In Favour |Clara Walseworth|

Standstill ~ Chapter 22

Germany, 1821.

The palace gardens bloomed with new colour, and yet Clara had never felt more uncertain.

It had been a year and some months since William's death. Since the silence that followed, and the long, bruising winter that had drawn itself over her like a second skin. But that had passed. Her mourning veil had been forcefully folded away. The black gowns replaced by softer greys, pale lilacs, even faint blues in recent weeks.

The court, ever watchful, had begun to shift around her. She was no longer the grieving widow kept in soft shadow. She was visible again. Expected again and that terrified her more than the silence had. Maybe that was what had terrified her all along.

Clara stood alone beneath the high windows of the palace library, sunlight catching on the pale silk of her morning gown. In her hands, she held a letter from one of the Queen's secretaries—an invitation to host an upcoming spring banquet alongside Emilia. She had not yet replied. Not because she didn't want to, but because she no longer knew what her role was supposed to be. She was still called Princess, still addressed as one and treated as so. Princess Clara— without a prince. She was not dowager, not consort, not truly royal by blood. She was present, yes, but why she remained was growing harder to define.

The courtiers had begun to speculate, though they did so in whispers. Some assumed she would retire to a small estate. Others believed she waited to be remarried—perhaps to a foreign dignitary, perhaps to a wealthy duke. None guessed the truth. That she was simply... not ready to leave and if she had to she would like to leave and return home... return to her family back in England.

Yet, every morning, she felt it—that quiet, relentless pressure, like a whisper tucked into the folds of her silence. The unspoken question followed her through the palace corridors, woven into the Queen's careful glances, etched in the King's lingering stillness whenever she passed. What use is a widow now? It was never said aloud, but Clara heard it all the same. It had been a year since William's passing, and though the black mourning veils had long been discarded, the weight of loss still clung to her like a second skin.

The court had began to move on. The country had moved on. But Clara lived in the in-between. Neither wife nor mother, neither princess nor private citizen. Just a widow. Just a memory.

Her eyes flickered and her hands trembled slightly as she looked to the letter resting on her desk—a recent one from Eden. Her sister's familiar hand was steady, joyful. Eden was back home in England, far from the cold marble of Clara's daily life, and her world was filled with the kind of chaos Clara had never known: laughter, spilled milk, muddy boots, and the sweet, endless chatter of children. George, the eldest, had just turned four. Clara had never seen him in person. Alice and Alexander, the twins, were two now, full of energy and mischief. And Eden, ever the matriarch, was already two months pregnant with her fourth child.

Eden's letters were a balm and a wound. They spoke of Benedict—devoted as ever, still managing to make her laugh even in the weariness of motherhood—and of the small joys Clara had only ever glimpsed from afar. She had never held her niece or nephews, never seen them toddle across a room or fall asleep in Eden's arms. The distance between them felt wider with every passing month, and Clara could not help but wonder if she was fading from their lives before ever truly entering them.

She reached over grabbing the parchment before slipping the letter between the pages of the journal at her elbow, pressing it flat with care. Outside her window, spring was unfurling—green and new, untouched by sorrow. In truth, she did not know the answer to the question that haunted her steps. What use is a widow now?

Leopold's boots echoed crisply against the stone floors as he swept through the long gallery, a blur of polished brass buttons, dark navy wool, and tightly controlled breath. He was late. Of course, he was never truly late—not by the standard of kings, certainly not by the standard of his father—but he knew well enough that arriving after Frederick meant arriving behind the measure of the room.