As she reached for a particularly high shelf, the ladder wobbled ominously. Her feet, still tender from their blistered journey, though somewhat healed after three days of Edmund's wife's mysterious salves, protested the position. The dress Edmund's wife had sent fit reasonably well, though it was plain gray wool that made her look like either a governess or someone in half-mourning. Given her circumstances, both seemed appropriate.
"That volume," Gabriel said, pointing with his brandy glass to a book just out of her reach, "is a first edition, Sir Walter Scott. Should you allow it to fall, I shall withhold a portion of your wages.”
"What wages? We haven't discussed specific amounts."
"Exactly. You might end up owing me money."
Clara stretched further, fingertips just brushing the spine of the book. The ladder made an alarming creaking sound.
"Careful," Gabriel drawled. "If you fall and break your neck, I'll have to find another desperate woman to exploit, which will be terribly inconvenient."
"Your concern is touching."
"I'm not concerned. I'm practical. Do you know how difficult it is to remove blood from Persian rugs?"
"Speaking from experience?"
"War, Miss Whitfield. One learns all sorts of useful domestic tips when watching men die on expensive carpets."
The casual darkness of it made her pause. She glanced down at him, finding him staring into his brandy with that thousand-yard stare she'd noticed more frequently over the past three days.
He was in the habit of uttering dreadful jests regarding the late war, death and his scar…It was as if he was daring her to flinch.
Which he failed to do so.
"Well then," Clara said, returning to her dusting, "I'll be sure to aim for the bare floorboards if I fall."
"How considerate."
The ladder creaked again, more insistently this time. Clara froze.
"That doesn't sound good," she observed.
"It's held for three generations of Hales."
"Yes, well, three generations of Hales probably maintained their equipment better than the current one."
"The current one prefers his equipment, like his staff, to have character."
"Character being another word for 'near collapse'?"
"Precisely."
The ladder chose that moment to prove Clara's point by splintering spectacularly. She had a brief moment of weightlessness, enough time to think .This is how I die—not from starvation or cold, but from Gabriel's negligent ladder maintenance, before strong arms caught her.
The impact knocked them both to the floor, Clara landing on top of Gabriel in a tangle of limbs and gray wool and startled breathing. For a moment, neither moved. Clara was acutely aware of every point of contact, his hands at her waist, her palms pressed against his chest, their faces inches apart.
His eyes, she noticed irrelevantly, had gold flecks in them. How had she never noticed that as a child?
"Miss Whitfield," he said, his voice oddly rough. "You appear to be crushing me."
"You appear to have caught me, yet again."
"A terrible habit I'm developing."
"You could stop."
"I could."
