Deep within, something shifted, opening him in a way he’d never thought possible. It was the two of them together in the face of a world that was unrelenting when it came to the weak. Sheneededhim.Hewas her protector, her parent, her guardian.
And he didn’t know what to do with her.
He knew one thing, he wasn’t going to call her Menadora. “Dora,” he said, testing the name. He liked it.
There was also no doubt the cloth covering her tiny bum needed to be changed. Mars could smell it. It was also damp against his chest. She had wet herself through her dress.
He looked to the doorway where Gibson and Nelson watched him with confused alarm. “Did Deb leave a bag? Or supplies?”
“No, my lord,” Gibson answered. “She left nothing.”
Mars held Dora away a bit. He wasn’t good with foul smells. He also didn’t have the slightest inkling of a child’s needs and wants.
Then, as if reading his mind and realizing she was in trouble, Dora opened her lungs—and this time, she wouldn’t stop, no matter what he tried.
Chapter Two
Men are beasts. I know. I am one of them.
—Book of Mars
Just as she feared she could not take another step forward, Clarissa Taylor arrived in Maidenshop.
Her journey had been exhausting. She had worn these clothes for three days straight as she’d struggled to find her way home from London by the Post, a farmer’s cart, and her own two aching feet.
She dropped her valise, overwhelmed by the familiar sight of St. Martyr’s stone walls and the neat and tidy cottages of the village. She wore a gray cambric frock that was very serviceable, good sturdy shoes, and an olive-toned sarcenet pelisse that one of the women in this village had given her as a castoff. Her straw cottage hat had also been a gift. The village matrons had given it to her along withtheir good wishes before she’d left for the position as a gentlewoman’s companion that was supposed to change her life.
There were some people busy and about at this hour of the day but they hadn’t noticed her. Not yet.
And even though she recognized them, after all, she had grown up here... she felt a stranger. She viewed them as if there was a pane of glass separating them from her.
In many ways there was, except the divider was called Life. When she’d left Maidenshop, it had been mid-spring and all was hopeful and perfect in the world.
Now the garden flowers were peaking and would too soon be overtaken by autumn and then winter—just as London had overtaken her.
If she’d had any pride, she would not be here, except, the village was very dear to her, even if she was returning in disgrace. She had nothing to her name, not even a farthing. It had taken all that she owned to bring her backhome.
The side door to the church opened. Mrs. Summerall, the minister’s wife, came out of the building. She glanced Clarissa’s way and stopped, a foot poised in the air. She stared as if uncertain she believed her eyes.
Then she took a step forward and then several more, picking her way through the gravestones surrounding the church. “Miss Taylor?”
Clarissa’s throat tightened. She couldn’t speak. And so, she did the only thing she could do. She burst into tears.
Mrs. Summerall rushed to her and wrapped her thin, long arms around Clarissa. “Dear, dear, dear,” she repeated. “Please, it is all right. Whatever it is, it is all right.” Finally, she said, “Let’s go see Mrs. Warbler.”
Clarissa nodded.
Elizabeth Warbler was the widow who lived in the center of the village. She was one of the doyennes of the Matrons of Maidenshop and had been a good friend to Clarissa over the years since her adoptive parents, the Reverend Taylor and his wife, had passed away. She’d always been able to help Clarissa make sense of the insensible. And if all else failed, there would be sherry. Mrs. Warbler was known for her sherry bottle.
“Here now, Landon,” Mrs. Summerall called to a boy who had just come out of his cottage. “Please carry Miss Taylor’s valise for us.”
“Miss Taylor?” the lad repeated. He stared at Clarissa as if she was an oddity. “Good to see you, Miss Taylor. How was London?”
Clarissa’s answer was a hiccupping sob.
“The valise, Landon,” Mrs. Summerall said, sounding a bit desperate. She linked an arm with Clarissa’s and the two of them walked down the road to Mrs. Warbler’s two-story stone home. It was located across the road from The Garland, a tea garden and specialty shop owned by the woman who had stolen the future that Clarissa was supposed to have.
No, that wasn’t true. Gemma hadn’t truly connived her way into Ned Thurlowe’s heart. It had not been intentional.
