“My lady, the carriage…” Tilly squeaked again.
“I’m afraid Tilly, we will not be going anywhere. Not for quite some ti –”
The words were cut off. Whether it was by the slamming of the door with a boot, or by the smothering of the mouth that uttered them, was difficult to determine.
ΦΦΦ
Clara strode into Ralph’s townhouse, muttering to herself. She had, in fact, muttered to herself ever since they had returned from Rookdean’s estate. She had muttered in the carriage, muttered at dinner and breakfast, and now, she was muttering after a walk with her aunt.
“Despicable, heartless…Oh, I cannot think of enough insults –”
Her aunt continued the litany. “Sapskull, rogue, cad, mutton monger…no, perhaps you shouldn’t know that one. Forget I said that last one, dearie,” she whispered.
Giving her bonnet and gloves to the maid, Clara started for the drawing room.
“You’ve taken your gloves off,” her aunt stated, looking amazed at Clara’s hand.
“I have decided that an imperfect hand, is a better thing to have than an unpleasant character defect.” Clara responded wryly. “Honestly though aunt, I have been silly and self-pitying. I can use my left-hand, which is more than can be said for many returning soldiers. If someone cannot see past it, then they are not worth knowing.”
“Hear, hear, Clara love. I did know you were in the doldrums about it, but I can understand. A lady nowadays is, unfortunately, all about her accomplishments: her embroidery, her painting, her pianoforte. To have those taken away is difficult. But you are young, Clara. You can learn to do these things with Doctor Mainwaring’s exercises and developing your left hand, although your paintings we can probably live without,” her aunt teased, nudging her side. She then gave a forlorn sigh, “Such a shame about Roo -”
“Aunt!” Clara said warningly. “Not another word, or I shall ask Ralph to teach me more insults. I am sure my cousin has learnt some colourful ones in the alehouses and taverns that he frequents.”
“Very well, but I still say he was besotted, despite his behaviour that night on the terrace. When he was demonstrating archery, the man looked like he wanted to…well…have his wicked way.”
“Like you and Dill? Hmmm aunt?” Clara said slyly. She saw a flush start at her aunt’s neck and work its way to her already rouged cheeks.
“I…er…well. I am off to meet Lady Rainworth for tea. I shall be back for luncheon.” Clara laughed, watching her aunt rush to the door.
Clara ordered tea for the drawing room and gazed out of the window at the bustling London street. The tea was taking some time to appear, so instead of daydreaming, she made her way to Ralph’s study to see if he wanted to partake of anything. He had been rather quiet and reflective on the way home the previous day.
There were voices from within, and Clara considered asking the butler who had called, but as usual, the man had disappeared.
“I won’t do it. You hear, I won’t sign!” she could hear Ralph shout. “Rookdean told me all about your actions – bloody despicable.”
“I can hurt you, Ralph, in ways you cannot imagine.” Clara froze, she recognised that drawl. It was Sir Matthew Taylor!
“Do what you wish. I have wronged Clara enough, without giving her to –” The sentence was never finished, as a crash resounded from the study, and all went still.
Clara was torn. Should she open the door and see if Ralph was hurt? Or run for help? She looked around, even the footman had disappeared. It was Ralph’s fault for always hiring people with the worst references, but the best excuses. She opened the door: she couldn’t leave her cousin, not after he had so bravely defended her. Ralph was on the floor unconscious, with blood trickling from his nose, whilst Sir Matthew was leaning over him and rifling through his pockets.
The man looked up at the click of the latch. “You…” he thundered. Clara turned, but it was too late, as he grabbed the back of her hair, pulling her into the study.
“You little termagant. Setting Rookdean on me, and turning Ralph against me. Well, Ralph won’t have any choice but to sign the marriage contract, if I have you.” Clara attempted to kick out at the man, but his grip tightened in her hair, till it brought tears of pain to her eyes – she winced – but refused to give him the satisfaction of a cry.
“We are getting into my carriage outside. If I hear one word of protest from you, I will come back and gut Ralph where he lays. He won’t even wake up to realise his life is spilling away. Do you understand?” The hand tightened even more, and Clara felt some hairs give way at her nape. She had no doubt that he meant it.
“Yes, I understand,” she bit out.
“Good. Now get moving.” He pushed her in front of him, but did not release his grip on her hair. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the footman…what was his name?
“Smythson!” she cried out, “Get help!” Powerlessly, she watched, as Smythson’s eyes slid right over her to the man behind, and he nodded.
“No aid there, I’m afraid. He’s been helping me keep an eye on everything. I don’t like my investments running away.”
“But I have no money!” Clara cried out, as the door was opened.
“Stupid chit, of course you do. Your parents were worth quite a few bob, but your uncle…well, the old boy was rolling in it. He left you, shall we say, a ‘substantial’ dowry.”
