In Favour |Clara Walseworth|

A true Walseworth ~ Chapter 11

Germany, 1818.

The soft jostle of the carriage rocked Clara gently from side to side, her gloved hands folded neatly in her lap as the landscape of southern Germany unfolded beyond the window. Early spring had begun to thaw the fields, casting a pale golden light over the rolling hills, and the distant silhouette of snow-capped mountains shimmered faintly on the horizon. It should have been a peaceful journey—tranquil, even—but Clara's thoughts were anything but.

She hadn't been to see Aunt Polly since the wedding. There had been letters, of course—long, dutiful missives in her aunt's bold hand, filled with shrewd observations and maternal instructions—but no visits. The palace had consumed her. Every hour was claimed by obligation, decorum, or the careful choreography of existing under royal scrutiny. And while her husband, William, flitted through the world with the ease of a man born to be admired, Clara had found herself slowly swallowed by stillness and formality.

She stared out at the winding road, the trees blurring past in their fresh coats of green, and exhaled slowly. This trip, though short, felt like escape. Polly's estate lay just beyond the wooded ridge that separated the capital from the older provinces—less polished, perhaps, but steeped in dignity and old-world charm. The very idea of it felt like a balm to Clara's spirit. Her aunt had a way of grounding her—sharp-tongued and fiercely intelligent.

She leaned her head against the side of the carriage, the gentle rhythm of wheels over cobblestone soothing in a way the palace halls never could be. Her thoughts drifted—to the brief encounter in the corridor a few days ago. Frederick. He had looked at her like she was a page half-read and not worth closing yet. There had been no warmth, but no disdain either. And still, something about the way he had spoken had lodged itself in her chest, like a pebble in a shoe—too small to name, too persistent to ignore.

You are no child, but neither are you an island.

What did that even mean? Did he think her reckless? Naive? Or was it simply another royal reminder that she did not belong entirely to herself anymore? She sighed again and let the thought drift away with the trees outside. Today was for breathing air that didn't taste of duty.

As the carriage crested a gentle hill and the manor finally came into view—its ivy-clad stones golden in the late morning sun—Clara felt the first real ease in her chest since her wedding day. She straightened her posture, smoothed the front of her riding coat, and allowed herself a small smile.

The grand entry doors of the Manor creaked open as Clara stepped out of the carriage, the crisp morning air tugging at the hem of her coat. A two-hour journey, and yet the coldness that greeted her now made the palace seem almost warm by comparison.

Aunt Polly stood in the doorway, her chin lifted with that signature look of disapproval she wore like a brooch. She was dressed immaculately, as always, in muted greys with a high collar fastened by a brooch of jet and pearl. Her silver-streaked hair was pulled back so tightly that Clara often wondered if she ever allowed herself to be comfortable.

"You are late," Polly said, her voice as sharp and precise as the rest of her. Clara stepped forward, dipping a shallow curtsy more out of habit than affection. "Only by fifteen minutes, Aunt."

"Which is still fifteen minutes," Polly replied, stepping aside. "Do come in before you let all the warmth out of the house. I assume you have brought no one dreadful?" "Just Marta and the coachman," Clara murmured as she entered, the scent of lavender polish and old wood filling her nose.

"Good," Polly said curtly, leading her down the corridor toward the drawing room. "I do not trust strange hands near my silver. And I do hope you have brought that mutt you married into the habit of petting. The one with the limp?" Clara blinked. "No, Beatrice is a horse, Aunt. Not a dog." Polly didn't turn. "Does it matter? It sheds."