To Dishonour A Duke

Chapter Nine

The evening goes by quickly with the duke and duchess retiring early, leaving Clara to play solitaire by candlelight until her aching eyes can no longer stay open. She goes to bed, barely holding in the anticipation for tomorrow, however, sleep claims her quickly and she is softly snoring before the clock strikes midnight. When she rises the next morning, the rest of the house is still sleeping, and the anticipation in her stomach has mutated into a tightness.

She spends the first ten minutes of her morning lounging in the chair by the window, glaring at her open wardrobe as she tries to decide what to wear. None of the bright colours or expensive materials seems appropriate for the day's activities, and her apprehension turns to irritation as the clock chimes half past six and she remains in her nightgown. Sighing, she picks out the most muted dress, a gown of olive silk with gold ribbon to cinch in the waist, and gold lace to decorate the square neckline and ruffled sleeves. Once dressed, she inspects her reflection, instantly dissatisfied. Tailored to perfection, it follows the contours of her body and flares out in all the right places, even the dull colour doesn't do her appearance a disservice. With a heavy heart, she takes a small pair of sewing scissors and removes the ribbons from around her waist and the gold lace that hems the sleeves. She leaves the neckline, unable to remove the lace without leaving a scrappy cut behind. 

Having slept with her hair free, the curls have dropped and it is a little frizzy around her face. With quick fingers she crosses the front strands into two small plaits and draws them around her head, having them meet at the back. She leaves the rest of her hair flowing down her back, the long locks covering the ornate lace on the back of the dress and the absent ribbon. Next, she selects a slate grey wool cloak to circle her shoulders and rarely worn sturdy boots for her feet.  

With her face bare, her hair loose and modest dress, Clara is forced to admit how young she looks. She has never felt her age, blaming her mother for the early harsh realities, and rising to the expectations on her shoulders. Years of expensive dresses, the finest jewels and a made-up face have demanded utter perfection from her appearance, and every day she complies. But not today, today she must be invisible, she must be like everyone else, and that knowledge does not sit well with her. Out of her case, she takes the name and address Clarrissa gave her and slips it into the pocket of her cloak before scribbling a short note to reassure Lucy and Jasper of her sudden absence. She places it on her pillow and with a final, disgusted look at her reflection, she creeps from her room. She sneaks down the corridor and stairs, holding her breath each time she made a noise, sighing in relief as she reaches the hallway. She tiptoes across the marble floor to the door and spends a few tense moments undoing all the locks and chains, before slipping outside.  

An icy wind whips around her and the dark clouds above threaten rain. Pulling her cloak closer to her body, her heels crunch on the gravel as she leaves the estate. She walks down the lane, adjusting to the dim light of the autumnal morning, teeth chattering as the wind nips under her clothes and bites her skin. The sight of a dark carriage tucked behind a collection of trees sends waves of relief and warmth through her body and she makes a mental note to thank George properly.  

The driver pretends not to notice her as she approaches, and he has no reaction when she opens the door and slips inside. Settling into the seats, it is a suspenseful moment as the carriage remains still, but then the driver whistles and the horses walk on. Clara's head rests on the padding of the wall, her heart thundering wildly in her chest, almost alarmed that the first stage of her plan has succeeded. Her heart rate increases as her hand brushes something that crackles, causing her to skirt into the corner of the carriage. Warily she picks up the source and is surprised by the weight of the parcel in her hands. A note is stuck to the brown paper, loopy writing scrawled across it.