Chapter Four

634 38 3
                                    

Clara clambers into the carriage and settles onto the cushy seats, noting how they curve around her tired body and soften under her touch. Resting her head against the back of the seat, she closes her eyes and takes a few calming breaths. Physically and mentally worn, she longs for a feather mattress and for multiple pillows to bury under, wishing to sleep until the weekend dawns. Even in this less-than-cosy carriage, sleep threatens to claim her, however, the prospect of facing her brother's best friend keeps her from drifting off. Still, she keeps her eyes shut, her hands folded on her lap and for a moment she pretends that all is well, that she is not incredibly exhausted, stressed and uncertain for the days that are to come. She tears her thoughts away from the endless possibilities, ignores the countless problems that could arise and forces her mind to go blank. 

Her contented state is promptly ruined by the thump of her trunk being tossed onto the seat next to her. She glares at George as he climbs inside after her luggage, but he ignores her and flops onto the seat opposite, crossing his ankles as he stretches out. Huffing, she readjusts and shuffles further into the corner to accommodate his long legs. 

"Where to?" He asks.  

 "Chester Valley if you know it."

Nodding, George calls the address to the driver before using the toe of his shoe to catch the handle of the door. The movement is effortless and appears well practised and the door swings shut, but Clara is despondent in her reaction, choosing to turn to the other window and watch as Lygon Place begins to slip away. The gentle swaying of the vehicle is a stark difference from the chaos she had suffered through on the way to London, and the precise control of the driver allows her to fall into the rhythm of the wheels and the quick trot of the horses. The lul relaxes her stiff limbs and her vision glazes over as she counts the oil lamps they pass, the buildings blurring into grey smudges with the occasional burst of bright orange in between. 

The further north they travel, the fewer places she recognises, the marble architecture and elegant glass windows morphing into vast estates situated upon open land. The bustle and cramped feeling of the city fades into peaceful serenity, the smell of smoke and poverty clearing from the air. They are five miles outside of town, having sat in a plentiful silence when George breaks the peace with a question.  

"Chester Valley is a fair way out of town. How were you planning on getting there?" 

 With the country rushing by, she resists the urge to sigh and replies in a muted tone. "I would have found a way." 

"See, I am doubting your word." He presses, undeterred. "I am racking my brain but I am struggling to find a way that a reputable lady could make the journey by herself, without a carriage or a single friend to assist. And you cannot have thought of walking...it certainly too far." 

"Reputable..." Clara mutters, distaste rolling off her tongue. In her mind, that word is used far too much to define a woman, with impossibly high standards attached to the meaning that differs from person to person. 

"Hm?" He leans forward trying to catch sight of her expression.

"What happened to not exchanging pleasantries?" She asks, dragging her gaze away from the window to throw him a pointed look.  

His laughter is short. "Trust me, nothing about this has been pleasant." 

"My point exactly." 

"But I am curious."

She swivels to face him and throws her hands to the ceiling, flourishing the words that flow from her lips, her tone melodramatic. "What, courage man! What though care killed a cat, thou hast mettle enough in thee to kill care!" 

To Dishonour A DukeWhere stories live. Discover now