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Clara’s work had proven more difficult than ever over the last few days, as the more time she spent away from Mr. Cole, the worse her ability to perform tasks had become due to her thoughts dwelling on him and only him.

What should have been the simple task of cleaning out the hearth in the saloon leant to an entire overhaul of the room due to her forgetting to lay down the protective sheeting over the carpet, neglecting to clean off the grate before lighting the new fire, then failing to remove the fire-irons before she touched them, resulting in a burned hole in her apron as she dropped the hot stick.

Needless to say, she needed to clear her mind.

That was made even more difficult, however, as each time she cleaned Mr. Cole’s room, she discovered a small token from him hidden where only she would find them. First, it was a mince pie wrapped up in a handkerchief and a note that read, “For the one who watches the stars.”

Clara had been over the moon with joy, for she’d known he’d addressed it in such a way that, should anyone discover it, her identity would remain anonymous.

She’d nibbled on the mince pie throughout the morning, relieved to have something to fill her belly as she went about her work.

But that obviously hadn’t been the end of it. With the same written address to her, after the mince pie came a folded sheet of writing paper for her to clearly use to send off to another solicitor, then a new quill, a sprig of mistletoe, and finally an orange, which she enjoyed in his room alone to avoid the scent spilling from her as she moved about the corridors.

She wished she could do something in return for him, but having a mere shilling to her name, all she could do was clean his room the best she could. No more coal smears, no more rude awakenings, and certainly no more failed fires.

While the tokens and gestures helped her being away from him, her whole person ached to be near him, and it soon began to wear on her spirits—not only because the feeling was uncomfortable, but also because she had the good sense to wonder how on earth she was going to bear being parted with him forever in the near future.

Still, there was much light to be had. She had the fortune of speaking with his cousin, Miss Hollis, who asked Clara a most peculiar request that had to do with blue wax in a guest’s chamber. Clara had also spoken with Miss Prescott, who was as kind as Miss Hollis and Miss Sterling.

Clara truly had been so blessed with the women she’d come in contact with at Bellthorne. So blessed that when Mrs. Wintle approached her late one afternoon, Clara should have known her good fortune was coming to an end.

“Clara, you must finish with Miss Sterling swiftly this evening,” the housekeeper said with her usual tight-lipped expression. “Then you must see to Miss Bowles.”

Clara stared, forgetting to hide the dismay in her tone. “Why?”

Mrs. Wintle gave her a sharp look of disapproval.

“Forgive me, ma’am,” Clara quickly corrected. “I mean to say, I’m quite happy to have my duties extended, but is Miss Bowles’s lady’s maid indisposed?”

“She has burnt her finger whilst caring for Miss Bowles’s hair, and the lady has requested immediate seeing to.”

Clara’s chest continued to tighten. “I’m happy to, of course. But you are certain there is no one else...”

Mrs. Wintle’s shaking head stopped her question. “No one else is available at the moment and Miss Bowles...” She paused, closing her eyes as if in need of patience with the woman, as well. “She is adamant that she is seen to immediately. I would suggest you finish swiftly with Miss Sterling—or better yet, see to Miss Bowles first.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Clara curtsied, swiftly changed into a clean apron, then fled to Miss Sterling’s room, explaining the situation.

“Go,” Miss Sterling said at once. “I shall make ready as best I can myself, then await your return.”

Clara extended her apologies again, but Miss Sterling, as gracious as ever, spurred her on.

Clara did as she was told, racing to Miss Bowles’s room and entering once she was allowed.

“Whatever took you so long, Claire?” Miss Bowles questioned.

Clara thought for a moment she’d spoken her name incorrectly on purpose, then realized the woman must have simply not been bothered to learn it.

“My apologies, Miss Bowles,” she said, striding into the room. “I was not told until this moment that⁠—”

“Do not just stand there. Make haste. My hair must be of the utmost fashion this evening, and Margaret has already destroyed my curls.”

Clothes had been strewn across the bedding and the floor, over the wardrobe and on the seat next to the window, as if Miss Bowles had simply removed every article of clothing from her belongings and thrown them about the room in a tantrum.

Hopefully poor Margaret had left before that.

Clara joined Miss Bowles near the mirror, brushing her dark locks as she considered what style to concoct. She had half a mind to throw the woman’s hair up in an unfashionable appearance, but Clara wouldn’t risk the woman’s wrath.