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He gave a smile. “I suppose you must.”

“If you would not mind waiting before coming to the house? I do not wish us to be seen together.”

“Of course.”

She curtsied, then made to leave.

“Clara?”

She turned back. “Yes, Mr. Cole?”

“Do I have your permission to still call you Clara instead of Miss Hatfield? I wouldn’t wish to risk your identity being discovered, but I also do not wish to risk offending you at being so relaxed in manner with you.”

She dropped her chin. “Sir, you’ve called me Clara all along, have tried to kiss me before knowing me, and succeeded in kissing me two days ago. I believe Clara will suffice.”

He grinned. “Then you must extend me the same and call me Oliver.”

Clara laughed. “Not a chance, Mr. Cole.”

He grinned, then his lips slowly shifted to a grimace. “Do you empty the...you know...in my own room?”

She gave him a knowing look. “That I do not, sir. I’ve traded with another maid. She cares for the slop. I care for the fires.”

Relief shone in his eyes. “Good.”

“Good day, Mr. Cole. And thank you again for listening.”

Oliver.

He bowed, but she turned before he straightened, walking the rest of the way to Bellthorne Hall alone. Though this time, she didn’t feel alone, and that was a welcome relief.

For though her future prospects were bleaker than ever, at least she had someone with whom to share them.

Twenty-Two

Oliver spent the rest of the day dwelling on what he could do to help Clara and her predicament without getting her into trouble. In the end, he resorted to sending a correspondence to his own solicitor, asking him under a vague pretense to discover what he could about Mr. Michael Hatfield’s previous solicitor.

He knew Clara did not wish for him to help, but the thought of her being sent to the workhouses was more than he could bear. He could hardly stand the thought of her cleaning his own room and being mistreated by the housekeeper, but he knew Clara to be resilient. What other fine lady could have withstood months of hard labor when she was not born doing so?

Either way, he knew this was a risk. He only prayed she would forgive him as she had done twice before.

Sending his letter off the following day, Oliver nearly became caught in the snowstorm on his return journey with George, the two of them returning just before the wind picked up and visibility disappeared.

Of course his thoughts were once again occupied with Clara. Was she warm enough? Did she have anyone lighting the fire for her in the servants’ temporary quarters, or was she required to do that, as well?

He attempted to occupy his mind by playing billiards with George but swiftly excused himself to wander about the library, drawing room, and conservatory, dodging Miss Bowles and all the while hoping to just so happen upon Clara.

Unfortunately, the entire day passed by without so much as a glimpse of her. The house party was beginning to become a tiresome nuisance he wished to leave, the only thing keeping him there was the knowledge that Clara was there, too.

How he wished he could see more of her. To make up for their distance, he left small tokens in his room for her, hoping she would find them and know they were for her, but he had to be creative where he left them, for he didn’t want Smith or another maid to happen upon them first.

They weren’t much, but it helped fortify him throughout the days.

The heavy snow lasted through Saturday and well until Sunday the following day, light flakes still floating down from the skies above as the group—who had seemingly become as restless as he—congregated upon the grounds of Bellthorne to engage in a bit of snowy frivolity.

Oliver had no desire to join in with the rest of the fun, but as George’s melancholy behavior returned—having disappeared for a few days—Oliver simply needed a break from his friend.

“Let us join the others for the snow games,” Oliver suggested as George stared forlornly out the parlor window.