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I’ve written several solicitors. I believe good news will come soon. Until then, keep praying. Keep hoping. Servitude is difficult, especially when compared with the life I once led, but I far prefer this life to what I might have been made to suffer with had Algernon had his wish.

Know I am well, Mama. I am well and fighting for a better life. I hope you are still fighting, too. God willing, we shall be together soon.

With all my love,

Your daughter

Oliver’s stomach was twisted in knots by the time he finished. He shouldn’t have read the letter. Curse his curiosity and his selfishness to need the answers he so desperately sought. For now, he only had more questions.

He folded the letter back up and tapped it up and down in the palm of his hand. He needed to find a time to deliver it back to Clara without being seen, but how? And how was he going to tell her that he’d read such private correspondence?

Whatever was in her past, he was getting closer to the truth, and he wasn’t going to stop until he found the truth. Not because he deserved it, but because he was falling for the woman, and if he could do anything to help her, he would.

Nineteen

Clara hadn’t realized she’d misplaced her letter to Mother until well into the night when she’d removed her apron before seeing to Miss Sterling once more. How she regretted ever keeping such a personal, telling note in such a risky place.

Still, while the thought of the letter being who-knew-where around Bellthorne unnerved her, she wouldn’t dwell on it. There was no way for another to tell it came from her, and she’d left her words vague enough that anyone who did happen upon it would have no notion as to what she was speaking of.

That being said, when her work was finished for the evening, and midnight was nearly upon her, she spent the remaining hour of her candle rewriting the note—using an extra piece of parchment Miss Sterling had so generously given her. Clara didn’t dare ask for more, for even the kindest woman could grow suspicious.

After she finished the letters to the two solicitors she’d chosen to reach out to next, she tucked each of the three correspondences beneath her pillow for safe-keeping.

Morning dawned early once more, but Clara—no longer distracted but motivated—sped through her work, not caring if she forgot to refill a washstand or clean a fire-iron.

Today was the day. She would send off those letters, and she would finally be able to see if she’d received any in return. She simply needed to get through the next few hours, and her future would be bright before her once again.

Late in the morning, after her work was finished for a time, the exchange of Christmas boxes finally took place, and Clara stood with the rest of the servants as they accepted boxes from Lady Dalmeer filled with leftover food, scarves, gloves, and a small coin purse.

Clara was thrilled, knowing no small amount of relief that she received just enough to pay to send her letters off, to pay for any letters received, and to have just enough to hopefully purchase more parchment and ink to write more solicitors in the future.

But hopefully, she would not need to, for with any luck, she would receive all the information she needed to that afternoon.

After thanking Lady Dalmeer for her generosity, the servants were released to finish what work they needed to before being allowed a hearty meal at one o’clock. Nearing two, the celebrations continued, but Clara snuck away, finally released from her duties for two hours for the first time in days.

Not wasting a single moment, she bundled up in her winter’s warmest and left Bellthorne behind with a skip in her step.

The cold air was invigorating as she nearly galloped toward Applebury, breaths of white air flying out behind her, despite the new, red scarf she wore round her lips.

Clara could almost taste her freedom as she entered the market town, smiling at all she passed by, greeting them with nods and well wishes, feeling as if this was her Christmas day at last.

The guests from the house party were attending a fete at the moment in the village, so it was busier than Clara had ever seen it. She recognized a few of the guests, including Mr. Newton, Miss Fuller, and Viscount Weymouth and his new wife near the ring toss, watching as the rings flicked far beyond the horns nailed to a log, their happy laughter ringing out around the crowds.

Clara didn’t linger, however, walking past the basket weaving demonstration and ninepins before moving beyond the haberdasher’s, then drawing closer to the inn—the post-office just beyond it.

As she drew closer to The Red Hound, Clara had a mind to stop by and greet Mrs. Radcliffe to thank her for the character reference she’d given Clara. It could have been the very thing that saved Clara’s future.

Yes, she would go, but only after visiting the post-office.

Walking past the inn, she caught a flash of movement down the alley. Planning to greet a passerby sneaking a faster way across town, she smiled, but the motion froze on her lips as she registered what she saw instead.

There, in the arms of Hannah Radcliffe, stood Mr. Cole. And he was kissing the innkeeper’s daughter.

Clara’s stomach roiled at the sight of their lips pressed firmly together. Hannah’s hands were in his hair and his hat had been flung carelessly on the ground in a clear moment of passion.

The blood drained from her head, causing her mind and thoughts to swirl as she ripped her gaze away and scurried past the alleyway faster than she’d appeared.

Had she truly witnessed what she thought she had? Or was her mind playing tricks on her?