The Redemption of Sir Edward Denham - A Return to Sanditon Novella

Sixteen

Denham Place, Sanditon

A week had gone by since she and Violet had taken tea with Lady Denham. Clara was both relieved by her aunt's re-entry into her life and wary of her intent. Marriage indeed! Though her aunt had a point; a wedding would save her from much scandal, who in their right minds would consider a former courtesan and mother of an illegitimate child worthy of such consideration? No, her aunt may be set on this course, but she would soon come to realise it was futile. Besides, marriage should only be entered into if one felt affection for one's spouse and not as a way to salvage a lost reputation, although truth be told, the latter reason was far more common in society than the first. Indeed, if every man married for love, there would be very little need for courtesans or mistresses at all.

Shaking her head ruefully at the absurdity of her thoughts, Clara continued on her way along the corridor that led to the last remaining bedchamber in need of refurbishment. She was reluctant to admit to herself that she had been nervous about this task. It was pure coincidence that she had left this one room until last.

Stopping outside the door and fumbling with the chatelaine, she finally found the correct key to unlock the master chamber. Opening the door wide, a waft of stale air greeted her. Scrunching her nose at the unpleasant musty odour, she took a tentative step inside the room.

When Edward had been forced to flee, he took only a few meagre belongings with him. Here, Clara saw evidence of his haste. Left untouched for five years or more, there was still evidence of his existence; a brocade robe thrown haphazardly across the bed, a rumpled cravat draped over the back of a chair. As she moved further into the room, a faint aroma of scent still lingered. The scent of Sandalwood had always transported her back to her time spent in Edward's arms. The one, solitary time when they had allowed themselves to revel in their mutual attraction.

Opening the partially closed curtains, Clara wrestled with the casement window until it finally allowed in a modicum of fresh, clean air. Turning, she scanned the room in an attempt to order her thoughts for the task at hand. First, she thought, she would tackle the linens.

Moving towards the ornately designed four-poster bed, she brushed her fingertips along the once luxurious coverlet. It had once been a rich, opulent burgundy, which matched her memories of Edward's extravagance. But like time, the richness of the material had faded until only the suggestion of warmth remained. Before she began to remove the linens, a book on the bedside table caught her eye. Byron. Ah, so very like Edward to be thrilled by the romantics. She reached for the volume of poetry and idly flicked through the pages. She read,

Darkness

I had a dream, which was not at all a dream,

The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars

Did wander darkling in the eternal space,

Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth

Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;

A shiver ran through her at the bleak verse. She turned the page to find another.

When We Two Are Parted

In silence and tears

Half broken-hearted

To sever for years,

Pale grew thy cheek and cold,

Colder thy kiss;

Truly that hour foretold

Sorrow to this.

[ ...]

In secret we met

In silence I grieve,

That the heart could forget,

Thy spirit deceive.

If I should meet thee

After long years,

How should I greet thee?

With silence and tears.

Clara's eyes filled with moisture as she reread the final verse. Edward had marked the page, and it bore the signs of constant referral, clearly a well-read and poignant poem. Clara was under no illusion that the words carried any significance to her liaison with Edward. No, the sting of losing Esther would have brought him back to these words time and again. Though a part of her did wish, even with her own hardened and battered heart, that it had been she that he so lamented.