“Ah, poor little drab thing,” Miss Chesson said, apparently delighted by this show of frailty. “Would you like Mama to see if she has any castoffs, perhaps there’s something old and worn she can give you?”
Miss Twort giggled, the high-pitched twittering sound as fake as the garish blue and yellow flowers on her bonnet.
“Poor little drab,” she repeated, as if this were the height of scintillating conversation.
Clara’s heart kicked painfully in her chest as the words she wished to say crowded inside her but found no means of escape. Oh, how she wanted to tell these stupid creatures that she didn’t care a fig for what they thought of her or her cloak. The opinions of two such dull and unimaginative bullies was of no interest to her, but she could not speak the words. Instead, she gazed at them in mute horror, unable to move, unable to do a thing to stop them. What was wrong with her? All she had to do was say ‘shut up and go away.’ Why was that so damnably hard?
“That hat,” Miss Chesson added, warming to her theme now and stepping forward to give the offending bonnet a dismissive flick with her finger. “Is without a doubt the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.”
So, the gloves were off. There was not even a pretence of concern to camouflage their unkindness.
“Perhaps you ought to put it out of its misery,” Miss Twort suggested, biting her lip as she watched the suggestion register with her braver friend.
“Yes! We ought to drown it. Like a kitten!” Miss Chesson exclaimed, excitement gleaming in her eyes. She reached out and grabbed the ribbons. Clara took several steps back as Benny growled at the girl, but Miss Chesson reached out and tugged at the worn ribbon, easily undoing the bow and snagging the bonnet.
“Oh!” Clara cried out, trying to take it back.
Miss Chesson pushed her as Benny wriggled to get free, unnerved by the aggression of the act. Stumbling, Clara fell, cold wet sand seeping unpleasantly through the layers of her cloak, skirt and petticoats. Benny slipped out of her grasp and ran pell mell after Miss Chesson, barking madly. The girl kicked out.
“Go away, you little rat!” she exclaimed, heading towards the sea.
“What the devil is going on here?”
If Clara’s horror at the appalling situation hadn’t been complete, it was compounded now by the realisation the Duke of Hawkney had viewed the entirety of her humiliation.
Miss Chesson gasped, spinning around. The duke’s was the kind of voice one did not disobey, not unless one wished to end one's days in the Tower of London.
“S-Sir?” the girl said in confusion. “I… I cannot think what you mean. We were just having a bit of fun with our friend.”
“Your friend?” Hawkney said in disgust. “I hate to think how you treat your enemies. Who are you? What’s your name?”
“She’s Miss Chesson. Marigold Chesson,” Miss Twort said helpfully, earning herself a glare that promised retribution from her friend.
“Chesson?” the duke repeated, eyes narrowing on her. “Your parents run The Swan?”
“Yes, sir.”
Hawkney glowered, and Clara waited for him to say, ‘That’syour grace,’ but he didn’t. To her surprise, he turned to her, his sharp blue gaze landing on her sitting on the wet sand. Clara blushed, utterly mortified, a situation that turned to one of confusion as he stepped forward and offered her his hand.
“Miss Halfpenny, that does not look comfortable, nor good for your health. If you will allow me?”
Clara, dumbfounded, stared at his hand for a long moment before reaching out and taking it. His grip firmed, and he leaned down, helping her to her feet.
“You are unharmed?” he asked, giving her a dubious once over.
“I am, thank you,your grace,”she replied, enjoying using his title for the edification of the two girls. She did not know which part she enjoyed most: showing them precisely who had taken them to task or proving that she knew the man when they did not. It was petty, obviously, but she was not above taking her pleasures where she found them in such a situation.
He nodded, something glinting in his eyes that made her suspect he knew just what she’d done.
Hawkney turned back to the girls, who looked properly frightened now. He walked over to Miss Chesson and held out his hand to her. For a moment, Clara almost laughed, as she felt sure the girl was about to put her hand in his, just as if he was offering to lead her onto a dance floor. Then Miss Chesson remembered the ugly bonnet in her hand and flushed an uneven red. She held it out to him and Hawkney took it, handing it back to Clara.
“Yours, I think.”
“Yes,” she mumbled, wishing she could deny the hideous thing, but stuffing it back on her head.
Benny, still irate, was barking madly and running in circles, and upon seeing Hawkney take back his mistress’s bonnet, darted forward and grabbed hold of Miss Chesson’s cloak, growling and tugging at it.
“Get away, you little beast!” Miss Chesson shrieked, kicking out at Benny.
