In Favour |Clara Walseworth|

Masks ~ Chapter 15

Germany, 1818.

It had been four days since Clara had spoken a word to William. Four days since the last cruel remark had been uttered since his fist had raised and landed on her and the door to her chambers had shut behind her like the closing of a tomb. She had not left since.

Word had gone out, discreetly and without fuss, that the Princess was unwell. The servants knew better than to question it. The truth, however, was quieter, stranger.

Clara was not ill.

The morning light filtered through the velvet drapes in delicate threads, casting her dressing table in gold. Her untouched tea sat cooling beside a bowl of fruit she hadn't touched. Marta entered every day, bringing clean gowns and murmured updates from the court, but Clara only listened. She nodded occasionally and she said as little as possible.

William had not come once, not even out of decorum, he hadn't even knocked. Perhaps she had expected him to barge in with another insult, to sneer, to demand something—anything but instead, he had simply... carried on.

And that, in its own way, was worse because it meant he meant what he'd said and what he did. He had dismissed her, discarded her. His cruelty wasn't born from passion—it was simply habit.

Clara sat now at her writing desk, still wrapped in her linen robe. Her hair was braided simply down her back. Her eyes were fixed on the window where the rain streaked the glass, steady and soft. She felt strange. Not broken, but dulled. Like a bell that had been struck too many times, left echoing without purpose.

Marta knocked lightly at the door before entering, her arms full of folded dresses for the week's events. "The Queen has asked after you again," she said gently, placing the gowns in the wardrobe. "She sent a box of herbal pastilles. And a note." Clara did not rise. "Thank you." Marta hesitated, then: "Shall I read it?" Clara nodded, and Marta opened the envelope with careful hands.

"My dear, If there is anything you require, you need only send word. I hope you will join us at supper soon. The court is ever watching, but I am not unkind. Rest, and return with strength, Agatha." Marta cleared her throat.

Clara smiled faintly. "How generous of her to remind me I am missed." Marta didn't reply, only folded the letter and set it gently on the writing table. Clara leaned back in her chair, her eyes drifting again toward the grey beyond the glass. Her limbs ached with stillness, but her soul felt quieter than it had in days.

A tray of untouched tea sat cooling beside her, the porcelain cup still full, her breakfast congealing softly on the plate. Marta had stopped commenting on her meals going cold. She had simply replaced them each morning, her quietness more understanding than pitying.

The bloom of the bruise was turning now, not gone. Still, to her, it may as well have been a brand. She could not stand the thought of eyes on her, curious ones, whispering ones and knowing ones.

"Your Highness, there is also a letter" she said gently. "From your sister, Lady Bridgerton. It arrived with this morning's mail." Clara sat up slowly, her limbs heavy from stillness.

"Leave it there, please." she murmured, her voice rasped by disuse, motioning to the side table. But Marta hesitated. She stepped forward instead and held it out in her palm.

"You ought to read it," she said softly. "It smells of violets." Clara's eyes lifted. She reached, almost reluctantly, and took the envelope between her fingers.

The familiar handwriting hit her like a breath of spring air. She did not speak again until Marta bowed and left, shutting the door with its now-accustomed gentleness.Then, alone again, Clara unfolded the letter. The scent of violets was real—pressed between the folds of the page was a single sprig, delicately tied with ribbon. Eden's handwriting danced across the paper in soft, flowing ink.