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She broke off when she caught sight of the exact moment Miss Bowles looked over her shoulder with arched brows, her eyes falling upon Clara and Mr. Cole in conversation.
Clara immediately took a subtle step to the side to have Mr. Cole’s body hide her, her head ducking down. “The servants are not all who watch me, sir.”
A line formed between his brow, and he looked over his shoulder to find Miss Bowles watching them still.
He turned back to Clara. “Miss Bowles?”
“Yes.”
“What has she done?”
Clara straightened another plate. “She has taken issue with me and will have me removed from Bellthorne if she can.”
He frowned. “How can she have any say in your employment?”
The eyes of the other maids were now on them, curious as they flicked between her and Mr. Cole. Clara’s face overheated. “Not here. Not now.”
A few more faces turned from those listening to the performance, Miss Hollis and Miss Sterling, included.
“Then when?” he pressed.
“Forgive me,” she breathed, taking a step away. “I cannot answer. Goodbye, sir.”
“Clara...” he whispered, but his words were left unfinished as she fled from the room.
She didn’t return for the final delivery of drinks and cakes, instead allowing the other maids to finish for her as she got an early start on the rooms—determined not to happen upon Mr. Cole, or anyone, for that matter.
She couldn’t stop the steady stream of tears spilling down her cheeks, for she knew what Mr. Cole wished to speak with her about, and she could not bear to hear it.
A proposal from the man she loved was a dream she never thought she’d experience—a dream she’d never thought she’d wanted. But it was all wrong.
She couldn’t draw him into the scandal she was risking by simply working at Bellthorne. Nor could she draw his little sisters into that same scandal. She was sure once he thought of that occurring, he’d flee from Clara forever, thereby proving once again that she would never marry.
Because the only person she could trust was herself.
Twenty-Nine
Oliver fell into a stupor after the musicale.
He’d wanted to find a time to be alone with Clara—to express his undying love for her and propose. But with how desperate and frightened she’d appeared, he knew he couldn’t pressure her to speak with him again.
He knew it was important for her to keep her work at Bellthorne, just as he knew she wouldn’t accept any offer of his to help her. The woman was as prideful as she was stubborn, and heavens above, if he didn’t love her more because of it.
He’d finally discovered what Miss Bowles had done, receiving the information from Miss Sterling, who’d been kind enough to share with him the details she’d heard from the other maids.
While Oliver had a mind to confront Miss Bowles about her despicable manners, he knew the woman would lash out even further, thereby causing Clara even more difficulties.
That being the case, he struggled to come up with anything he could do to help Clara—or how to even speak with her. He was between a rock and a stone wall with no way forward, and it had begun to wear upon him.
The morning of the Twelfth Night Ball arrived, and Oliver was both dismayed and anxious. Clara would be leaving in two or three days’ time to...to where exactly, he had no notion. Had she even found a moment to herself to find work elsewhere? Or was she truly resorting to the workhouses?
Oliver had consistently checked the post-office for letters for both he and Clara, but nothing had arrived, discouraging him further. If only his own solicitor would send him a response, declaring that he knew precisely who Mr. Hatfield’s solicitor was and that he could help Clara this very day.
But alas, after another early trip to town, Oliver’s hope had once more vanished. He found himself wandering around Bellthorne, praying he would stumble upon Clara to beg her to consider him for a husband, but she very clearly did not wish to be found.
That upset him all the more.
After nearly a quarter of an hour of wandering up and down the antique passage, Oliver was discovered by George, who coerced Oliver into a game of billiards.
