too late.
Clara reached for a shard of porcelain, but misjudged the sharp edges and sliced along the inside of her hand in the blink of an eye. “Owe!” she cried and snatched her hand back.
“Clara!” Alaric dropped to his knees without pause, snatching her hand and pulling it toward him. It was not done roughly, but surprisingly gentle for one his size.
Clara gasped as his large hand took her by the wrist. And she caught her breath as he gently cradled it to his body. Blood smeared her fingers, pain stabbing through her hand, but she hardly noticed it. Her focus fell on the feel of the duke’s tender touch. On how soft he was with her, how caring. Her skin shivered as his fingers stroked the back of her hand. And her heart raced as she struggled to breathe.
“I… it is not so bad…” Her eyes moved to his face, noting the pained expression he wore. It was almost angry, but an anger directed toward himself as if he was furious he had allowed such a thing to happen.
“Mr. Winters!” Alaric called out, still holding her hand to his body, careful not to touch the wound. The manservant appeared in the doorway, eyes widening when he saw the mess. “Towels. Something to clean up this blood.”
“Right away, Your Grace!” Mr. Winters fled back into the room.
“It is not as bad as it looks,” Clara said softly. She hardly felt the pain, still focused on the feel of the duke’s hand as he held her.That one so distant can be so warm and tender when he wants to be. Is this the real Duke of Ravencourt? The side of himself he keeps hidden away?
“Perhaps not…” He grimaced. “But we best be careful, nonetheless.”
Mr. Winters appeared a moment later with some white hand towels. Alaric took them and then proceeded to wrap them around her wounded palm. His brow was furrowed, his expression considered, and still she saw the worry behind his eyes. It was as if he had wounded himself, for how personally he was taking it.
“It may need stitches,” he said as he finished wrapping the wound. “Mr. Winters?”
“Yes, of course!” Mr. Winters was at hand immediately. “Your Grace,” he said to her, holding out a spare hand. “If you will come with me, I will see the wound cleaned and stitched.”
“Oh…” Clara felt her heart drop, and she looked to Alaric, hoping he might join her. By now, he had released her hand, looking away almost as if in shame. “Yes, thank you…” She allowed herself to be lifted to her feet.
“This way,” Mr. Winters said, linking his arm through hers and leading her.
She bit into her lip, taking a final glance at Alaric, who was still crouched by the broken saucer. He stared at those shards, only to nod his head to himself and look at her. “Let me know,” he called after her. “If there is anything… if the injury is worse than it looks. I will send for a doctor.”
“I will,” she said to him with a warm smile, needing him to see it. “And thank you.”
It was such a small thing again. To many, it would look like nothing more than the bare minimum. To Clara, she was beginning to understand just how big a gesture it was. For all his desire to pretend he did not care about her, that he did not even want her here, she knew now this was not the case.
Slowly, he was coming around.Very slowly, for that matter. It is lucky then that I have an entire year here. At this rate, it still might not be enough.
Clara spent the next few days slowly getting used to her new home. At least she tried to, as much as was possible in such a dreary place. She had Mr. Winters order garden tools, seeds, and plants to be potted, but he informed her they would take some weeks to arrive. Such as it was, she had to find other ways to keep herself busy.
It was on her third day, as Clara was walking back from breakfast, that she turned down a hallway which she realized in the moment she had not been down yet. This was because it led to the western wing of the castle, where she had been forbidden to enter.
I will not walk all the way there, she said to herself as she started down the dark hall. I will only go some of the way, making sure to stop before I step somewhere I am not meant to be.
Halfway down the hall, she walked before coming across something most peculiar. At least as far as this castle was concerned. It was a closed door, one of dozens that she had walked by, all of which were locked. This one, however, she noticed as she went to walk on by, was sitting open. Only by a fraction, as if someone had forgotten to close and lock it. It was enough that she could not help but see what the room contained.
It was a music room. At least it had been once. An open space with high ceilings, plastered walls for acoustics, chairs positioned around a small stage, which she was certain had once held private performances. The chairs were covered in sheets, which themselves were coated in dust. And in the corner was ahidden structure, always covered by a thick sheet. Unable to help herself, Clara pulled the sheet back, revealing a truly beautiful pianoforte.
Her eyes sparkled as she looked it over. Dusty. Ancient. But the wood shone with loving polish beneath the dust. It was a splendid piece of equipment, the type one would not purchase unless they were serious about the craft.Is the duke a secret musician? Or was someone else the owner of this piece…
She looked about the room, her mind beginning to turn with ideas. Clara wanted this castle to feel like a home. She wanted to walk into the rooms with a smile at their beauty, rather than a frown at their squalor. She had been wondering to herself where she might begin, figuring it would be best to start in one room and test the limits of the duke’s patience.It looks as if I have found that room.
And so the next few days unfolded at a more exciting pace than the previous.
Clara did her best to be secretive about this little project, too. Not hard to do, as the duke not once asked her how she spent her days. They saw one another only at supper, always taken in silence, and were it not for those singular occasions, she might have thought the castle to be totally devoid of life.
The first day saw her dust and remove the sheets from the furniture. Doing this revealed more instruments. Chests filled with scripts of music. There was a wardrobe stuffed with cushions and music stands. Of note, as she was flipping throughthe various music sheets, she found several to be signed with the name ‘Helena’.Who was she?
The second day was just as busy. Clara spent it cleaning the cushions and then laying them in the sun—after she’d thrown the curtains back—so they might dry. She also picked some flowers from the garden, even if the options were sparse, and arranged them throughout the room to give it color. And that wasn’t to mention how long it took her to dispose of the cobwebs hanging in just about every space that was possible.
On more than one occasion, she was struck by the sense that she was being watched.
