In Favour |Clara Walseworth|

A homely marriage ~ Chapter 23

Germany, 1821.

The afternoon sun filtered weakly through the lace curtains of the drawing room, catching dust motes that Polly pretended not to see. Dust was for housemaids to notice. She sat perfectly still in a high-backed chair, a half-empty glass of sherry in one hand and a tightly folded letter in the other. The air smelled faintly of lavender and age.

Polly glanced out the window. The estate sprawled beneath her like a painted canvas—perfectly ordered hedgerows, immaculate gravel paths, statues that hadn't been moved in a decade. She had built this life brick by cold, deliberate brick. When her husband died—God rest his dull soul—she had not wasted time weeping into handkerchiefs. She had simply taken control.

A maid appeared silently at the door and bowed. "Shall I bring tea, My Lady?" Polly waved her away with a flick of the fingers. "I said I would ring." The girl disappeared without a word. Clara would be arriving again soon. Another visit. Another stretch of evenings filled with polite conversation and wistful silences. Polly did not look forward to it, but she supposed she owed the girl something. Family, after all, was a matter of responsibility, not affection. She reached for the bell at her elbow and rang twice—sharply.

The clock on the mantel struck half past four—punctual, as always. Polly looked up just as the door to the drawing room opened with the slow, deliberate grace her staff had long since mastered. A footman entered, bowing low at the waist. "Princess Clara Ferdinand of Germany has arrived, My Lady." Polly set her glass down with a faint clink, smoothing her skirts with one hand. "Show her in," she said, her tone cool, composed. "And do not linger."

Moments later, Clara appeared in the doorway. Travel had left a faint flush in her cheeks, and though her gown was appropriately demure for the season—a soft blue muslin, simple but well-made—it was wrinkled from the road. Her hair was pinned carefully, if not fashionably. Always so neat, so composed. A widow's decorum in every step.

"Niece," Polly said, rising with the stiff elegance of someone for whom affection had long since been ironed out of habit. She did not smile, but inclined her head ever so slightly. "You are precisely on time." Clara dipped in a gentle curtsy, her gaze calm but unreadable. "Aunt Polly. Thank you for having me."

As if I had a choice, Polly thought, though she merely gestured to the seat opposite her. "Sit. You must be exhausted. The roads are wretched this time of year." Clara obeyed wordlessly, folding her hands in her lap as the silence settled between them.

Polly studied her, not unkindly, but critically. There was still youth in Clara's face, but it had dulled under the weight of grief. And something else, too—something more subtle. A kind of waiting. For what? Polly wondered. Permission? Direction? Closure?

A maid appeared a moment later with the tea tray. Polly made no move to help. She waited while the silver was arranged precisely, then dismissed the girl with a nod. "You'll find the house unchanged, I imagine," Polly said, pouring two cups. "I do not indulge in the modern compulsion to redecorate every three years." Clara accepted the tea without comment. "I wouldn't expect you to." Polly allowed the faintest flicker of amusement to touch her mouth. "No. I suppose not."

For a time, they drank in silence. The air was heavy with formality, but there was a thread of something else beneath it—something old and unspoken, perhaps even familial. Clara had no one else in this part of the world. And Polly—though she would never admit it—had grown used to her quiet visits, her thoughtful silences.

"Tell me," Polly said finally, voice cutting neatly through the quiet. "Have you decided what you intend to do, Clara? Or shall you continue haunting palaces and garden paths until the King finds a more productive use for you?" Clara didn't flinch. Her eyes met her aunt's squarely. "I have not decided yet."."Then I suggest you do," Polly said, lifting her cup to her lips. "Indecision has never been fashionable. Not even in mourning."