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“Your father. He always took care of us,” she said sleepily.

“He did, Mother. He did.”

A week later, Clara and Mother had settled into their new home nicely. It was a modest, four-bedroom home with colorful wallpaper in every room, a used pianoforte and furnishings, and cobwebs everywhere.

But Clara had put her newly learned skills to the test that week and had cleaned the house from top to bottom, ensuring the fires were lit in each room, and bringing a warmth and comfort Clara had never experienced apart from when Father was alive.

Or when she was with Mr. Cole.

“What troubles you, my dear?” Mother said.

Clara looked up from one of Father’s books they were able to take back from Algernon. She hadn’t really been reading. Apparently, she’d been frowning instead.

“Nothing troubles me,” Clara said with a weak smile.

The two of them sat together in the small sitting room, a warm fire crackling in the hearth and the winter sun shining through the side windows. Mother sat across from her, her eyes bright and the color having returned to her cheeks.

“Are you certain, my dear?” Mother pressed, her voice still weak, though gaining strength day-by-day.

Attempting to distract herself, Clara smoothed down the pink, floral muslin across her lap. It was strange to be wearing something so colorful and happy again.

Mother had hidden much of Clara’s old belongings—her gowns, books, even some of her jewelry—in her own room so Algernon hadn’t been able to find it, and she was eternally grateful for something to wear other than the miserable grey dress she’d inhabited for weeks.

“Yes,” Clara responded more convincingly that time. “How could I not be as happy as I could be?”

She’d asked herself that very question over the last few days. She lived in a home Father had purchased for them—a house Clara now owned. She was back with Mother. They had received as many belongings as they could from Algernon, whom they would never see again.

All was truly well. And yet...she was not happy. For she was incomplete.

“I suppose,” she continued, desperate to give Mother a reason so she might not fret, “I suppose I am simply growing accustomed to this way of life. It is so very different from how I’ve been living these past few months, and I find myself growing bored rather swiftly.”

Mother smiled. “Then let us do something to occupy your time better. I could read aloud to you, or we could practice our stitching together. Design a new room.”

Clara hesitated. “May I do your hair?”

“I would love that, my darling.”

Clara spent the next quarter of an hour removing the pins from Mother’s hair that their freshly hired lady’s maid had beautifully done, then brushed the greying locks until smooth, reliving her moments at Bellthorne Hall.

With each lock she put into place, Clara was brought back to her service to Miss Sterling, her tasks from Miss Hollis, her conversations with Harriet, and even her time with Mrs. Wintle as the two began to understand one another.

But more than anything, Clara was brought back to her time with Mr. Cole. Their kiss in the stairs, their arguments, their understandings, their time as king and queen when he’d made it clear that he wished to be with her.

Had she made a mistake denying him? Would she ever overcome the heartache she now experienced every waking moment? Did she want to?

Tears continued to flood her eyes at the thought of how terribly she missed him, and moisture compiled in her nose until she was beckoned to sniff.

Only then did Mother turn around, witness Clara’s red-rimmed eyes, and pull her into an embrace. “My darling, please. Tell me what is wrong.”

Clara hadn’t seen any purpose in speaking of such things aloud, but as her longing for Mr. Cole deepened to the point of her no longer being able to eat, think, or breathe without thought of him, she could no longer keep it in.

“What happened while you were away?” Mother pressed.

Clara looked up at her, and when she saw Mother’s warm, loving eyes watching her with concern, she broke down.

“I...I fell in love.”

That afternoon, as Mother rested in her bed, Clara snuck out with her basket and her large, red cloak.