Gabriel stared at her. "That's... terrifyingly accurate."
"I should clean."
"I should read."
This time, Gabriel actually left, though Clara could hear him pause at least twice in the hallway, his footsteps stopping as if he might turn back. But he didn't, and eventually, she heard the library door close with a decisive click.
CHAPTER 7
Clara returned to her cleaning with a vengeance, attacking dust as if it had personally offended her. Which, in a way, it had. The dust was safe. The dust was simple. The dust didn't make her feel like her skin was too small for her body and her heart was trying to beat its way out of her chest.
She cleaned for hours, until her hands were raw and her back ached and the morning room looked like an actual room instead of a mausoleum. The piano gleamed. The windows sparkled. Even the suspicious stain had been subdued into submission.
"My goodness."
Clara spun to find a woman in the doorway, not Gabriel, definitely not Gabriel. This woman was small and round and wearing an apron that had seen better days.
"I'm Mrs. Potter," the woman said. "I used to be housekeeper here, before His Grace..." She waved vaguely.
"Before he dismissed everyone?"
"Before he decided he preferred dust to company, yes." Mrs. Potter entered the room, examining Clara's work with a professional eye. "You've done well. This room has not exhibited such a proper order in an age.”
"Thank you."
"You're the Whitfield girl."
It wasn't a question, but Clara nodded anyway.
"I remember you," Mrs. Potter continued. "Little thing with scraped knees and torn dresses, always trailing after Master Gabriel."
"That was a long time ago."
"Not so long. Time moves differently when you get to my age. Seems like yesterday you two were thick as thieves, running wild in the gardens."
"The gardens are all withered now, long gone from this world now."
"Are they? Funny, I could have sworn I saw a rose blooming on the west wall. Pink and gold, quite unusual."
Clara's breath caught. "It's still blooming? In winter?"
"That particular rose has always been unusual. Like the children who planted it."
"You knew?"
"Everyone knew. You two weren't nearly as subtle as you thought. Secret garden indeed." Mrs. Potter snorted. "The only secret was how long it would take you to realise what everyone else could see."
“What do you intend by that remark?”
But Mrs. Potter was already bustling forward, adjusting things Clara had already cleaned, tutting over invisible imperfections.
"Has he eaten today?" she asked.
"I... I am not aware."
"He doesn't, you know. Eat. Not properly. Been wasting away since he came back from the war."
"He seems…"
