Clara nodded and left, heading for the kitchen where she would make something Gabriel would definitely eat, whether he admitted it or not. Behind her, she heard him finally enter the morning room properly, sit at the piano, heard him begin to play, not a waltz this time, but something else. Something that sounded like apology and hope and terrible fear all at once.
The music followed her through the house, filling the empty rooms with something that wasn't quite happiness but was closer than anything Ashbourne Hall had felt in years.
She began to cook, humming along to Gabriel's distant playing, Whilst she struggled to banish the recollection of the dance and the alarming proximity of his regard. She tried to hide the unsettling fervor of his voice when speaking her name, a tone that suggested both a blessing and a damnation.
She largely failed, but the soup she made was admirable, and when she brought it to the library later, she found Gabriel had eaten everything Mrs. Potter had brought, the empty plates stacked neatly on his desk did testify that his stomach was quite hollow.
Small victories, Clara thought. It was a small start the present time.
Later that evening, Clara found herself having difficulty to sleep.
This wasn't unusual as she had been struggling with her sleep since childhood. Her mind had always seemed too busy with thoughts to properly rest. But tonight was different. Tonight, her restlessness had a specific cause, and that cause was currently playing piano somewhere in the house, with the melancholic notes drifting through the walls like accusations.
She'd taken one of the servant's rooms on the third floor, far from Gabriel's suite as physically possible while remaining in the main house. It was small but clean, with a narrow bed and a window that looked out over the gardens. She could see theirrose from here, a dark tangle against the wall, and she'd spent an embarrassing amount of time staring at it since she'd arrived.
The piano stopped abruptly, mid-phrase, as if the player had simply given up. Clara waited, counting her breaths, but the music didn't resume.
Go to sleep, she told herself firmly.Whatever he's doing is none of your concern.
Her feet, apparently, disagreed. She found herself padding down the stairs in her borrowed nightgown and wrapper, drawn by a concern she had no desire to examine too closely. The house was different at night as all shadows and whispers, the portraits on the walls seemed to watch her pass with disapproving eyes.
You shouldn't be here, they seemed to say.You're the help now. Know your place.
But Clara had never been particularly good at knowing her place.
She found Gabriel in the music room, though 'found' suggested she'd been looking for him, which she absolutely hadn't been. He was sitting at the piano, not playing, just staring at the keys as if they held answers to questions he didn't know how to ask.
"Can't sleep?" she asked from the doorway.
He didn't startle, apparently, he was getting used to her appearances too. "Sleep is for people without regrets."
"Everyone has regrets."
"Not everyone has mine."
"No, they have their own. Regret isn't a competition, Gabriel."
"Isn't it?" He finally looked at her, and she wished he hadn't. In the moonlight, with his guard down, he looked devastated. "Because I'm fairly certain I'm winning."
"At regret?"
"At everything terrible."
Clara entered the room properly, her bare feet silent on the carpet. "You're being dramatic."
"I'm being honest."
She sat on the piano bench beside him, careful to maintain several inches of propriety between them though it wasn't enough. She could still feel the warmth radiating from his body, with the familiar smell of brandy and bitter herbs that seemed to cling to him.
"Play something," she said.
"I was playing."
"You were slaughtering innocent notes. Play something properly."
"I don't know anything proper."
"Then play something improper."
